By Eminent Domain td-124

by Warren Murphy

  When the two men collided, the President of the United States went one way and Mark went the other. With a grunt Mark fell against the door frame. He lost the red phone from under his arm. It struck the floor hard, the receiver spilling off the cradle. The bell inside gave a muffled tinkle as the phone bounced across the carpet.

  The President had fallen to his backside. Lost in thought, he had been hurrying along with his head down. He seemed shocked that anyone was in the residence.

  "Oh, it's you," the leader of the free world said.

  "I'm so sorry, sir," Mark apologized. He hustled over, helping the President to his feet.

  "What are you doing here?" the President asked.

  He spotted the red phone on the carpet. "Where are you going with that?" he demanded.

  "You requested that the phone be moved to your bedroom, Mr. President," Howard said nervously.

  "Oh. That's right," the President said. "Well, hurry up and get it hooked up. I need to talk to your boss."

  Fumbling the receiver back into the cradle, Mark scooped up the phone. With the President in the lead, the two men hurried down the hall to the presidential bedroom.

  According to Dr. Smith, the phone had been in this room years ago. Even through various renovations and several administrations, the CURE director had been careful to issue circuitous orders that the old wall jack not be removed, lest it become necessary to reuse the old line.

  Howard found the blank silver plate behind the bed. He reversed the process from the Lincoln Bedroom, installing a female plate on the wall. He ran the line through a hole in the back of the nightstand's bottom drawer before plugging the red phone back in.

  Mark lifted the receiver to test.

  There was no dial tone. For an instant he thought he'd broken the phone when he'd dropped it, but an abrupt ringing sounded on the other end of the line. It was answered before the first ring was over.

  "Yes," said the lemony voice of Harold Smith.

  "It's me," Mark said. "The phone's been moved."

  The President held out an impatient hand. "Let me have him," he insisted.

  "Very good," Smith said to Howard. "I have already deactivated the line into the Lincoln Bedroom. Please return-"

  "Um, Dr. Smith," Mark broke in, "there's someone here who wants to speak to you."

  The President was already pulling the phone out of Howard's hand. "Hi, Smith," he announced. His laconic nasal voice was eerily reminiscent of his father's, who had served as president a decade ago. "I realize we just got through that mess in Barkley, but there's something my advisers just mentioned that might need to be checked out by you folks."

  "Yes, Mr. President?" Smith asked.

  The President sat down on the edge of the bed. "As I understand it, there have been a number of deaths," he said seriously. "Now, as much as it pains me to say this, that's not what has me most worried. It's the oil. After the trouble with skyrocketing prices last year, we can't afford to have anyone tampering with - domestic production."

  "What is the problem, sir?" Smith asked.

  "This is where it gets dicey," the President admitted. "We've got an eyewitness account, but I don't know how credible it is. Some helicopter pilot or something. His story is pretty crazy sounding. But no matter what, it's clear that someone, for some reason, has disrupted the oil flow through the Alaska Pipeline."

  Kneeling on the floor, Mark Howard had been gathering up odds and ends into his bag. At the mention of Alaska, Mark's grip tightened on the screwdriver in his hand.

  Before leaving for Washington, he had spent as much time researching as he possibly could. As it was, he had barely made his flight on time. For the little time he had managed to put in, he had come up empty.

  Mark had hoped to do more searching once he'd returned to Folcroft. Now it seemed it wouldn't be necessary.

  As he finished cleaning up, he listened carefully to the President's side of the conversation.

  Apparently, there was a crisis brewing in Alaska after all. Mark only hoped that Harold W. Smith wasn't as attentive to detail as he seemed. With any luck, the CURE director would not even remember that Mark had mentioned Alaska that very morning. And if he did? Well, Mark would have to cross that bridge when he came to it.

  As he knelt on the bedroom floor of the President of the United States, Mark only hoped that if the time ever came where he had to make a confession-his honesty wouldn't get him a one-way ticket to a Folcroft rubber room.

  Chapter 11

  Remo spent the long day driving aimlessly through the streets of Rye. When midnight came, he parked by the shore. For hours he stared blankly at the endless black waves of Long Island Sound.

