“Yes, dining while the Romans burned,” Chiun droned. “However, that does not erase the fact that you have admitted your own foolishness led them there.”

  Remo had heard this one before. Unlike in the past, this time he had a response.

  “I’ve copped to that one,” Remo nodded. “But I’ve been doing some thinking about that night. If you hadn’t tried tipping that waitress with counterfeit money, we might have gotten home in time to stop them.”

  Chiun’s eyes saucered. His hands clenched to knots of ivory bone. The very air around him stilled. “Are you now saying it is somehow my fault?” he demanded coldly.

  “No,” Remo insisted quickly. “What I’m saying is it’s the fault of whoever programmed the traffic lights that kept us from getting home faster. It’s the chef’s fault for being too slow in the kitchen. It’s as much anyone else’s fault as it is mine. I did not burn down our house. End of story.”

  As quickly as it came, the fight drained from Chiun. “Of course you are right. You are always right.” His fragile shoulders rose and sank pitifully.

  Remo had known the old con artist long enough to recognize the pose he now struck. He had guessed it as soon as he’d spotted the Master of Sinanju from the parking lot. Chiun was angling for something.

  “Why the shift to self-pity mode?” Remo asked warily.

  “I am attempting to cope with my great loss,” the wizened Asian said. Cold mist from the Sound kissed his leathery cheeks. “There are stages to such a thing, Remo. The first is fear, which neither you nor I experience. The next is denial.” His voice dropped low. “You are steeped in that at the moment,” he confided.

  “I’m not denying anything,” Remo sighed.

  “Thank you for making my case,” Chiun said. “As for the rest, they are unimportant. I have reached the final phase. Bitter acceptance.” A pathetic sigh seeped from wrinkled lips, and his shoulders rose and fell once more.

  Remo shook his head knowingly. “I know how this game is played,” he said. “You haven’t accepted diddly. You’re up to the bargaining phase, and you know you can catch more flies with moping. So what do you want? And I’m warning you ahead of time, if it’s a house you’re after we’re not getting an eye-sore like the last one.”

  Although he had grown used to their home of ten years, he wouldn’t have picked it himself. Chiun and their employer had gone behind his back to purchase Castle Sinanju.

  This time Chiun’s gloomy expression was genuine. “Is there more than one Basilica Julia?” the Master of Sinanju lamented. “Where in the Forbidden City did the Chinese build another Palace of Heavenly Purity? Show me Egypt’s second Temple of Karnak, that they would have another in the event disaster struck.” He shook his head sadly. “There are no two gems alike, Remo. There was only one Castle Sinanju. My beloved home is gone forever.”

  Remo shared the old man’s loss.

  “I miss it, too, Little Father,” he said gently. “Believe me, I’m not doing cartwheels down the hallways now that we’re stuck living in this loony bin again.” He glanced at the back of the big building.

  Folcroft was a throwback to another age. To the right of the rear loading dock, two stories up, a picture window of mirrored glass reflected tired sunlight.

  “I’m sure Smitty isn’t thrilled with us being here, either,” Remo continued. “That’s probably what he wants now. To send us packing. Speaking of which, he’s probably having a spaz attack right now if he sees us out here like this. I better go see what he wants.”

  Turning, he headed up the rickety old dock. Expression thoughtful, the Master of Sinanju kept pace. Not a single warped board so much as creaked beneath their combined weight. They hit the shore and began mounting the hill.

  “It is possible after your audience with Smith that you will be the one who wishes to leave,” Chiun said cryptically.

  “Why?” Remo asked. “He is kicking us out, isn’t he?”

  “Not at all. He has opened the gates of Fortress Folcroft wide for us,” the old Korean said. “A decision fraught with risk given your questionable associates of late. There are other forces at work here.”

  “I bet,” Remo said doubtfully. “Look, Chiun, I don’t think Smith is too hepped on the idea of us getting another permanent home right now. We kind of made a scene on our way out of town with the last one. It even made the local news.”

  “We were not seen by any television cameras.”

  “Maybe not, but we were known around the neighborhood. People saw us off and on there for ten years. Then came the fire and us turning up missing afterward. Even though it’s only local, I’m sure people are still talking.”

