Remo could climb walls from a dead halt, but it required delicate balance, and the act could only be performed slowly, by easing his feet and fingers along the surface. Moving so slowly, he would have made too easy a target. The way he scaled it now, the soldiers standing on the edge of the parapets saw little more than a blur as Remo vaulted over the top. Even before he landed, he was slashing with both hands, feeling two necks unjoint under his knuckles.
Remo did not need to see. From the moment he started his run in the valley, all of his normal sensations were blocked out, replaced by a feeling of occupied space. He himself was an object in that space, and so were the soldiers around him. They were all units of weight, and Remo could feel that weight as it shifted and turned around him. He kicked out behind him, not because he heard the soldier's stealthy tread or the whoosh of the weapon as it scraped softly against the man's uniform to rest in firing position, but because Remo felt the space behind him as the soldier occupied it. His foot struck the soldier in the abdomen. From the muted crack of vertebrae, which Remo felt on the sole of his foot, he knew the soldier's back was broken.
Effortlessly, without thought, he raised his elbow in a lightning-quick movement. It caught another black-garbed soldier in the jaw, spinning the man's head around with a sharp crack. Remo's arms moved continuously. As the space around him began to open up, he heard the throaty gurgles of the dying and the rapid tattoo of a man's boots on the tile roof of the monastery as he convulsed with his last breath.
Then the gunfire began. He had only, he realized, gone through the first line of defense. Forcing his eyes to work, he now saw a group of soldiers, armed with submachine weapons, lined along the wall on three sides. On the fourth side, behind Remo, huddled the screaming, naked women.
He could not let the soldiers fire on him. He himself could dodge the bullets if he had to, but the women could not.
The leader of the armed soldiers advanced, and the men along all three walls edged in closer toward Remo.
"Aim," the leader commanded.
The soldiers moved forward another step.
Then Remo saw it: a scrap of blue brocade billowing behind the moving line of guards; and he knew he was unstoppable now.
He raised himself off the ground in a jump so well-controlled that he seemed to be levitating; then he began his descent. He glided down in a flying wedge, his feet landing firmly on the chest of the lead attacker. The soldier screamed, his Uzi spiraling out of his hands. The force of the blow sent him flying toward the wall, where he caromed off the top edge, spun in midair as if by magic, and then hurtled head first into the valley below.
The others, surprised by the strange trajectory of their leader's path, hesitated a moment before firing.
A moment was enough. Chiun whirled through the formal ranks of soldiers in a neat inside line attack, killing each man in turn as he wove between them. The old man moved so fast that not even Remo could follow the motions of his hands and feet. But he knew that each blow was perfect from the crisp, rhythmic, deadly sounds of impact.
While Chiun worked, Remo gathered the women together and moved them as unobtrusively as possible toward the stairwell. One of them was so covered with lacerations and bruises that she could not walk. Her long dark hair was matted with blood. Her face was gashed and swollen, but despite her wounds, Remo could tell that she was a great beauty.
"Are you Consuela?" Remo asked, picking her up gently.
The woman nodded, trying to force open her bruised eyes.
"There's a dead man in the valley who loved you," he said. Then he stopped short.
He heard a sound from the other side of the bell tower, a sound that to him was as unmistakable as a baby's cry or the crack of gunfire: it was the sound of a helicopter.
Forgetting he still held the woman in his arms, he walked a few paces to see beyond the tower. The chopper was a large Grumman painted bright blue, and two men were getting inside. The first was dressed in stylish civilian clothes, the other in the all-black fatigues of the soldiers who'd defended the monastery. The civilian crawled into the helicopter without a backward look. The other glanced behind him briefly, turned away, then froze where he stood and turned again. He had recognized Remo.
And Remo remembered the soldier's face, too. It was a face of death and torture, of severed hands and dying children. For Remo, Major Deke Bauer possessed the face of war.
