"Cindee Maloo gave him a number to call if he wanted to be on 'Winner,'" Remo explained, sitting on the couch. "Actually, I think it was more for me, but Chiun's the one who ended up with it. He called, she hooked him up with MacGulry and the two of them are doing lunch today."
"Why on earth is Chiun meeting with Robbie MacGulry?" Smith asked. His stomach clenched in fear. Acid burned the back of his throat.
"He's back to writing again," Remo explained. "You know that bargain-bin movie he wrote a couple of years back? MacGulry fed him some line about turning it into a series."
"Oh, God," Smith croaked, diving for his antacid bottle.
"I was a little worried, too," Remo said. "That's why I was gonna go with him, to keep an eye on him. But he sent me out for breakfast and when I got back he was gone. Don't be too rough on him with this, Smitty. I know this isn't good and he's been a pain and all lately, but we should cut him some slack. He's not really himself these days. I think it has to do with age and retirement and all that stuff."
Smith gulped the last of his antacid, capping the bottle. It made no difference against the fire in his belly.
"That is the exact attitude that has likely driven him to this-this madness," the CURE director accused.
"What do you mean?"
"Chiun has made it clear to you that he doesn't want to be treated like an invalid. Yet more and more lately that is precisely what you've been doing."
Remo's brow lowered. "I don't do that. Do I?" But Smith was no longer listening. He snapped his computer back on. Typing swiftly he enabled the TV function.
The Vox Cable News Network was on.
"That's a relief." When he exhaled his breath smelled of mint-flavored chalk. "After what happened yesterday with you, I half expected to see Chiun on the news."
"This thing's probably innocent, Smitty," Remo insisted. "Chiun happened to get a business card and wound up hooked up with MacGulry. Stuff like that happens all the time."
"No," Smith insisted, cold certainty in his tart voice. "There have been too many coincidences now. I fear there is some plan behind ...this ...to..."
His voice trailed slowly to silence.
Remo saw that the CURE director was entranced by whatever was on his computer monitor. Smith's lips moved as if he were reading something on the screen.
"What now?" Remo asked from the sofa. "MacGulry have Hooters girls reading the stockmarket report?"
Smith stopped reading. The gray shards of flint behind his rimless glasses were flat.
"One moment, Remo," Smith said dully.
Remo watched the CURE director lean over. He heard the sound of a drawer opening. A moment later, Smith reappeared, his service automatic clasped in his arthritic hand.
The explosion was sharp and sudden. Stuffing blew out of a smoking hole in the sofa cushion against which Remo had been leaning.
"Have you blown a gasket!" Remo snapped, hopping to his feet.
Wordlessly, Smith fired again.
Remo whirled from the bullet's path. It slammed into the soundproof wall. The bullet had barely struck the wall before Remo was skittering across the room.
Smith fired twice more, missing both times. Remo darted around the desk and snatched the gun from Smith's hand. He flung it into the open desk drawer. Smith sprang for the pistol.
"Oh, no," Remo said. "Smitty have enough bang-bang for today." He kicked the drawer shut.
Smith struggled with the handle. When Remo's ankle refused to budge out of the way, he tried to bite it.
Remo attempted to coax him back in his chair. Smith tried to wrap his hands around Remo's throat.
"Okay, so you're not happy about Chiun's show. I'm sensing that. I'll talk to him again," Remo offered.
He was nudging Smith back into his seat once more when he noticed a familiar flicker of light from the corner of his eye. He glanced down at Smith's computer screen.
"Not again," Remo moaned.
The pulsing flashes of the hypnotizing signal were clearly visible to Remo. His eyes broke down each individual flash as if it were a single pop from a camera.
But unlike before, this time the subliminal message took on a special, chilling urgency.
"Uh-oh," Remo said softly as he read the words staggered beneath the flashes. Harold, kill Remo...Harold, kill Remo...Harold, kill Remo... Harold, kill Remo... Harold, kill Remo...
The message repeated over and over.
"You think this is for us?" Remo asked worriedly. He looked down at Smith.
Remo had the CURE director pinned in place with one hand against the older man's chest. Smith had spent the past few seconds as Remo read the computer message trying to punch CURE's enforcement arm in the throat. He refused to give up, continuing to throw futile roundhouse punches.
"I thought they were out of business," Remo said, more to himself now than to the sweating Smith. The CURE director didn't seem to hear. He had found a letter opener in another desk drawer. He tried to stab Remo in the head with it.
Remo sighed. "Say goodnight, Smitty," he said. With his free hand, he tapped the CURE director in a spot dead center in his forehead. Smith went limp. Eyes rolling back in his head, the crazed glint was replaced by bloodshot whites. The lids fluttered and closed.
"Great," Remo muttered worriedly. "One down, two to go. And we don't even know who we're up against."
Face drawn in concern, he took Smith under the arms, rolling him up over a shoulder.
This was no longer coincidence. Whoever had sent this new signal obviously knew about CURE's personnel. And without Smith as a guide, Remo had no idea how to track them.
Leaving the computer on, he carried from the office the limp bundle that was Harold W. Smith.
FROM THE BACK SEAT of a Rye taxi, the Master of Sinanju watched the skyscrapers of Manhattan grow up from the benighted New York landscape.
He was alone in the cab, thank the gods.
When Remo insisted he be allowed to tag along to this important meeting, Chiun dropped his objections. Why object? After all, Chiun knew his pupil. If he told Remo in no uncertain terms that he couldn't come, Remo would insist on going even more. The boy was so willful he'd always do the exact opposite of whatever Chiun wanted just out of spite.
Luckily, Remo had never been one of the world's greatest thinkers. When he wasn't looking, Chiun had taken all their rice and flushed it down the toilet then told Remo they were out of rice. Five minutes after Remo had gone to the store to get more, Chiun was climbing into the back of a cab.
He had enjoyed the solitude of his ride into the city. Remo's attitude had been unbearable of late. Ever since he had decided to assume the mantle of Reigning Master, his mood toward his teacher had become too conciliatory. All at once Chiun was a frail old man whose every breath might be his last. Remo was the dutiful son taking care of his elderly father in the final creaking moments before death.
This new attitude of Remo's made Chiun long for the early days of their relationship. Back then Remo was a foul-tongued lout with no respect for anyone. Eventually as time went on, his growing fondness for his Master had softened his earliest attitude, but he had never completely lost his edge. Until now. Now he was all sweetness and helping, and even when he lost his temper he didn't seem to really mean it.
Of course it was Remo whose outlook had changed. It certainly wasn't Chiun. No matter what Remo said.
The boy was like that. If he wasn't clinging too tightly, he was rudely forcing his teacher aside. Lately, he'd been managing to do both things simultaneously.
If there was one thing that Chiun didn't like it was mood swings. The world could learn a thing or two about moods from the Master of Sinanju. His own mood was always good. Except, of course, in those moments when the world's mood changed and he was forced to alter his own accordingly. But as long as the world's mood remained good, Chiun's mood remained good and Remo had a perfect example to follow.