  “Any interest will soon wane.”

  “Probably,” Remo said. “But you know how Smith is. He doesn’t like us here any more than we like being here, but until the heat dies down he’ll want us close enough to keep tabs on. If he is planning to kick us out, my guess is we’ve already got rooms in the seediest no-tell motel right here in Rye.”

  At the top of the hill now, they struck off across the short stretch of parking lot toward the building. Chiun’s black sandals made not a sound as he padded thoughtfully beside his pupil.

  “Necessity has forced us to find temporary lodging in this village,” the Master of Sinanju said. “But Rye is Smith’s home, not ours.”

  “No argument there,” Remo said.

  Beside him, Remo caught a flutter of golden silk. One of Chiun’s hands appeared from his sleeve like a cobra from a snake charmer’s basket. A shiny pamphlet was clutched in his tapered fingers.

  “I am glad you agree,” the old man said, his voice laced with cunning.

  “Why?” Remo asked, stopping in his tracks. “What’s that?”

  A blissful smile cracked Chiun’s walnut-colored skin.

  “Our new home,” he replied.

  With a sinking feeling, Remo took the pamphlet. On the front, cheerful white letters read: Making Maine Your Own. Even as he was reading the words, Remo was shaking his head emphatically.

  “No way,” he said firmly. “I told you already, I’m thinking someplace hot. Florida. Hawaii maybe. Someplace with palm trees and sunburns and bikinis held in place by nothing but dental floss and wishful thinking.”

  “There are doubtless streetwalkers in Maine,” the Master of Sinanju droned. “Besides, your soul cries not for scorching climes. It begs you to return to the mild temperatures of the land of your birth.”

  “That’d be Newark,” Remo said, deadpan as he flipped through the pamphlet.

  “Pah,” Chiun snarled. “I speak not of the shell in which you walk and rut and speak ill of your betters. I refer to your blood. This place hearkens to your ancestral home of Sinanju.”

  When he glanced up, Remo’s eyes were hooded. “And that’s supposed to be a selling point, right?”

  The pamphlet was gone, plucked from his fingers in a flash.

  “Of course, O Visigothic one,” Chiun said. “And since we cannot live in the true Sinanju, we must settle for the nearest available facsimile.”

  “That’d be the Rye city dump,” Remo said blandly. “The rats can double for the people. Course, the rats won’t try to stick a shiv in our backs and steal our teeth while we’re sleeping.”

  The pamphlet vanished up the old man’s sleeve. “We will discuss this later,” he said. He headed for the side door of the sanitarium.

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” Remo insisted. “I’m not being bamboozled this time. I am not—repeat not—moving to Maine.”

  He yanked the door open. Chiun preceded him inside.

  “It reminds me of home,” the old man said wistfully.

  “In what way?” Remo asked as they mounted the stairs. “The remoteness? The rocks? The freezing winters that last all summer? Help me out here. On second thought don’t, because it doesn’t matter. No Maine, no way, no how.”

  “Your lips say no, but your soul says yes.” Chiun nodded wisely.

  “Stop saying what my soul wants, dammit,” Remo snapped in frustration. “I don’t even know what my soul wants these days.”

  Chiun took special note of his pupil’s troubled tone. Unseen by Remo, the old man’s face darkened in sympathy. He grew silent as they exited the stairwell on the second floor.

  Together, they walked down the hallway of Folcroft’s administrative wing.

  Smith’s secretary looked up from her desk as they entered the outer room.

  Eileen Mikulka smiled at Chiun. “Back again so soon?”

  Remo shot his teacher a quizzical look, but the old man’s eyes remained locked dead ahead.

  “Dr. Smith said you should go right in,” Mrs. Mikulka advised before returning her attention to the papers on her desk.

  Wordlessly, Chiun preceded Remo through the inner-office door.

  The room beyond was drab and functional. As they entered, a gaunt, white-haired man who sat behind a big desk across the room glanced to the door.