Remo's mind was suddenly a confusion of banished images and sensations: a skewered bird, roasted, its white plumes blowing in the breeze before a jungle downpour; a line of bodies suspended on wire, seeming to dance an eerie jig by morning's first light; the stench of rotting flesh.
A low groan escaped from his lips. The superhuman reflexes drilled into him through a decade of Chiun's teaching vanished. For him. now, there was no Sinanju. There was nothing but the war and the endless, futile comedy of the Hill.
As if it were occurring in slow motion, he watched Bauer snap his Uzi into position.
"A chopper'll be coming tomorrow with rations…." said a faraway voice in his memory.
"I took the Hill, and I'm going to keep the Hill, and I don't care if every last one of you bastards dies for it…."
"Put up a second wire. That'll teach 'em not to fuck with the U.S. Army…."
"Get down!" The voice, panicky and loud, startled Remo as he fell to the ground with the woman, screaming, in his arms. Sam Wolfshy's arms were still outstretched. And then he heard the bullets, and the Indian collapsed on top of Remo and the woman in a spray of blood.
"Oh, my God," Remo said, coming to his senses. "Sam!"
The chopper's whirling blades beat the air. It lifted off gracefully, hovered for a moment, and then sped off toward the horizon.
Chiun finished off the last soldier in his attack and came to them. With deft hands he lifted the big Indian off Remo and Consuela.
Sam's arm had been all but blown off at the shoulder. The old Oriental made a quick tourniquet from a length of silk torn from his robe. "He will live," he said. "For a while. How long I cannot say. But he cannot make the descent down the mountain, even if we carry him."
Remo remained where he had fallen, his face dazed. Vaguely he felt the woman slipping from his arms. "He saved us," Consuela said. "Otherwise, the bullets…"
"Yes. I saw," Chiun said. He looked down at the Indian. "I knew he had something of the hero in him," he said softly.
Wolfshy's lips curved into a smile. His eyes opened slowly. "I heard that," he whispered. "Think you can teach me Sinanju now?"
Chiun placed his cool hand on Sam's brow. "My son, courage such as yours is beyond any discipline."
Remo turned away. He had seen a man's face, and that look had probably cost Sam Wolfshy's life. It was the one unpardonable sin, and Remo had committed it. He had forgotten Sinanju.
It was the chopper, he said to himself. The damned chopper….
And suddenly he could hear it again, menacing and inexorable, the helicopter in his mind that would lead him to madness.
But it wasn't in his mind. Consuela burst into a flurry of Spanish as she pointed to the eastern horizon.
Remo saw it, too. It was coming from the opposite direction from where Bauer's helicopter had gone. As it drew nearer, he could see that its markings were different, too. It was a police helicopter.
"Karen!" Consuela gasped. "She must have contacted the police before she died."
Chiun smiled. "Our yellow-haired friend is with them."
"How can you see that far?" The Mexican woman looked at him. bewildered.
"Don't ask." Wolfshy said.
The Korean was on his feet. "We must be quick. The police will find you medicine and a place to rest, son. But you must not mention that Remo and I were with you."
"Why not? You did—"
"It is our Emperor's wish that we remain anonymous. Tell the authorities that you acted alone." He took a final look at Consuela. "And tell these women to clothe themselves. It is disgraceful."
He lifted Remo up by the ribs and propelled him toward the stairwell. By the time the police helicopter landed and Karen Lockwood and the officers got out, the two of them were deep in the valley, out of sight.
?CHAPTER TWELVE
By nightfall, Remo and Chiun were near the foothills of the mountain range. Remo had not spoken since Deke Bauer's bullets tore across the sunlit monastery roof. Those bullets had almost killed Sam Wolfshy, and it had been Remo's fault.
How could I forget? Remo asked himself again and again. How could I ignore all the discipline and training of Sinanju because of a moment's memory?
The sight of Deke Bauer's face had caused him to lose control. But he had let it happen. At the moment when he most needed his skills and confidence, he had lost them. And Sam Wolfshy had paid the price for Remo's failure.
