"It is a wedding invitation," said Chiun.
"I already asked Smith. He says he's tied up."
"I wish never to see that man ever again. He is a base trickster and a taker-back of Gold Cards."
"Then who?" Remo asked.
"No one you know. I have friends who are not known to you."
"I hope they bring a nice wedding present."
"It will be one that you will never forget, I am sure."
"Sounds great," Remo said pleasantly. "But hurry up, will you? The helicopter is waiting."
Chapter 19
Dr. Harold W. Smith watched the helicopter lift off from the old docks that reached out like skeletal fingers from the patch of Folcroft land that fronted Long Island Sound. The air was still moist from the evening rain, and a chill fog rolled in off the water.
Smith stood before his big office window. For some reason, he felt a need to watch them go. To see Remo and Chiun leave his life forever. It had been a long twenty years. It was strange that it would end on this difficult note, but perhaps that was for the best.
As Smith watched, Remo helped the Master of Sinanju, who had reverted to his traditional Korean dress, into the medical helicopter. Smith had summoned the helicopter on the pretext that Mr. Chiun, an Alzheimer's patient, and his guardian, Mr. Remo, needed immediate transportation to another facility. The helicopter would drop them off at Kennedy Airport, from where they would take a commercial flight to the San Diego Naval Air station, where the submarine Harlequin was waiting to take them back to the shores of Sinanju for the final time.
The door closed and the helicopter, its rotors beating the air, lifted. It disappeared into the fog as if swallowed. "It's over," breathed Smith. He returned to his familiar desk terminal. From now on, CURE was just him and his computers.
There was a tentative knock on his door. "Yes?"
The bespectacled face of Mrs. Mikulka poked through the door.
"They're gone?" she asked.
"Yes," said Smith, not looking up.
"Back to Sinanju?"
"Yes, back to-" Smith froze. "What did you say?" he croaked. He was staring at his secretary, who had served him loyally for over five years, who ran Folcroft as capably as himself, and who knew nothing-or should know nothing-about Sinanju.
"I asked if Remo and Chiun had returned to Sinanju."
"Come in, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said coldly. "And close the door behind you, if you would."
When Smith saw that his secretary had seated herself on a long divan, he asked in a tight voice, "How do you know about Sinanju?"
"I know about CURE too."
"Oh, God," said Smith. "Did you receive a letter from Tulip too?"
"No."
"Then how?"
"I am Tulip."
"You!"
"Tulip is not my real name, of course."
"You are Eileen Mikulka. Before you were a secretary, you taught high-school English. I did a thorough background check before I hired you."
"No," said the voice of Eileen Mikulka. "Eileen Mikulka is locked in a patient's room on an upper floor. She met with an accident as she carried your yogurt and fruit juice from the commissary this morning. Oh, do not worry, she is not dead. It was an effort for me not to kill her, but if I killed her, I might not have been able to stop killing. And then where would my plans be?"
"You look just like her. Plastic surgery?" Smith let one hand drop to his lap. He tried to be casual about it. His gray eyes locked with those of this woman, so that his gaze would not betray any surreptitious movement.
"Plastic surgery would not give me her voice, her manners. And do you really think I-or anyone-would go to the ridiculous extreme of becoming a middle-aged woman permanently to achieve a goal?"
"What you say is logical," admitted Smith, tugging open the middle-left-hand desk drawer with two fingers. He hoped it would not squeak before he could reach into it for his automatic. "May I ask why you wish CURE terminated?"
"I wish no such thing," said the voice of Eileen Mikulka. "You are not my target, nor is your operation. Nor were the presidential candidates I ordered assassinated."
"You?" blurted Smith. He was so shocked he let go of the drawer handle. "You were the person behind the attempts upon the Vice-President and Governor Princippi? Why, for God's sake?"
"So I could stop the assassins."
"You?"
Abruptly the figure of Eileen Mikulka shimmered. Smith squinted. Instead of the familiar bosomy plumpness of his secretary, a man sat on the divan. He was blond and bronzed, and wore a white karate gi. He smiled broadly. "Call me Adonis."
"What?" Smith croaked. Then he remembered his weapon. He had the drawer open a crack. He tugged on it again. He dared not look down to see if it were open wide enough. He fumbled with his fingers. The opening was too narrow.
"Or call me ninja master."
And the handsome face melted and ran, tanned skin turning into black folds of cloth. The figure on the divan was garbed in ninja black now, his face concealed by the flaps of his mask. Only his eyes showed. Smith saw that they were blue.
"Chiun was mistaken," he said in a stupid voice. "He thought you were Japanese."
"The Master of Sinanju is never wrong," said the figure, and his words were in the singsong accents of Japan. Smith looked closer. The ninja's eyes were black and almond-shaped. And his robust physique seemed to have shrunk.
Smith forced himself not to react. With an effort he kept his voice level. "I suppose I would be wasting my time if I asked you to identify yourself?"
The ninja stood up and came toward Smith.
"You have the letter before you," he said. "You saw my signature. "
Smith's hand touched cold metal. He had the automatic. "It says 'Tulip.' That means nothing to me."
"That is because you have not thought about it, Smith."