Howard didn't seem convinced. "I hope so, Master Chiun," he said.
Remo noted the deeply worried expression on the young man's face.
"Unkaot your ass, kid," Remo grunted, slapping open the door. "Smitty's got you too wound up about security."
The three of them headed down the gloomy hallway of Folcroft's administrative wing. Flanked by the two other men, Remo couldn't help but feel like a troublemaking junior-high student being hauled off to the principal's office.
For the sheer nuisance factor alone, he hoped that CURE's dour principal was in a forgiving mood.
EVEN THOUGH HE HAD never held the position of school principal, Harold Smith certainly looked the part. The dour man in his gray three-piece suit certainly would not have seemed out of place in some of the crustier old institutions of higher learning in his native New England.
Even his office seemed determined to play the part. Drab, functional and without a shred of distinctive personality, it could have doubled as the office of a particularly dull dean of boys. Plain and uncluttered as it was, the room managed to reflect perfectly the personality of its occupant. To his very core Dr. Harold W. Smith was bland, unimaginative and gray.
This morning a touch of fretful color brushed his ashen cheeks. A bottle of antacid sat at his elbow on his immaculate desk. Although he hadn't yet needed it, he had taken it out as a precautionary measure.
Worried eyes were scanning the angled computer monitor below the surface of his desk. When his office door suddenly popped open, he glanced up over the tops of his rimless glasses.
Remo, Chiun and Mark Howard entered from the office of Smith's secretary. Smith waited for them to close the door tightly before speaking.
"Barrabas Anson was not a sanctioned CURE assignment," Smith said tartly.
Remo and Chiun stopped before Smith's desk. Mark Howard circled around. A picture window looked out over the rear lawn of Folcroft. Howard sat back against it, an ill expression on his wide face. "He should have been," Remo replied. "That jerk's been rubbing all our noses in it for the last seven years."
"Mr. Anson had his day in court," Smith insisted.
"Blah-blah-blah," Remo said. He aimed his chin at Howard. "Who cares about B.O.? What have you been filling junior's head with? He looks like he's gonna ralph."
Smith glanced at Howard. "Mark understands the risks exposure present. While behavior such as that which you have engaged in today has always been unacceptable, I have learned to largely accept it. This, however, crosses the line."
"The Emperor is correct," Chiun insisted. "I should have been the one to dispatch the knife-wielding ballfooter. It is proper only for the Master to remove a famous assassin who dares enter his Emperor's own province."
"Anson's a killer, not an assassin, Little Father."
"Granted, he used a knife," Chiun agreed. "But it could have been worse. He could have used a gun. In any case Emperor Smith doubtless desired an execution in the Rye town square for this one, so that others like him would be discouraged from coming here. Is that not right, Emperor?"
Smith tiredly removed his glasses. "Master Chiun," he said, rubbing the bridge of his patrician nose, "that is precisely what I do not want."
The Master of Sinanju's face clouded in confusion. "But if you allow one assassin to slink in unchallenged, it will embolden others."
At the window Howard shook his head. "Dr. Smith is worried about attracting attention to Folcroft," he explained. "It's a security matter."
Remo's expression soured. "We were handling security around here since you were watching Elmer Fudd in footy pajamas, so lay off."
Smith carefully replaced his glasses. When he looked up, his flinty eyes were hard.
"No," the CURE director said acidly. "I have been handling security since before either you or Chiun joined the organization. And your behavior today was reckless in the extreme." The fight seemed to drain from him all at once. "Just go, Remo. Mark and I will monitor the situation. Remain close to Folcroft until we determine exactly how bad the fallout is."
Smith seemed too weary for words as he returned to his work. Mark Howard pushed away from the window and quietly left the office.
Remo suddenly felt very guilty. He was about to mutter a halfhearted apology when the Master of Sinanju slipped in front of him, shepherding him to the door.
"Go," the old man insisted.
Remo allowed himself to be coaxed outside. Smith's secretary glanced up as the two men slipped past her desk and out into the hallway.
As they walked down the hall, the old man sighed. "Why must you make everything difficult?" he asked. "Is it not enough to know that dark days are coming? Must you hasten them along?"
"I thought I was letting in a ray of sunshine," Remo argued.
"Do us all a favor, Remo," the Master of Sinanju said, "and hire someone to do your thinking for you. If you make Smith unhappy at this delicate stage, it could color Prince Mark's opinion of both of us."
"Fine with me," Remo said. "I could care less what he thinks of us. The Sinanju scrolls say we can't work for Smith's successor, so he can go take a long walk off a short pier for all it matters to us."
A bony hand appeared from Chiun's kimono sleeve. As they walked, delicate fingers stroked the thread of beard that extended from the old man's pointed chin.
"Do not be too certain," Chiun said mysteriously. They were nearly at the fire doors. Remo stopped dead.
"Why?" he asked warily. "What do you mean?"
Chiun's face was knowing. "I have been studying the ancient scrolls." He pitched his voice low. "I believe I have found a loophole." He seemed almost unable to contain his excitement.
"Oh, brother," Remo said, rolling his eyes. "Look, Chiun, if you've found one, you can crawl through it alone because there's no way I'm working for the Midwest Cider Princess. When Smith's gone, I'm outta here."
Chiun raised a thin brow. "Have you forgotten who is Reigning Master?" he sniffed.
It was an old argument-stopper the Korean had been hauling out for years. This time when he uttered those words, Remo felt an odd sensation wash over him. He was speaking almost before he realized the words were his own.
"Okay, here's the deal on that," Remo said calmly. "You're my teacher and you're my father. Aside from my daughter and maybe that good-for-nothing son of mine, you're the only person on the face of the planet who matters squat to me. But I'm sick of you pulling that 'who's Reigning Master?' rabbit out of your hat every other day. I'm the next Reigning Master. In fact, I can succeed you anytime I choose. So can we just knock that crap off, please?"
He expected a look of horror. Instead, the Master of Sinanju merely pursed his dry lips, his brow sinking low.
"Look, Little Father," Remo sighed. "I've got a lot of baggage I've been trying to sort through this past year so-" He paused, shaking his head. "Just don't, okay? Now let's go get something to eat." Turning, he ducked through the door.
The Master of Sinanju remained curiously silent for a pregnant moment. At long last he pushed open the fire door.
With a deeply contemplative expression, the old man padded down the stairs after his pupil.
Chapter 5
Pete Graham remained rock still, his shocked eyes leveled squarely on the Virgil probe.
Behind him Graham could hear Clark Beemer's frightened breathing. The PR man was still latched on to the scientist's arm. Graham had given up any thought of trying to dislodge the other man's viselike grip.
After shocking Graham with its enigmatic words, the probe fell agreeably silent.
It hadn't made any menacing moves. It just stood there, its newly formed mouth lightly closed. It seemed almost to be affecting a placating smile. The tiny, soothing grin-buried as it was in the shell of a cold mechanized beast-had the opposite of its intended effect.