Upstairs was a group of cell-like rooms. When Remo tried to imagine them with furniture, all that came to mind was a cluster of cramped studio apartments. Every room boasted an identical bathroom.
Then it hit him.
"Hey, this is a freaking condo!"
"Remo!" Smith said tightly.
"Admit it."
Chiun's facial web quivered as if troubled by a sudden ill wind. "Emperor Smith," he said, his sparse eyebrows rising, "tell me of the history of this magnificent structure."
"Yes, Emperor Smith," Remo added archly, "we're all ears."
Smith cleared his throat. His Adam's apple bobbed like a floater popping into the water and up again.
"This building was once a church," he admitted.
"Ha! I knew it!"
Chiun frowned.
"A few years ago, it was completely remodeled as you see it here . . ." Smith added. "It has never been tenanted."
"In other words," Remo said flatly. "Some developer bought this place at the height of the condo craze, remodeled it, and went belly-up before he could unload the units."
Chiun's beard stroking grew studied.
"I was very fortunate in securing title at a reasonable cost," Smith said doggedly. "It is a unique place. It features all the rooms you could want, privacy, and for the Master of Sinanju, a special meditation room."
Chiun's face lit up. "Meditation room?"
"Perfect for your needs, Master Chiun," said Smith. "May I show you?"
"No," said Remo.
"Yes," said Chiun.
Harold Smith led them up to the squat tower of the former church. From the outside, it resembled a crenellated battlement. From the inside, it was a spacious area with four great windows, each facing one of the four quarters. It was full of spring sunlight.
"This is the meditation room?" Remo scoffed. "Looks more like an indoor handball court. What a joke. Nice try, Smitty, but no sale. Right, Little Father?"
Saying nothing, the Master of Sinanju padded around the room.
He went to the south window, which looked upon the street. The sun was on his face. His chin came up.
After a moment, he turned and said, "It is perfect for my needs."
"I hate it!" Remo said hotly. "I can't stand being inside."
"You may go outside," Chiun allowed.
Remo started away, growling, "Thanks."
"And return with my trunks, of course."
Fourteen trunks later, Remo took Harold W. Smith aside and said, "Nice con job."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Passing off a renovated church-turned-condo as a castle. You must have saved a bundle. Or did some bank pay you to take this white elephant off their hands?"
"The Master of Sinanju appears pleased," Smith said defensively.
"How long does that usually last?"
"I have learned that the Master of Sinanju is normally as good as his word. He appears to like this place. And he has given me his word that our latest contract will be executed as agreed."
"Don't pocket your signatures until they're dry," Remo warned.
Moments later, the squeaky voice of Chiun called them up to the meditation room.
Chiun had already unpacked one trunk. From it had come three tatami mats. Chiun had assumed a lotus position on one. The other two sat empty on the floor, facing him.
Chiun gestured for the pair to be seated.
Remo walked up to the mat, crossed his ankles as he had been taught long ago, and scissored into a lotus position on the mat.
With arthritic difficulty, Harold Smith set down his suitcase and eased his long legs down. He ended up in a half kneeling position because his legs lacked the suppleness for crossing.
Chiun spoke. His voice was tinged with ceremonial gravity.
"This is an historic day in the House of Sinanju," he intoned. "For five thousand years, the House of Sinanju has treated with the outside world. Since the days of the first Master whose name has not come down to us, to the glory that was Wang the Greater, my ancestors have given service to the thrones of China, of Greece, Rome, and Siam. The Nubians showered us with gold. The Egyptians made a place for us in their fine palaces. Even the Japanese showed us respect, never venturing into the village of Sinanju even as they conquered the surrounding towns and cities of Korea."
"Whoop di do," Remo muttered.
Chiun closed his almond eyes as if to erase the remark from memory.
"But never before have we been blessed with a castle, a home of fine stone and-"
"Blueboard walls," inserted Remo.
"Blueboard walls," continued Chiun, "rarer even than walls of beaten gold."
"Oh brother," Remo groaned.
"Emperor Smith, known in the annals of the House of Sinanju as Harold the First, beneficent one, the Master of Sinanju humbly accepts your gift."