"That is hardly proof," Smith pointed out.
"The FBI has determined that the Lewisite was Army surplus."
"That fits in with Chiun's theory that the body we found in Missouri was military. I still think he was a Dirt Firster."
"We should know soon. The FBI is processing the body. He is an annoying loose end. I would feel better if all the loose ends were tied together."
"What do you want-signed confessions? I'm an assassin, not Dale Cooper."
Smith sighed. "Very well. Return to Folcroft."
"As soon as we get the grand tour."
"Grand tour?"
"The developer is giving us a condo in return for services rendered."
"Do not accept it," Smith said sharply.
"Why not? I'll bet it's bug-free," Remo said pointedly.
Smith had no reply to that, so Remo disconnected, saying, "Chew on that a while, Smitty."
Remo found the Master of Sinanju in the bathroom examining the fixtures as Connors Swindell pointed out their attributes.
"You see this little doohickey here?" Swindell was saying, pointing to a gleaming stainless steel shower head.
"Yes. It is obviously a doohicky," Chiun said seriously.
"You just dial it and get any kind of water massage you want. Pulsing, throbbing, needle spray-you name it. Every home should have one."
"How about a quick tour before we go?" Remo asked.
"Your friend here is a hard sell," Swindell said, leading them out to the elevator. "Good thing I already offered him a unit. I'd start to think I was losing my golden touch."
"The things you touch do not turn to gold," Chiun said coldly.
"Don't you just love this guy?" Swindell asks Remo. "He talks like an upscale fortune cookie!"
The elevator took them down into the Condome tower.
As they descended, the air became cooler, then clammier, and then finally dank with the smell of standing water.
"The air conditioner must have kicked back on," Remo remarked. "You could get Legionnaire's disease breathing this stuff."
"If you want the twenty-first-century luxury of living in the desert, you gotta make a few adjustments," Swindell said firmly.
"What do you think, Chiun?"
The Master of Sinanju did not answer at first. Remo wondered if he was being ignored again. Then he noticed Chiun's face. It was uneasy, the eyes a little strange.
The elevator stopped, and the doors slid open. Swindell stepped off. His feet sloshed with each step.
Remo looked out into the corridor warily. Connors Swindell, wearing a sheepish smile, was standing in a half inch of clammy water.
"Someone spill something?" Remo asked as Chiun sniffed the air unhappily.
"Those damn Dirt First!! saboteurs!" Swindell said indignantly. "Don't you fret. It's only a little water. This stuff will all be pumped out before you're ready to occupy."
Getting up on tiptoe, Remo stepped into the corridor.
He turned. "Coming, Little Father?"
The sheet-like look on the Master of Sinanju's face froze Remo's blood.
"Chiun! What's wrong?"
"Remo, we must leave this place of horror," Chiun said, his voice squeaking like rusty nails being pulled from dry wood.
"Horror?" Remo and Swindell said in unison. "What are you talking about?" Remo added, eyes concerned.
"Yeah," Swindell asked. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"This is a place of death," Chiun intoned. "Death and darkness. I refuse to enter it."
"But you got a unit just down the hall," Swindell protested. "Don't worry about a little water sloshing around the floor. It won't hurt you none."
"Remo," Chiun repeated, holding fast. "We must leave. Now."
It wasn't the edge in the Master of Sinanju's voice that decided Remo-although it grew more metallic and terrible in a way Chiun's voice had never before sounded-it was the soul-shocked light in his hazel eyes.
Remo wasted no time. He yanked Swindell back into the elevator with him and punched the up button.
"If you don't want it, at least tell your friends about it," Swindell said disspiritedly. "Fair enough?"
The elevator ride seemed to take twice as long going up as down. Once at the top, the Master of Sinanju fled the cage for the desert with a hurried padding of his sandals.
Chiun, Remo realized in surprise, was actually running from the Condome as if he feared it would somehow swallow him.
"What's eating your friend?" Swindell muttered. "Reverse acrophobia?"
"No idea," Remo said worriedly. He caught up with the Master of Sinanju. "Tell me what's wrong, Little Father?" he asked.
The Master of Sinanju slowed. He did not stop. He marched straight to the rental car. His hands found one another, clasping opposite wrists in the hidden folds of his kimono sleeves. Remo noticed that they trembled almost imperceptibly.
Chiun spoke in a hollow voice. "I smelled death, Remo. Terrible death. A long, black, clammy eternity of death. More grim than the Void from which we come and to which we return."
"I never heard you speak of death that way," Remo said. "Like you feared it."
"I do not fear a clean death," Chiun insisted. "A true and correct death is sometimes to be welcomed. The death that waits for me down in that buried place of horror is not such a death."
Remo lifted a eyebrow. "For you?"
"Come," Chiun said. "Take me away if you value the gifts I have bestowed upon you."
"Sure, Little Father," Remo said gently. "Just let me grab the neutron bomb pieces."
Chiun's head snapped around. His wrinkled face twisted in horror. "Do what you must. But do not delay."
Remo hurried back to the wounded helicopter. He left the mangled casing rings and tucked the beryllium oxide tamper under one arm.
He ran back across the sand in such haste that he actually left footprints.
For once, the Master of Sinanju declined to scold him on his carelessness.
They drove off in strained silence.
Chapter 17
Remo was transcending with the sun.
It was an old Sinanju ritual. A Master of Sinanju would sit cross-legged on a reed mat, eyes closed, feeling the new sun beating on his face. As the sun rose, he would meditate on the events of the previous day and attempt to peer into those of the day to come.
In over twenty years of transcending with the sun, Remo had never seen a shred of the day to come. Today was no different.
He opened his eyes. The sun struck them like a double-bladed dagger. Straightening his crossed legs like an unfolding scissors jack, he came to his feet.
He turned, intending to see how Chiun was.
"Little Father!" he said, surprised. "I didn't know you were up."
For standing before him, his face a wrinkled blank, was the Master of Sinanju. He wore a pale peach-colored robe.
Chiun lifted a quelling hand.
"I have words to speak to you, Remo Williams," Chiun intoned.
"Well, pull up a mat," Remo said brightly.
Gravely the Master of Sinanju toed a tatami mat into place. He settled onto it. Remo slipped back onto his. His hands settled on his lifted knees.
"I'm all ears," he said.
Remo half-expected a cutting rebuke. None came. Instead, Chiun began speaking in brittle tones. His eyes seemed unfocused as he talked, as if he were looking at something other than Remo. Remo shivered. Chiun's gaze bored through him and beyond, making Remo feel like a pane of glass. He had never felt that way. The glass was like a barrier, cutting him off from all contact with the man who had raised him up from common humanity.
"I had not expected to speak these words to you, my son," Chiun said hollowly. "But time is growing short."
Remo's brows knit together. "Short?"
"I am very old."