  “Hey, Smitty,” Remo said, bored. “I’m back. And in case you were wondering, capitalism hasn’t made Russia stink any less, and I was afraid to use the bathroom at the airport for fear of getting contact syphilis.”

  “Ah, Remo,” Harold Smith said, a hint of anxiety in his lemony voice. “I saw you out back.”

  “Three cheers and a tiger for you,” Remo said. “You figured out how to use a window.”

  His senses were telling him something odd about the room. There was an extra heartbeat inside.

  As Chiun padded calmly across the room to Smith’s desk, Remo peeked behind the still open door.

  He was surprised to find a young man in a business suit sitting on Smith’s worn office sofa. The stranger smiled nervously up at Remo.

  Remo shot a look at Smith. “Who’s this goomer?” he asked, jerking a thumb at the man on the couch.

  “Mind your manners,” the Master of Sinanju warned in Korean. He had taken up an imperious sentry pose next to the CURE director’s desk.

  Remo raised an eyebrow at the old man’s admonishment.

  Smith cleared his throat. His chair squeaked as he sat up straighter.

  “Remo, allow me to introduce Mark Howard,” Smith said, gesturing across the room to the man near Remo. “Mark has assumed the position of assistant director of Folcroft.”

  The door was still open. Remo let it slip from his fingers. It closed with a soft click.

  “Of Folcroft,” Remo said flatly.

  Smith leaned forward, shaking his head slowly. He tipped his face down, peering at Remo over the tops of his spotless rimless glasses.

  “Of CURE, as well,” the older man said gravely. And as he stood near the door, the CURE director’s shocking words echoed like dull thunder in the stunned brain of Remo Williams.

  Chapter 5

  Beside Remo, Mark Howard climbed to his feet. The young man wiped nervous perspiration from his palm before offering Remo his hand.

  “I look forward to working with you, Remo,” Howard said, his youthful voice tinged with worried excitement.

  Remo was coming rapidly back around. He looked, stunned, from Smith’s serious face to the Master of Sinanju’s mask of stone. He paused just long enough to glance at Howard’s outstretched hand before looking back to Smith.

  “What the hell is this all about?” Remo demanded.

  “Remo!” Chiun scolded. He bowed apologetically to Howard. “Forgive my son’s rudeness, Prince Mark. He was raised in a poorhouse where he had to fight the other urchins for crusts of bread. I advise you to do what the rest of us do and just ignore him.”

  “Ignore this,” Remo said.

  “Of course, sometimes it is easier to do than others,” Chiun told Howard through tightly clenched teeth. His eyes shot daggers at Remo.

  “You mean to tell me you knew about this and you didn’t tell me?” Remo said to the Master of Sinanju.

  “Master Chiun met Mark formally last night,” Smith explained. “You would have, too, had you returned to Folcroft after your assignment was through.”

  “I had some thinking to do,” Remo said. “It sure as hell didn’t have anything to do with this.” He stabbed a finger at Howard. “When did that happen to us?’

  “Apparently, things were set in motion before the previous President left office,” Smith explained.

  Remo threw up his hands. “That’s enough for me. This is wobble-bottom’s revenge for not making him and his wife Mr. and Mrs. Kingfish of Siam for life, isn’t it? Well, let’s get this over with and kill him right now.”

  He took a step toward Howard. The young man stepped back worriedly, almost tripping over the arm of the sofa. He had to grab the back of the couch to keep his balance.

  “Remo, stop it,” Smith commanded.

  The order wasn’t necessary. As Mark struggled to regain his balance, Remo stopped dead. His deep-set eyes narrowed.

  “I know you,” Remo said slowly as he studied the young man’s wide face.

  “Yes,” Smith said from across the room. “You met him several weeks ago during the Raffair business.”

  “We encountered Prince Mark at one of the lairs of your iniquitous Roman friends,” Chiun supplied. He quickly offered Howard an apologetic bow. “It is to my eternal shame that I did not recognize your regal bearing straight away.”

  Remo snapped his fingers. “Miami,” he said. “You were the doofus who didn’t know which end of the gun the bullets came out of.” He wheeled on Smith. “He’s CIA, Smitty.”

  “Formerly CIA, yes,” Smith replied.

