Blood Ties td-69

by Warren Murphy

  Chiun raised a long-nailed finger. "The secrets Sinanju has taught you will conveniently sweep aside all obstacles to your happiness."

  "I think that sucks," Remo said. "I don't want some woman to breed with me because some trick of mine makes her think I'm irresistible. I want it to be a woman who loves me for myself."

  "There are no blind maidens in my village," Chiun said. "Heh-heh. There are no blind maidens in Sinanju." And pleased with his little joke, Chiun had left Remo alone with his disappointment over his new sexual powers.

  Over the years, it had only gotten worse. So when Remo had found an attractive stewardess practically crawling into his lap, his interest totally vanished.

  "Are you sure there's nothing?" Lorna asked again.

  "Well, there's one thing," Remo said.

  "Anything. Just name it."

  "Would you buy a ticket for a concert to aid assassins?" Remo asked.

  "Will you be there?"

  "Sure. Me and Willie Nelson."

  "I'll go. So will my friends. Put me down for a hundred tickets. "

  "Thank you," Remo said. "That's very encouraging."

  "Anytime. Anything else?"

  "Yes. Where's this flight going?"

  "You bought the ticket. Don't you know?"

  "I was in a hurry. Where?"

  "Salt Lake City. Have you been there before?"

  "I'll let you know when I get there," said Remo, who had traveled so much over the last decade that all cities kind of blurred together.

  "Do that," Lorna said. "And if you need a place to stay, just let me know."

  But they never got to Salt Lake City. Over Utah, a man went into the washroom and came out with a machine pistol.

  "This is a hijacking," the man said. And to show he was serious, he fired a short burst through the cabin ceiling. The jet instantly began losing pressure. The seat-belt sign came on and the overhead panels popped open to disgorge the yellow plastic oxygen masks. The pilot threw the plane into a steep dive, leveling off at fourteen thousand feet, where the air was still thin but breathable. Dust and grit flew into the cabin. The cold air misted and turned white.

  "Please stay calm," Lorna said over the sound system. "Slip the mask firmly over your mouth and pull on the plastic tube. Breathe normally." She demonstrated the proper method even as the jetliner lost altitude at an alarming rate.

  There was no panic. Except for the hijacker. He was panicking.

  "What is happening? What is happening?" he repeated, waving his machine pistol.

  "We're about to crash," said Remo, who appeared suddenly beside him.

  "I won't allow it," said the skyjacker. "Tell the pilot not to crash. My death will not aid the cause."

  "What is your cause anyway?" Remo asked.

  "Serbo-Croatian genocide," said the frightened man.

  "Causing or avenging?" Remo said.

  "Avenging."

  "How does hijacking an American jet solve a European problem?"

  "Because it is wonderful public relations. American press gets me coverage all over the world and most of the reporters find some way to blame it all on America. It is the new way," the skyjacker said.

  "This is an even newer way," Remo said, and with a blurring motion, he took the hijacker's weapon and blended it into a new shape, a sort of fuzzy metallic ball with the man's two hands firmly encased inside.

  "Please. Everyone, sit down. We are about to land." It was Lorna's voice and she was standing in the aisle as if they were about to land at an airport and not in the open spaces of Utah. Remo felt a wave of admiration for her courage. He slapped the hijacker into a seat.

  "I'll settle with you later," Remo said and plopped into a seat on the other side of the aisle.

  For a long time, there was no sound. But the ground got closer. Then there was a grinding noise as the jetliner hit. It seemed to go on forever.

  And then there was silence.

  Chapter 3

  Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju, last of an unbroken line that dated from before the days of the Great Wang, first of the major Sinanju assassins, sat unmoving on his woven mat. His hazel eyes were closed. His impassive countenance, the exact color and texture of Egyptian papyrus, might have been molded from clay by delicate fingers. Even his wispy beard moved not, so deep was his meditation.

  For three hours he had sat thus, serene and unmoving. For three hours, he had searched his thoughts, prayed his prayers, and silently asked the counsel of his ancestors, the great line of Sinanju. Three hours, and Chiun-hopefully to be known to future generations as Chiun the Great Teacher-found that the decision still eluded him like a spring butterfly eluded the net.

  At length, the tufts of hair over his ears trembled. The eyes of the Master of Sinanju opened like uncovered agate stones, clear and bright and ageless. He floated to his feet in a smooth motion. The decision had been made.

  He would wear the gray silk kimono and not the blue one with the orange tigers worked on the breast.

