Whistling a happy tune, Remo ducked through the weeds and disappeared inside the ancient tunnel.
THE PRIME MINISTER of Spain was the first to hear the sound. He cocked an ear, listening intently.
It was difficult to isolate over the cooing of the birds. He strained hard, but the sound was gone. He had to have imagined it. Small wonder. The ancient room in the gloomy old castle had everything but a rack and a black-masked torturer wielding a cat-o'-nine-tails.
"What was it?" asked a nearby voice as the prime minister fussed, irritated, at his jacket cuffs.
"Nothing, Your Majesty. My ears playing tricks on me."
The king had arrived early that morning. He had been waiting on his throne for hours in the secret chamber of the Alcazar that was opened only once in a generation.
The king of Spain's throne was set back under a stone arch in order to avoid the sloppy white pigeon droppings that fell from the ceiling. The floor was thick with a paste of bird waste, fresh and drying intermingled.
When that room was opened to the first assassin from the East, there weren't pigeons. The first Master of Sinanju to stand in that room was the fifteenth-century Master, Lee-Piy, assassin of Pope Calixtus III. Near the hidden room was the very spot where Isabella's coronation as the queen of Castille had taken place. Secret tales of both assassin and queen had been passed down from one Spanish ruler to the next, all the way down to the modern constitutional monarchy.
The current king checked his watch as he settled back in the unfamiliar throne.
"They should be here soon."
The prime minister barely heard the king's words. He was listening to the walls once more.
The sound was back. Stronger this time. Much louder than the bird noises that came from the rafters. It seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.
This time when he glanced to the king it was clear that Spain's monarch had heard it, too. And though both men knew well the sound they heard, neither could understand why the walls of the Alcazar were whistling.
"What is that?" the king asked in wonder.
"I am not certain, Your Majesty," the prime minister replied worriedly. "But it sounds familiar." For a moment as the walls whistled, the prime minister's fearful mind conjured an image of a group of cherubic cartoon dwarfs marching with picks and spades to work. And then the whistling abruptly stopped and a man stepped out of the solid rock face. "Hi-ho, hi-ho," said Remo Williams.
The shocked prime minister thought he glimpsed a hidden passage. It closed up behind the stranger. "My God," the Spanish prime minister gasped.
"Nope, already got a job," Remo replied. "You the guy I'm supposed to meet?"
It took the prime minister a moment to get his bearings. "Oh, I see. You are Sinanju. But you are white."
"I try to make up for it by thinking impure thoughts." Remo looked around the chamber, his nose wrinkling at the mess on the floor.
The room was small and square. Massive wooden beams crossed far up the high ceiling. Pigeons fluttered near the filthy rafters. Small slits for windows allowed a little gray light to slip inside. The windows had been arranged to focus light on a single piece of furniture-the only piece in the room. Remo aimed a thumb at the throne.
"Who's that goomer?" he asked the prime minister.
The prime minister hurried to the throne. "This is his majesty, King Juan Carlos de Borbon y Borbon."
"No fooling?" Remo said, surprised. "I thought you guys fired your king to give the socialists free rein to wreck the country. Mission accomplished, by the way."
To Remo he didn't look like much of a king. He seemed like just any older gentleman in a business suit, plucked from the street and dropped on a throne. The king said not a word. He just sat there, waiting. Remo understood the monarch's silence.
Sighing quietly to himself, Remo approached the throne, picking his way through the mess of bird droppings.
He felt the eyes of Sinanju history watching his every move. He knew why. This was Sinanju's bread and butter. Schmoozing with monarchs kept the gold flowing back to the little village on the West Korean Bay. It was also the part of the job Remo hated more than any other.
Remo, latest in the unbroken line of Masters of Sinanju, offered the king of Spain a formal bow. "Sinanju bids most humble and undeserved greetings, Your Majesty," Remo recited reluctantly. "We stand before you as wretched and unworthy servants to your glorious crown."