  At this point he no longer expected illumination for whatever it was that vexed him. Chiun had told him that enlightenment would arrive in its own time, and he trusted the old Korean on that count. But this knowledge alone wasn't enough to suspend the nagging feeling that he'd forgotten something of great importance. And this latest baggage certainly wasn't helping matters any.

  Lately, everything seemed a complication for Remo. Smith's new assistant was just more piling onto the mess that had once been Remo's life.

  It wasn't Mark Howard's involvement in the organization that was the problem. Remo had told the young man about the two others who had, at different times, briefly taken charge of the agency. But there were two more who had played roles at CURE in the past. Conrad MacCleary and Ruby Gonzalez had each assisted Harold Smith in different ways at different times. Remo had thought they were both okay. It was what Howard represented that most bothered Remo. Change.

  He wasn't ready to deal with it. Didn't want to think about it. Yet lately his life kept stubbornly coming back to that one word.

  Alone with his thoughts, he stared into the waves of the Sound. Only when the light of dawn began to streak the sky did Remo realize he'd sat in his car all night.

  With a troubled sigh he turned the key in the ignition.

  He returned to Folcroft in the wee hours. Smith had not yet arrived for work when Remo parked his car and headed inside. Sneaking downstairs to his quarters, he was relieved to find the Master of Sinanju still asleep. The nightly buzz saw that was Chiun's snoring issued from beyond the old Korean's closed bedroom door.

  Remo slipped through the dark communal room and into his own bedroom, shutting the door gently. He kicked off his loafers and settled to his simple tatami sleeping mat.

  For a few seconds he listened to the soft sounds of Folcroft.

  Nurses walked distant hallways. Toilets flushed and water sloshed through ancient pipes. Muted rumblings and bangs came from the cafeteria as the staff began the breakfast ritual. All these sounds carried to his sensitive ears. The same sounds might have been made at the sanitarium that fateful day three decades ago, when an idealistic young beat cop had awakened to a new life and a new identity.

  In the quiet of his room, Remo took some small comfort in the timeless sounds of that old brick building. Embracing a rare moment of peace, he closed his eyes and allowed his body to drift off to sleep.

  Ten seconds after he shut his eyes, the snoring in the next room abruptly ceased.

  "Oh, crud," Remo groaned.

  The light in the communal room snapped on, spilling under Remo's closed door.

  Reaching up in the dark, he pulled a pillow from the unused bed that had been there when he moved in. He wrapped it around his head, pressing it tight to his ears.

  No sooner was the pillow in place than the clanging began. Chiun banged around the stove for a time, slamming pots and rattling pans. After a few minutes Remo couldn't take it anymore.

  "I'm trying to sleep in here," he complained loudly.

  "Oh, is that you, Remo?" Chiun's disembodied voice called back. "When you did not come home last night, I assumed you had moved out."

  "Very funny," Remo said. "You heard me come in."

  "I thought that some vagrant flimflammer had won your room from you in one of the all-nigh
t gambling houses you frequent while prowling the mean streets."

  "I wasn't gambling, I was thinking," Remo muttered.

  "Believe me, the way you think, it's gambling," Chiun called knowingly. The banging resumed. Remo took some encouragement from the fact that the old Asian was still talking to him. The way he'd left things yesterday, Remo had been sure he'd be getting the silent treatment for the next six months. Moreover, it seemed as if Chiun wanted Remo to get up. This became clear when, over the course of the next forty-five seconds, the wizened Korean dropped the heavy cast-iron teapot seventeen times. "A for effort, Little Father," Remo grunted, unwrapping the pillow from his ears. He rolled to his feet.

  When he opened the door, he found the Master of Sinanju fussing with the small boom box that sat on the counter of their shared kitchenette. The old man raised a dull eye.

  "Oh, you are up," Chiun commented.

  "It's hard to sleep with you reenacting the Battle of the Bulge out here," Remo said. His eyes instantly alighted on the low kitchen table. Spread across the taboret were a dozen real-estate pamphlets. "Oh, brother," he exhaled.

