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"I remember some of it, yeah. I remember the voice."

  "You heard the voice?"

  "Sometimes I hear it in my head. Sometimes it comes out of me."

  "Is that why you've come here?"

  "Smitty, you know the crap Chiun believes in. The legends of Shiva?"

  "Chiun has explained it to me."

  "It's just superstition, isn't it?"

  Smith hesitated. He had seen Remo when one of those spells had overtaken him. The Remo he knew had talents that outclassed the greatest athletes and martial artists ever known. The Remo who had spoken in another voice was utterly alien to anything human and displayed attributes far beyond the amplified skills that could be explained by Sinanju training.

  "Define superstition," said Smith.

  Remo turned away from the window. "Oh, come off it, Smith. You can't tell me you buy any of it."

  "I buy nothing," returned Smith in a crisp voice. "But since my first encounter with the Master of Sinanju, my natural skepticism has taken successive pummelings. I prefer not to dwell on things I cannot adequately explain."

  "I'm not talking Sinanju. I'm talking-" Remo waved his arms "-that Squirrelly Chicane bull!'

  Smith leaned back in his chair. "I do not believe in reincarnation, if that is what you are driving at."

  Remo suddenly returned to the desk, set his hands on the desktop and leaned close to Smith's thin face.

  "Smitty, this place is full of specialists. Ever hear of a condition that could explain this voice I hear?"

  Smith considered. "Yes, there is a condition known as Psychogenic Fugue State. Its chief symptom is a complete personality displacement in which the subject's personality is sublimated for that of another's. In profound cases the subject talks and acts in a manner distinctly different from his usual self. I have sometimes wondered if it applied to your case."

  "Case? I don't have a case!"

  "You are hearing voices. You admit this."

  "I'm making the voice. Or my throat is."

  "Would you like to see a psychiatrist, Remo?"

  "Yes. No!"

  "Well, which is it?"

  "I'd like for all this metaphysical junk to just fly away. But I'll settle for somebody explaining it for me."

  "Dr. Gerling might be able to shed some light. Would you like to speak with him?"

  "Let me think about it. Okay. If I've slipped my track, I'm not sure I'm in a big rush to find out."

  "What if I simply explain your situation to him and get back to you on his opinion? "

  "Okay. I can live with that."

  "Good," said Harold Smith. "Is there anything else?"

  A desk drawer began ringing. Smith opened it, lifted out a standard AT ephone the color of a fire engine and lifted the receiver. There was no dial.

  "Yes, Mr. President?" said Harold Smith after clearing his throat.

  Remo turned his back and pretended not to be listening, but every word spoken by the President of the United States over the dedicated line to Washington reached his ears.

  "Dr. Smith," the President said in his hoarse but mellow down-home voice. "How are you?"

  "I am well, Mr. President," said Smith in a voice that communicated his mild impatience with idle talk. Smith let the silence hang between Folcroft and the White House.

  "Well, yes. Glad to hear it, Smith. I need your input on something."

  "Do you have a matter requiring my people?" Smith asked.

  "Yes and no," said the President uncomfortably.

  "Which is it?" returned Smith.

  Remo made a hand motion that meant speed it up. Smith ignored him.

  "I wonder if you've read about-I hesitate to bring this up-Squirrelly Chicane?"

  "I have," admitted Smith.

  "Well, she's a friend of my wife, who as you may have heard, has appointed herself head of the Presidential Commission on Tibetan Independence, and she's bound and determined to go to Tibet and see this thing through."

  "Who-the First Lady or Squirrelly Chicane?"

  "Squirrelly. The First Lady appointed her a special envoy of something when this crazy lama thing was announced. Myself, I don't swallow all this New Age stuff-and let me say that neither does the First Lady-but as I said, she and Squirrelly are friends."

  Smith furrowed his pale brow. "I am not following this."

  "My wife has asked the Chinese state department to expedite Squirrelly Chicane's visa application to enter Tibet."

  "Mr. President, don't you realize the implications of that act?"

