"Come on, Smitty," Remo growled. And Remo yanked Smith out the door.
"Don't think badly of me, Remo," Smith said when they were outside. "We all understood it might come to this when we joined CURE."
"I didn't join, remember? I was hijacked."
"Uh, yes," said Smith uncomfortably.
"Things were bad enough until you came along," Remo complained. "Couldn't you let him die in peace?"
"You know the position I'm in," said Smith, dropping to his knees. He opened his briefcase. "You once believed in America."
"I still do," Remo said. "But things are different. I've found what I've been looking for here. What are you doing?"
"Taking care of unfinished business," said Smith, booting up the mini-computer. When the screen was illuminated, he keyed in a sequence of numbers and hooked the phone into the modem.
Remo watched as the words "ACCESS CODE REQUIRED" filled the screen.
In the space below, Smith typed the code word "IRMA."
The words "ACCESS DENIED" appeared on the screen.
"You goofed," said Remo. "You must be slipping."
"No," said Smith. "I deliberately used the wrong code. I just erased our secondary computer files on St. Martin."
"You're really going through with it," Remo said. Smith keyed in another number sequence. Again the words "ACCESS CODE REQUIRED" appeared.
This time Smith typed in the name "MAUDE."
"ACCESS DENIED," the screen said.
"Folcroft?" asked Remo.
Smith stood up, locking the briefcase. "I'm afraid so."
"Just like that?"
"Part of the safety system," said Smith. "In these days of tapping into computer records by phone, I had to come up with a fail-safe tamperproof system. CURE records can only be accessed by a code word. Anyone entering the wrong code word-any code word-would automatically throw the system off line. Just now I used the code words designated to erase the files permanently."
"Your wife's name and her nickname," said Remo. "Wasn't that risky? Suppose someone else had used them?"
"That was the idea. It's common to use a wife's name as an access code. Anyone who knew those two names would obviously know about me. That kind of unauthorized knowledge by itself would signal that we were compromised, and file erasure would be just a prelude to disbanding."
"Well, that's that," said Remo.
"Not really," Smith said grimly. "I was supposed to be erased with them."
In Rye, New York, in the basement of Folcroft Sanitarium, the computer banks containing every particle of data belonging to CURE, the government agency that officially did not exist, and now no longer existed unofficially, received the microwaved transmission from Sinanju and initiated the code request sequence.
There was a pause while the access-code request was sent back to Sinanju. The computers hummed softly, awaiting the proper code word. Or the improper one, which would strip their memory banks of all data. File tapes twitched in quarter cycles. Lights blinked. The computers waited.
Then the lights went out.
"Oh my goodness," said Mrs. Mikulka, who was at her desk several floors above.
Then she remembered. The electrical contractor. She took the stairs to the basement because the elevators were inoperable.
She found the contractor examining the backup generator in the dark with a flashlight.
"What happened?" Mrs. Mikulka demanded.
"Sorry about this, lady. I tried switching from the mains to this baby and-boom!-she blew. Completely. This is going to take a few days to fix now."
"Dr. Smith will be furious," said Mrs. Mikulka.
"Can't help it. This unit is pretty worn out. Can't figure out why. It's supposed to be for backup only. Am I right?"
"That's right."
"Well, you must have bought this baby used. It's worn down to nothing."
"Never mind," said Mrs. Mikulka. "What about our power? We have patients."
"No problem. Give me a minute to throw the circuit breakers on the mains."
Mrs. Mikulka felt her way back up the stairs, wondering what she would tell Dr. Smith when he returned.
Then the lights came back on.
Behind a concrete wall in the basement, not far from the faulty generator, a secret bank of computers resumed their operation, awaiting transmission of the CURE access code.
When, after several minutes, no signal was received, the computers resumed normal operations, searching nationwide data links for signs of potential criminal activity, as they had for over twenty years of continuous operation.
Chapter 15
The Russians arrived exactly at sunset. Five Chaika automobiles led by a Zil limousine pulled to a halt at the edge of the village of Sinanju. The people of the village, seeing uniformed men bristling with weapons emerge from the cars, scattered to their huts in fear.
Remo saw the Russians coming down the rocks, one in KGB green, the rest in black uniforms like none he had ever seen before. He ran to the treasure house and burst in.
"Chiun. I'm not letting this happen," Remo said. Chiun handed a freshly-rolled scroll to the caretaker, Pullyang, and waved for him to leave.
"You do not have to let anything happen, egotistical one," he said quietly. "It is happening without you."
"We'll fight them, Little Father."
Chiun shook his head wearily. "I cannot fight them."
"Then I'll do the fighting. There's only about a dozen of them. Piece of cake."
"Yes," said Chiun. "You could easily best the dozen. But what about the next dozen? And the two dozen who will show up at my village when the others do not return? And the legions who will surely follow. We are safe from the dogs at Pyongyang, but they are vassals to the Russian bear. The bear will keep coming until he has filled his stomach. No matter how many Russian corpses we pile in the village square to show our might, in the end my village will be lost." Chiun shook his head sadly. "No. This way is better."
"Bull!" said Remo.
"Once before, a Master of Sinanju was in service to an emperor, and when that emperor lost a war, his goods became the property of the conquering emperor. This calamity would not have happened had not the Master of that time, whose name was Tipi, been away at a crucial time. Have I told you that tale, Remo?"
"Screw the story. If I'm stuck in Sinanju, you're staying here,too."
"You have made up your mind?"
Remo folded his arms across his chest. "Definitely."
"Very well. Then bring me the sword of Sinanju. Quickly. Before the Russians are knocking at this door."
Remo took the sword, a two-handed weapon with jewel-encrusted hilt and a seven-foot blade, from its place of honor on one wall. He brought it to Chiun, offering it flat in his palms, blade turned inward.
"I do not wish to hold it," snapped Chiun. "It is for you. Now, quickly, strike off my head," and the Master of Sinanju bowed his head, giving Remo a clean opening to the back of his wattled neck.
"No," said Remo, horrified.
"Do it!" commanded the Master of Sinanju. "If you wish to spare me the pain of exile, then spare me the shame of willfully violating my sacred duty. And grant the Master who has made you whole a clean death."
"No!"
"Why do you hesitate, my son? With one stroke, you would cut yourself free of your obligations to me, and to my village."
Remo dropped the sword. He was in tears.
"You could return to the land of your birth ... with the maiden Mah-Li, if that is your wish."
"I can't. I love you."
"But not enough to grant me release from an odious responsibility," said the Master of Sinanju, lifting his face to meet Remo's streaming eyes.
"I'm sorry, Little Father."
"So be it," said Chiun, rising to his feet like a time-lapse film of a sunflower growing. "I go now to meet my future clients. I will expect you not to interfere."