He felt stupid reciting the words. He wouldn't have bothered if he knew the rules his ghosts were playing by. But if one of them blabbed in a seance that Remo hadn't offered the proper greeting to one of Europe's last surviving monarchs, Chiun would have his neck in a noose.
His words seemed to satisfy the king.
"Greetings, Master of Sinanju," the king replied in English. "You do us honor with this visit. We trust your journey was safe and bid you welcome to our shore."
For some reason Remo couldn't explain, the king's words warmed him. Maybe it was the connection to the past. A ritual greeting between monarch and assassin. Knowing that all the Masters of the modern age had said the same words during the same rite of passage. He was living history. It surrounded him on all sides. Hummed with life.
What with finding the secret passage right where it was supposed to be and seemingly making happy the ghosts of Sinanju past, Remo actually started to feel good.
The feeling was short-lived.
The prime minister cleared his throat. "I am afraid, Master of Sinanju, we have a problem."
The life hum stopped. Remo was back in a cold stone cell smeared with pigeon shit.
"Why?" Remo asked, eyes narrowing. "What's wrong?"
The prime minister looked to the king. The king looked to the pigeons flapping and crapping at the ceiling. The prime minister looked back at Remo.
"It has to do with our entrant in the contest," said the prime minister. He offered an oily, apologetic smile.
REMO STOPPED at a little restaurant a few miles down the road from the Alcazar.
When he asked if there was a pay phone, he was told it was out of order, which didn't surprise him. From what he had seen in this short trip, the last thing to work properly in Spain were three little wooden boats that had, in 1492, gotten the hell out of the country.
He peeled off ten hundred-dollar bills from the roll in his pocket and offered them to the owner for private use of the kitchen phone. As the owner was chasing the kitchen staff from the room, Remo was dialing the multiple 1 code that would connect him to Folcroft's secure line.
"Are you finished in Spain?" Smith asked without preamble.
"Everything's finished in Spain," Remo said. "I don't think they've started anything new since they figured out they can kill bulls with red blankets and shiny pants."
"Yes," Smith said dryly. "May I assume you are calling for the details of your next appointment?" For some reason the CURE director's voice sounded echoey.
"You know what they say about assuming, Smitty," Remo said, sitting up on the little desk that was tucked in the corner of the restaurant's kitchen. "I haven't finished this one yet."
"Did something go wrong?"
"Maybe. I'm not sure. I think there could be something screwy going on. You know how the German guy said auf Wiedersehen without a fight? Turns out the Spanish guy did the same thing."
There was a pause on the line. "Are you certain?" Smith asked after a thoughtful moment.
"Depends on how much stock you can put in the king of Spain's word. Seemed like an okay guy. Nice suit. By the way, did you know Spain still had a king?"
"Of course."
"Oh. Anyway, maybe I should just take it as an ego boost that this one took off, too, and jump over to the next square."
"I'm not so sure," Smith said. "While Chiun said that it was not unheard-of for a contestant to flee the contest, it was my impression that this was unusual in the extreme. Unfortunately, Mark has not been able to track down the German yet, so we cannot ask him
if there is a connection. Do you have the name of the Spanish assassin?"
Fishing a scrap of paper from his pocket, Remo read Smith the name the Spanish prime minister had given him. Over the line he heard Smith's fingers drumming against his special keyboard as he entered the name in his computer. The sound had the same strange hollow quality as Smith's voice.
"Why do you sound so funny?" Remo asked.
"I have you on speakerphone," Smith explained. Remo knew that the CURE director had the device for some time but rarely used it, preferring the privacy of a clunky old phone pressed tight to his ear. If it was on now, that could only mean one thing.
"Tell Howard I said hi," Remo muttered.
Smith didn't hear. "There," he said, finishing his typing. "I will include him in our search. For now I suppose you can do nothing but move on to your next appointment. According to my list, Italy is next. You have a meeting with their president at midnight." Smith quickly gave him the details.