  "Well, we can't stop her. Either of them, actually. And Squirrelly's free to travel where she wants to go."

  "Yes, but her presence in Tibet could lead to open revolt."

  "Isn't that what they have over there already?"

  "Lhasa is in an uproar, but the countryside is relatively passive now. The introduction of a volatile and unpredictable element like Miss Chicane-"

  "Unpredictable is correct," the President said wryly. "I recognize the seriousness of the situation, but as I said, she's determined to go, and the First Lady is especially interested in the situation over there in Tibet. I know I'm not empowered to order you to accept assignments, Smith. I can only suggest them-"

  "A built-in safeguard designed to avoid executive-branch abuse of CURE."

  "And I want it clearly understood that I'm not insisting on this," returned the President. He lowered his voice as if to protect against an eavesdropper. It became ingratiating. "But do you think you could see your way clear to sending your people along to kinda chaperone Squirrelly?"

  Harold Smith stared into space a moment. His lemony expression did not change a particle.

  Remo turned and made throat-cutting gestures and shook his head violently. Smith ignored him. He and he alone had sole authority to accept or decline Presidential tasks.

  "No, Mr. President, I do not see this as within the CURE mandate."

  "I'm sorry you feel that way," the President said in a disconsolate tone.

  "I do not feel that way. That is simply the way it is. Conditions in Tibet, regrettable as they are, have no bearing on US. security. But if Miss Chicane goes to Tibet, a rift could develop between the US. and China. I can only advise you against allowing her to go. The rest I leave to your judgment."

  "If it were up to me-"

  "It is up to you. You are the President of the United States."

  "You don't know my wife, the copresident."

  "Mr. President," Smith said sternly, "the American people did not elect a copresident. There is no such constitutional office. There is only a president and a vice-president. Your wife is your wife, not an elected official."

  "I share my every decision with her. She's my rock. There are no secrets from her."

  Smith went instantly white. His voice cracked on his next word. "Mr. President, you did not tell her about the organization?"

  "I take that back. I held that one back. Just in case of a divorce."

  "I hesitate to mention this," said Smith, "but last month the red telephone rang, and when I answered, a suspicious woman's voice demanded to know who I was"

  The President let out a weary sigh. "Yeah, she told me. I'm sorry, Smith. I really am. She was thinking of redecorating the Lincoln bedroom and found the red phone stashed in the night table. Naturally she picked it up, and-"

  "What did you tell her?"

  "I fibbed. I told her it was the hot line to Canada or something."

  "I trust she believed you."

  "Well, not exactly," the President admitted in a sheepish tone. "I think she thinks it's some kind of secret line to an old girlfriend."

  "Do not disabuse her of that notion," said Smith.

  "Are you crazy?"

  "Mr. President, it is better for you to have a public divorce than to have the existence of CURE come out on your watch. You could be impeached for allowing CURE to continue."

  "Don't think the notion doesn't haunt me."

  "Good day, Mr. President. If you have other m
atters directly pertaining to national security, do not hesitate to bring them to my attention."

  With that, Harold Smith hung up.

  Remo came up to the desk. "Good thing you said no."

  "Why is that?" said Smith, returning the red phone to the drawer and closing it.

  "Because there's no way I'm doing bodyguard duty on that Squirrelly Chicane. Whoever named her has her personality down pat. Every nut idea on the planet is in her personal collection."

  "You seem to know her reputation quite well."

  "Chiun's been talking about her a lot lately. I think he's developing a crush on her or something."

  "I see," said Smith.

  The terminal beeped, and Smith said, "Excuse me." He stared at the screen for a moment and muttered, "Odd."

  "What's odd?" Remo demanded.

  "Another Chinese body has washed ashore in Malibu."

  "Must be some immigrant-smuggling scheme gone bad," said Remo.

  "You could be right. Except that the first body was of a screenwriter who had been in this country some time. I have reason to believe he was a Chinese sleeper agent."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Yearly deposits into his bank account from a Hong Kong bank. Yet the man claims income from the sale of scripts to various domestic film-production companies, and his IRS records do not jibe with my findings."

