It was already bad. There was no good news from the President of the United States, and with only silence out of Mexico City, no one knew which way the flea might jump.
Logging on to his computer, Smith entered the system that tracked credit-card credit checks. A low groan escaped his lips when he came upon a Visa charge for a Boston-to-Rome flight. One-way.
That in itself wasn't so terrible. Should Chiun decide to go to work for the Italian government, it wasn't the worst-case scenario.
What made Harold Smith reach, trembling, for a bottle of aspirin was the knowledge that foreign intelligence services were undoubtedly on the highest state of alert, watching airports and rail stations for signs of the Master of Sinanju.
The bidding war had begun. Ironically, who won was less important than the sure knowledge that the leaders of the losing nations could no longer sleep safely in their beds once the House of Sinanju made its choice.
Their reaction was the one to be feared.
Glancing toward the red hot-line telephone, Smith began to bitterly regret restoring the dedicated line. There was no way to explain this to the President. No way at all.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Intel reports of troop movements on the Kuwait-Iraq border crossed Ray Foxworthy's desk. He could ignore it no longer.
Picking up the NOIWON phone, he called Wool-handler at NSA. "Steve. Ray here. I have another report from the Iraqi DMZ."
"Don't know what to tell you."
"I think I have to go with this."
"Done. This is an official NOIWON call now. Do you want to punch up the others or shall I?"
"I'll do it."
A moment later the duty officers of the DIA and NRO came on the conference line.
"I'm alerting you all of continual but unconfirmed reports of Iraqi troop movements along the DMZ," Foxworthy stated.
"Those reports are flat-out wrong," snapped a metallic voice.
"Is that DIA talking?"
"No," said the voice. "NRO. We heard a whisper ourselves, juggled a Keyhole satellite and found the Republican Guard right where they should be. In Basra. On stand down."
"Did you check the DMZ?"
"Why should we? If Iraqi forces are accounted for, there's no problem."
"Well, I can't ignore two consecutive confirmed sightings," Foxworthy argued.
"Maybe these are UN troops."
"UN troops wear blue helmets and ride white tanks," the DIA duty officer said dryly. "It's hard to mistake them for the Republican Guard."
The line fluttered with the constrained laughter of professionally sober men.
"I feel I have to alert the Pentagon," Foxworthy said stubbornly.
Nobody laughed at that. Someone whistled a walking-past-the-graveyard whistle, and another voice essayed a muted "Good luck."
"Nobody wants to support me on this?"
The silence of the phone line was Ray Foxworthy's answer.
"Okay, gentlemen. Your reservations are duly noted. Thank you for your time."
Hanging up, Ray Foxworthy let out a breath that made his lips vibrate unpleasantly. His hand was still on the phone receiver, and his dialing finger was poised over the speed-dial button marked Pentagon.
Then a better idea hit him. He called the United Nations instead.
After a brief runaround he got the under secretary for peacekeeping operations.
"This is Foxworthy. CIA. We have some low-level intelligence here of Iraqi troop activity along that DMZ you're guarding."
"I have just this hour received a communication from the UNIKOM commander. No such details are to be found in his report."
"No military activity at all?"
"No. Not unless one considers routine Royal Kuwaiti Forces desert maneuvers."
"No. I don't think that's the problem. But I thank you for your time."
Foxworthy hung up, frowning. Maybe he'd table that Pentagon call after all. Obviously there was nothing to it. The Kuwaitis could maneuver all they wanted. They weren't a threat to anyone. Unless it was to themselves.
Chapter Twenty-two
There was a red carpet waiting at the foot of the Air Italia jet air stairs as Remo and Chiun stepped out into the cool Roman air. At the bottom was a crest showing a three-tiered crown.
At the end of a carpet sat along white limousine and a liveried footman standing stiffly, his hand on the back door.
When Chiun's black-sandaled foot touched the carpet, brass trumpets blared and the footman opened the door smartly. Pennants fluttered atop raised poles.
"What's this?" Remo whispered as they approached the limo.
"I asked for a restrained reception," said Chiun. "We are here to entertain an offer, not strike a bargain. To be received as the royal assassins would be unseemly and possibly discourage other suitors."
Gleaming like a bar of white chocolate on licorice wheels, the limo wended its way through Rome's choked and difficult byways. Rome was dirty. All of Europe looked dirty to Remo's eyes. He never understood the fascination American tourists had with European cities. Every time he visited a European capital, his skin pores clogged up. Sometimes the instant he stepped off the plane.
"Isn't that the presidential palace?" Remo asked, indicating a great brownish marble structure that needed sandblasting if not demolition.
"It does not matter," said Chiun. "Oh, look Remo, there is the Colosseum."
"I see it. It's hard to miss. Not many two-thousand-year-old buildings look like crumbling wedding cakes."
"Take note of the course of the River Tiber. Rivers are important. I will explain why later."