With that, he flounced out into the basement hall. Remo shook his head morosely. "I hope Smitty's stocked up on barf bags," he muttered. Hands in his pockets, he trudged out into the hall.
FIVE MINUTES LATER Remo and Chiun were standing in Smith's office. Mark Howard was sitting on a plain wooden chair that he'd pulled up beside Smith's broad desk.
The day was overcast. Dark clouds hovered above the whitecapped waters of Long Island Sound Smith had just finished telling Remo why he had summoned him. Remo was shaking his head in disbelief.
"You've gotta be kidding," he scoffed.
"I am not," the CURE director replied. "It will get you away from Folcroft and Rye. Even though the Anson situation is quieting down, I am not comfortable with your being here during a potential security problem. A problem, I might add, that is entirely your doing."
"But that spider's a fake, Smitty," Remo insisted. "It's just a Halloween bogeyman the Post made up to scare people into buying papers, like Bat Boy or Lyndon LaRouche."
"Mark is not so certain," Smith replied.
Remo glared at Howard. "This was his idea?" he asked in a tone that chilled the stale office air.
"Well, yes," Howard replied hesitantly. "I think that there might be something more to this."
"Earth to the Little Prince. I'm not Leonard Nimoy and this ain't In Search Of. If you want to look for Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster, do it on your own time."
Standing on the worn carpet beside Remo, the Master of Sinanju sniffed. "I have heard of this Bighoof creature," he dismissed. "It does not exist."
"No kidding," Remo said dryly.
"You Americans made it up because you did not have your own yeti," the old man said mysteriously. His pronunciation of the word as well as his odd tone caught Remo's attention.
"You have something you want to share with the rest of the class?" Remo asked.
Chiun's face grew serious. "I will tell you later of the long winter Master Shiko spent hunting this beast in Tibet," he said in Korean, his voice low with ancient shame.
Remo's curiosity was piqued. Before he could press further, Smith interrupted.
"We don't know what exactly is going on in Florida," the CURE director said. "However, there have been a number of what seem on the surface to be credible sightings, as well as a few deaths."
"This thing is killing people?" Remo asked, frowning.
"Three so far," Howard offered.
Remo gave the young man a withering look. Howard reacted uneasily to the attention.
"Hardly enough to warrant putting you in the field under normal circumstances," Smith quickly interjected. "But your actions have made a diversion a practical matter at this time. And, as I indicated, Mark has a hunch there is something more here. I trust his instincts."
"Glad one of us does," Remo muttered. He considered, exhaling loudly. "Ah, what the hell. I'll go. Order me up a plane ticket."
The Master of Sinanju quickly shook his aged head. "Purchase two, Emperor," he insisted firmly. "If there are accolades to be bestowed on the discoverer of this new animal, I refuse to allow this glory hog to get sole credit."
"Very well," Smith said. Leaning forward, he began typing commands into the hidden keyboard that was buried beneath the surface of his desk.
"Let's test how good your hunches are, kid," Remo said to Howard.
As Smith typed, he shot the briefest of glances at his young assistant. Jaw clenching, he returned to his task. The shared look of the two CURE directors was lost on Remo.
"Let us hasten, Remo," Chiun proclaimed. "And keep your eyes peeled for Sherpas."
"What the hell would Sherpas be doing in Florida?"
"One never knows where those thieving goat herders will turn up," Chiun replied ominously. "You will understand when I tell you the tale of Master Shiko." Whirling, he marched for the door.
"Great," Remo said flatly. "I'll have to remember to pack my earplugs along with a jumbo can of Black Flag."
Hands in his pockets, he trailed the old man out of the office.
Chapter 9
Remo knew he'd be spared the tale of Master Shiko on the flight down to Florida as soon as they boarded the plane in New York. He noted with concern that a large portion of the coach section was filled with Asian men in business suits.
In the neighborhood where Chiun and Remo had lived for ten years there had been a high percentage of Asians-particularly Vietnamese. Remo had found that since their house had burned down, the Master of Sinanju's normal day-to-day racism had magnified perceptibly. He had somehow transferred a measure of blame for his loss to members of the ethnically mixed community in which they'd lived.
"Remo," the Master of Sinanju urged, tugging the back of Remo's T-shirt, "this plane is filled with Vietnamese."
"I noticed. For the sake of my sanity, can we just pretend it isn't?" Remo begged.
"What kind of patriotic American are you?" the Master of Sinanju asked, appalled.
"What the hell's that got to do with anything?"
"You are at war with these dog gobblers, that's what," Chiun said. His clear voice rang throughout the plane as they made their way up the aisle. A few heads lifted, faces already scowling at the wizened Korean who swept through their midst in his shimmering green kimono with the red dragon accents.
"We're not at war," Remo whispered.
Chiun didn't hear. "These must be spies," he concluded firmly. "We must phone the Octagon at once."
"That's Pentagon," Remo hissed. "And that war ended almost thirty years ago."
"Ah-hah. They make peace one day only to infiltrate your nation the next. They are worse even than the treacherous Sherpas, for Sherpas do not chase the family pet around the kitchen with a knife and fork. When you finish with the Octagon, phone the dog pound to warn them that there are ravenous Vietnamese running loose through the land."
The looks they'd been getting from the other passengers were becoming increasingly hostile.
"You wanna keep your voice down?" Remo whispered. At their seats now, he quickly sat down.
The Master of Sinanju frowned deeply. "I am shocked, Remo," he scolded. "I never took you for an appeaser. If none will speak in defense of this nation, then I will."
"Chiun-" Remo pleaded.
But the old man had already spun away.
Chiun raised his arms high. Kimono sleeves slipped down, revealing bony arms.
"Mud dwellers of the Mekong!" the Master of Sinanju announced. "Since you are Vietnamese, you are no doubt on some evil mission for your Hanoi lords. As a secret representative of this land, I command you to abandon whatever devious plot you are hatching and surrender yourselves to the proper authorities the instant this air vehicle lands. You will do this or bear the awesome wrath of the Master of Sinanju."
He opened the corner of his mouth to Remo. "Did I leave anything out?" he asked under his breath. By now Remo was slouched low in his seat and hiding behind an in-flight magazine.
"Just sit down," he implored, his voice a hoarse whisper.
Turning once more to the now very angry crowd, Chiun declared, "My son has told me to inform you that a kennel is not a buffet."
As the murmurs rose, loud and rancorous, the Master of Sinanju leaned over and slapped Remo on the knee. "Move your fat white feet," he commanded.
Scurrying over his pupil, he settled into the seat above the left wing.
"Thanks for making me part of the floor show," Remo growled.
The flight attendants had been either at the door or in the galley until now and had thus missed the action. Remo was grateful when the preflight activity took the focus away from him and the Master of Sinanju.
Once they were in the air, a friendly flight attendant came up the aisle. Since it was the Halloween season, she offered passengers a bowl filled to the brim with orange-and-yellow candy corn. Remo was surprised when the Master of Sinanju took two big handfuls. He was less surprised when the old Korean spent the rest of the flight pegging them at the heads of unsuspecting Vietnamese passengers.