"I don't think Chiun's sweating this one too much, Smitty," Remo informed the CURE director. "Nevertheless, please remain cautious, Remo. We still don't know who it is we are dealing with. And it's a good rule of thumb for the two of you to keep a low profile whenever you are in Massachusetts."
"Point taken," Remo said. "And speaking of risks to life and limb, did you find out anything from that button I sent you?"
"Oh, I had forgotten," Smith admitted. He seemed irritated with himself for the lapse. "I searched several iconography databases. The design on the button was unknown to all of them. Since it appears on the surface to be meaningless, we can assume that the two men who attacked you were nothing more than common street criminals."
"They weren't decked out for mugging, Smitty," Remo said. "My money still says they're with Raffair."
"And I assume not, but I will keep an open mind," Smith said. "According to the New York coroner's office, neither man carried identification, so we may never know. However, I will continue to monitor that situation, as well as Raffair. If anything new turns up in either case, I will call you at home." With that, Smith terminated the call.
Turning from the phone booth, Remo joined the Master of Sinanju at the curb. Chiun was etching a final, bisecting line through the center of his silver trapezoid.
"He seems more on edge than usual," Remo commented as the last thread of curling paint fell to the snow.
"Water cannot be more wet than wet," Chiun observed, uninterested. "There," he proclaimed, extending a palm to the simple trapezoid design he had engraved on the car door. "The symbol of our House, engraved as it should be. With the Knives of Eternity and not with some silly machete."
Remo glanced at the old man, dark surprise clouding his face. "The Luzu blabbed, didn't they?" he accused.
Chiun shrugged as he clasped opposing wrists.
"Do not blame the messenger," he said. "It is you who must resort to tools because you refuse to grow your nails to their proper length. My only hope now is that your own student will be more traditional."
Turning from his pupil, he began padding down the sidewalk. Although sand had been spread liberally on the path to provide traction on the ice, his soles made not a single scuffing mark or sound.
Remo trotted up beside him, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Speaking of the Luzu, how traditional are they-I mean with succession and all? Like for king, for instance."
Chiun raised a thin eyebrow. "The eldest son succeeds the father," he replied.
"Hmm," Remo said. "And that big fat chief they've got now, is Bubu his eldest son or his only son?"
They had met the tribal chief and his offspring while in Africa on their last assignment.
"Chief Batubizee is fortunate to have five sons other than the one you met," Chiun replied cautiously. "Each is in line to succeed the other. Why do you ask?"
"Oh," Remo shrugged. "No reason. The sign of Sinanju." He jerked his head back in the direction from whence they'd come. "You just reminded me of all that nonsense back in East Africa is all." Dodging the suspicious slits that were the Master of Sinanju's eyes, he quickly changed the subject. "You know, Smitty might be right, by the way. Until he finds out where our faces were beamed, it might be smart for us to lay low for a while."
The tiny Korean gave him a baleful look. "A Master of Sinanju does not scurry down a hole like a frightened rabbit. Smith forces us to lurk in shadows too much as it is."
"Different world than it used to be, Little Father," Remo pointed out. "No more pharaohs' courts and royal assassins. Gotta adapt to the times."
"Do not remind me," Chiun droned. "What I would not give for another Herod or Attila. Even a Borgia or two. But cruel fate has given me a Smith, and so Smith I must endure."
Beside the tiny Asian, Remo's face was pensive. He seemed lost in private thoughts.
"We all have our crosses to bear, Little Father," he said softly.
Chapter 14
When the President of the United States trudged into his secretary's office from the hallway, he did his best to ignore the large plastic storage totes and cheap collapsible cardboard boxes that were stacked four-high around the room.
"That package arrive from CIA yet, Betty?" he asked.
His frazzled secretary nodded. "Yes, Mr. President," she said, handing him an envelope from the top of the mess on her desk. It was embossed with the emblem of the Central Intelligence Agency. "You've got an 11:00 p.m. meeting with the incoming President this Friday night, like you asked."
"Mmm," the President said absently as he headed for the nearby door to the Oval Office. With one pudgy pale finger, he broke the seal on the envelope. He tapped the contents into his free hand as he shouldered the door open. The President took only two steps into the room before he froze in midstep.
"Betty!" he thundered hoarsely.
His secretary stuck her head into the room. "Sir?"
"Where the hell's my desk?" he demanded. He waved the envelope toward the spot where his desk had sat for the past eight years. It was the same desk JFK had used.
The desk was gone. Brilliant yellow light from the floor-to-ceiling windows on the wall behind cascaded over the vacant area, shining brightly on the permanent indentation the heavy desk had made in the carpet, as well as emphasizing the many spots and stains on the rug.
"Oh," his secretary said worriedly. "It was gone when I came in this morning. I assumed you asked the GS staff to move it."
"No," he answered flatly. "I didn't."
"Oh," she said again. "Do you want me to look for it?"
He shook his head with quiet anger. "Don't bother," he grumbled. "I'll be upstairs."
CIA documents in hand, he left the Oval Office. Things had been turning up missing at the White House for the past year or so. Since they'd never owned a real home of their own, the only furniture the President and First Lady had in storage during their years in Washington was a few torn beanbag chairs and a couple of broken lava lamps.
His wife needed furnishings for the house she'd acquired in New York and so had been helping herself to odds and ends around the Washington mansion for months. Lately, however, the items had been getting larger.
An entire set of Bellange chairs was gone from the Blue Room, and someone had pried the carved marble mantel from around the fireplace in the Green Room. The chandelier and table had gone missing from the State Dining Room, and nearly the entire collection of antique books dating back to President Fillmore had slowly disappeared from the library. The Smithsonian had just gotten word that the Steinway grand piano had somehow vanished from the East Room late last week.
The President had hoped to blame the strange disappearances on a bureaucratic snafu at the Smithsonian Institution. But now with his own desk among the missing, he wasn't sure if he shouldn't just blame the White House staff, sic the FBI on them and sneak away in the confusion. After all, it had worked for two straight presidential terms.
On top of the stolen-furniture problem, his wife had dropped yet another doozy of a dilemma in the President's lap right after he'd gotten off the phone with Smith yesterday. Her ambition was always getting him in trouble. He had no idea how this new mess was going to play out.
He was still wondering what exactly he should do when he entered the family quarters.
He was greatly relieved to find the First Dog nowhere in sight. As the elevator doors closed behind him, the only sound he could hear was the meowing of the unseen First Cat. Documents in hand, he hurried down the hall to a small study.
This room was as cluttered as most in the White House these days. He found a clear spot on the sofa and settled down to read the documents.
The President had called Mark Howard personally and asked the young man to send over the information. To cover the trail, he'd had Howard courier them through the CIA director's office.
Though obviously curious, Howard had accepted the unusual orders without question. The kid was intelligent, quiet and obedient. With any luck, he'd be loyal to boot.
The President quickly went through the information. There wasn't anything of any great interest. Still, he had to find something. He'd made a promise, after all, to the one person in the world he couldn't betray.
Taking but one sheet of paper, the President stood.
There were a number of paper shredders plugged in in perpetuity in this room. Some were battery operated just in case the regular power sources and emergency backup systems ever went out. Most of the shredders were battered and wobbly from overuse.