Coin of the Realm td-77

by Warren Murphy

  Shane Billiken drifted up to get a closer look at the coins. The guy named Remo got in his way.

  "Like he said, this is a historic moment, Elvis."

  "I thought you didn't know what was going on here."

  "I don't. I'm just along for the ride."

  Shane backed off.

  As he watched, the girl and Chiun exchanged an excited volley of words in the same strange language. During the course of their talk, Princess Sinanchu fell to her knees and began to cry into her hands. The old Oriental laid a tender hand on her lustrous hair. He made sympathetic clucking sounds, like a father to a frightened child. When at last the princess found her composure, the Master of Sinanju turned to Shane Billiken.

  "The Low Moo has told me how you rescued her from the sea."

  "We're Soul Mates. Did she tell you that?"

  "And how you housed her and fed her."

  "Yeah, I've been good to her. You see, she was my wife when I was King of Atlantis about seven or eight million years ago."

  "And for those mercies," continued Chiun, "I will not slay you for the lies you speak to me now."

  "What do you mean, lies? We were husband and wife in Atlantis. Disprove it if you can."

  "Atlantis is a fraud, perpetrated by that Greek Plato to trick sailors into going to sea in search of it."

  "Bull!"

  "It is well known among my people that Plato had a relative who built boats. The story of Atlantis was but a scheme to drum up trade."

  "That's ridiculous. She's a princess."

  "That much is true."

  "It is? I mean, I know it is! What I want to know is how come you speak her language when the best language experts in the world say her tongue is unknown'?"

  "Because truly it is a lost tongue. Or one believed to be lost. I know it only because my ancestors passed it down from generation to generation so that we, at least, would not forget."

  "Forget what?"

  "Moo."

  "There he goes again," Remo sighed.

  "Moo?" repeated Shane Billiken.

  "Moo."

  Shane Billiken looked at the little Eastern guy and at the white man named Remo. Then he looked at Chiun again.

  "I'm not following very much here."

  "Correct. You are not following us. We are leaving now. "

  "Well, nice of you to drop in," Shane Billiken said, relief suffusing his puffy features. "Fernando will see you to the hole where the door was."

  "Remo, gather up the coins. They belong to us now."

  "No, they don't. They belong to Princess Sinanchu, and Princess Sinanchu belongs to me."

  "Truly?" said the Master of Sinanju as Remo scooped up the coins and stuffed them into his pockets. "Have you told her that?"

  "Yeah, actually."

  "Then perhaps you should tell her again."

  "Er, you can do it if you want."

  "Thank you, I will," said Chiun. He turned to the girl and spoke a few words. She listened carefully.

  Then Princess Sinanchu walked up to Shane Billiken. Her face was not pleasant. She slapped his once, hard. He fell back into a Japanese taboret and knocked over an ion fountain.

  "Hey!" he said, coming to his feet angrily. "I could sue her for that!"

  "Be grateful that she told me of your kindness, otherwise your transgressions would not be overlooked on this day. "

  And taking Princess Sinanchu by the elbow, the old man who called himself the Master of Sinanju led her from the room.

  On his way out, the one named Remo waved good-bye. "See you later, alligator," he said.

  Chapter 7

  Outside Shane Billiken's sprawling home, Remo put a question to Chiun.

  "Now what?"

  "We are going to Moo."

  Remo shrugged. "Might as well get it over with." And raising his voice, Remo called, "Moo. Moo. Moo. Or should I give one long moo, like this: mooooo!"

  "Are you crazed?"

  "You said we were going to moo. I just did. Didn't I do it right?"

  "You can do nothing right," Chiun snapped. "And you are embarrassing me in front of the Low Moo."

  Remo glanced at the girl. She watched them with an openly quizzical expression on her oval face.

  "Sorry," he said, "but I don't think she understands English. "

  "She does not. But she does understand Moo."

  "She's one up on me, then. Not that I care."

  "You should."

  "Why? She's obviously not one of the bare-breasted women you keep promising me."

  "They are merely a five-day sail from here."

  "Sail?"

  "Yes. The Low Moo's boat is nearby. Come."

