And so Chiun wrote on, serene in the knowledge he was not ignoring one of the new rulers who was now counting his gold and calculating his ability to secure absolute security for his throne and his borders.
It would be good to feel wanted again, he thought.
Harold Smith slammed down the telephone in frustration after the fifth series of forty rings had gone unanswered.
It was possible that the Master of Sinanju was out for the day, he knew.
It was just as possible that he was simply not answering the telephone. Chiun hated telephones. Or at least he pretended to. One of the biggest expenses—other than Remo throwing out brand-new shoes instead of polishing them—was monthly telephone replacement. If a phone rang at an inopportune time, Chiun simply shattered it with his hand or squeezed it to melted plastic in his fingers. Smith had seen Chiun's handiwork many times and never understood how crushing fingers could cause plastic to run like taffy. He just replaced the telephones.
Another telephone drew his eyes. A dialless red instrument now reposed in its proper place on his pathologically neat desk for the first time in a year—the While House hot line. Simply lifting the receiver caused an identical red telephone to ring in the Lincoln Bedroom of the White House.
Smith had refrained from lifting the red receiver however.
Before the incident at the UN, he had planned a courtesy call to the Chief Executive, informing him that the hot line was back in operation and CURE remained ready to field any mission requests.
It was a peculiarity of the CURE mandate that the President of the United States had no authority to order CURE into action. He could only suggest missions. Harold Smith had absolute autonomy in wielding the awesome responsibility set on his spare shoulders. That way no rogue President could co-opt CURE to pursue purely political ends.
But Harold Smith wouldn't call the President. Not yet. Not when the only news he had to convey was bad news. CURE was without its enforcement arm.
That revelation might tempt the budget-conscious Chief Executive with the only direct order he was allowed to give: shut down.
Smith restored the hot-line instrument to a desk drawer and locked it, then checked his vest pocket for the coffin-shaped poison pill and took down his briefcase from atop an old-fashioned oak filing cabinet.
He took a cab to the local train station and purchased a round-trip ticket to Boston. He didn't have to consult a schedule. He knew the timetables by heart.
Four hours later Smith stepped off Amtrak's Patriot Limited in Boston's South Station. Switching to the Red Line, he was momentarily chagrined to discover that the Boston subway system had had a serious fare increase since his visit.
"Eighty-five cents?" Smith asked the man at the collection booth.
"In New York City they charge a buck twenty-five."
"This is not New York City," Smith objected.
"And this isn't a flea market. It's eighty-five cents or take a cab, which charges a buck-fifty just to sit in the backseat and tell the driver where to go."
From a red plastic change holder, Harold Smith grudgingly counted out exactly eighty-five cents. He didn't buy a second token for the return trip. Life was too uncertain. What if he were to injure himself and be taken to the emergency room, and worse, pass away? The token would be completely wasted.
Leaving the North Quincy T stop, Smith followed West Squantum Street to Hancock, crossing over to East Squantum. Just past the high school, he turned into the grounds of the big fieldstone condominium that had once been a church.
Smith had purchased it at auction for a price so low it had almost brought a rare smile to his sour patrician countenance. The building had been originally erected as a church, and during the condo-crazy days of the late 1980s a developer had converted it into a multiunit building—and promptly went bankrupt when the boom went bust.
Smith rang the doorbell.
And received no answer.
He rang it again.
When no one came to the door, Smith peered into the glass ovals set in the double-leaf doors. He could see the sixteen mail boxes and separate apartment buzzers and the inner door, tantalizingly out of reach.
Smith abruptly walked down the street to a market and tried to purchase a single stick of gum.
The clerk set down a pack.
"I only want one stick," Smith told him.
"We don't sell it by the stick. Only by the pack."
Smith made a prim mouth. "Do you have any gumballs?"
"No gumballs. You want gum or not?"
"I'll take it," said Smith, unhappily dispensing fifty-five cents in change from his nearly depleted change holder.
As it turned out, Smith needed two sticks of gum to do what he had to, which saved him a second trip but still left him stuck with three unnecessary sticks.
Chewing the gum furiously, he pressed the sticky blob into the doorbell. It jammed the button solidly in.
Carefully lifting the fabric of his trousers so the knees wouldn't bag, he lowered himself onto the steps, set his briefcase on his knobby knees and waited while the doorbell buzzed incessantly behind him.
The door opened in less than ten minutes.
Smith stood up and turned.
The Master of Sinanju was wearing a gold-chased ebony kimono and an annoyed expression. It flickered into a bland web as soon as he recognized Smith. "Emperor," he said thinly.
"Master Chiun," Smith replied with equal thinness.
The two stood silent. There was no flowery outburst, no greetings or gracious offer to enter.
Smith cleared his throat. "I have come about the next contract."
"You did not receive my sorrowful message?"
"I received it."
"And the tablet Remo asked me to return?"
"Yes."
"And you have not used it?"
"No," Smith said coldly.
Silence.
Smith cleared his throat. "May I come in?"
"Alas, I cannot."
"Why not?"
"I await a visitor."
"Remo?"
Chiun gestured to the still-buzzing doorbell. "No. The repair person who is to fix this balky device is overdue. It will require my full and undivided attention to insure that the job is done properly and without overcharging."
Harold Smith reached out and removed the gum from the buzzer button. It fell silent.
"You may turn him away. The buzzer is functioning again."
Chiun bowed his head. "Great is your knowledge of things mechanical."
"I need only a few minutes of your time."
"Then you may enter."
The Master of Sinanju led Smith up the steps to the meditation tower, where the cool fall sunlight flooded in through the high windows.
The fresh, clean scent of rice clung to the walls and minimal furniture. It was probably steamed into the painted walls forever, Smith reflected.
Chiun waited until Smith had lowered himself awkwardly onto a tatami mat before floating down to his own mat to face him.
"My time is short," he intoned. "You have interrupted my packing."
"You are leaving America?"
"Regrettably."
"May I ask why?"
"This land is full of painful memories I can no longer abide."
Smith frowned. "Where is Remo?"
"I am forbidden to say."
"Forbidden by whom?"
"Remo has gone his own way. Now I must go mine."
"Is this why you are breaking the contract between America and Sinanju?" Smith asked.
"I break nothing. The contract expires on the eve of the eleventh month, where it has always ended. I chose not to renew."
"I would like to convince you otherwise."
"I cannot."
"Why not?"
"I am an old man now. The strenuous work of America is too much for my frail shoulders."