"In the past, Mr. President," Smith said formally.
"We lost our enforcement arm during that mess. Just because we paid with our dearest blood doesn't mean that the Soviets aren't out to even the score."
"I am certain I can assure you that the Gagarin incident is not a part of any such senario."
"The military think the shuttle has gone back to Russia. What do you think?"
"I cannot speculate on that, sir. But my special person is already looking into this."
"Good. I have enough meatballs working for me on this end. I need someone I can rely on. You're the man, Smith."
"Thank you, Mr. President. I appreciate your saying that."
"Then why do you sound like I just broke the news that you have terminal cancer?"
"Er, yes, Mr. President," said Smith awkwardly. "I'll get back to you when I have something concrete."
At Folcroft, Dr. Harold W. Smith hung up the phone. Although alone, he tightened his Dartmouth tie selfconsciously. He liked the current President. But the nature of Smith's job required that no personal bond be formed with the President. Smith could not afford a chief executive who thought that he could call on CURE to solve every little problem that came along. The unwritten CURE charter stipulated that the President could suggest missions, but not order them. A President had only eight years in office, tops. But Harold Smith was in his job for life.
He sat back and waited for Chiun to report in. Remo Williams whistled as he walked through the Seattle-Tacoma Airport. He was in a good mood. True, he had not exactly eradicated the problem of the homeless in America, but it wasn't his fault that he couldn't find any. But he could take pleasure in solving the bizarre plight of Dexter Barn, now sleeping peacefully through the first leg of his trip to a happier tomorrow. It had been a neat solution to a difficult matter and Remo was especially proud that he hadn't had to kill anyone. He was retired from killing. Killing was in the past. In a few months Remo would ship out for Korea one last time and settle down with his bride-to-be, Mah-Li, and raise a family. Maybe he would teach his children Sinanju. But he would not teach them to kill. No, he would teach them just enough Sinanju so they could become famous acrobats or entertainers. Yes, that was it. Maybe when they grew up he would start a family circus. Remo used to dream of running away and joining a circus when he was a boy. All boys, he supposed, did. Remo used to dream of walking the high wire without a net.
Remo had walked all the way from town because he had run out of money. No longer employed, he didn't have the credit cards or cash that Smitty used to supply him with. Remo had come back from Sinanju with some gold from the treasure house of the village, but he had spent the last ingot worth about four hundred dollars--on the case of dog food. The grocer had refused to give him change, claiming that he hadn't that much cash in the entire store. No one, it seemed, liked to change gold ingots these days, thought Remo as he searched for a working pay phone.
Still whistling, Remo walked to the next terminal. He would call Chiun when he found a pay phone that worked. Chiun would lend him some money. Normally he would have asked Smitty, but Smith would probably ask for collateral and Remo was wearing all the collateral he had to his name.
There was no answer from Chiun's room, so Remo asked the operator to switch him to Dr. Smith's office. "Remo," Smith said. "I'm glad you called."
"You are?" said Remo. "Think about that a minute. I still don't work for you."
"I need you here, right away."
"Nothing doing," said Remo. "I'm retired. No more missions, no more killing."
"Are you familiar with the landing of the Yuri Gagarin?"
"No, but I can hum 'Sink the Bismarck.' "
"Don't be smart, Remo. Chiun was just brought into Folcroft. There's something terribly wrong with him, and I have reason to believe it is related to the missing Soviet space shuttle."
"Chiun?" whispered Remo, gripping the receiver until he left fingerprints embedded in the plastic.
"Folcroft doctors are examining him now."
"He might be faking," Remo said slowly. "He did that once before. At least, I think he was faking that last time. "
"I don't know, Remo. It looks serious. And Anna swears it's connected with the Gagarin mystery."
"Anna? Is that your wife's pet name this week?"
"No. Anna Chutesov. You remember her."
"Oh, her. Was she asking for me?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
"Did you tell her I was engaged?" Remo asked in an anxious voice.
"No, I didn't think it was important."
"Try to break it to her before I get there, Smitty. I don't need any more problems right now."
"Please hurry."
"Don't hang up yet, Smitty. I'm out of money. Can you arrange airfare for me?"
"Go to the Winglight Airlines desk. A ticket will be waiting for you there. Where are you, by the way?"
"Seattle."
"First class or coach?"
"First class," said Remo. "You must really need me, Smitty. In the old days, I never had a choice."
"I expect you to reimburse me for the fare, of course," said Dr. Harold W. Smith.
"Of course," parroted Remo Williams. "National security is only national security, but the Folcroft budget is forever." And he tossed the receiver to the floor and walked away.
Chapter 11
Remo Williams brushed past the secretary.
"I'm sorry, sir. Dr. Smith is in conference," the secretary said.
"He'll see me," Remo snapped, tight-lipped.
The bosomy woman jumped to her feet and put her head into Smith's office one step ahead of Remo Williams. "I'm sorry, Dr. Smith, I couldn't stop him," she apologized, getting out of Remo's way just in time.
Dr. Harold W. Smith saw the rock-hard face of Remo Williams and said, "Quite all right, Mrs. Mikulka. No one could."
"Where is he, Smitty?" said Remo. "Where's Chiun?" Anna Chutesov rose from her corner seat.
"Hello, darling," she said in a warm voice. She walked up to give him a welcoming hug and found herself clutching empty air.
"Hi," Remo said without glancing in her direction. To Smith he repeated his demand. "Chiun. Take me to him."
"This way, Remo," said Smith. He led Remo to the elevator.