Patriotism was sometimes the last refuge of scoundrels who hid themselves by wrapping themselves in the flag. But Smith wrapped himself around the flag to protect it and shield it. So the simple fact was that when a President made a judgment that CURE was necessary in the fight against lawlessness, there was only one man in the government with the background, the honesty, the patriotism, the espionage skills, the administrative knowhow, to run it. Dr. Harold W. Smith.
And that was many years ago, and here he was, near pension age, but he knew now there would never be a pension, his children were grown now and he had missed their childhoods, and he was denied even the usual out of the wayward parent: the right to tell his now-grown children, well, this is the way it was and that's why I couldn't be there. Even that was denied him.
With a conscious effort of will, he forced the whole package of resentment out of his mind. His problem now was—where was Remo?
He had not called from Algiers, and despite his antics, missing a check-in was something Remo did not do. Somehow, it had penetrated even through Remo's thick skull that missing a call-in might trigger whole series of events and actions that, once started, would be impossible to call off. So he always called. But today he hadn't and he was two hours overdue.
That meant trouble. Smith had no faith in the ability of the secret agencies of other countries to stop Nemeroff. He had regarded it as CURE's assignment, as America's problem. He had assigned his biggest weapon, Remo Williams, and given him a free hand, hoping that that free hand would be used to kill Nemeroff.
Nemeroff's name had moved through the CURE crime computers too many times and Smith, probably better than any other man in the world, had a fair idea of the full extent of the baron's illegal influence. The world would be better rid of him. And Scambia would be better off without its assassination-minded vice president, Asiphar.
He had hoped that that solution would occur to Williams. But now, as the minutes had lengthened into hours and Remo had not called, he began to worry that somehow the solution had become part of the problem.
He watched the waters of the sound for a few minutes longer, then picked up the telephone and gave his secretary a number to call.
In a few minutes, the buzzer rang. He picked up the phone, prepared for his country's sake, to perform a distasteful service.
"Hello, Chiun. This is Doctor Smith."
"Yes," Churn said. How many times had Smith spoken to him on the phone; how many times had Chiun responded merely, "yes?" It was like talking to a wall.
"I have not heard from your student," Smith said.
"Nor have I."
"He has missed his noon check-in."
"That is apparent if you have not heard from him,'' Chiun said.
"What was his mood when he left?"
"If you mean, has he fled from you, the answer is no."
"Are you sure?" Smith asked.
"I am sure," Chiun said. "I informed him of a great honor soon to be his. He would not now flee."
"Perhaps he's drunk some place?" Smith suggested.
"I think not," Chiun suggested.
And then, because there was simply nothing left to say by either of them, each hung up. Neither thought to say goodbye.
Smith depressed the receiver with his finger, then called his secretary again. Within a minute, he had set in motion procedures to quietly check upon the whereabouts of a PJ Kenny who was registered at the Stonewall Hotel in Algiers.
The sun was beginning to dip over the sound when the answer came back. Mr. PJ Kenny is still registered at the Stonewall Hotel in Algiers. On the previous evening, he was wounded in some sort of shooting incident. The extent of his injuries is unknown, since no doctor was called into attendance, and he has not yet left his room.
"Thank you," Smith said. Then, himself, without his secretary, dialed the number of the Hotel Palazzo in New York. He must seek Chiun's advice.
The hotel operator answered.
"Room Eleven-eleven," Smith said.
The operator hesitated a moment, then Smith heard a phone ringing.
"Front desk," came a man's voice.
"I asked for Room Eleven-eleven," Smith said, annoyance leaking from his voice.
"Whom did you wish to speak to?" the clerk asked.
"Mr. Park. The elderly Oriental gentleman."
"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Park has left word that he will be gone for a few days."
"He has? Did he say where he was going?"
"As a matter of fact, he did. He said he was going to Algeria."
"Thank you," Smith said slowly, and hung up. Well, that was that. Remo had called Chiun, told him he needed help, and Chiun was on his way. Nothing to do but wait.
And at the front desk of the Hotel Palazzo, a young, blond-haired clerk looked into the hazel eyes of a wizened old Oriental, who smiled at him.
"You have performed me most valuable services," Chiun said.
"It was a pleasure to serve you," the clerk said.
"It is a pleasure equally as great to meet a servant who understands that his function is to serve," Chiun said. "You have made my flight reservation?"
"Yes."
"And my steamer trunks will get to the airport on time?"
"Yes."
"And a taxicab is waiting for me?"
"Yes."
"You have indeed done well," Chiun said. "I must show you my appreciation."
"No sir," the clerk said, waving a hand at Chiun, in whose hand a small money-purse had magically appeared. "No sir. Just doing my job," he said, wishing it were not the policy of the hotel and that he could accept whatever gratuity this wealthy old looney-tune were about to force upon him.
Chiun hesitated.
"No sir," the clerk said again, less vigorously this time.
Chiun snapped his purse closed again. "As you will," he said, feeling rather good about it. A quarter saved is a quarter earned.
Two hours later, Chiun, with the passport in the name of C.H. Park, was aboard a jetliner heading for Algiers. He sat quietly in a window seat, looking out at the bright afternoon clouds. His whole life was spent in doing errands, it seemed. Like now. Going across half the earth to chide Remo for not calling in on time.
Only fleetingly did it occur to Chiun that Remo might be in some kind of trouble. He dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. After all, was not Remo the embodiment of Shiva, the Destroyer? Was he not Chiun's pupil? Would he not be the Master of Sinanju one day? What could happen to such a one?
CHAPTER TWELVE
The man who thought he was PJ Kenny had been unable to remember anything at all from his past. Even if he had, he was sure it would not be nearly as pleasant as his present.
He had inspected his wallet the night before while the English girl was out of the room. It contained $4,000. Except for a passport made out in the name of P.K. Johnson, which was obviously a phony, he had no papers, no indication of just who or what PJ Kenny was, no reason for anyone to have pegged shots at him. Just the telegram from Baron Nemeroff, whoever he was.
Then the English girl was back and he lost all interest in Nemeroff. She was Maggie Waters, she was a British archaeologist, he had picked her up in the hotel lobby and she seemed to think that she had some obligation to make love to him. As Englishmen everywhere, she discharged her obligation.
So did he. Over and over. Through the night. Into the second day. On and on. PJ Kenny, whoever he was, was quite a man. He knew tricks she had never seen before; things to do with his fingers and his lips and his knees that reduced her to jelly, to babbling insensibility; that drove her to peaks of pleasure that were unbearably intense. And then he made them even more intense.
He taught her a new position called the Yokohama YoYo and a new technique called the Capistrano Swallow and he denied having learned them from an American book, called the Sensuous Pervert.