  Chiun followed his gaze. "Ah," he said, nodding. "I left those there, as you requested."

  Remo offered him a gimlet eye.

  "I didn't ask for those, so don't try to Gaslight me on this one, because I'm not in the mood."

  "I am not surprised. After catting around all night, it is a wonder you can lift your head at all."

  "It wasn't through any choice of my own," Remo said to himself as he gathered up the pamphlets. With a flourish Chiun spun from the small stereo. As the device squawked to cacophonous life, the old man plucked the pamphlets from his pupil's hand. "I will put these away for later," he said.

  "Make it much later," Remo said. "And I'm already up. No need to torture me by playing Wylander Jugg."

  This was the country music singer for whom the Master of Sinanju had recently developed a fondness. On the counter Wylander continued to yodel from the unlucky speakers.

  "You would deny me this one pleasure? After all I have done for you and all you have done to me?"

  "You bet," Remo said. He winced as Wylander tried to stretch her larynx for a note hopelessly out of reach.

  "Too bad for you," Chiun said. "Breakfast is in ten minutes. Wash your hands, for I suspect I know where you spent your night." He turned to the stove. Remo did as he was told without argument.

  As he washed up in the bathroom sink he heard the sound of Smith's car wheezing and coughing its way into the parking lot far above. The old station wagon seemed to worsen with every winter, yet it continued to hang on.

  Remo did his best not to read too much into that idle thought. Drying his hands, he returned to the kitchenette.

  Chiun was tapping rice into a pair of stoneware bowls with a wooden spoon. Two wedges of orange sat on each of their place mats. Remo took note of the fruit slices with a puzzled frown.

  Their training limited them to a diet of rice and fish and, less often, duck. Vegetables were infrequent and fruit which was high in natural sugar-was hardly ever eaten.

  "Why fruit?" Remo asked, kneeling at the low table.

  "I have not had any in several months," Chiun replied. "And you cannot remember the last time you had any at all."

  Remo's frown deepened. The old Korean was right. He couldn't recall.

  Placing the pot of rice on a pot holder, the Master of Sinanju knelt across the table from his pupil.

  As they ate, the rising winter sun warmed the sleepy ivy-covered building on the shores of Long Island Sound.

  Remo was grateful that Chiun didn't try to engage him in conversation.

  The Master of Sinanju knew his pupil well. The few cross words they'd exchanged the previous day hadn't been taken to heart. This meal was a gift. A balm for the troubled soul of his adopted son.

  Remo was actually starting to enjoy the moment when he heard the hurried footsteps approach from the hall.

  Because of one arthritic knee, Harold Smith tended to favor one leg over the other, although it was undetectable in his gait to anyone but Remo and Chiun.

  The person in the hall had no such problem. Whoever this was, it wasn't Smith.

  Remo assumed it was someone on the regular Folcroft staff, until the person stopped outside his door. A sharp knock.

  Remo was enjoying his meal too much to be bothered.

  "We're not here," he called.

  "Remo?" a hushed voice said. "Remo, it's Mark Howard."

  Remo's face soured. "We're even more not here," he said to the closed door.

  But it was too late. Across the table from Remo, the Master of Sinanju's thin, venous eyelids fluttered wide.

  "Please, by all means, honor us with your presence, Prince Mark," Chiun sang happily, rising like a puff of delighted steam. "Be civil," he hissed at Remo just as the door opened and Mark Howard's worried face peeked inside.

  The young man took special note of Remo, still kneeling on the floor at the taboret, his back to the door. Standing at the table, Chiun bowed deeply.

  "Welcome to my humble chambers, sweet prince." Howard nodded as he closed the door.

  "Good morning, Master Chiun," he said anxiously.

  "Your blessing is at once superfluous and inadequate," Chiun assured him, "for your being here with us does itself make a good morning great."

  "He's not frigging Tony the Tiger," Remo complained.

  It was as if Chiun didn't hear. "See, Remo," he said to his pupil. "Look and learn from a real nobleman. A true prince of the realm, he understands instinctively the value of his royal assassin, bowing and offering blessings on my day. Though barely weaned, he knows well the lessons of proper approbation."

