"I agree with Remo," Chinn said quickly.
"No," Remo repeated. "Plastic surgery is out."
"Surgery!" Chiun squeaked. "What is this? I have not heard of this request before."
Remo frowned. He turned. "Isn't that what you were arguing about just now?"
"No," said Chiun.
"No," said Smith.
"No?" asked Remo, suddenly sensing that he was on uncertain ground.
"I was discussing with Master Chinn the urgent need to relocate you both in the wake of your participation in the Gulf crisis," Smith explained.
"Relocate? You mean sell my house?"
"Our house," Chiun put in.
"I think it's in my name," Remo pointed out.
"My lawyer will call your lawyer," Chiun snapped.
"Not unless he's taking you on contingency," Remo remarked. To Smith he said flatly, "We're not moving."
"But you must. Remo, as a result of your activities during the Gulf War, your face was telecast to the world. You were identified as the President's personal assassin."
"What is wrong with that?" Chiun wanted to know. "Let the world know this undeniable fact. Your President is safer if tyrants everywhere understand he is protected by the House of Sinanju."
Smith pressed on. "We must take immediate steps to cover all traces of Remo's recent existence. This involves relocating you from Rye and fixing your face."
Folding his arms decisively, Remo said, "No way. Right, Little Father?"
When the Master of Sinanju did not answer, Remo undertoned, "I said, 'Right, Little Father.' That's your cue."
"Emperor," Chiun said slowly, "when you refer to fixing Remo's face, do you mean changing it, as was formerly done in the days when it was necessary to do so often due to Remo's unforgivable carelessness?"
Smith nodded. "Yes. Only I expect once more will suffice. If we have no further . . . incidents of exposure."
Chiun's smooth brow wrinkled, making it match his spidery web of a face. He glided close to Remo and stared elaborately.
At length he asked, "Can you do something with his nose?"
"Such as?"
"Make it normal. Like my nose."
"I will not have a button nose!" Remo shouted, seeing where the conversation was about to go.
"His nose can be reduced," Smith said, unperturbed.
"You stay out of this, Smith!" Remo shouted. He looked down at Chiun, matching the Master of Sinanju's curious regard with a cold stare of his own. "Both of you listen to me. I'm not going to say it again. This is my face -or at least as close as we could get to my original face after all those old face lifts. And a couple of miles from here is my house. It may not have a white picket fence. It may not be inhabited by a loving wife and children, but it's as close to a normal home as I ever expect to get. And I'm keeping it. Is that clear?"
Remo glared down at the Master of Sinanju. Chiun looked up at him with a grim mien. Smith looked at the ceiling.
When no one spoke for half a minute, Remo pressed his advantage.
"I didn't ask for this life," Remo said evenly, a glitter of steel in his tone. "I was happy as a patrolman. I would have made sergeant one day. Probably. I didn't ask to be recruited to the organization. I didn't ask to be trained in Sinanju. I was dragooned into it. Okay, it worked out. I'm Sinanju now. I accept that. Remo Williams may be dead to the rest of the world, but to me, I'm still him. I mean, he's still me."
Remo blinked. Chinn's dry lips curled with pleasure.
"I mean I'm still Remo Williams," Remo said testily. "And I'm keeping this face and I'm keeping the house. Screw security. A million U.S. troops had their faces telecast from over there. No one's going to remember mine."
Remo paused for breath.
"Very well," Smith said tightly. Remo could tell by his tone that he was seething. He was used to absolute obedience. After twenty years of working with Remo, he should have gotten over that by now. He had not.
Chinn spoke up. "Emperor, what about the eyes?"
"The point is moot," Smith said thinly.
"So are the eyes. I do not want a Remo with moot eyes. Can you give him proper eyes? Like mine." Chiun's hazel orbs wrinkled into wise slits, the better to impress the dull whites with their undeniable magnificence.
"I will not go around looking like a Korean!" Remo shouted.
"I am insulted," Chinn said huffily, shaking a tiny fist in the air.
"You are dreaming," Remo snapped.
"Could you both moderate your voices?" Smith said wearily.
I will if he will," Remo said flatly.
Chiun made a face. "I will. But only if Remo does first."
"I already started. Your turn."
Chinn compressed his papery lips. His long-nailed hands sought one another. He took hold of his wrists and the belling sleeves of his emerald-and-gold kimono slid together, concealing them.
"Let me propose a compromise," Smith said when the silence was both thick and cold.
"I'm listening," Remo said, not taking his eyes off the Master of Sinanju, who had trained him in the discipline called Sinanju, legendary for centuries as the sun source of the martial arts. Trained him until no feat achievable by the human biological machine was beyond his abilities.
"At least will you, Remo, agree to take an extended vacation?" Smith pleaded. "Until memories fade?"
"I'll consider it."
"I will consider it too," Chiun allowed. "If Remo's face can be fixed to my exact specifications," he added.
"I am not repeat, never-giving up this face!" Remo said hotly. "I'm comfortable wearing it. It's like an old shoe."
"Ha!" Chiun crowed. "Now he admits its ugliness."
"I give up!" Remo groaned, throwing up his hands.
"I accept your graceless surrender," retorted Chiun. "Emperor, bring on the powerful surgeons of plastic. I will sketch for them Remo's magnificent new countenance."
Smith cleared his throat. He had remained standing through the heated exchange. Now he settled into the cracked leather executive's chair he had broken in when CURE began three long decades before and which he expected to occupy until the day he died. There would be no retirement for the head of CURE.
Smith straightened his gray vest, which matched his suit, his hair, and his pallor in a way that looked calculated but was not. His rimless glasses had slid down his patrician nose. He pushed them back with a finger, taking care not to smudge either lens.
"If this has been settled, I would like you both to find lodgings in Mamaroneck."
' An excellent suggestion, Emperor," said Chiun. "We will not be recognized in so remote a place and I have always wished to sojourn among native Mamaroneckians, despite their primitive ways."
"Mamaroneck, " Smith explained patiently, "is just south of here. "
"Why Mamaroneck?" Remo asked over Chiun's inarticulate sputtering.
"Because that is where IDC is headquartered."
"Oh, not them again," Remo complained.
"CURE is not connected with the trouble at International Data Corporation," Smith said quickly. "The situation is this: several IDC employees have disappeared. All customer service technicians. Almost all of them on their first day of employment. The company claims to have no knowledge of these disappearances, but the pattern is highly suspicious."
"Want me to go in as the FBI?" Remo asked.
"No, Remo. I want you to apply for the job of field technician. "
"I don't know squat about computers."
"The last man hired to subsequently disappear did not either," Smith said. "At least by IDC standards. That alone makes his disappearance suspicious. IDC can have their pick of applicants. But their most recent field personnel hirings have been grossly underqualified. They hire them, send them out into the field. And they disappear. Find out why."
"Is this big enough for us?" Remo wanted to know.
"IDC is not only the leading computer company in the world today, it is perhaps America's premier business. Over the last year the stock market has been depressed by its lackluster quarterly earnings. If something is amiss at IDC, the misfortune may spread to American business as a whole."