  "Sounds circumstantial."

  "Perhaps you might look into it," Smith suggested.

  "No, thanks."

  Smith looked up from his screen, his gray face tinged with phosphorescent green.

  "I understood you were interested in an assignment."

  "I am. Point me to a drug dealer or a serial killer, and I'll have them in the boneyard by sundown. Those two are already there. You don't need me."

  Smith regarded his enforcement arm for a silent moment. The computer beeped again. Smith glanced at the screen.

  "Another Chinese body," he remarked. "This one has been identified. Hmm. It seems he also has connections to Hollywood. A producer of films, although no credits are available."

  "I hear ticket sales are down. Maybe someone's trying to thin out the competition a little."

  "Unlikely," said Smith. "I sincerely hope that these bodies have nothing to do with Squirrelly Chicane's bizarre announcement that she is the new Bunji Lama."

  "Me, too," Remo said hastily. "Well, gotta run."

  "I will relay Dr. Gerling's opinion when I have it."

  "Great, great," said Remo, shutting the door.

  Smith stared at the closed door with a puzzled expression riding his patrician features. Remo was behaving more strangely than usual. He hoped it was nothing serious. Usually Chiun's behavior was the more worrisome. He made a mental note to consult with Dr. Gerling at day's end.

  His computer beeped twice in warning, and Smith noticed it was precisely 11:59. Instantly he pressed the hidden stud that sent the CURE terminal slipping back into concealment.

  At exactly two seconds past noon, Mrs. Mikulka knocked once and entered carrying a maroon tray.

  "It's noon, Dr. Smith. I have your prune-whip yogurt."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Mikulka," said Smith, who had trained his secretary to be almost as punctual as he. Two seconds was a tolerable variable. But just barely.

  Chapter 14

  Squirrelly Chicane missed her heart-shaped pink bed. She missed her tape deck and assorted Kitaro and Yanni tapes. But most of all she missed Remo Buttafuoco.

  He had saved her life. The pot had to wear off before she realized what had really happened during her beach party.

  And all day long bodies kept washing up on the beach.

  She had asked Kula to throw them back, and he always did. He made a great bodyguard, even if he was forever complaining of having a humongous case of herpes. If Squirrelly asked him to do something, he did it. He was like a big faithful puppy dog. Once she caught him on his hands and knees drinking out of the toilet like a mastiff. That was probably why he was called a Mongrol.

  Still, she missed Remo. But not as much as she missed sleeping in a real bed. The floor wouldn't have been so bad, but both Kula and Lobsang had insisted upon her sleeping on a shelf above the floor. They called it a kang, explaining that Bunji Lamas traditionally slept on a kang.

  The trouble was, Squirrelly kept rolling off. Her back wasn't up to the ordeal. And every time she complained to Lobsang, he fed her a piping-hot cup of tea loaded with rancid melted butter. The man had absolutely no fear of cholesterol.

  "There is a lady on the telephone for you, Buddha-Sent One," Kula announced through the closed door where he stood guard, vowing to lay down his life and his yaks and his herpes before any Chinese assassin could get past him.

  "What lady?"

  "She says she is the number-one lady."

  "The number one . . . you mean the First Lady?"

  "That is what I said, Presence. The number-one lady."

  "That's the call I've been waiting for! Quick, be a good Mongrol and fetch the phone here."

  Kula entered, handed over the cordless receiver and bowed himself out of the room. Just watching his contorted posture made Squirrelly's own back cringe.

  "Hello?" she said excitedly.

  "Squirrelly, this is the First Lady speaking."

  "How'd it go? Did you get my visa?"

  "Well, it took a real struggle. The Chinese authorities gave me the biggest runaround. First they said it was impossible to process your application in less than three months. Then they admitted they could, but they couldn't guarantee your safety from what they called counterrevolutionary elements."

  Squirrelly frowned. "Funny how they turned on me so fast. We used to be such friends. So, how'd you coax them off the mark?"