  Chiun padded silently to the fourteen steamer trunks resting in a far corner of the apartment. The trunks were never unpacked because of the dismal-no, the odious-work to which the Master had committed himself in this barbarian land of America. Odious. Yes. That would be the word he would use. Emperor Smith would understand Chiun's displeasure if he used that word. After all, Smith was white, and in Korean, in the old language of Chiun's ancestors, "odious" was a synonym for "whiteness." He would not mention that to Smith, however. He would only tell him that it was odious that Chiun must move from hotel room to hotel room like a vagrant, never having a place to rest his head, never having a home in which to unpack his fourteen steamer trunks. It was no way for a Master of Sinanju to live.

  Chiun found the gray silk kimono and even though he was alone in the hotel suite, he went into the bedroom to change, taking care to close the door tightly and to pull the shades. He emerged moments later and left the hotel, which was near Central Park.

  On the street, he hailed a cab. The first three drove past without stopping.

  Chiun responded by calmly walking into the path of the fourth cab to approach. The taxi screeched to a halt, the bumper coming to within a millimeter of Chiun's knees.

  The driver stuck his head out the window and yelled, "Hey! What's with you?"

  "Nothing is with me. I am alone. I would hire this conveyance."

  "This is a cab, dummy, not a conveyance," said the driver. He pointed to his roof light. "See that. It's turned off. That means I'm already hired."

  Chiun looked at the light, sniffed, and said, "I will pay you more."

  "Huh?"

  "I said I will pay you more than your present passenger. What price?"

  "Buddy, I don't know what boat you fell off, but that ain't the way it's done in America. First come, first served. Now get out of my way."

  "I see," said Chiun, seeming to drop the golden coin he had plucked from his kimono as an inducement for the driver. The coin bounced, rolled, and came to a stop beside the cab's front tire. Chiun swept out a long-nailed finger and retrieved the coin. The taxicab suddenly listed to port, air escaping from the settling left-front tire with a lazy hissing.

  "What gives?" said the driver.

  "Your tire," said Chiun. "It gives up its life. Too bad. Your fault for buying American."

  The driver climbed out and looked at the flat tire. "Dammit," he said. "I musta run over a nail back there. Hey, lady, come on out of there. I'm gonna have to change this."

  A middle-aged woman with oversize glasses and an undersize dress draping her big body stepped out of the cab.

  "I'm late already," she said. "I can't wait."

  "Suit yourself," said the driver, yanking a tire jack and lug wrench from his trunk. Muttering to himself, he scrunched down beside the offending wheel and began working to loosen the lug nuts. He looked up when he heard the passenger door slamming shut.

  "Hey? What do you think you're doing?"

  From the back of the c
ab came a squeaky voice. "I am in no rush," said the Master of Sinanju pleasantly. "I will wait for you to finish."

  "My lucky day," grumbled the driver.

  "It is fate," said Chiun, delicately flicking a shred of vulcanized rubber from his fingernail, where it had caught after he had withdrawn it from the unfortunate tire.

  Three hours later, the cab dropped Chiun off at the stone entrance to Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, north of Manhattan. At first the driver had not wanted to take Chiun that far, but after some haggling and an examination of the old Oriental's gold coins, the driver had agreed. "This is a different route," said Chiun as they passed the city limits of Asbury Park. "I have never come this way before."

  "New road," said the driver, who was sure that the old gook did not know that Asbury Park was due south of New York while Rye was due north. He was getting double the fare shown on his meter and had visions of taking the rest of the week off after this one fare. "We're almost there."

  "You have said that before," Chiun said.

  "It was true before. It's true now. Just hang on." After touring Hoboken, Newark, and the shopping malls of Paramus, New Jersey, the driver finally wended his way toward Rye. He was very courteous when he let Chiun off at his destination.

  "That'll be $1,356. Not counting tip, of course."

  "That is more than I paid the last time," Chiun said.

  "Rates've gone up."

  "Have they tripled?"

  "Could be," said the driver. He smiled politely. He was thinking of the rest of the week off. Maybe going to a ball game.

  "I will make you a deal," said Chiun, counting the coins in his change purse.

  "No deals," protested the driver. "You agreed to double the meter."

  "True," said Chiun. "But I did not agree to a tour of the provinces south and west of New York."

  The driver shrugged. "I got a little lost. It happens."

  "And I did not agree not to destroy your wheels."

  "Destroy my . . . You've gotta be kidding."

  Chiun stepped from the cab and kicked the right-rear tire. "What will you give me in return for this wheel?" he asked. "It is a good wheel, firm and sturdy. It will carry you far along your difficult return journey."

  "I won't give you squat. That's my tire."

  Chiun reached over and drove an index finger into the tire. When he removed his finger, the tire let go with a bang. The car settled suddenly.

  "Hey! What'd you do to my tire?"

  "No matter. You can change it. A man who charges $1,356 for a simple ride must have many extra wheels." The driver watched as the little Oriental-he had to be nearly eighty, the driver thought-walked to the front of the cab and thoughtfully surveyed both front tires.