  “There’s no formerly CIA,” Remo insisted. “Not unless they started installing Brain-O-Matic 2000s in their agents when they issue them pink slips. They go in stupid, come out stupider.”

  “I wasn’t a field agent,” Howard interrupted. There was a growing edge to his tone.

  “Got that right,” Remo scoffed. “You should have seen this joker, Smitty. He actually made the rest of those Maxwell Smarts at Langley look like they’d know their spyglasses from their elbows.”

  Sighing, Smith rubbed the bridge of his patrician nose with arthritic fingers. “I didn’t think this would be easy,” he said wearily.

  “He is stubborn, as well as rude, Prince Mark,” Chiun explained. “But in spite of his many—” his eyes grew hooded as he stared directly at Remo “—many many character flaws, he has served his emperor faithfully for years.”

  “Um, about that,” Howard said, his voice vaguely troubled. “Emperor, prince? Are these terms…?” His voice trailed off.

  Howard’s implication was clear.

  “This oughta be good,” Remo said. He flopped back on the couch, his arms spread wide across the back.

  The CURE director fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “They are not my idea, if that is your concern,” Smith said, his gray face flushing with embarrassment. “Sinanju Masters are effusive in language and devoted to title. It eventually became easier to accept the honorific than to argue against its use.”

  “Perhaps, Emperor Smith, a clearer delineation is necessary now with the arrival of the prince regent,” Chiun mused, stroking his beard pensively. “How would you feel about His Royal Highness, Smith the First?”

  Smith’s face sickened. “There is no need to change at this juncture,” he said quickly.

  “Yeah,” Remo agreed. “Especially since the Campbell Soup Kid here won’t be around very long.”

  “Remo,” Smith said evenly, “like it or not, Mark has been installed here as assistant director of CURE. Given that simple fact, he will be here for the foreseeable future.”

  “Nope,” Remo said, shaking his head. “Last CIA guy a President sent in to take over almost blew the whole shooting match and nearly got us all killed in the bargain. I say a corpse in time saves mine. You’ll agree soon enough.”

  “That individual was NSA, not CIA,” Smith reminded him. “And this situation is different. In that instance my taking ill caused the President to install a new CURE director. In this case the President simply wishes to have someone in place should something happen to me.”

  “Dr. Smith?” Howard interrupted, concerned. “The President never told me he sent someone else in to run CURE.”

  “It was a previous President,” Smith explained. “Years ago.”

  “May I ask what happened to him?” Howard questioned.

  “That is not relevant,” Smith said tersely.

  “Got cooked to death in that very chair,” Remo said, nodding across the room to where the CURE director sat.

  “Remo,” Smith warned thinly.

  “What?” Remo said. “Weren’t you gonna tell him what he’s gotten himself into?” He leaned forward on the couch. “Guy before that got a pen stuck through his head,” he offered conspiratorially.

  “That is quite enough,” Smith snapped.

  “Hey, I’m just letting junior know he’s not in Kansas anymore. This is the big leagues, Baby Huey.”

  Howard would not be baited. “I’m aware of what goes on around here, Remo,” he said. But there was a troubled undertone to his words.

  “Sure, you are,” Remo droned. “Smitty,” he continued, “why are we bothering to go through the motions like this? I mean, is all this even legal?”

  “Pah,” Chiun scoffed, dismissing Remo’s words with a wave of one bony hand. “Legalities are for the peasantry. They do not apply to emperors or handsome princes.” He smiled at Howard.

  “That is not true, Master Chiun,” Smith said gravely. “At CURE we are governed by a set of very strict guidelines.” He leaned back in his cracked leather chair. “There is nothing in our charter that explicitly prohibits this,” he said, steepling his fingers to his chin. “After all, I was appointed by a President forty years ago. That a later President would appoint a second in command at CURE does not violate our founding principles. And I had recently begun to consider the possibility that I might one day be replaced. I assumed that it would be after my death, but it makes more sense this way rather than bringing someone to the job cold.”

  “Why?” Remo asked blandly. “He’s just gonna be leaving that way. Cold, stiff and with a really surprised look on his face.”