The time of hospitalization listed beside Remo's name was 11:45 a.m., Mountain Daylight Time. He had been alive then. Smith had no reason to believe his condition had changed.
The Master of Sinanju would have to be informed.
As one arthritis-gnarled hand snaked toward the blue contact phone, the nimble fingers of Smith's free hand were already booking passage on two flights to New Mexico. One ticket was for Chiun. The other, for Harold W. Smith.
THE MASTER OF SINANJU had just completed the four thousand nine-hundred and ninety-ninth verse of his second favorite Ung poem. Rarely was he given the opportunity to go through one entire Ung without interruption, but with Remo away he had not only completed the classic spider poem in peace but had moved on to the near-classic melting-snowflake poem.
Through the recitation of both poems, he had achieved a level of joy unparalleled in the years he had spent in the wasteland of America.
Chiun was basking in the afterglow. He sat in full lotus position on his simple reed mat, eyes closed, face relaxed. The many wrinkles of his parchment skin were drawn into lines of pure rapture. There was almost an angelic cast to his wizened features.
The air of this heathen land had never smelled sweeter to his delicate nose. The sounds of traffic in the street outside were almost soothing.
He was completely at peace.
Even the bray of the telephone which had been going on for the past ten minutes, was not enough to disturb his placid mood.
Remo had left the phone on the hook after talking to Smith. Typical thoughtlessness. It no longer mattered, however. Aside from the current incessant jangling, the phone had not rung during the entire time he had spent reciting.
To Chiun, the ringing phone was almost a sign to not become too at peace in this godforsaken land.
Chiun rose from the floor like a puff of steam. He padded down the hall to the kitchen. He had not yet opened his eyes as he pressed the receiver to a shell-like ear.
"Though unworthy even to hear my voice, you have reached Chiun. Speak, but do not annoy."
"Master Chiun, there has been an incident in New Mexico," Smith's voice blurted.
Chiun's eyes remained closed. "Knowing of the severe case of Anglophilia that grips this land, I understand the reason for the upstart provinces of Hampshire and York. But I have been to Mexico, Emperor Smith. Why would you wish to evoke the image of such a squalid land within your borders?"
"That is irrelevant," Smith insisted. "Remo has gone on assignment to New Mexico."
At Smith's sharp tone, Chiun opened his eyes. "This I know," he said evenly.
"According to what I have learned, he has been injured. He has been taken to the hospital." While Smith spoke, the sound of his rapid typing sounded in the background. Chiun did not comment on this rudeness.
"I have just accessed the computers of the Fort Joy infirmary," Smith continued. "They have not entered details of his condition. However, it appears that they have put him in the intensive-care unit."
Chiun let Smith prattle until he sounded as if he was through. Only then did the Master of Sinanju interject.
"I appreciate your concern, O Emperor, but I assure you that Remo is in good health. We both remain robust of heart and stout of soul, the better to serve your regal self."
"It is Remo," Smith insisted. "Something has gone terribly wrong. I have booked you on a flight out of Logan. A cab will be there to collect you shortly. My flight leaves Newark airport before yours. We will rendezvous near the U.Sky terminal in Roswell."
"Forgive me, Emperor-"
Chiun was not given time to complete his thought. The coarse hum of a dial tone grated on his delicate eardrum.
Slowly, he replaced the phone.
Smith had sounded agitated. More so than usual. Chiun was not unused to this level of disquiet in his employer. Indeed, it seemed to be his lot in life to deal with the vicissitudes of Mad Harold.
Of course, there was nothing wrong with Remo. During the course of his last assignment, Remo had been wounded by a uniquely dangerous foe. Because of this, Smith must have now decided that every hoodlum with a boom stick could injure the Apprentice Reigning Master of Sinanju.
It was doubtless some other lout with Remo's name who had been injured. But that explanation would never work for Smith. To try to give a reasonable rationale to an unreasonable mind was to invite further madness. If he had attempted to explain the reality of the situation to Smith-that nothing was nor could go wrong with Remo-surely some of Smith's insidious madness would escape into Chiun in the process. In the end, for all his futile efforts, Chiun would wind up as crazed as Smith.
No, the old Korean knew from experience that it would be best to satisfy this latest insane whim of his Emperor.
Alone in his kitchen, he frowned. He would not need to bring all fourteen of his steamer trunks with him. Two would be sufficient. After all, he would undoubtedly dispense with this crazy white errand in short order.
That decided, Chiun left the kitchen to pack the few things he would need for his trip to Upstart Mexico.
Chapter 7
General Delbert Xavier Chesterfield was doing the one thing that put him head and shoulders above all the other military men he had ever met-passing the buck.
"I can see where you're a-comin' from on that, sir, I really can," he said into the phone.
He fell silent during the five-minute reply from the other end of the line.
Chesterfield sat behind his desk in his Fort Joy command barracks. His red moon face had begun to take on shades of sickly orange not long after the beginning of the call. Drops of sweat as big as dimes collected on his forehead. They rolled down in icy rivulets to his bull neck, soaking his starched uniform collar a darker shade of green.
"Absolutely it was them, sir," Chesterfield said when a break finally came in the monologue. "I don't have the actual physical proof yet, but one of their own agents is flat on his back in my infirmary right now."
In his huge mitt, his desk phone was like a miniature toy prize from a supermarket candy dispenser. He held it in only two fingers as he nodded vigorously.
"Yes, sir. I'd say CIA, sir. Or some other shadow element of the civilian government." After a pause he added, "Not under my nose, sir. I wouldn't categorize it as that. It's more likely a White Sands spillover thing. You know the stuff they've cooked up over there since the first nuke. Them superquiet planes and choppers, smart tanks and missiles. Hell, they've even got some of them Star Wars-type lasers on the burner, too. I only feel half-safe living next door and they're on our side."
Whatever his superior said to him did not seem to soothe Ironbutt Chesterfield's agitated mood. After a few harshly delivered words, the connection was severed. The general's big hand slowly lowered the receiver to its cradle.
He stared at the drab gray wall. His eyes were bloodshot saucers buried in his massive red face. The yard beyond the window to his right was still a hive of activity. He hardly noticed.
His sickly eyes went dry as he stared blankly. After a long, long time Chesterfield blinked. His great neck wobbled as he swallowed a lump of heavy saliva.
"Dag-nabbit," he murmured.
This was horrible. Terrible. Almost the worst thing that could have happened.
The brass knew that Roote was one of his. He never should have let the name remain under his command. He should have expunged the base records.
Even as he thought it, he knew it wouldn't have been possible. The damn Pentagon had to keep everyone on active military duty on file. Hell, they even had genetic records of Roote, as well as every other soldier in the United States. It would have been impossible to erase the psycho private's entire history.