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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
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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
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