Smith was reading The Wall Street Journal.
Remo padded up to him on silent Italian loafers.
"Uncle Smitty!" Remo cried. "It's been-what?-years. Am I still in the family will?"
Smith looked up from his paper with genuine horror on his patrician features. "Remo. Please. Do not make a scene."
Smith got up, folding his paper. He pushed back on the bridge of his rimless glasses, restoring them to correctness.
"You old softie," Remo said. "Still shy in public." Then, in a quieter voice he asked, "Where's Chiun?"
"He will be along shortly." Smith was tucking the newspaper under his arm. He clutched a worn leather briefcase in one bloodless hand. It was so scuffed that no selfrespecting thief would lower himself to steal it. It contained the computer link to the hidden CURE mainframes in Folcroft's basement.
They started walking.
"So, tell me about this castle," Remo prompted.
"It might be better if you see it without any prejudicial preconceptions."
"Has Chiun seen it?"
"No."
"You pass papers yet?"
"Yes." Smith avoided Remo's eyes.
"Which means if Chiun doesn't like it, you eat the mortgage, right?"
Smith actually paled. Although he had at his disposal a vast black-budget superfund of taxpayer dollars, he spent it as if the copper in every penny came out of his own bloodstream.
"Master Chiun stipulated a castle," Smith said. "Castles are not exactly plentiful in America. I have found him a perfectly good equivalent. Please do not spoil it."
Remo eyed Smith doubtfully. "You trying to pull something here, Smitty?"
"No," Smith said hastily.
"We'll see," Remo said slowly. "Let's find Chiun."
"He is coming in on Kiwi Airlines."
"Wonderful," Remo said. "That means either he'll be six hours late or he went down in flames over Pittsburgh."
"It was the most reasonable flight I was able to book for him on short notice."
"And they have the most wonderful frequent flier program in the air," Remo added. "Right?"
"Er, that is true."
"Which no one has ever managed to collect on, because they either ate tarmac or couldn't stomach flying Kiwi a second time."
"Those stories are exaggerated," Smith said defensively.
They found the Master of Sinanju in the baggage area, patiently waiting for his luggage.
He stood regarding the unmoving baggage conveyer belt like a tiny Asian idol carved from amber and dressed in scarlet silk. His face, in repose, might have worn the accumulated lines of his combined ancestors, the previous Masters of Sinanju, heirs to the House of Sinanju, the oldest line of professional assassins in human history and discoverers of the sun source of all the martial arts, which was also known as Sinanju.
"Hey, Little Father," Remo called. "I see you made it in one piece."
Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju, turned. At the sight of Remo his wrinkled little face broke out in a beaming smile. His wise hazel eyes brightened.
"Remo! I am so happy to see you!" he squeaked.
"Great," said Remo, quickening his pace. It was true what they said. Absence does make the heart grow fonder.
"For now I have someone to carry my trunks," Chiun added.
Remo's face fell. He struggled to keep his voice light. "How many'd you bring this time?"
"All."
Remo's eye went wide.
"All fourteen!"
Chiun brought a yellow hand like an eagle's claw to the wisp of beard that straggled down from his chin. "Of course. For it is moving day. No more will I have to bear them hither and yon, like a vagabond."
"Vagabonds usually settle for a change of clothes, knotted in a ball and hanging off a stick. Not fourteen freaking trunks."
And before the Master of Sinanju could reply to that, the trunks began bumping through the hanging leather straps.
The first was a gray lacquer monstrosity in which scarlet dragons vied with golden phoenixes for hegemony.
Chiun gestured with a hand whose long fingernails were like pale blades, and said, "Remo."
Unhappily, Remo took hold of the trunk and lifted it free of the conveyor belt. He set it to the floor, and at once the Master of Sinanju drifted up and began examining the lacquer and brass trim for nicks and other blemishes.
"It has survived unscathed," he announced sagely. The overhead lights shone on the amber eggshell that was his skull. Tiny puffs of cloudy white hair enveloped the tops of his ears.
"Only thirteen more to go," Remo muttered.
Then next trunk was mostly mother-of-pearl. It had collected no scratches.
And the others began coming, in a colorful sequence like a toy train.
One by one, Remo hefted them off the belt to join the growing pile. In a corner, Harold Smith buried his long nose in his newspaper and gave off a studied "I'm not with them" air.
"Smith tell you anything about this castle?" Remo asked Chiun.
"Only that it is in an exclusive area in an historical town. "
"It would have to be if there's a castle involved."
"This is a good area, Remo," Chiun whispered.
"Since when?"
"It is one of the older provinces in this young country. It is very British."
"Since when are we Anglophiles?"
"The House has worked for Great Britain," Chiun pointed out.
"And sometimes against them."
"But more for them," said Chiun, dismissing the unimportant detour in historical truth.
The thirteenth trunk was green and gold, and after Remo set it down, the conveyor belt came to a dead stop.
"Hey? Is that all of them?" he asked.
Chiun's wrinkled features stiffened. "No. There is one missing."
Remo snagged a skycap.
"My friend here is missing a piece of luggage," he explained.
The skycap looked at the preposterous pile of trunks and commented, "How can you tell?"
"Because we can count. Why did the belt stop?"
"Because they finished unloading all the luggage."
"You're not saying it's lost," Remo said in as low a voice as possible.
"I'm not saying anything, but you better file a lost luggage claim before you leave the airport otherwise its your tough luck."
"Lost!" Chiun squeaked, flouncing up. "My precious trunk cannot be lost!"
"I didn't say lost," the skycap repeated.
"He didn't say lost," Remo said quickly. "It's probably misplaced."
"The lackey who misplaced my trunk would do better to misplace his head," Chiun said in a stentorian voice.
"He talks that way sometimes," Remo told the skycap. "Let me handle this."
"Remo, I will not countenence this," Chiun warned.
"And you won't have to."
"And if my trunk is truly lost?"
"We'll get it back. Come on, let's find a way into the luggage loading area."
"Follow me," Chiun said, and stepped into the dead conveyor belt. He passed through the fall of leather straps and as Harold Smith called his name in a frightened voice, Remo ducked in after the Master of Sinanju.
The other side was a maze of chutes, tunnels, and self-propelled luggage trucks.
Chiun looked around, his clear hazel eyes cold.
"Uh-oh," Remo said. For one man was driving one of the trucks away from the area. A glossy blue trunk sat in back. Unmistakably Chiun's.
"Thief!" Chiun called. And flashed after the truck in a flurry of scarlet silk.
"We don't know that," Remo said, hurrying after him.
But they knew it for the truth a moment later. The man stopped the truck beside an open van. Two other luggage handlers were shoving stuff into the back of the van. Shoulder bags. Cameras. Videocams. Even a boxed VCR.
The man with Chiun's trunk got off and motioned for the others to give him a hand.
They noticed Chiun at that point.
"Hey!" one shouted. "This is a restricted area. Get out of here!"