"Swell," Remo grumbled once the CURE director was finished. "I think I figured out the real reason Chiun's putting me through all this. He's hoping to wear me down so I wind up hating everybody like he does."
"This tradition dates back well beyond Master Chiun," Smith reminded him.
"Chiun comes from a long line of racists," Remo said. He cupped the phone to his chest. "No offense," he announced to the empty kitchen.
"I did have one question before you go," Smith was saying as Remo raised the phone back to his ear. "I have been going over your itinerary. Not that I approve of any of this, but there are countries that have been left out. For instance Hungary, the Czech Republic and Poland are all skipped."
Remo laughed, shaking his head wearily.
"Chiun says we don't bother with Poland because their assassins kept effing up the rules and shooting themselves by mistake. I think he's just being racist and writing them off 'cause the zloty's worth spit. If you look at that list he gave you, he's skipped over pretty much all of the old Soviet countries. Mostly because the Franklin Mint's got more gold in their Wizard of Oz collector series plates than those countries have in their whole damn treasuries these days. We're great assassins, but we're even better money magnets. Spain is probably only still on because it had a pretty big empire four hundred years ago. It takes time to get knocked down a notch. Another couple of hundred and it'll probably be dropped, too." He slipped down off the desk. "There's a lesson for America in there," he warned quietly. "See you, Smitty." He dropped the heavy black phone in the cradle.
"DID YOU HEAR all that?" Smith asked. The first hint of worry creased his gray brow.
Mark Howard sat in a plain wooden chair across Smith's desk. The young man nodded.
"Do you think it's a coincidence both guys backed out?" the assistant CURE director asked.
Smith shook his head. "No, I do not." Even as he spoke, he was reaching in his desk drawer. Taking out a bottle of baby aspirin, he shook two pills into his palm. "This business should not even involve us," he said as he measured out some liquid antacid into the tiny cup that came with the green bottle. Throwing back the aspirins, he washed them down with the chalky liquid.
Across the desk Mark hoped he wasn't getting a glimpse of his own future.
"I tried calling him a few more times," Howard offered. "The line's still not busy, but he isn't answering."
Smith knew exactly whom his assistant meant. The CURE director took off his glasses, rubbing tired eyes.
"Do you have a sense that there is something larger going on?" he asked.
It made him uncomfortable to ask the question. His assistant had an unusual ability that sometimes allowed him to see beyond that which was known. Howard's sixth sense was something neither man liked to discuss.
"No," Mark admitted. "But given what Remo just told us, I guess we have enough of a pattern." Smith nodded his understanding.
"Most likely," he agreed wearily. "But we need to know for certain. Our obligations in this were made clear enough early on. I will have to go check. You will be in charge here while I am gone. You may use my office if you wish."
Replacing his rimless glasses, he began reaching for his keyboard to order plane tickets.
"Wait," Mark said, standing. "I should be the one to go, Dr. Smith. I'm expendable. You're too important to CURE to still be doing fieldwork."
He left off the phrase that both men knew was implied: At your age.
Smith hesitated.
The older man knew that it was true. His last fieldwork had been a year ago in South America. Smith might have sent his assistant then, but at that time Mark Howard could not go due to a psychological condition that-at the time-none of them understood. While Smith was gone, his young assistant had inadvertently freed the Dutchman, Jeremiah Purcell, from captivity in Folcroft's security corridor. Once Purcell was gone, the psychic connection he had made with Mark Howard was broken. Howard had returned to normal.
It was one year later now and Mark was fine. A thirty-year-old man in the peak of health.
One year later. Smith, now one year older. The CURE director considered briefly.
"Very well," Smith said all at once. "You may go. I will take over for you here. I'll look into the matter of the two missing assassins Remo told us about and continue to confer with him on the phone. I'll reserve the tickets under your cover identity. Please remember to leave all of your true identification here."
"Yes, sir," Howard said, a flush rising in his cheeks.