At the edge of a barren copse, near a streambed trickling with water. Chiun finally let go of his pupil's arm and told him to sit down. Remo obeyed, his face a tense mask of self-hatred.
Chiun built a fire. Then, with a stone, he fashioned a bowl from a piece of wood and filled it with water. He untied a small silk pouch from the belt of his robe, poured its contents into the water-filled bowl, then set the bowl on the fire.
"It is rice," he said softly. "Even Masters of Sinanju must eat."
Remo stood up and turned away.
"And so must you, whether you feel you deserve it or not," the old man added pointedly.
Remo leaned against a tree. He remained there, his eyes focused inward, until the rice was cooked. Finally he walked over and knelt beside the old man. "I want you to do me a favor," he said, so quietly that he was almost inaudible.
"So the white man speaks at last. Of course, his first words are to demand some service of me. But I am prepared. Go ahead."
"I want you to go back to Smitty and tell him I'm through."
The expression on Chiun's face did not change. "Because you failed?"
Remo hung his head. "Yeah." A puff of mirthless laughter came from his lips. "Just a little. Sam only got his arm blown off because of me."
Chiun helped himself to the rice. "Well," he said, "for once I agree with you. You have failed miserably."
Remo expected him to say more, but when the old man only went on with his meal in silence, Remo stood up. "That's that, then. I guess I'll leave you here."
Chiun nodded. "Yes, yes. But before you go, Remo, let me ask you one question. Have you never failed before?"
"Not like this."
"Ah." He chewed another mouthful of rice.
After what seemed like an eternity, Remo said, "What does that mean? 'Ah'?"
"Nothing. Only that a great lesson has been shown to you. But evidently you have chosen not to learn from it."
"What are you talking about?" Remo shouted. The veins in his neck stood out. "I'm walking away from everything that means anything to me."
"Why?"
"Because I don't deserve it, damn it!"
"Ah," Chiun repeated. "As I thought."
Remo took a deep breath. "I suppose you knew I was going to quit."
"Of course."
"Oh, excuse me," Remo said nastily. "I underestimated your powers as a prophet."
"Not as a prophet. As a historian."
"This never happened before."
"Not to you," Chiun said. "But to another. Shall I tell you the story, or are you eager to dart aimlessly into the darkness?"
Remo shot him a disgusted look, then sat down. "This better not be about how the Masters of Sinanju had to hire themselves out as assassins to feed their starving villagers."
"It is," Chiun said cheerfully.
Remo rolled his eyes. But it would be the last time, he thought. Even if it was a story he'd heard Chiun tell countless times before, he wanted to hear it again. "Okay," he said.
"I have never before told you the full story of the Great Wang, first real Master of Sinanju." Chiun began. "You know only that he was the one to save his village by offering his services as an assassin to foreign monarchs. But you do not know how Wang came upon the idea. You see, it was the Master himself who brought on the misfortune that destroyed his village and made his people starve."
"Wang? I thought he was the Dudley Do-Right of the East."
"Then listen, my son." The old man settled his robe around him. Lit by moonlight, his parchmentlike skin seemed to glow as he told the ancient legend.
"Wang did not become Master until well into his fifth decade." Chiun said. "But he was a hero among his people from the time he was a young man. As a youth, he used the discipline of Sinanju, which he himself developed, to protect the village from the invading soldiers of a greedy prince. The villagers loved him for his deeds of valor. They draped his house with garlands and showered honors upon him. He was known to them all as Wang the Invincible.
"A yearly festival was set up in his honor. During the proceedings, all the young men of the village would pit their strength and cunning against the mighty Wang. They could not defeat him, of course, because even in those days the the talents of the House of Sinanju were incomparable. But Wang pretended to struggle with the competitors, and each one came away with a feeling of accomplishment.
"The villagers who did not compete sold trinkets and made music and danced and feasted, and the celebration of Wang the Invincible was a day of gaiety and cheer for all.