  His face gathering in confusion, Remo followed as the Master of Sinanju, the girl at his side, led him around to the back of the house. The girl cast several curious glances over her shoulder at Remo. Remo smiled at her. She smiled back. Maybe the night wouldn't be a total waste, Remo decided.

  There was a boat set up on a wooden cradle on the dry beach sand. Chiun looked it over carefully, tugging at the rattan lashings and examining the drooping and tattered sail.

  "It is too small," he said in a disappointed tone.

  "Doesn't look very seaworthy," Remo agreed.

  "Then we will build our vessel," Chiun announced, lifting a triumphant finger. "Come, Remo, let us fall to work. "

  "Build? Why not buy?"

  "I will not be seen in an American boat. A thing of plastic and ugly metal. No, we will build our own."

  "I don't know squat about building ships."

  "Then it is time you learned. Ship-building is an honored skill."

  "Especially if your relative writes stories about Atlantis." Chiun's face contracted.

  "You are not taking this in the proper spirit," he fumed.

  "Chiun, I have no idea what spirit I should be taking this in. I still don't know what is freaking going on."

  "We are going to Moo, as I have told you."

  "Oh, moo this and moo that. And moo to you too. I'm sick of double-talk and runarounds."

  "Enough!" Chiun said, clapping his hands. "We will begin by felling some trees."

  Remo looked around. There was a palm tree about a mile inland. Everything else was sand and ocean.

  "When you get enough of them together, let me know," Remo said, lowering himself onto the sand. "I'll be catnapping." He folded his hands over his chest and shut his eyes.

  "Remo," Chiun hissed, "do you want the Low Moo to think I have a lazy slug for a son?" He tugged on Remo's arm. "Up, up! She is a princess. A true princess."

  "And I'm a Master of Sinanju, not a boat builder. You want to play Popeye the Sailor Man, fine. But you build your own boat."

  Chiun stamped his foot angrily.

  "Very well, lazy one," he said finally. "I will give in to your selfishness, but only this once. We will buy a boat."

  Remo leapt to his feet. "Now you're talking," he said, grinning. It was a rare day when he won an argument with Chiun. The princess matched his smile with an infectious one of her own, and Remo thought it was a rare day indeed.

  The salesman at the Malibu Marina wanted to know if Remo was interested in a racing sloop, a yacht, or a pleasure boat.

  "Something fast," Remo said. "With dual motors."

  "No motors," Chiun inserted quickly.

  "No motors?" the salesman asked.

  "A sail craft," Chiun added.

  "You want something for pleasure trips, then."

  "No," retorted Chiun. "We are going on a long voyage."

  "We are?" said Remo. He was ignored.

  "Then let me suggest something with auxiliary diesels."

  "Sounds good to me," Remo said. "I want lots of chrome trim."

  "I will have none of it," Chiun spat.

  "Look, Little Father, I've strung along with you this far. I've traveled clear across the country, and now I'm agreeing to tag along while you and Yma Sumac there go off in search of Jacques Cousteau. I think you can bend j
ust a little here."

  "I am bending enough. I am not building a boat."

  "Look," said the boatyard owner exasperatedly, "if you two could just get on the same frequency, I could help you, but-"

  "There!" said Chiun suddenly, pointing past the salesman. The salesman turned. Remo looked. Even the princess followed the Master of Sinanju's quivering fingernail. Remo groaned even before Chiun spoke the next words. "There. That one. It is perfect," he cried.

  "Not that!" groaned Remo. "Anything but that."

  "The junk?" said the salesman.

  "Good word for it," Remo piped up.

  "It is authentic, of course?" asked Chiun.

  "Yeah. Imported from Hong Kong. The previous owner lost his portfolio in the market crash. Couldn't afford the upkeep anymore. I took it on consignment, but I never expected to find a buyer."

  "And you won't today," Remo growled.

  "I must see it closer," Chiun breathed. The salesman waved Chiun ahead.

  "No way," said Remo, running after them.

  "It's really a five-man craft," the salesman was saying. "You couldn't manage it with less than a crew of five. And it's difficult to handle. All those lugsails. It's not like manning a sloop or a ketch. By the way, how much sailing experience have you people had?"

  "None," said Remo.

  "Enough," said Chiun.

  "It takes a skilled hand to pilot a Chinese junk."

