Smith was about to issue the proper surreptitious commands via his computer when he was startled by a ringing telephone. For an instant he wasn't certain of the source. Although he'd had the phone in his office for a number of years now, it had never rung.
Before the red phone could ring a second time, Smith scooped up the receiver.
"Smith, 7-4-4," he said, offering the arranged code. As he spoke, he checked his watch-10:58 on the dot.
"I assume we can consider this a successful test, Smith," said the clear voice on the other end of the line. The man sounded impatient. As if the world were somehow out of sync and he was always hurrying to keep up.
"Yes, sir," Smith replied efficiently. "We can now eliminate our face-to-face meetings. In the event of dire circumstances you may contact me using this line."
"Good. I can't say I liked the idea of you sneaking in and out of here like a common thief. The press would eat me alive if they found out about this. Now, as long as you have me here, do you have anything to report?"
Smith hesitated. He considered mentioning the death of FBI Agent Worth, but quickly thought better of it. There were enough complications for CURE coming in the near future. No need to pile more on. "No, sir. I am taking steps to augment our personnel as we discussed. I will update you when I know more. For now, the safety window for this phone runs for only five minutes. I dare not leave it longer than that, so I suggest we keep this conversation short."
"Very well, Smith. Good luck."
The phone went dead in his hand. There wasn't even the buzz of a dial tone.
Alone in his office, Smith allowed another rare smile of satisfaction. His second of the day.
The years of patience had finally paid off. The White House hotline was now fully operational. Perhaps this was a turning point for CURE. Maybe after eight long years his agency was finally coming together.
But there was still the matter of the dead FBI agent and this mysterious Maxwell.
Smith's smile melted to a frown as he noted the report on his monitor. Replacing the red phone in his lower drawer, he turned his full attention back to his computer.
Chapter 4
The USS Darter landed in San Diego two days earlier than expected. MacCleary arranged for a regular commercial flight from California to New York. The only problem came at the airport when a clumsy skycap put a small scratch in one of the Master of Sinanju's precious steamer trunks.
Both Chiun and skycap vanished. Just like that. MacCleary had no idea what happened. One minute they were there-the next, poof.
The only place they could have gone was the nearby men's room. When MacCleary ducked inside, he found the Master of Sinanju exiting a stall. Beyond the Korean, the uniformed porter was upended in a toilet, legs bent at inhuman angles.
When Conn checked, he found no bubbles rising from the drowned man's mouth. MacCleary quickly locked the stall door and jammed it so it wouldn't open. Afterward he handled Chiun's luggage. Carefully.
Luckily, the plane ride to the East Coast was less eventful. He called Smith from the airport after they landed. When their cab drove up Folcroft's gravel drive, the CURE director was waiting on the front steps.
Smith's gray face was already showing displeasure before they even reached the bottom of the staircase. The Master of Sinanju's fourteen lacquered steamer trunks hadn't fit in a single cab. MacCleary had been forced to hire two more to trail the first. All three Yellow Cabs slowed to a crunching stop at the base of the staircase.
MacCleary was first out of the back of the cab. Even as he was mounting the stairs to catch Smith, Chiun was flouncing from the rear of the lead vehicle. The Korean hurried back to oversee the unloading of his trunks.
At the appearance of the old Oriental, Smith's face fell. When MacCleary stopped beside him on the steps, the initial look of shocked confusion on the CURE director's face was already bleeding to anger. "Is that him?" Smith demanded.
Down in the driveway, Chiun danced between the three cabdrivers. Darting hands swatted heads in an attempt to whip the cabbies into shape. The grumbling men began hauling the luggage up the stairs and inside the main foyer.
"Yeah. And I know what you're thinking, Smitty," MacCleary said, raising both arms to stave off argument. His hook glinted in the dull autumn sunlight.
"I doubt that," Smith said through clenched teeth. "Is this your idea of a joke?"
MacCleary shook his head firmly. "Wait'll you see what he can do before you throw him overboard, Smitty. And trust me, you do not want to mishandle his luggage."
The old man chose that moment to come padding up the stairs in the wake of the last cabbie. To Smith, rather than appearing as a savior, the Korean looked as if he should have been checking into Folcroft as a patient.
"You had better be right about this," Smith warned MacCleary from the corner of his mouth. Chiun stopped before the CURE director. "Greetings, President Smith," the Master of Sinanju intoned. He offered a formal bow.
"Presi-?" Smith questioned. The word wasn't past his lips before he heard a scuffle behind him. When he glanced over his shoulder, he found a Folcroft visitor leading an elderly patient down the main staircase. Although the female patient was oblivious to the tiny kimono-clad figure, her relative took a long, puzzled look at Chiun.
Coming down behind the two women was the trio of cabdrivers. They went to work on the next set of trunks.
Smith bit his tongue until the pair of women had passed and gotten into a parked car and the cabdrivers were hauling the second trio of trunks. Only when no one was paying them any attention did he grab MacCleary by the arm.
Smith pulled the bigger man up into the building. The first of Chiun's trunks were piled just inside the entrance. Smith steered past them. The first open door he found was to an empty waiting room. Smith took MacCleary inside. To the CURE director's intense displeasure, the old Korean trailed in their wake. "What is this?" Smith demanded, closing the door. His voice was a low hiss.
"The president thing?" MacCleary asked. "It's a long story, Smitty. Sinanju has a history of working for leaders of nations or guys aspiring to be leaders of nations, if you catch my drift. Chiun thinks you want to be president."
Smith's spine grew so rigid for a moment it looked as if it might crack. "And I suppose you didn't attempt to disabuse him of something so patently preposterous?"
MacCleary's face split into a smile. "Hey, I tried, Smitty," he admitted. "But I think he thought I was full of it. He thinks I'm just your lackey. Probably thinks I want to bump you off so I can become president."
Eyes growing wide, Smith shook his head sharply. He looked as if he thought the wallpaper might be threaded with hidden listening devices.
"No one wants-" He turned from MacCleary, realizing he was arguing with the wrong man. "No one wants that," he assured the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun stood in the corner of the room. He had turned his indifferent back to the two babbling whites. A wall-mounted black-and-white television set murmured softly at the room. Chiun's button nose was turned upward, his hazel eyes directed at the action on the screen.
Stepping over, Smith reached up and shut off the TV. The afternoon soap opera that had been playing collapsed to an incandescent blotch before fading from sight.
"Excuse me, Master Chiun-" Smith paused. "Forgive me, but is that the appropriate title?" Eyes flitting from the darkened TV set, Chiun's parchment face was flat.
"You do not speak Korean?" he asked.
"No, I don't," Smith admitted.
Chiun allowed a small nod. "Then in English that will suffice. Either that or Gracious Master of Sinanju."