Try as he might, he couldn't summon up an image that could possibly do justice to the reality.
Remo sighed. "You could have told me about this earlier." Remo's internal clock—more accurate than any government-built atomic clock—told him it was only eighty-seven minutes and twelve seconds since he had gotten off the phone with Smith.
"This problem has just come up. Remo, please."
There was a strange desperation in his voice.
"Okay," Remo said resignedly. "I'll be there as quick as I can."
He hung up the phone and went to inform the Master of Sinanju that he was leaving. He found the tiny Asian seated in the center of the glass-enclosed upper room of the building. Chiun's wizened face was pointed east and slightly upturned. The warming rays of the midmorning sun suffused his parchment skin and reflected brilliantly off the hand-embroidered gold piping of his fire-engine red kimono.
"That was Smith on the phone," Remo said upon entering the room. "He needs me back at Folcroft."
He took a deep breath and stared out at the traffic on the street below. "He sounded strange."
Chiun didn't open his eyes. "And this struck you as odd?"
Remo shrugged. "No." His brow furrowed, un-convinced. "I don't know. He just didn't sound like himself."
Chiun's eyes instantly shot open. Hazel irises quickly flashed to shards of flinty concern.
"He did not hack?" the Master of Sinanju demanded.
Remo shook his head patiently. "It was nothing like that, Little Father," he insisted.
Only a few short weeks before, Remo had un-knowingly charged headlong into an ancient Sinanju prophecy. An unholy band of false prophets had re-established the two-thousand-year-old Delphic Oracle in America's West. Those who breathed the smoke of the Pythia, as it was called, were possessed by the demon force. Remo had been unlucky enough to become the vessel of the Pythia for a time. His coughing spasms had been an early sign of posses-sion to the Master of Sinanju.
"You are certain Smith has not been infected by Apollo's minion?" the old Korean pressed.
"Of course not," Remo said. "We blew Ranch Ragnarok to Kingdom Come, and the Pythia's urn along with it."
Chiun studied Remo's hard features. They had not discussed those events much. Something had happened to Remo while he was entrapped by the oracle.
The old man suspected that it had something to do with yet another Sinanju legend—the one in which Remo was said to be the avatar of Shiva, the Hindu god of destruction.
Finally Chiun closed his eyes. "Do not be confident that we have seen the last of the Pythia," he said ominously.
"We smoked him once, we can do it again,"
Remo said, spinning to the window. His sure tone belied an inner concern. "And I was talking about Smith."
"Did he mention the autograph?"
Remo rolled his eyes heavenward. He turned back to the master of Sinanju. "Chiun, I told you. Smith's autograph is worth diddly."
"Now," Chiun said. "But it might not always be so."
"I guarantee you, a hundred years from now, Smith's autograph will still be worth diddly."
"But if it increases in value, I will be in a position to make a tidy sum. This with no personal investment, Remo."
"You plan to be around in a hundred years to sell it?" Chiun opened his eyes. The ancient eyelids, as thin as rice paper and seemingly as delicate as a cluster of cobwebs, revealed a pair of surprisingly young-appearing hazel eyes. The Master of Sinanju regarded his pupil levelly. "I am not quite ready to climb into my grave." The eyes were cold.
"I didn't mean anything by it," Remo said. "It's just that one appearance on the evening news isn't going to make Smith a star."
''Robert Dedero had to start somewhere."
"De Niro," Remo corrected.
"A worthless currency," Chiun said. "Almost as worthless as the ruble. I will only sell Smith's signature for gold. But I will only sell it if you collect it, so make haste." Chiun closed his eyes once more.
And rather than attempt to explain to the Master of Sinanju that it was unlikely that Robert De Niro got his first big break on the evening news, Remo left.
Remo took an afternoon flight and arrived by taxi at Folcroft by three that afternoon.
The security guard didn't even lift his eyes from his tiny portable television set as Remo strolled through the open wrought-iron gates and up the main driveway. He headed directly to the main sanitarium building.
Remo noticed a strange white van sitting in the no-parking zone in front of the large stone staircase to the main building. Its engine purred almost imperceptibly. He guessed it to be some kind of utilities truck, since his heightened senses detected a lot of electrical equipment inside the back.
Veering away from the main entrance, Remo took the narrow flight of stairs near the employee parking area up to Smith's office.
Smith's outer office was deserted. Remo considered that a stroke of good luck. Mrs. Mikulka, Smith's secretary, must have been away somewhere on an errand. Remo was pleased that he didn't have to contend with the older woman. She sometimes took her job as the personal secretary to the head of Folcroft Sanitarium far too seriously.
He moved across the outer office on silent, gliding feet.
Remo paused at the door to the office. There was someone else inside with Smith. He didn't know why his senses told him this; he just knew. Maybe this was the reason for Smith's urgency on the phone.
Without hesitation, Remo popped the heavy lock on the inner office door and slid stealthily inside. He hadn't passed more than a foot into the Spartan office before he felt a huge pressure on the back of his skull. The pain was intense and immediate. It was as if someone were compressing the fused bones of his skull in a vise. His ears itched. Remo reeled at the pain.
Smith sat behind his desk. The other man, a stranger Remo somehow found familiar, sat in a chair across from Smith. The stranger turned to Smith as Remo staggered in pain near the still-open doorway.
"This man is white."
"That is true, obviously." Smith's eyes darted over to Remo.
There was a hint of concern etched in the deep recesses of his flinty gray eyes.
"The Masters of Sinanju have always been Orientals. Koreans, specifically."
"Remo was able to absorb the training when no Asians could."
The man's tone became threatening. "It would be regrettable if I discovered you have been lying to me, Dr. Smith."
By the door, Remo was attempting to regain his equilibrium.
It felt as if someone had jammed two rusty ice picks in his ears.
The itching had moved inward. It now felt as though a starving rat were trying to claw its way out of his skull.
With a colossal effort, Remo forced his jaw and larynx to work.
"What is going on, Smitty?" Though he was able to speak, the words were labored, sounding as though they were spoken by a stroke victim.
Dimly Remo recognized the man as the one he had seen on the news the previous evening. A look of mild surprise spread across the man's regal features.
"Unusual," he said. He nodded approvingly, as if Remo had just passed some private test.
Remo decided he didn't like him. The way he looked at Remo was maddeningly condescending. He wasn't going to wait for the order. He'd settle this guy's hash and then ask Smith what the hell was going on.
The look of surprise on the face of Lothar Holz became one of shock as Remo took a hesitant step toward him.
"Curt," the man said to no one in particular.
"You don't have a lock yet." There seemed to be a nervous crack in his usually calm demeanor.
Remo took a second step. Though he moved like a marionette with hopelessly tangled wires, he was closer to Lothar Holz.
Holz stood. His face grew more concerned and he spoke urgently.