Father to Son td-129

by Warren Murphy

  Remo felt an anxious thread in his belly.

  "Okay, that sounds bad. Chiun, I've had to put up with the Sinanju Rite of Attainment, the Night of the Salt, the Dream of Death and about a hundred other rites of passage over the years. None of them were any fun. Are you telling me you're dumping another one on me? 'Cause if you are, I'm telling you right now, I can't take it."

  "You can and you will," Chiun insisted sternly. "Those other passages were times of difficulty. This is merely a formality. It is your time of reckoning. By the end of our journey, your long apprenticeship will be at an end and the House of Sinanju will have a new Reigning Master."

  The words hit Remo like a fist to the chest. He stood there for a long moment, unsure of what to say.

  He could feel the eyes of Chiun's ancestors burning through him.

  "You sure about that, Little Father?" he asked finally.

  He winced at the old man's withering look. "Okay, you're sure," Remo muttered.

  "As sure as I am that you will bring honor to the House and will not embarrass me in front of all the Masters who have come before," the old man announced to the small stone courtyard. He pitched his voice very low, leaning in to his pupil. "If you embarrass me in front of my family, you will rue the day, Remo Williams," he threatened.

  Turning on his heel, he marched into the house. "Not much pressure, right, guys?" Remo asked the air.

  His words were lost on a chill late-afternoon breeze that was like the breath of a thousand lost souls.

  Chapter 5

  For Dr. Harold W. Smith, the day began with no fanfare.

  It was the same as the previous day and the one before that, stretching back over years and decades. Other men longed for the limelight. Harold Smith opted for the exact opposite. Recognition, accolades-a fanfare for his arrival-would have meant a failure on his part of colossal proportions. Brass bands to greet his day would have sent Smith scurrying for shadows where he could have a very personal, very private fatal heart attack.

  But, thankfully, when he drove through the gates of Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, no one was there to record his arrival except the same sleepy guard who had been on gate duty nearly every day for the past twenty years. And that guard never seemed overly interested.

  Not that anyone would find any reason to be interested in Harold W. Smith. Even those who knew him found him exceedingly uninteresting.

  Smith was uniformly bland and gray. His three-piece suit was gray, his overcoat was gray, even his skin tone was gray. The only splash of color in his dreary appearance was the green-striped school tie that was knotted with machinelike precision just below his protruding Adam's apple.

  Smith was gray enough to be an escaped background character from a 1940s movie. That he would have been a background character on film was certain. Smith could never have had a speaking part. With the blandness he exuded, a single spoken line would have sent moviegoers stampeding for the bathrooms and concession stand.

  For those who encountered the very real Harold Smith as he went about his life's business, Smith was a man the equivalent of an ice cube on an August sidewalk. He might be remembered for a little while, but he would sooner or later melt from memory and be gone forever.

  Which was all well and good with Harold W. Smith. The man who craved no less than complete anonymity had been blessed by nature with the perfect camouflage. And so it was that in his living disguise he could drive onto the grounds of the facility that he ran and not garner more than a single glance from the guard at the main gate.

  Folcroft was a private mental health and convalescent care facility nestled away amid the maples and birch on the shore of Long Island Sound. The trees had mostly lost their leaves as Smith steered up the long drive and parked his rusted old station wagon in his reserved space in the corner of the employee lot. He picked up his battered leather briefcase from the passenger seat.

  There were only a few cars in the lot. Smith noted the one belonging to his assistant in the adjacent space. The remaining vehicles belonged to regular

  sanitarium workers and were scattered throughout the large lot.

  The night shift had come on duty at midnight and would not be relieved until eight o'clock. Since his earliest days at Folcroft, Smith had carefully set his own schedule, timing his arrival so that he would not encounter any sanitarium staff on his way to work.