  Remo didn't turn around. "Not seeing. Caring even less," he said as he continued to eat.

  His eyes trained warily on Remo, Mark took a few tentative steps into the main living room.

  "I hate to bother you so early, but there's a situation in Alaska," the young man began.

  "A most grave matter," Chiun intoned solemnly.

  "Possibly," Howard said. "The details aren't entirely clear yet."

  Chiun nodded, his wrinkled face a deeply concerned frown.

  "Still, how considerable must this potential danger be for the future master of Fortress Folcroft to descend from his lofty perch rather than dispatch a footman. Your somber mien does augur great risk to the Eagle Throne and to the precious Constitution, which we are sworn to defend. Speak, dear prince, of the threat to our one lord, Emperor Smith."

  Howard seemed somewhat put off by the Korean's flowery words and tone. "Um, it actually started a couple of days-"

  Chiun's face suddenly brightened. "Do you want some tea?" he interrupted.

  "What? No. No, thank you."

  "I would like some," Chiun said firmly.

  The Master of Sinanju promptly spun away from Howard, marching over to the gas stove.

  Howard stood alone in the center of the room. "Um," he said uncertainly, clearing his throat.

  "Go on," Chiun encouraged as he began fussing like a mother hen at the stove. "Your every word is a drop of rain upon the arid land of unworthy ears." In the cupboard now, he made an unhappy clucking sound with his tongue. "Have you seen my cup?" he asked Remo.

  "Nope. There's a bunch more in the cupboard, though."

  Chiun clearly wasn't happy with the idea of using an inferior teacup. He began scouring all the cupboards in the kitchenette.

  Mark could see he wasn't making progress with the Master of Sinanju. Reluctantly, he turned his attention to Remo.

  "There have been several-"

  Remo didn't let him get any further.

  "Save your breath, Howdy Doody," he said. "I don't go anywhere unless Smith says so."

  Chiun had found his favorite cup. He returned from the stove with it steaming full of tea.

  "That is true," the old Korean said, sinking to the floor near the table. "We are contractually bound to Emperor Smith and to S
mith alone. However, do not let that stop you. You have such a lovely speaking voice. Very commanding, don't you think so, Remo?"

  "We have any more rice?" Remo asked.

  "Dr. Smith is the one who sent me to get you," Mark said, exasperated.

  "Although your voice suddenly sounds strained," the Master of Sinanju said, concerned. "Are you sure you would not care for some tea? It is very soothing." He took a thoughtful sip.

  "Can you two even hear me?" Howard asked.

  "I'd like some," Remo said to the Master of Sinanju, ignoring Howard.

  Chiun raised his cup to his wrinkled lips. "It's all gone," he said.

  HAROLD SMITH WAS scanning Mark Howard's most recent computer records-one curious eyebrow raised-when his office door sprang open. He glanced up as Remo marched into the room, his face a scowl. Chiun swept in beside the younger Master of Sinanju. Behind the two of them came Mark Howard.

  Howard's youthful face was flushed as he closed the door behind them.

  Before Remo could even speak, Chiun was interrupting.

  "O gracious wholeness, Emperor Smith, who rules with virtuous majesty from within the mighty walls of Fortress Folcroft, Sinanju bids you good morning," he announced.

  "Will you can that dippy ding-dong sucking-up already?" Remo said impatiently in Korean. "Smitty's indifferent to it, and the twerp's more weirded out than he is impressed by it."

  "I am doing that which is necessary," the old man replied in the same tongue. "Young princes like to hear pretty songs, especially when they are directed at the throne they one day hope to occupy."

  As the Master of Sinanju sank cross-legged to the floor, Remo turned his full attention to Smith. "Okay, what's the deal, Smitty? I think the kid was trying to ship us off to Alaska."

  "That's not entirely true, Dr. Smith," Howard said, crossing the room. He angled the chair in front of the CURE director's desk so that he could see all three men.

  "That is correct," Chiun interjected. "For he left out the part where I respectfully informed our young sire that we obey neither princes nor presidents. Sinanju is yours to direct and yours alone, Emperor."