As he sank into cyberspace, the desk telephone rang.
"Harold Smith? This is Sergeant Woodrow at Harlem Precinct Station calling in reference to your complaint."
"Have you found my car?"
"Yes. I have it right here on my desk. How did you want it shipped, UPS ground or Federal Express?"
"Excuse me?"
"It's on my desk. What left's of it."
"What do you mean what's left of it?"
"I have a fender and five shards of ruby glass off a taillight. Do you have a FedEx number, sir?"
"Never mind," said Smith. "Have you found the perpetrators?"
"Perpetrators? You're lucky we found what we did. It is Harlem."
"I personally witnessed my tires being rolled into the XL SysCorp Building. Have you made any progress recovering them?"
"You don't expect us to send uniforms into that crack-house, do you?"
"I most certainly do. It harbors stolen property."
"It also harbors upwards of fifty crack-heads, all packing automatic weapons and no compunctions about using them. That's a job for SWAT."
"Connect me with the SWAT commander, please."
"I could but it won't do you any good. SWAT handles hostage and terrorist situations. They don't recover stolen property."
"You are telling me you're helpless?"
"I'm saying four tires aren't worth police lives."
"Thank you for your cooperation."
"You're welcome," said the police sergeant, and hung up.
Harold Smith next called his insurance adjuster and when he told the agent his claim, the man unhesitantly informed him he was due approximately thirty-three dollars.
"For a station wagon?"
"For a thirty-year-old station wagon. I don't know how you kept the thing on the road. It's ancient."
"It was perfectly roadable," Smith returned.
" 'Roadable.' Now, there's a word I haven't heard since Grandpop passed away. I'm sorry, Dr. Smith. Your car is too old to pay. Now, if you'd held it another five years, it might qualify as an antique, and maybe you could have sold it."
"Thank you very much," Smith said coldly.
Hanging up, he lifted his briefcase off the floor. Opening it, Smith exposed his portable-computer link to the big mainframes hidden in the Folcroft basement. A .45 automatic gleamed within.
Perhaps, he thought, it was more than time to purchase a new car. And considering that his old Army Colt had fallen into his hands once again, in an odd way he might be ahead of the game.
After all, the poison pill he habitually carried on his person was still being held hostage by Remo Williams. If the word came from the Oval Office to shut down CURE, Harold Smith might have to eat a bullet.
And he would much prefer to end his life with the weapon that had served him so well since his OSS days.
Chapter Four
The Master of Sinanju sat under the Seven Stars with the giant Arizona moon pouring its cool effulgence down upon him.
Many were his burdens. Great was his sorrow. He had guided his adopted son to his lost father at the risk of losing him. Only a deep love had impelled him to take such a grave chance. To Chiun, son of Chiun, grandson of Yi, Reigning Master of Sinanju, glory of the universe, duty to the House was paramount.
To risk losing the greatest pupil the House had ever known was an affront to his ancestors. Had he failed, they would never have forgiven him.
But he hadn't failed. In a strange way he had guided Remo to the very ancestors they both shared. The lost ancestors neither had ever known. There was no shame in this, only sorrow.
But there was still the future to consider.
And so Chiun sat beneath the cold desert stars and wrote the speech on which the future of the House of Sinanju would turn.
Deep in the night, Sunny Joe Roam stole up on him.
Chiun detected him only at the last. It was remarkable. Only another Master of Sinanju could accomplish such a feat. Yet this gangling man with the sad yet kindly eyes and rugged face possessed the talent of stealth that smacked of Sinanju, even though his ways weir the ways of peace.
"Scare you?" Sunny Joe said in his deep, rumbling voice.
"I was deep in my meditations. Otherwise, you would not have taken me unawares."
" What're you writing there, chief?"
"A speech."
Sunny Joe dropped onto the cool sand and faced the Master of Sinanju. "Mind if I read it?"
"You cannot. It is in Korean."
"Then read it to me."
"It is unfinished," Chiun said stiffly.
Sunny Joe looked up. The stars hung like diamond necklaces of such breathtaking clarity they seemed within reach. "Nice night."
"It does not make up for the insufferable days I have spent in this dry and desolate land."