  As usual, he made it from the parking lot to the building without bumping into a single soul. Folcroft was a big, ivy-covered building built in an age when the pride of the American worker was evident in every carefully measured line and stacked brick. Though a century of cold and rain, wind and snow had howled and raged across the Long Island Sound, Folcroft's solid construction had weathered time and the elements. It, like its director, was a rock that only herculean intervention would dislodge. But no such effort had been raised against Folcroft, nor, it would seem, was any effort under way to dislodge Harold W. Smith from his lonely post. And so the gaunt gray man in the heavy overcoat hustled up the same path he had trodden on for forty years. Untouched by time, unperturbed by the vicissitudes of a cruel and changing world.

  Through the door and up the stairs, Smith found his way to his office suite.

  The outer room was empty.

  For years Smith's secretary had made certain every day that she was at work a few minutes before her employer. But she ran the office with such efficiency, Smith had lately decided to relax her schedule somewhat by reducing her hours. The woman was edging closer to retirement age and this was one of the ways Smith hoped to persuade her to remain past sixty-five.

  She was too valuable an asset to lose. Eileen Mikulka came in at eight now, not 5:55 a.m.

  Alone in the semidarkness, Smith entered his office. Shutting the door at his back with a muted click, he crossed to his desk. He set his briefcase in the well at his feet and settled in his leather chair.

  While the rest of the office was a throwback to the 1950s, the desk was a high-tech addition to a decidedly low-tech environment. The gleaming black desk drew the focus of the Spartan room like an onyx altar.

  Some might have wondered how a modern desk had found its way into so old-fashioned a room. The secret of the desk was a window into the secret life of Harold Smith.

  Reaching beneath the lip of the desk, Smith's finger found a hidden stud. When he pressed it, a square of light grew to glowing life beneath the surface of the desk.

  The computer screen was angled so that it was visible only to whoever sat behind the desk. On the screen appeared a few lines of text that were set to appear automatically first thing every morning. Smith read them daily as both habit and reminder.

  Only after reading every word to the preamble to the United States Constitution did Smith close out the window. Feeling the weight of the world on his thin shoulders, Smith began his day's work.

  Those people who found Smith not worthy of a second glance would have been stunned to find out just exactly what was the work of the boring gray man in the drab gray suit.

  Director of Folcroft Sanitarium was merely a cover. Smith's true work was as director of CURE.

  CURE wasn't an acronym, but a dream. An agency set up by a President of the United States-long dead-who, in a time that would seem innocent by modern standards, had seen the seeds of anarchy and division already beginning to bear fruit. Rather than allow the nation to be torn apart, this President had created an agency to work on behalf of America. An agency that would ignore the Constitution for the express purpose of saving it and, God willing, America.

  To head this most covert of organizations, a man of great courage, personal strength and moral rectitude would be needed. After an exhaustive search, just such a man was found toiling far from the spotlight in the bowels of the Central Intelligence Agency. Harold Smith had accepted the presidential appointment with a flinty resolve and settled down to the work of saving the nation that he loved.

  Forty years later, he was still on the job. Adjusting his
rimless glasses on his patrician nose, Smith scanned the window that opened up beneath the one he had just closed. There were several items sent up to him by his assistant, Mark Howard. The young man had forwarded them for Smith's attention from his own office down the hall.

  Smith quickly looked them over. He saved two for closer inspection and dumped the rest in the main CURE files. After that, he lost himself in the comfortable realm of cyberspace.

  Behind a secret wall in the basement of the sanitarium, four mainframes kept an ever watchful eye on domestic and foreign affairs. Throughout day and night, anything that might require attention was pulled and collected in a special file. Although Mark Howard had a heightened instinct for identifying matters that might call for CURE manpower, the young man did not yet have the eye of experience honed over years by Harold Smith. Smith and his mainframes were a team that was still more comfortable working alone.

  The CURE director threw himself into his work with the vigor of a man half his age. After all, this was the business for which he had been born.

  He only realized two hours had passed when a soft rap sounded on his door. His drumming fingers retreated from the capacitor keyboard that was buried at the edge of his desk. The glowing alphanumeric pad faded from sight.

