Frowning, Smith checked the time display in the corner of his monitor. "At the moment he is in Moscow," the CURE director replied. "He should be at the airport by now."
"Find him," Chiun commanded. "I must speak with him."
Smith cleared his throat, uncomfortable to be dropped in the middle of this. "There might be a slight problem," he admitted slowly.
"Is he injured?" Chiun asked with tight concern.
Smith was surprised by the question. "No, not at all," he replied. "It is just that he has been having a slight problem with some of the men he is supposed to meet with in the Time of Succession."
He felt unhappy to be the one delivering this news. Given the circumstances, he was certain this was a private matter between Master and pupil. And he was just as certain that Chiun would find a way to blame him for not shepherding Remo properly through the Time of Succession. Smith was surprised, therefore, at the old man's response.
"The Time of Succession is meaningless," the Master of Sinanju snapped. "There is something greater here. Remo is in danger. You must find him."
There was pleading now. Smith had never before heard such desperation in the old Korean's voice. The CURE director typed a few commands into his computer. He pulled up Remo's Visa card record. In Moscow, Remo had just purchased a ticket to New York.
"Please stay on the line," Smith instructed. Using the outside line, he called the airport in Russia and made arrangements for someone to collect Remo. The Russian returned to the line a few moments later.
"I am sorry, but the gentleman is seeming not to be want to speak to anyone," the airport representative apologized. "He is saying that you to. . . 'blow it out your ears'?" The helpful man seemed confused by the unfamiliar expression.
Smith tried a few more times with no success. He finally gave up. He returned to the blue phone. "Remo will not answer, Master Chiun," he apologized.
The Master of Sinanju didn't speak immediately. There seemed a great hesitation over the line. As if the old man were considering options, none of which pleased him.
"You must give him a message," Chiun said eventually. "Tell him to stop what he is doing and return to your side. If an assassin comes near, he must not confront. Tell him to run. For in distance there is safety."
"I don't understand, Master Chiun, but Remo is returning here. He called me to tell me so."
The news didn't seem to much hearten the old Korean.
"That is good. But tell him not to resume the Time of Succession. And he is to stay away from Sinanju. Tell him if he values me and all that I have given him, under no circumstances is he to return until he hears directly from me. Tell him that. Under no circumstances."
There was great resignation in his voice. As if he expected never to give his pupil permission to return. Smith glanced down at his monitor. The data reflected in his owlish lenses.
"You are not calling from your home phone," he said, adjusting his glasses.
"I am at a building. The first I could find with a working telephone. It is some sort of garrison. And that does not matter. I will have someone from the government come repair my telephone. Tell Remo I will call him when I know more. Will you give him my message?"
Smith was trying to picture the Master of Sinanju in a North Korean army bunker, a group of soldiers cowering in the corner as he used their phone. He pinched his nose with his tired fingers.
"Of course," the CURE director sighed. "But if there is something wrong there, I'm sure-"
He never completed his thought. The line went dead.
For a moment Smith puzzled over what this could mean. He hadn't even had a chance to mention his own problem with the Time of Succession.
Chiun had sounded unlike he had ever sounded before. Like a condemned man waiting for the ax to drop.
Frowning with his entire face, the CURE director gently replaced the receiver.
Chapter 27
"Is it Mr. Remo?" the woman asked. "Is that right?" The woman with the Midwestern twang sounded apologetic for not knowing. Her eyes smiled warmly. She wore a blue skirt with matching jacket and a starched white blouse. A mane of honey-blond hair was pulled into an efficient little ponytail. If this was an attempt on her part to make herself appear dowdy or tomboyish, it didn't work. With those lips and teeth and all the parts north and south, there was no doubt that she was one hundred percent woman.
"Um, yeah," Remo said, clearing his throat. "That's good enough."
The woman sighed great relief. As if this was just the happiest news she had ever received.
"I didn't know for sure," she admitted, the little bit of tension in her voice draining away. Her smile retreated as she allowed herself a little apologetic pout. "I had your description, but you just can't tell sometimes."
The woman scootched into the seat next to Remo and took a clipboard out from under her arm. With a little Bic disposable pen, she made an efficient little mark on a piece of paper. The way she held the pen in her slender fingers made Remo swallow hard. He had never before in his life so wanted to be a cheap disposable pen.
"There," the woman said, her smile returning. She slipped her pen into the top of her clipboard. "I have to apologize for being late. We must just keep missing each other." She tapped her forehead absently. "There I go again. I'm just a scatterbrain these days. Too much on my mind. I'm Rebecca Dalton."
She offered Remo her hand. Remo wasn't sure what to do. He shook it.
"Are you here to kill me?" he asked.
Rebecca laughed. This time it was better than angels singing. Angels would have cast themselves from the eternal bliss of Heaven to hear Rebecca Dalton's laugh.
"Me?" she said, tipping her head with joking thoughtfulness. "Well, we'll just have to see. A girl's got to have some secrets. What would you think of someone who just blurted everything out right up front like that?"
"What say we fly off and get married?" Remo blurted.
"See?" Rebecca said. "It would be awkward." Her smile demonstrated that it was anything but awkward.
"Okay, what say we fly off and have a really dirty weekend?" Remo suggested.
"Maybe later," Rebecca promised, patting his knee.
He thrilled at her touch. Just the thought of maybe latering with Rebecca Dalton was enough to tide him over.
"Aren't there two of you?" she asked. "The Reigning Master should be here, too, shouldn't he?"
She craned her swanlike neck to search the immediate area.
"He's not here," Remo said.
"Oh," she said. "Even better that I found you, then."
"How do you know about us?"
"You know that you're known in certain circles," she replied, her voice suddenly a conspiratorial whisper. "Your circle and my circle are all kind of, you know, encircled. But we're getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we?" Rebecca became all business. "I represent parties that are interested in-how shall I put it?-meeting you." She offered a sympathetic smile. "I understand you've been having trouble these past few days. I hate to admit that I'm probably partially to blame for that. I was supposed to meet up with you in London, but there was a delay taking off in Paris and by the time I got to London, well, gosh, there you were in Paris and-" she raised delicate hands in a helpless gesture "-you know what it's like."
"I haven't got a clue," Remo said, not really caring that he didn't. He liked hearing Rebecca talk. He could have sold to Hugh Hefner the way her lips formed W's.
"This thing you're doing now," Rebecca said. "This generational thing?" She checked her notes on her clipboard. "Now, my information on the House of Sinanju isn't detailed, but as I understand it this whole process we're involved in right now is a milestone for the man who goes through it. The introductions at court are his way of becoming Master-is that right?" She patted his knee again. "Just a big ol' congratulations to you, by the way."