  "Did you hear that, Chiun? He said it's Chinese. And we all know how you feel about Chinese stuff. You despise them. "

  "Not as much as I despise American plastic," Chiun retorted. "Look at her, Remo, isn't she breathtaking?"

  "Now that you mention it, there is an odor."

  The junk wallowed in its slip like a three-story hovel with a keel. It had five masts, and the odd-shaped sails flapped like quilts in the wind. The junk creaked at every joint, like a haunted house. The name painted on its stern said Jonah Ark in green lettering.

  "How much?" asked Chiun.

  "The owner wants what he paid for it seventy thousand."

  "Fifty," countered Chiun.

  "Sixty," offered the salesman.

  "Wait a minute," Remo began.

  "Sold," said Chiun triumphantly. "Come, Remo. Let us board our proud vessel."

  "You take credit cards?" Remo asked unhappily.

  "We can work something out. But you know, you're going to need a lot of training before you can risk piloting that thing out of dock."

  "Twenty bucks says Chiun has us on the high seas within an hour."

  "He's crazy."

  "He's also determined," Remo said, digging for his wallet.

  "I'll take that action," said the salesman.

  Twenty minutes later, Chiun had single-handedly lowered the batten-reinforced sails, and they caught a shore wind.

  "What are you waiting for?" Chiun called from the broad high stern. The Low Moo stood beside him. She waved Remo aboard.

  "Thanks," Remo said, taking the salesman's money. "And wish me luck."

  "You can't sail that thing with a three-man crew. It's suicide."

  "That's what I said. Wish me luck," Remo called back as he pelted down the deck and leapt onto the groaning deck.

  "Prepare to cast off," Chiun cried. "We sail with the dawn tides."

  "Let's hope we don't sink with the sun," mumbled Remo, throwing off the stern lines while Chiun handled the port side. The wind, filling the quiltlike sails, seemed to grow stronger and the junk lumbered out of its slip like a fat dowager squeezing through a too-narrow door.

  A piece of hull modeling caught on the dock and tore loose with a rip-squeal of a sound.

  Chiun hurried to the tiller. He threw it to starboard. The junk pivoted slowly.

  "Remo, why were you not at the rudder?" Chiun demanded querulously.

  "I was casting off. And what do I know about rudders? I'm a landlubber."

  "How much damage?"

  Remo peered over the rail. "We lost some gingerbread," he reported.

  "When we are at sea, it will be your responsibility to repair it."

  "Oh, wonderful," Remo said sarcastically. "Just what I've always wanted-to learn a new trade."

  Chapter 8

  Three days out of Malibu, Remo awoke in his bunk. The creaking of the Jonah Ark filled the hold like the sound of sick mice. Faint shards of morning sunlight came in through the chinks in the stained hull. The chattering of wind in the sails was noticeably absent.

  Remo pulled on his salt-stiff pants and T-shirt, wishing that he had packed for the voyage. But he was too anxious to follow Chiun to the bare-breasted women to bother. He never stayed in one place long enough to acquire much of a wardrobe. With the many credit cards issued to him under a dozen cover identities by Harold Smith, it was more convenient to simply buy replacement clothes on the fly. He hadn't anticipated an ocean voyage.

  During the early days of his work for CURE, when he was still bitter about the loss of his old life and identity, Remo bought a new pair of shoes every day, giving the old ones to people he met on the street. When Dr. Smith had complained about Remo's flagrant waste of taxpayer money, Remo had replied:

  "Hey, you made me an assassin. Can I help it if I keep getting blood on my shoes? So make up your mind-more shoes or fewer targets."

  And that had been the end of that.

  As he walked up the creaking steps to the deck, Remo wished he had one of those extra pairs of shoes right now. But not as much as he wished for a change in underwear and a razor. He felt his beard growth, and he noticed his nails were getting longish, even though he had cut them only the other day.

  On deck, Remo saw that the sails hung slack as shrouds. The junk was becalmed.

  The princess was at the rudder. Remo shot her a smile and said, "Ola!"

  "Ola, Remo!" she called back. "Kukul can?"

  "Nonda," Remo said. When the girl frowned, Remo realized that he had replied "itchy" instead of "fine" to her inquiry.

  "Nah, nuda," he said.