  "Come in."

  A matronly woman entered the office, a plastic cafeteria tray balanced on her forearm.

  "Good morning, Dr. Smith," his secretary said.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Mikulka."

  The woman brought the tray to his desk, setting down a cup of coffee and a plate of dry toast. "How are you this morning, Dr. Smith?" Eileen Mikulka asked as she picked up the tray again.

  "I'm fine, thank you."

  It was the same ritual every day. Smith could have set a tape recorder on his desk to give the same responses.

  "Will there be anything else?"

  "No, thank you, Mrs. Mikulka."

  "I'll be at my desk if you need me."

  With a courteous smile Eileen Mikulka left the room.

  Only when the door was closed once more did Smith return to his computer. Fifteen minutes later he was still engrossed in his electronic reports when the telephone rang.

  It was the blue contact phone. He reached for it even as he continued scrolling down his screen. "Smith," he said crisply, tucking the phone between shoulder and ear.

  "We're leaving, Smitty," Remo's voice announced glumly on the other end of the line. Frowning, Smith tore his eyes from his computer screen.

  "What do you mean leaving?" the CURE director asked. "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing wronger than usual," Remo replied. "Chiun and I are going on some trip somewhere. Of course, we can't tell Remo where that somewhere is. That'd make life too easy for him. Gotta wait until the last minute to maximize the chances of bugging the crap out of him."

  Smith breathed a silent sigh of relief. Remo had never felt completely fulfilled as CURE's lone enforcement arm. He periodically quit the agency in search of the happier life he sometimes thought had eluded him. Smith had thought that this was another of those times.

  "You are not due for vacation time," the older man pointed out as he returned attention to his computer.

  "No vacation, Smitty. By the sounds of it I'm off on some ritual that'll end in me taking over from Chiun. I don't think I really believe it, though. He pulls one of these rites of passage out of his kimono sleeve every other week. I think it's his way of keeping me focused."

  Smith had been absently scanning data on his screen. Remo's last words finally got Smith's undivided attention. He took the phone from the crook of his neck, gripping it tightly in his arthritic hand. "Is this the Time of Succession?"

  Remo sounded surprised. "You've heard of it?"

  Smith tried to keep his tone casual. "Chiun, er, mentioned something of it last year while you were recuperating from your burns here at Folcroft."

  "Huhn," Remo grunted. "Everyone knows about it but me. Anyway, Chiun told me to tell you the time was at hand, destiny awaits, blah-blah-blah. Upshot is, we're leaving."

  "You haven't any idea where you're going?"

  "Nope. I'll find out at the airport, I guess. The old skinflint isn't gonna pay for our tickets, that's for sure. I'll let you know what it's all about when we get back."

  "Very well." Smith hesitated. "Remo," he called the instant before the connection was broken.

  "Yeah?"

  "Good luck." There was a strain in his voice, yet the words were sincere.

  "Thanks, Smitty," Remo said.

  The phone went dead in Smith's hand. With great care he replaced the receiver in the cradle.

  Hand snaking from the blue contact phone, he picked up the black desktop phone. He dialed a three-digit number for the interoffice Folcroft line.

  The nasal voice that answered was youthful. "Mark Howard."

  "Mark, please come to my office at once."

  Once he had hung up the black phone, Smith reached into his pocket and pulled out his key chain. With a small key he unlocked the long drawer at his belly. A few pens rolled along with the opening drawer.

  Smith reached over paper clips and a sandwich bag filled with rubber bands. Far back in the drawer his fingers closed around an envelope. He pulled it out.

  The thick envelope was gold. There was a seal on the back, broken open months ago. A simple trapezoid divided by a bisecting line. The symbol of the House of Sinanju.

  Considering their working relationship, he was surprised that Master Chiun had been so formal in his invitation. But, he realized, Sinanju had managed to last for thousands of years in part because of the strict adherence to ritual.

