The computer, its screen hidden under the black glass of his desktop, showed the colorless outline of a simple flag with a basic fleur-de-lis in the center.
Instantly it began absorbing color. Smith leaned closer.
He got the Boy Scout emblem. Remo had mentioned that. But the Boy Scout emblem was gold against dark blue. That was not the flag Remo had described. But of course it wouldn't be. The Boy Scouts don't operate submarines, much less attack shipping without cause.
Tapping an illuminated key, Smith instructed the system to continue its search.
After five minutes he came up with assorted heraldic flags, none of which matched the one described by Remo.
Frowning with all of his face, Smith leaned back in his cracked leather executive chair. Dead end. What could it mean?
Snapping forward, he ordered the system to call up any flag depicting any number of fleurs-de-lis. It was a long shot. But he had to know who was behind the sinking of the logo Pungo and if there was any reason to suspect a threat to CURE.
Almost at once, a blue flag divided into quarters by a white cross appeared. Each quarter framed a white fleur-de-lis exactly as described by Remo.
His mouth thinning, Smith studied it.
Of course, he thought. He had lived in Vermont, not very far from the Canadian border, and he should have recalled this particular flag. It was the provincial flag of Quebec, Canada.
Each quadrant matched the flag Remo had described, except the colors had been reversed.
Reaching for the blue contact phone on his desk, Smith dialed Remo's number.
A strange voice answered. "Who calls?"
Smith froze. "Who am I speaking to?"
"I ask first, sour mouth."
"I, er, am trying to reach Remo."
"Remo eating. Call back later. In meantime, go to hell."
And the phone went dead.
"What on earth?" Smith muttered.
Smith called back instantly, saying, "Please inform Remo that Dr. Smith is calling."
"I will. After dinner."
"It is important that I speak with him now."
"It is important that he eat. Go back to hell." And the line went dead again.
A rare flash of anger welled up in Harold Smith's gray, colorless soul. He quelled it. There was nothing to do but wait for the call back.
It came twenty minutes later.
"Smith. Remo. You called?"
"Who answered the telephone earlier?" Smith demanded in his lemoniest voice.
"Chiun's housekeeper."
"Chiun hired a housekeeper!" Smith said in surprise.
"Don't ask me why. She was guarding the door when I got back. And what happened to telling Chiun about what happened?"
"He did not answer the telephone."
"Okay, you're off the hook this time. But he's pretty steamed."
"Remo, the flag you described. Did it have a white cross in the center?"
"Nope. Just that flower symbol. Got anything?"
"My search failed to bring up an exact match, but the provincial flag of Quebec consists of a white cross framing four designs similar to what you described."
"Sounds right, though. They just got the color scheme reversed. But if they can't handle English, why should we expect them to know their colors? Hey, Smitty. Does Quebec have submarines?"
"No. But the Canadian navy has. They are old World War II-vintage diesel-electric submarines."
"This was an old pigboat," Remo said. "And why would Canada sink the Ingo Pungo?"
"Of course they would not. Canada is our ally, and the ship was in U.S. waters, well within the two-hundred-mile limit."
"That's good because now that I've eaten, Chiun wants me to go chasing subs."
"Locating that submarine is your next mission," said Smith.
"I was afraid that was what you were going to say. Look, can it wait? I just spent a night in the water playing with the sharks and I'd just as soon not see open water for a while."
"A hostile submarine operating in U.S. waters is a security problem. Remo, those sailors you encountered. Did they speak at all?"
"No. The sub might as well have been crewed by Marcel Marceau and his Merry Mimes. Hey, he's French, isn't he?"
"I can think of no reason for a French submarine to be attacking U.S. shipping," Smith said dismissively.
"Maybe it's Quebec after all. They mad at us for any reason?"
"No. Quebec is currently at odds with English Canada over the secession question. But that issue has nothing to with the U.S."
"Then they had to be after the Silver Carp."
"The what?"
"That's the English name. I'm sick of saying 'Ingo Pungo.' It sounds like I go pogo."
"No one other than her crew knew of the Ingo Pungo's mission and cargo," said Smith.
"What exactly was it, by the way?" asked Remo.
"Fish."
"Fish!" Remo exploded.
Harold Smith cleared his throat. "Yes, during the last contract negotiation, the Master of Sinanju requested and I agreed to supply regular shipments of fresh Pacific fish."
"Fish?"
"As you may have read, there is a global fishing crisis. Coastal fisheries have been exhausted worldwide, forcing fleets to go fishing in deeper and deeper waters. The quality of catches is in sharp decline. Prices are skyrocketing. Master Chiun has been unhappy with the varieties available to him and requested that I remedy it."
"Let me get this straight-instead of more gold, he held you up for fish this time?"
"Actually the fish will end up being more expensive than gold on a per-pound basis, once all costs are factored in," Smith admitted.
"How's that?" asked Remo.
"The Ingo Pungo was a factory ship. It plied the high seas catching and processing fish. It made a Pacific crossing from Pusan, harvesting varieties of fish on the way. Many varieties."
"That's a lot of fish."
"Yes, of course it is," said Smith. "Master Chiun insisted these fish be delivered alive so as to be as fresh as possible."
"And it might explain the fish cellar."
Smith made a curious sound in the back of his throat.
Remo explained, "Chiun's got the basement set up for what he calls a fish cellar. I never heard of one, have you?"
"No. But Koreans do salt and pickle fish for winter storage."
"It also explains why I had to eat duck while Chiun gorged himself on fish-head soup. Not that I'm complaining, but he threatened to deny me fish forever. I can't live on duck. I gotta have fish."
"Inform Master Chiun I have contacted another fishing concern. The fish clause of the contract will be honored, of course."
"Don't you feel silly saying 'fish clause'?"
"I stopped being self-conscious about my dealings with the House of Sinanju back in 1980," said Harold Smith with no trace of humor detectable in his colorless voice. "Go to the Coast Guard station at Cape Cod, Remo. I want that submarine found."
"If you say so, Smitty. What do I do with this sub if I catch it?"
"Interrogate the captain and report back to me."
"After I kill him."
"Report to me. I will instruct you of his disposition."
"Forget his disposition," said Remo. "He tried to kill me. I'm the one with the disposition. If I find this guy, I'm going to feed him to the fishes."
With that, Remo hung up.
REPLACING THE BLUE receiver in his Folcroft office, Harold Smith addressed his keyboard. He had to make the arrangements with the Coast Guard if Remo was to expect any cooperation.
As he worked, Harold Smith wondered if this incident could have anything to do with the recent rash of missing fishing boats. There had been a surge in lost commercial-fishing vessels of late. He was aware of it because his ever-trolling system constantly offered up clusters of coincidences or related events for his analysis.
Smith had dismissed the cluster of lost vessels as occupational hazards of deep-water fishing during these lean times.