  The Low Moo laughed. In three days, Remo had picked up just enough of their tongue to hold his own in simple conversations, but not enough to be really comfortable with the language. He suspected Chiun had fed him some imperfect translations just to be mischievous.

  "Dalka Chuin?" Remo asked, joining her at the tiller.

  "Hiu," the Low moo said, pointing to the stern, which towered behind her.

  "Yeah, I see him," Remo said in English. "Thanks."

  "You're welcome," the Low Moo, whose name, she had told Remo, was Dolla-Dree, said in English.

  The Master of Sinanju was seated on the high poop deck at the junk's stern. His pipestem legs dangled over the rail. He held a long bamboo pole in his hands. A string tied to the far end trailed in the water.

  "How's the fishing?" Remo asked politely.

  "Slow," said Chiun, twisting the pole so that the line coiled around the end. It lifted free of the water. There was no fish. As a matter of fact, there was no hook or bait either. He frowned. "I do not think there are any fish in this part of the ocean."

  "Sure there are," Remo said brightly. "I can hear them laughing. "

  Chiun turned his head and glared. He spun the pole in the opposite direction, dropping the line back into the sea.

  "Perhaps you will have better luck," he suggested sternly.

  "Not me. I'm a city boy. Besides, I'm not hungry."

  "But she is."

  "I see. Gotta feed her highness."

  "Do I detect a note of distaste in your voice, Remo?"

  "No. I'm starting to like Dolla-Dree just fine. I'm just tired of you falling all over her like she's God's gift to Korean seamen. You gave all the food-what little of it there was in the larder-to her and none to me."

  "You can go without food. So can I. Returning the Low Moo to her father, the High Moo, intact and in good health, is more important than our stomachs."

  "The High moo?"

  "Yes."

  "Tell you what," Remo s
aid, settling on the deck beside the Master of Sinanju. "You take the High Moo and I'll take the Low Moo, and whoever gets there first, wins."

  "What are you prattling about?" Chiun demanded, staring at the water.

  "It's a joke."

  "To your feeble mind, perhaps. Not to mine. Please explain. "

  " 'Moo' is the sound a cow makes."

  "No, Moo is the greatest client state in Sinanju history."

  "You don't say," said Remo. "Well, since we're going to be here awhile, what with the lack of wind and the fact that you're fishing without hook or bait, why don't you tell me the whole involved story?"

  "I do not need a hook."

  "Tell that to the fish."

  "And cows do not make a sound that resembles the name of Moo. Their sound is more like a 'looouuuwww.' " Chiun gave a creditable impression of a lonely cow.

  "Not bad. But in America it's more like 'moooooo.' "

  "Obviously American crows are inferior to Korean cows, just as Americans are inferior to Koreans. No self-respecting Korean cow would take the name of Moo in vain."

  Remo shrugged. "I bow to you as the supreme authority on cows, both foreign and domestic. But can we get on with the legend?"

  "How do you know I am about to treat you to a legend?"

  "Your nose is wrinkled. It always wrinkles up when you are about to recite a legend."

  Chiun looked at Remo as if to discern whether or not he was joking. Remo smiled impishly. Chiun turned his attention to his line, twirling it so the line cleared the water. He did it slowly, to heighten Remo's impatience. He returned the line to the water just as slowly. If Remo was going to make fun of the sacred traditions of Sinanju, he deserved a dose of delay.

  When the line was back in the water, Chiun started to speak. At intervals, he tapped the bamboo pole to make the line wiggle.

  "The days of which I am about to speak are before those of Wang, greatest Master of Sinanju. Before the discovery of the sun source itself. In the days of which I am about to speak, Sinanju was not like it is now. Masters of Sinanju were not as they are now. The art of the assassin was known to Sinanju then, but it had not achieved the purity which you have been blessed to know, Remo. Masters of Sinanju used weapons-blades of iron, poisons-and not the natural tools of the body. And in these ancient days, Masters of Sinanju did not work alone. They were assisted by the young men of the village, who were known as night tigers. Of these night tigers, but one would be chosen to become the next Master. Thus, each night tiger fought hard and fought well, for only through his efforts could he hope to achieve full Masterhood. It is not like today, when even a white can achieve Masterhood."