  Opening the golden flap, he pulled out a sheet of carefully folded parchment. The letter was written in Chiun's familiar florid script.

  Dear Emperor Harold W. Smith, Secret Ruler of the United States of America, Protector of the Eagle Throne and President-in-Waiting,

  You are cordially invited...

  Smith stopped reading. He couldn't bear to go further. He folded the letter and tucked it back inside the envelope.

  It was ludicrous. At first he had balked at the very idea. But Chiun insisted the ritual could not be avoided.

  The Sinanju Time of Succession. The end of the line for Remo's training.

  The ritual put Remo at risk. But the greater risk for Smith was to CURE and, therefore, to America.

  He put the envelope to one side on his desk and returned attention to his computer. Smith closed out all the CURE files, dumping them into the mainframes. They would still be there when he went back for them. In spite of all that might need his attention, he had a feeling that the coming days would be occupied with work unrelated to CURE.

  Once he was done, he turned in his chair. There was a picture window of one-way glass behind his desk. As he awaited the arrival of his assistant, Harold Smith watched Long Island Sound roll to shore. He was suddenly very tired.

  Chapter 6

  Remo was right. When they got to John F. Kennedy International Airport, Chiun shoved him and his credit card to the front of the proper ticket line. When Remo saw that they were heading to England, he had just one question.

  "Why are we going to England?" Remo asked unhappily.

  "Because," Chiun replied. And said nothing more.

  Over the Atlantic, Remo tried again. "What's in England?"

  "Beef eaters with pasty skin," Chiun said as he looked out at the clouds. "You should fit right in."

  "I doubt it. English beef is just ground-up bull horns and pickled horse assholes. And I haven't had a steak or a burger in thirty years. And you're just dodging the question. What are we going to England for and what does it have to do with the Time of Succession?"

  Chiun's face puckered. "Are you a child?" he clucked, turning unhappily from the window. "For once in your life can you not demonstrate patience?"

  "Whatever we're doing there, it has to do with me becoming Master of Sinanju. I think I have a right to know."

 
; "When you are Master, then you have a right to know. Until then, enjoy the clouds." A long finger tapped the window. "Look. That one looks like a bunny."

  Remo slouched back in his seat. "I hate clouds," he grumbled.

  "I don't know why. You have much in common. You are both puffy and white and cast gloom wherever you go."

  Remo sank even further into himself, muttering about how much he hated sarcasm, too. He was still complaining when their plane touched down in London.

  They took a cab from the airport. Chiun gave directions to the cabbie from the back seat. The driver eventually stopped outside a high wall. Remo had glimpsed the building beyond from the back seat of their taxi.

  "Chiun, what are we doing at Buckingham Palace?" he asked once they were standing on the sidewalk.

  The most famous residence of the British monarchy stretched like a panoramic postcard beyond the wall. "Looking for an entrance," Chiun replied. Twirling, he marched up the sidewalk.

  He stopped at a palace guard standing before a gate. The man wore the familiar red uniform jacket and high bearskin hat, tied under his chin. He stared out over Chiun's bald head. Pedestrians continued to pass by.

  "Chiun, they're not just going to let you waltz in here," Remo whispered. "Now, will you come clean, please, and tell me what the heck we're supposed to be doing here?"

  But the old Korean wasn't paying attention. He marched up to stand toe-to-toe with the palace guard. Remo had seen jokes for years about how unflappable the guards were at Buckingham Palace. How the men stood at rigid attention at their posts and couldn't be made to flinch or blink despite the best efforts of nuisance tourists.

  Remo was a little disappointed that the guard Chiun had chosen wasn't quite as imperturbable as the movies made them out to be. Of course, Remo reasoned that this probably had something to do with the fact that the Master of Sinanju had yanked the man's gun from his hands and thrown it out into London traffic while simultaneously stuffing the soldier's furry black hat down over his head.

  As the soldier stumbled away, the old Asian sent a hard heel into the unguarded gate. The lock shattered and the gate swung wide. He turned back to his pupil.