"I've had it, Smitty," Remo announced. "I don't know if somebody said I pinch like a girl or have B.O. or what, but nobody wants to play with me. I'm coming home."
He didn't even give the CURE director time to answer. Slamming the phone down, he stormed out of the restaurant. He could hear the telephone ringing as he marched out the door.
At Sheremetevo-2 International Airport in Moscow, he bought a ticket for New York. Finding an out-of-the way seat, he sat down and waited for his flight.
A few times while he sat, some agents who worked for the airport came up to tell him he had a telephone call. He had no desire to talk to Smith again. He chased them all away. Eventually they stopped coming.
Disgrace. That's what Chiun would say. And he'd be right. Remo had screwed up. Somehow it was his fault. He could feel the disapproving eyes of a hundred Masters of Sinanju staring into his soul. The soul of a failure.
Dead or not, Remo couldn't look them in the eyes. He looked at his shoes. They were nice shoes. Handstitched Italian leather. He thought of the person who made them. The man was obviously not a failure. He made good shoes. Hell, he made great shoes. Perfect shoes. Remo could beat a cowhide silly and cut and stitch for a million years and not come up with a finer pair of shoes. The man who made the shoes was a success. Unlike Remo. Remo, the first Master of Sinanju to flunk the Time of Succession. Remo, who would get an F for the Hour of Judgment. Remo the Failure.
He sat there in a funk, eyes downcast, for he didn't know how long. A shadow fell over his perfect shoes. He assumed it was another airport agent insisting that there was an urgent phone call for him. Another gruff Russian voice that sounded as if it had been born hoarse and raised on Marlboros.
It wasn't.
"Mr. Remo?" asked a sweet voice that was like a chorus of angels.
Remo looked up from his perfect shoes into a face that put the perfection of his shoes to shame. The face matched the heavenly voice. The woman smiled. Her face was radiant. Her soft brown eyes twinkled with joy.
"How are you?" she lilted.
In the lonely corner of Moscow's airport, Remo Williams had met the most beautiful woman who would ever kill him.
AFTER REMO HUNG UP the phone, Smith allowed the CURE system to redial for him automatically. He let the phone ring a dozen times. When a Russian voice eventually answered, he hung up.
He was back in his office in Folcroft. Entering a few commands into his computer, he found that Remo had called from an American chain restaurant that now had a franchise in Moscow. Marveling at the changes the world had undergone in the past ten years, he returned to his computer.
Smith couldn't say he blamed Remo for wanting to come home. His time in Europe couldn't exactly be termed a rousing success. Still, the Master of Sinanju would not be pleased if CURE's enforcement arm returned in defeat from this crucial phase of his training. And Chiun had a tendency to make his private gripes disturbingly public.
The CURE director would give Remo a little time to cool off. He would call him at the airport.
As he typed, Smith felt the weariness of his quick round-trip to Florida. Thankfully, Mark Howard was now safely tucked away in CURE's basement security wing.
The Folcroft doctors had concurred with the prognosis of the physicians in Florida. The assistant CURE director was in no immediate danger. It was only a matter of time before he came out of this strange unconscious state.
Smith was more than a little concerned about his assistant's blackout. It was the sort of thing that could cause a security problem for the covert agency. After all, the FBI men on the scene had used Mark's phony ID to contact Smith. The line was untraceable and, thanks to the orders they had been issued at the start of the Dilkes affair, no one had filed a report about the incident. Still...
Smith took some comfort in the fact that there was nothing in the young man's medical record to indicate that anything like it had ever happened before. Howard didn't abuse drugs or alcohol. He had submitted to regular testing since his assignment to Folcroft. Disturbing though it was, with any luck this was an isolated incident.
As he worked, Smith couldn't shake the nagging sense that the incident with Howard had something to do with the young man's strange sixth sense.
Smith was sifting through the latest data on Remo's missing assassins when the blue contact phone jangled to life. It was half an hour since the last time it rang. Assuming Remo had had a change of heart, he scooped it up.
"Remo," he said sharply.
The urgent voice that replied didn't belong to CURE's enforcement arm.
"I need to speak with Remo," the squeaky voice of the Master of Sinanju announced sharply.
"Oh, Master Chiun," Smith said. "Was there a problem--?"
"Remo," Chiun interrupted. "Where is he?" There was an anxiousness bordering on fear in the old man's voice.
Frowning, Smith checked the time display in the corner of his monitor. "At the moment he is in Moscow," the CURE director replied. "He should be at the airport by now."
"Find him," Chiun commanded. "I must speak with him."
Smith cleared his throat, uncomfortable to be dropped in the middle of this. "There might be a slight problem," he admitted slowly.
"Is he injured?" Chiun asked with tight concern.
Smith was surprised by the question. "No, not at all," he replied. "It is just that he has been having a slight problem with some of the men he is supposed to meet with in the Time of Succession."
He felt unhappy to be the one delivering this news. Given the circumstances, he was certain this was a private matter between Master and pupil. And he was just as certain that Chiun would find a way to blame him for not shepherding Remo properly through the Time of Succession. Smith was surprised, therefore, at the old man's response.
"The Time of Succession is meaningless," the Master of Sinanju snapped. "There is something greater here. Remo is in danger. You must find him."
There was pleading now. Smith had never before heard such desperation in the old Korean's voice. The CURE director typed a few commands into his computer. He pulled up Remo's Visa card record. In Moscow, Remo had just purchased a ticket to New York.
"Please stay on the line," Smith instructed. Using the outside line, he called the airport in Russia and made arrangements for someone to collect Remo. The Russian returned to the line a few moments later.
"I am sorry, but the gentleman is seeming not to be want to speak to anyone," the airport representative apologized. "He is saying that you to. . . 'blow it out your ears'?" The helpful man seemed confused by the unfamiliar expression.
Smith tried a few more times with no success. He finally gave up. He returned to the blue phone. "Remo will not answer, Master Chiun," he apologized.
The Master of Sinanju didn't speak immediately. There seemed a great hesitation over the line. As if the old man were considering options, none of which pleased him.
"You must give him a message," Chiun said eventually. "Tell him to stop what he is doing and return to your side. If an assassin comes near, he must not confront. Tell him to run. For in distance there is safety."
"I don't understand, Master Chiun, but Remo is returning here. He called me to tell me so."
The news didn't seem to much hearten the old Korean.
"That is good. But tell him not to resume the Time of Succession. And he is to stay away from Sinanju. Tell him if he values me and all that I have given him, under no circumstances is he to return until he hears directly from me. Tell him that. Under no circumstances."
There was great resignation in his voice. As if he expected never to give his pupil permission to return. Smith glanced down at his monitor. The data reflected in his owlish lenses.
"You are not calling from your home phone," he said, adjusting his glasses.