"But during one festival— the last— a small child wandered away from the village toward the seashore. It was a windy day, and the sea was turbulent, tossing many beautiful shells onto the seaweed-strewn rocks of the coast. The child saw the shells and, since he was alone, climbed down the rocks to play with them. But the rocks were slippery, and the ocean wild. The child was drowned.
"When Wang heard of the tragedy, he visited the child's grieving parents. They had dressed the drowned boy in his best clothes and laid him out before burial. It was there that Wang noticed that the boy's fingers had been scraped nearly to the bone. He realized that the boy had not been drowned quickly, but had clung to life until his last breath on some cold piece of rock. And he knew also that the boy had called for help for all the terrible hours that he held onto the rock, but no one could hear him above the music and laughter of the festival. You see, no one was listening— not even Wang, whose duty it was to protect the people of his village."
"But— but it wasn't his fault," Remo said.
"No? For the pleasure of an afternoon, Wang had permitted a life to be sent into the Void unnecessarily. Was he not to blame?"
Remo was quiet for some moments. "What did he do?" he asked at last.
"What you have planned," Chiun said. "As penance for his negligence, he took himself to the caves of Sinanju, where he lived in solitude for thirty years without even the sound of another voice to comfort him."
Remo nodded. It was a stiff sentence, but he could see the justice of it.
"During that time, invading armies tore the village of Sinanju to pieces, until there were no crops, no trades— not even fish in the sea. The conquering prince knew that without Wang the villagers would offer no resistance, and so he took what he wanted from Sinanju and then left it to die. The villagers grew so poor that they had to send their infant children back to the sea because there was no food for them.
"Then, in his fifty-seventh year, Wang returned to Sinanju. Seeing the ruins of his village, he realized that the thirty years he had spent atoning for his sin had been wasted. For in those thirty years, the drowned boy had not returned to life, and Wang had not been present to fight for his village either.
"He went to the ocean in anguish, and asked of the God of the Sea, 'Why was it ordained thus? The sacrifice of three decades of my life was for nothing. It has brought only more failure and more shame to my heart.'
"The sea rumbled. The sky darkened. At last the voice of the God of the Sea boomed out like a thunderclap: 'Has it brought enough, then?' And at last Wang understood that sometimes the only way to learn is to fail.
"On that day did Wang go forth to distant lands, trading his skills in exchange for gold to feed the starving people of Sinanju. To accomplish this, he had to set aside his shame over the past for the sake of the future. For he realized that although he was not a perfect man, he would do his best and never look back. It was then and only then that Wang became Master. He was the first, and the greatest of us all. Do you not think, my son, that Wang's failure was as much a part of him as his successes?"
Remo nodded slowly. "Thank you, Little Father," he whispered.
"Have some rice. But don't eat it all."
?CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Early evening was Al Meecher's favorite time of day. Especially the half-hour between six and six-thirty. His dinner was over and the dishes were stacked and dried. That was when he poured himself a second cup of coffee from the pot on the stove and took it into the living room, where he could read the evening paper, sip his coffee, and relax. For a short time, he could forget about his failing business, his ex-wife and her shark lawyer, and the ever-increasing stack of bills on the hall table.
Meecher's wife had left him a year before, taking every cent in the savings and joint checking accounts. She'd also taken the family dog, a cocker spaniel named Bingo. It had only taken a few weeks for Meecher to realize that he missed the dog a hell of a lot more than he did his wife. The dog had been loyal, cheerful, and obedient— everything Ethel hadn't been.
Meecher settled into the padded armchair and took a sip of coffee. Maybe, he thought, opening his paper, he ought to get another dog. He certainly couldn't afford another wife. But a dog would be nice. He let the idea roam free in his mind for a few seconds. It was just the kind of undemanding companionship he needed. Someone to share this big, empty apartment with. Someone who'd sit with him on the balcony and watch the world go by. The only view the balcony offered was of the monolithic Dream Date building across the street, but for Meecher and his dog, it would be enough.
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