"Speaking of surgery, this lump on my forehead is starting to worry me. It won't go away. In fact, I'd swear it's growing."
"Perhaps it is time we take care of that too," said Smith crisply. "While we consider a fresh plan of attack."
"What about that computer? We can't just leave it."
"You mentioned earlier that the voice coming from the other room asked for a Japanese technician."
"Yeah? So?"
"Perhaps Chiun will be able to accomplish what you could not. "
Remo laughed once shortly. "Smitty, there is only one problem with that little scheme."
"And what is that?"
"Convincing Chiun to pass as Japanese long enough to pull it off. It's a complete impossibility."
"Return to Folcroft, Remo," said Smith sharply.
"Can I come in the front door this time?"
"As long as you do it before daybreak. I will be here."
"on my way," said Remo, hanging up the pay phone and looking around for a taxi.
The taxis of Boston seemed to have gone into hibernation, so Remo decided to walk to the airport, which was not far away. He did not look forward to facing Chiun. It was funny how quickly he had fallen back into his old habit of taking the Master of Sinanju for granted. For over three months, Chiun had been believed dead and Remo had been like a lost child without him.
Remo decided to throw himself on Chiun's mercy. What was the worst he could do?
At Folcroft Sanitarium, Harold Smith replaced the blue contact telephone and turned his leather chair around to face the Master of Sinanju.
"He is on his way back," said Smith.
Chiun regarded Harold Smith with brittle hazel eyes.
"What must be done must be done," he intoned.
"Are you certain he will not be harmed by the operation?"
The Master of Sinanju shrugged his thin shoulders. "He is Remo. He is unpredictable. Who can say how he will react?"
"Then you agree this is the only way?"
"You are the emperor. Remo is your tool. It is your privilege to shape your tool as you see fit."
"I am pleased you see it that way." Smith reached for the intercom. "It is time to alert the surgeon."
Chiun intercepted Smith's hand with his own.
"Before this is done, allow me to present you with several sketches I have made, the better to guide the skilled hands of the physician as he goes about his important work."
From one sleeve of his kimono Chiun withdrew a sheaf of parchments rolled tightly together. With a flourish, he presented them to Harold Smith.
Smith spread them open on the desk. After a quick examination, he looked up.
"I hardly think Remo would be happy with any of these faces," Smith said with dry disapproval.
Chiun shrugged. "Remo is determined to be unhappy, whatever comes. What matter the degree of his unhappiness?"
"I would prefer a more Caucasian look. For operational reasons, of course," Smith added quickly.
Chiun snatched up the parchment drawings.
"Racist!" he spat.
"I do want you to monitor the operation, Master Chiun," said Harold Smith hastily, adjusting the knot in his tie. "To ensure that all goes smoothly."
"Perhaps the surgeon of plastic will see the wisdom of my selections."
"I somehow doubt it," said Smith, clearing his throat.
"It is possible."
"He will be under strict instructions to resculpture Remo's features, not change them utterly. But I am concerned with the lump on Remo's forehead."
Chiun's eyes narrowed. "It is the eye of Shiva. Now closed. Remo does not suspect it for what it is."
"Does Remo have any idea of his recent personality . . . uh . . . change?"
"None. His mind is a blank. It is always a blank, of course, but this time the blankness is total. He remembers his days of slavery to the goddess Kali, but prefers not to speak of this."
Harold Smith regarded the wispy figure of the Master of Sinanju. He hesitated to probe further. When he had taken on the awesome responsibility of CURE, he took on with it the operational obligation to obliterate the organization and all traces of it-including all personnel-should CURE ever be compromised.
When, years ago, he had framed Remo Williams for a murder he had not committed, it had been to create an untraceable and expendable enforcement arm. Remo had been placed in Chiun's hands to be taught the rudiments of Sinanju, to create the perfect assassin. A man who no longer existed.
It was a perfect plan. As conceived. Chiun would return to his village after training Remo-a critical link in the CURE chain forever severed. Chiun had been eighty then, twenty years ago. With his eventual death, there would be one fewer brain housing the knowledge of CURE, which was limited to Smith, Remo, and the incumbent President.
But an unexpected thing had happened. Chiun had grown to care for Remo. The teacher had become a part of CURE. Not because Smith had wanted it that way, but because there was no way to prevent it. Chiun had insisted that training a white man in the fundamentals of Sinanju was a fifteen-year commitment. Minimum.
Thus Smith had acquired two enforcement arms, paid for by an annual shipment of gold to the desolate village of Sinanju, on the coast of forbidding North Korea.
The bond between Remo and Chiun had been something Smith had not always understood. There had been a prophecy in the annals of the House of Sinanju, a legend that foretold of a Master who would one day train a white man, the dead night tiger, who would be the avatar to Shiva, known to the followers of Hinduism as the God of Destruction.
Chiun believed Remo was this foretold Sinanju Destroyer. Smith had never accepted any of it.
But recent events had proved to Smith that Remo was more than Remo now. More, perhaps, than even Sinanju. It was clear that he was subject to personality shifts. Shifts he never seemed to remember.