"That includes, Mark, anything that might connect you to Folcroft," Smith warned. "I had an...associate who made that mistake years ago."
A flash of confusion crossed Mark Howard's face. He hadn't known of anyone else who had been a regular CURE employee connected to Folcroft. He could see by the strange look on his employer's face that he should not ask.
"I'll call with any news," Mark promised. The young man left the room.
Alone once more, Smith turned to the picture window and Long Island Sound. Lazy eyes tracked a bird in flight, pushed higher, ever higher, on rough gusts of frigid wind.
Smith's thoughts turned to his old associate. Strange. Even all these years later, even in his own mind, he could not bring himself to use the word friend.
The man was dead. Were he still alive, he would have been the first to announce to the world that he and Smith were friends, if only to see how uncomfortable it made Harold W. Smith.
Harold Smith and Conrad MacCleary had a friendship baptized in blood. It was impossible for two men who had been through as much as they had together to not form a bond.
Mark Howard had not even been born when Smith and Conrad MacCleary fought together in World War II in the OSS. Nor had Howard been alive when the two old friends joined the peacetime CIA or even when the two old cold warriors had stepped even farther into the murky shadows of the espionage world to found a new secret organization called CURE.
Howard was everything MacCleary was not-polite, tidy, efficient-sober, in every meaning of the word. Yet in a strange way Smith felt the same sort of connection to this young man, more than forty years his junior, as he had to his long-dead comrade in arms.
It didn't hurt that Mark had saved Smith's life the previous winter. If Smith had needed final proof of the young man's suitability to this job, that was it.
Yet there was more to his relationship with Howard than there had been with MacCleary. Conrad MacCleary was a born espionage agent. Mark Howard was still learning many of the things that had come easily for MacCleary. It was Smith's job to shepherd the young man. MacCleary-a contemporary of Harold Smith-hadn't needed that sort of guidance.
No, the bond between Mark Howard and Harold Smith was similar to that between Smith and MacCleary, yet different.
Years ago some of the uglier duties of the job weren't so easy for Smith. Oh, he did them, always and without complaint, because it was work that had to be done. But it was still difficult to subvert his natural inclinations to the greater good. In the past two ye
ars Smith had seen Mark Howard struggle with some of the same demons.
Smith saw shades of himself in his young assistant. And in so seeing, he easily assumed the role of mentor.
Harold Smith studied the dark, churning waves. "Be careful, Mark," he warned the water.
And in his heart he hoped the softly spoken words would carry far into the future, to a time when someone else of good character, strong will and undying patriotism sat in this, the loneliest of chairs.
Chapter 21
Special Agent John Doyle of the FBI's Miami field office wanted to know just exactly what kind of terrorists they were dealing with.
"Al-Qaida, Cubans, Palace Indians, what?" Doyle whispered to his partner. "I mean, it's terrorists, right?"
"Beats me," Allen Horsman replied gruffly. "They just pay me to get my ass shot at by the bad guys. They don't bother to tell me the who or why."
That was typical for Agent Allen Horsman. Running down murderers, drug runners and terrorists was all the same.
But Agent Doyle was curious. This business with apartment 1602 certainly did not constitute a normal FBI day. Given the presence of the mysterious man from Washington, Doyle was certain they were after terrorists.
Their superior from Washington was even younger than Doyle. Pale and of average height, with a wide face that was red from either excitement or anxiety. Probably both.
Weird that Doyle could be older than this temporary boss. Some at the Bureau-including his own partner-still considered Doyle an infant. Whoever the man was, he had clearance higher than anything Doyle or Horsman or anyone else at Miami FBI had ever seen. When they called Washington to confirm their orders, they were told to give the man everything he asked for. They were also told that the phone conversation had never taken place.
"Terrorists," Doyle stated firmly as the bombsquad men continued to saw through the wall. "Has to be."
Like the FBI, the bomb squad had been brought to Boca Raton from Miami. The men were using a short blade to cut by hand. As they worked they swept the wall electronically.
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