Howard seemed impressed. "That was quick," he said.
Smith ignored him. "If there is nothing more you require, I will be in touch," he said crisply.
"General, you should consider another alternative," Mark Howard said quickly before the CURE director had a chance to break the connection.
"What is that?"
"It's possible your boat went down."
In his Folcroft office, Smith's expression remained unchanged.
"I had already entertained that possibility," he replied as he replaced the phone.
DEEP IN THE BOWELS of the CIA's Langley headquarters, Mark Howard scowled. The sleek white phone in his hand released a steady hornet's buzz from its earpiece.
"You're welcome, you old buzzard," he griped. In the privacy of his drab, gray cubicle, he briefly considered dragging his feet on the search. It would be a fairly easy thing to do, considering the work it entailed. The volume of information he'd been given access to by the mysterious General Smith was vast. After a moment's blank hesitation, Mark Howard blinked hard. "Ah, the hell with it," he muttered. "Better to get him off my back fast."
Rubbing his tired eyes, he turned back to his worn keyboard.
Chapter 17
On the flight from San Francisco International Airport, Chiun took his usual seat on the left-hand side of the plane above the wing. Remo settled in next to him. Only when they were safely in the air and Chiun was thoroughly convinced that the wing wasn't going to fall off did the old man turn away from the window. His face was disturbingly calm.
The sunlight that glinted off the fuselage streamed through the small window, surrounding the old Korean's vellum-draped skull with an almost ethereal nimbus.
It was the halo effect that did it for Remo. The damnably serene expression on the Master of Sinanju's wrinkled puss didn't help.
"You know you don't have to keep this up," he snapped, annoyed.
"Keep what up?" Chiun asked blandly.
"This phony tranquil front."
Chiun regarded his pupil with hooded hazel eyes. "I am going to take a nap. Please wake me if you intend to make sense."
"Don't pretend you don't know what I mean. I know for a fact you're ticked as all hell about this movie thing. The only thing keeping you from splattering all over this cabin is the fact that you don't have anyone left to disembowel. You're this close to blowing your top."
"Will you be comforted, Remo, if I tell you my top is secure?"
"Tell it to the seagulls," Remo said. He shook his head resignedly. "I just wish you'd get it over with already. This waiting for you to erupt is driving me nuts."
"Your feeble grip on sanity notwithstanding, I am truly not upset. I have implored the gods to grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change that which I am able and wisdom to see the difference."
In spite of himself, Remo snorted. "Where'd you pick that one up?"
Chiun raised a haughty eyebrow. "I do not pick up. Remember, I am a writer."
"Well, you didn't write that. That's an AA prayer."
"Is it?" the old Korean asked vaguely. He settled back in his seat. "They probably stole it from me. Doubtless the rum-soaked walls of Triple-A offices throughout this fetid nation are adorned with my poignant words. Credited to Mr. Chin, of course."
Chiun closed his eyes, indicating that he was through speaking. He folded his hands neatly across his belly. After a moment he was fast asleep.
Remo watched the Master of Sinanju's calm, rhythmic breathing. It was as if he didn't have a care in the world.
It was irritating to Remo. He knew Chiun was pissed, yet Chiun wasn't displaying any signs of being pissed. And that had the practical effect of pissing Remo off.
"No matter what you say, I still think you're upset, you old faker," he whispered to Chiun's softly sleeping form.
"Think quieter," Chiun squeaked.
IT HAD TAKEN several hours, but he'd finally found her.
The contours were right, and it was certainly the right size. Mark Howard had enlarged the image just to confirm.
He copied the photo to a ROM disc and brought it down to a screening room. Once he'd doused the lights and displayed the image against the white wall, he'd removed all doubt.
The Radiant Grappler II.
Alone in the shadows of the small room, Howard compared the computer-enhanced image to the file photos he'd dragged up from the CIA archives. It didn't quite match.
By the looks of it, the vessel had undergone some modifications to make it look like an innocent fishing boat. A waste of time. The ship was so distinctive, there was no mistaking it, no matter what was done to its exterior.
"You can't paint stripes on a cow and call it a zebra," Howard whispered in the darkness of the empty room.
The cosmetic alterations weren't the only odd thing about the Grappler.
Howard glanced at the longitude and latitude displayed at the bottom of the picture. On the screen, the enlarged numbers were three inches high. Unless the pilot was high or a complete idiot-both possible, given the Earthpeace rolls-the vessel had deliberately changed course. No simple navigational error could possibly put the ship five thousand miles away from where it was supposed to be.
Flipping on the lights, he popped the disc from the CD-ROM drive.
Howard left the room, returning to the seclusion of his cubicle. The phone rang the instant he sat in his swivel chair.
"Imaging analysis," he said, tucking the receiver between ear and shoulder. The smaller satellite image of the Grappler was still on his monitor.
"Mr. Howard, General Smith. What have you learned?"
The voice was as sour as a sack of squeezed lemons. Howard placed the silver disc softly on his desk.
"For starters, your ship didn't sink, General," he said.
"You have located it?"
"Yes, sir. And not at all where you expected it to be."
"Where is it?" Smith demanded.