  "First," said the First Lady, "I threatened to revoke their preferred-trade status, then I pointed out that I headed the Presidential Commission on Tibetan Independence and if you, my official representative, couldn't go, then I was going."

  "You didn't?" Squirrelly squealed.

  "I did."

  "And they gave in?"

  "Caved in. Like a house of cards."

  "I love it! I love it! When do I leave?"

  "As soon as you want. Listen, it would be a good idea if you went to India first and got the blessing of the Dalai Lama."

  "The cute little munchkin with the glasses? He's adorable."

  "Make it very high profile. The higher the better. That way they won't dare mess with you."

  "I'll give him a kiss for you."

  "I'll be watching your progress on CNN. Gotta run. I have meetings all day long. Good luck!"

  Squirrelly Chicane hung up the phone and immediately dialed a Virginia number.

  "Mother, I'm going! This is so great. And listen to this, I'm going to pay the Delhi Lamb a courtesy call."

  "Try not to sleep with him, dear. He's a religious figure."

  Squirrelly made her voice chilly. "The thought never crossed my mind."

  "But it would. The older you get, the more like your brother you seem."

  "Just for that, no postcards from Tibet for you" And Squirrelly hung up. She leaned back on her hard kang, and wondered if there was some ecclesiastical law against two lamas getting it on. She would have to remember to ask Lobsang. He knew all that secret Buddhist stuff.

  Chapter 15

  The minister of state security entered Beijing's Great Hall of the People wearing his gray Mao suit and carrying his empty hands at his sides.

  The premier of China in his own gray Mao suit sat with his hands folded. The premier nodded, indicating the empty chair to his immediate left. His eyes were heavy of lid, as if sleep beckoned. This seeming inattentiveness had fooled many a rival in the near past.

  The minister of state security eased into the seat and waited for the premier to speak. They were alone in the Great Hall of the People. That did not mean that they were either unobserved or that their words would not carry to plotting ears. China was at a crossroad
s. She looked inward, but increasingly the outer world intruded. These were worrisome times.

  "What news?" asked the premier in a diffident voice.

  "From those who sleep, no word."

  The premier's heavy-lidded eyes grew heavier still.

  "Perhaps," he said, "their sleep will be long and restful."

  "There is no reason to doubt this, Comrade Premier," said the security minister.

  And by these oblique words, bland but carefully chosen, both men understood that their sleeper agents in California, across the Pacific Ocean, were either dead or incapacitated.

  The silence between them grew long and heavy.

  Presently the premier broke it. "Is the visitor who was expected still to come?"

  "The visitor has elected to drop in on a relative she did not know existed before journeying farther."

  "In times past, these two did not get along so well," the premier noted. "I wonder if this has changed."

  "I have not heard."

  The premier frowned. "Darkness piles upon darkness, and no one knows when the sun will rise."

  "Perhaps the visitor will elect to remain in the house of her newfound relative and not journey farther"

  "Can this be encouraged?"

  "Anything is possible," said the security minister.

  "This would be a good thing if it can be done correctly," said the premier, closing his heavy lids as if to surrender to sleep.

  Seeing this, the minister of state security rose from his seat, knowing that the meeting had concluded. Without another word, he padded from the Great Hall of the People to communicate with his assets in India, who would be instructed to proceed with caution inasmuch as the wife of the United States President had taken a personal interest in the Bunji Lama.

  Chapter 16

  The FedEx trucks were parked in every available parking spot in the street before the impossibly ugly edifice the Master of Sinanju had dubbed Castle Sinanju when Remo Williams pulled up. Although he had a private blacktop parking lot large enough to accommodate more than a dozen cars, Remo had to park his blue Buick Regal on a side street and walk back.

  "Christ," Remo muttered under his breath. "I hope Chiun hasn't gone on another Home Shopping Network binge."

  The FedEx trucks sat very low on their springs, he noticed. The couriers were walking pretty low to their centers of gravity, too, as they tried to diver the small wooden crates without herniating themselves.