Ignoring Remo's sheepish tone, the CURE director plowed on. "I will attempt to find out where the signal might have been sent," he said. "Until I uncover a lead, you and Chiun may return home."
"Raise a flag," a squeaky voice volunteered behind Remo. It was followed by a piercing metallic scratching sound, like fingernails on a blackboard.
When Remo glanced back, he found that the Master of Sinanju had taken more than a passing interest in the parked Mercedes. Bored, the old man was drawing the edge of one long fingernail across the door panel. In the nail's wake, a shiny line of exposed silver glinted in the streetlights. A slender corkscrew of peeled paint curled down into the curbside snow pile.
"Knock it off, Chiun," Remo groused. Apparently, the noise was such that only sensitive eardrums were bothered by it. Somewhere distant, a pair of dogs howled.
The wizened Korean ignored his pupil.
"Didn't you say there were other offices, Smitty?" Remo asked. He scowled as he plugged his free ear. "Maybe we could find out who saw us from them."
"Unwise," Smith said, unmindful of the persistent noise on Remo's end. "We do not need another compromising incident today. Your images could have been sent to them by now. If this is the case, were you to show up at another Raffair office at this point, it is likely they would shoot first."
"It is more likely that they would hold their manhood and run, Emperor," Chiun proclaimed as he continued etching the door. "Any blackguard with designs on your throne would be cowed by my demonstration. Thanks to Sinanju, you may rest your regal head on silken pillows, confident in the knowledge that Fortress Falcroft is safe."
"Please inform Master Chiun that it is not Folcroft that concerns me," Smith said seriously. "The Boston Raffair office is very close to your own home. It is the two of you who could be in danger."
At that did Chiun raise his head. His weathered face was astonished.
"Just when I think the lunatic can't get more insane," he said. Shaking his head in amazement, he returned to his work. A trapezoid shape familiar to Remo had begun to form on the car's door panel.
"I don't think Chiun's sweating this one too much, Smitty," Remo informed the CURE director. "Nevertheless, please remain cautious, Remo. We still don't know who it is we are dealing with. And it's a good rule of thumb for the two of you to keep a low profile whenever you are in Massachusetts."
"Point taken," Remo said. "And speaking of risks to life and limb, did you find out anything from that button I sent you?"
"Oh, I had forgotten," Smith admitted. He seemed irritated with himself for the lapse. "I searched several iconography databases. The design on the button was unknown to all of them. Since it appears on the surface to be meaningless, we can assume that the two men who attacked you were nothing more than common street criminals."
"They weren't decked out for mugging, Smitty," Remo said. "My money still says they're with Raffair."
"And I assume not, but I will keep an open mind," Smith said. "According to the New York coroner's office, neither man carried identification, so we may never know. However, I will continue to monitor that situation, as well as Raffair. If anything new turns up in either case, I will call you at home." With that, Smith terminated the call.
Turning from the phone booth, Remo joined the Master of Sinanju at the curb. Chiun was etching a final, bisecting line through the center of his silver trapezoid.
"He seems more on edge than usual," Remo commented as the last thread of curling paint fell to the snow.
"Water cannot be more wet than wet," Chiun observed, uninterested. "There," he proclaimed, extending a palm to the simple trapezoid design he had engraved on the car door. "The symbol of our House, engraved as it should be. With the Knives of Eternity and not with some silly machete."
Remo glanced at the old man, dark surprise clouding his face. "The Luzu blabbed, didn't they?" he accused.
Chiun shrugged as he clasped opposing wrists.
"Do not blame the messenger," he said. "It is you who must resort to tools because you refuse to grow your nails to their proper length. My only hope now is that your own student will be more traditional."
Turning from his pupil, he began padding down the sidewalk. Although sand had been spread liberally on the path to provide traction on the ice, his soles made not a single scuffing mark or sound.
Remo trotted up beside him, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Speaking of the Luzu, how traditional are they-I mean with succession and all? Like for king, for instance."
Chiun raised a thin eyebrow. "The eldest son succeeds the father," he replied.
"Hmm," Remo said. "And that big fat chief they've got now, is Bubu his eldest son or his only son?"
They had met the tribal chief and his offspring while in Africa on their last assignment.
"Chief Batubizee is fortunate to have five sons other than the one you met," Chiun replied cautiously. "Each is in line to succeed the other. Why do you ask?"
"Oh," Remo shrugged. "No reason. The sign of Sinanju." He jerked his head back in the direction from whence they'd come. "You just reminded me of all that nonsense back in East Africa is all." Dodging the suspicious slits that were the Master of Sinanju's eyes, he quickly changed the subject. "You know, Smitty might be right, by the way. Until he finds out where our faces were beamed, it might be smart for us to lay low for a while."
The tiny Korean gave him a baleful look. "A Master of Sinanju does not scurry down a hole like a frightened rabbit. Smith forces us to lurk in shadows too much as it is."
"Different world than it used to be, Little Father," Remo pointed out. "No more pharaohs' courts and royal assassins. Gotta adapt to the times."
"Do not remind me," Chiun droned. "What I would not give for another Herod or Attila. Even a Borgia or two. But cruel fate has given me a Smith, and so Smith I must endure."
Beside the tiny Asian, Remo's face was pensive. He seemed lost in private thoughts.
"We all have our crosses to bear, Little Father," he said softly.
Chapter 14
When the President of the United States trudged into his secretary's office from the hallway, he did his best to ignore the large plastic storage totes and cheap collapsible cardboard boxes that were stacked four-high around the room.
"That package arrive from CIA yet, Betty?" he asked.
His frazzled secretary nodded. "Yes, Mr. President," she said, handing him an envelope from the top of the mess on her desk. It was embossed with the emblem of the Central Intelligence Agency. "You've got an 11:00 p.m. meeting with the incoming President this Friday night, like you asked."
"Mmm," the President said absently as he headed for the nearby door to the Oval Office. With one pudgy pale finger, he broke the seal on the envelope. He tapped the contents into his free hand as he shouldered the door open. The President took only two steps into the room before he froze in midstep.
"Betty!" he thundered hoarsely.
His secretary stuck her head into the room. "Sir?"
"Where the hell's my desk?" he demanded. He waved the envelope toward the spot where his desk had sat for the past eight years. It was the same desk JFK had used.
The desk was gone. Brilliant yellow light from the floor-to-ceiling windows on the wall behind cascaded over the vacant area, shining brightly on the permanent indentation the heavy desk had made in the carpet, as well as emphasizing the many spots and stains on the rug.
"Oh," his secretary said worriedly. "It was gone when I came in this morning. I assumed you asked the GS staff to move it."
"No," he answered flatly. "I didn't."
"Oh," she said again. "Do you want me to look for it?"
He shook his head with quiet anger. "Don't bother," he grumbled. "I'll be upstairs."
CIA documents in hand, he left the Oval Office. Things had been turning up missing at the White House for the past year or so. Since they'd never owned a real home of their own, the only furniture the President and First Lady had in storage during their years in Washington was a few torn beanbag chairs and a couple of broken lava lamps.