"Come in."
A matronly woman entered the office, a plastic cafeteria tray balanced on her forearm.
"Good morning, Dr. Smith," his secretary said.
"Good morning, Mrs. Mikulka."
The woman brought the tray to his desk, setting down a cup of coffee and a plate of dry toast. "How are you this morning, Dr. Smith?" Eileen Mikulka asked as she picked up the tray again.
"I'm fine, thank you."
It was the same ritual every day. Smith could have set a tape recorder on his desk to give the same responses.
"Will there be anything else?"
"No, thank you, Mrs. Mikulka."
"I'll be at my desk if you need me."
With a courteous smile Eileen Mikulka left the room.
Only when the door was closed once more did Smith return to his computer. Fifteen minutes later he was still engrossed in his electronic reports when the telephone rang.
It was the blue contact phone. He reached for it even as he continued scrolling down his screen. "Smith," he said crisply, tucking the phone between shoulder and ear.
"We're leaving, Smitty," Remo's voice announced glumly on the other end of the line. Frowning, Smith tore his eyes from his computer screen.
"What do you mean leaving?" the CURE director asked. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing wronger than usual," Remo replied. "Chiun and I are going on some trip somewhere. Of course, we can't tell Remo where that somewhere is. That'd make life too easy for him. Gotta wait until the last minute to maximize the chances of bugging the crap out of him."
Smith breathed a silent sigh of relief. Remo had never felt completely fulfilled as CURE's lone enforcement arm. He periodically quit the agency in search of the happier life he sometimes thought had eluded him. Smith had thought that this was another of those times.
"You are not due for vacation time," the older man pointed out as he returned attention to his computer.
"No vacation, Smitty. By the sounds of it I'm off on some ritual that'll end in me taking over from Chiun. I don't think I really believe it, though. He pulls one of these rites of passage out of his kimono sleeve every other week. I think it's his way of keeping me focused."
Smith had been absently scanning data on his screen. Remo's last words finally got Smith's undivided attention. He took the phone from the crook of his neck, gripping it tightly in his arthritic hand. "Is this the Time of Succession?"
Remo sounded surprised. "You've heard of it?"
Smith tried to keep his tone casual. "Chiun, er, mentioned something of it last year while you were recuperating from your burns here at Folcroft."
"Huhn," Remo grunted. "Everyone knows about it but me. Anyway, Chiun told me to tell you the time was at hand, destiny awaits, blah-blah-blah. Upshot is, we're leaving."
"You haven't any idea where you're going?"
"Nope. I'll find out at the airport, I guess. The old skinflint isn't gonna pay for our tickets, that's for sure. I'll let you know what it's all about when we get back."
"Very well." Smith hesitated. "Remo," he called the instant before the connection was broken.
"Yeah?"
"Good luck." There was a strain in his voice, yet the words were sincere.
"Thanks, Smitty," Remo said.
The phone went dead in Smith's hand. With great care he replaced the receiver in the cradle.
Hand snaking from the blue contact phone, he picked up the black desktop phone. He dialed a three-digit number for the interoffice Folcroft line.
The nasal voice that answered was youthful. "Mark Howard."
"Mark, please come to my office at once."
Once he had hung up the black phone, Smith reached into his pocket and pulled out his key chain. With a small key he unlocked the long drawer at his belly. A few pens rolled along with the opening drawer.
Smith reached over paper clips and a sandwich bag filled with rubber bands. Far back in the drawer his fingers closed around an envelope. He pulled it out.
The thick envelope was gold. There was a seal on the back, broken open months ago. A simple trapezoid divided by a bisecting line. The symbol of the House of Sinanju.
Considering their working relationship, he was surprised that Master Chiun had been so formal in his invitation. But, he realized, Sinanju had managed to last for thousands of years in part because of the strict adherence to ritual.
Opening the golden flap, he pulled out a sheet of carefully folded parchment. The letter was written in Chiun's familiar florid script.
Dear Emperor Harold W. Smith, Secret Ruler of the United States of America, Protector of the Eagle Throne and President-in-Waiting,
You are cordially invited...
Smith stopped reading. He couldn't bear to go further. He folded the letter and tucked it back inside the envelope.
It was ludicrous. At first he had balked at the very idea. But Chiun insisted the ritual could not be avoided.
The Sinanju Time of Succession. The end of the line for Remo's training.
The ritual put Remo at risk. But the greater risk for Smith was to CURE and, therefore, to America.
He put the envelope to one side on his desk and returned attention to his computer. Smith closed out all the CURE files, dumping them into the mainframes. They would still be there when he went back for them. In spite of all that might need his attention, he had a feeling that the coming days would be occupied with work unrelated to CURE.
Once he was done, he turned in his chair. There was a picture window of one-way glass behind his desk. As he awaited the arrival of his assistant, Harold Smith watched Long Island Sound roll to shore. He was suddenly very tired.
Chapter 6
Remo was right. When they got to John F. Kennedy International Airport, Chiun shoved him and his credit card to the front of the proper ticket line. When Remo saw that they were heading to England, he had just one question.
"Why are we going to England?" Remo asked unhappily.
"Because," Chiun replied. And said nothing more.
Over the Atlantic, Remo tried again. "What's in England?"
"Beef eaters with pasty skin," Chiun said as he looked out at the clouds. "You should fit right in."
"I doubt it. English beef is just ground-up bull horns and pickled horse assholes. And I haven't had a steak or a burger in thirty years. And you're just dodging the question. What are we going to England for and what does it have to do with the Time of Succession?"
Chiun's face puckered. "Are you a child?" he clucked, turning unhappily from the window. "For once in your life can you not demonstrate patience?"
"Whatever we're doing there, it has to do with me becoming Master of Sinanju. I think I have a right to know."
"When you are Master, then you have a right to know. Until then, enjoy the clouds." A long finger tapped the window. "Look. That one looks like a bunny."
Remo slouched back in his seat. "I hate clouds," he grumbled.
"I don't know why. You have much in common. You are both puffy and white and cast gloom wherever you go."
Remo sank even further into himself, muttering about how much he hated sarcasm, too. He was still complaining when their plane touched down in London.
They took a cab from the airport. Chiun gave directions to the cabbie from the back seat. The driver eventually stopped outside a high wall. Remo had glimpsed the building beyond from the back seat of their taxi.
"Chiun, what are we doing at Buckingham Palace?" he asked once they were standing on the sidewalk.
The most famous residence of the British monarchy stretched like a panoramic postcard beyond the wall. "Looking for an entrance," Chiun replied. Twirling, he marched up the sidewalk.
He stopped at a palace guard standing before a gate. The man wore the familiar red uniform jacket and high bearskin hat, tied under his chin. He stared out over Chiun's bald head. Pedestrians continued to pass by.