  "Will you take $947 for the pair?" asked Chiun.

  "That's robbery."

  Chiun shook a long-nailed finger in the air.

  "No," he said. "It is haggling. You haggled with me. Now I haggle with you. Quickly. Do you accept?"

  "All right. Yes. Don't blow the tires. I gotta drive all the way back to the city."

  "Through Asbury Park," said Chiun, walking to the left-rear wheel. "Good. Now I still owe you $409 for your services. Will you give $500 for this remaining wheel?"

  "But then I'd owe you ninety-one dollars," the driver protested.

  "No checks," said Chiun.

  Dr. Harold W. Smith did not like to be interrupted but when his secretary described his visitor, he pressed the concealed button that dropped the desktop computer monitor into a well in his Spartan oak desk.

  It was just force of habit because while the secret computer system accessed every other major computer and information-retrieval system in the world and therefore knew all the world's secrets, Chiun would have had no idea what it all meant. Only Smith as head of the secret agency CURE understood it. Chiun couldn't, and Remo was hopeless with machinery. He had trouble dialing a telephone; a computer was beyond his reach.

  "Hail, Emperor Smith," said Chiun.

  "That will be all, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said to his secretary.

  "Hadn't I better call an orderly?" the gray-haired woman asked, with a sidelong glance at the old Oriental.

  "Not necessary," said Smith. "And please. I'll take no calls. "

  Mrs. Mikulka looked doubtful but she closed the door quietly after her.

  "I didn't summon you, Chiun," said Smith.

  "Yet your pleasure at my arrival is returned threefold," Chiun said.

  "Remo isn't with you?" asked Smith, sitting down. He had thin white hair and the expression of a man who'd just discovered half a worm in his apple. He had been young when he had set up CURE, but now he had grown old in its service. He adjusted his Dartmouth tie.

  "Remo has not yet returned from his latest mission," Chiun said. "But it is of no moment."

  "Odd," said Smith. "I had a report that his target had been . . . terminated."

  Chiun smiled. Smith was always uncomfortable with the language of death. "Another jewel in your crown," he said and wondered why Smith always greeted success with the same sour expression as bitter defeat.

  "I wish you wouldn't call me that," said Smith. "Emperor. You know very well that I am not the emperor."

  "You could be," said Chiun. "Your President has lived a full life. Perhaps it is time for younger blood."

  "Thank you, no," said Smith, who had long ago grown weary of trying to explain to Chiun that he served the President and was not a pretender to the Oval Office. "Now what can I do for you, Master of Sinanju?"

  Chiun looked shocked. "Have you forgotten? It is time to renegotiate the contract between the House of Sinanju and the House of Smith."

  "The United States," said Smith. "Your contract is with the United States. But it's not due to expire for another six months."

  "When entering into protracted and difficult dealings," said Chiun solemnly, "it is best to begin early."

  "Oh. I rather thought we could simply renew the old contract. It's quite generous, as you know."

  "It was magnanimously generous," agreed Chiun. "Considering the false understanding on which it was based."

  "False understanding?"

  Smith watched as Chiun unrolled his straw mat and placed it on the floor, carefully arranging an array of scrolls beside the mat before settling into place. Smith had to stand in order to see Chiun over his desktop.

  Smith sighed. He had been through these negotiations before. Chiun would not speak another word until Smith was seated at eye level. Smith pulled a pencil and a yellow legal pad from a drawer and stiffly found a place on the floor, facing the old Korean. He balanced the pad on a knee. After so many years of writing on a computer keypad, the pencil felt like a banana in his fingers.

  "I am ready," said Smith.

  As Chiun opened a scroll, Smith recognized it as a copy of the last contract he had signed. It was on special rice paper edged in gold and had itself cost hundreds of dollars. Another unnecessary expense.

  "Ah, here it is," Chiun said, looking up from the scroll. "The poophole."

  "I beg your pardon."

  "It is a legal term. Poophole. Have you never heard of it? Most contracts have them."

  "You mean loophole. And our contract is ironclad. There are no loopholes."

  "There is a saying in my village," said Chiun. "'Never correct an emperor. Except when he is wrong.' And you are wrong, great leader. The poophole is in the paragraph about training a white in the art of Sinanju."

  "As I recall, you charged extra for that," Smith said.

  "A mere pittance to wipe out what I thought was a great shame. An odious shame. But as it turns out, I made a mistake. "

  "What kind of mistake?" asked Smith, who knew that Chiun's mistakes invariably wound up costing him money. "I was not training a white at all," Chiun said, beaming at the happy thought.

  Smith frowned. "What do you mean? Of course Remo's white. True, we don't know who his parents were, but all you have to do is look to see that he's
white."

  Patiently, Chiun shook his head. "No Chinese, no Japanese, no non-Korean ever before has been able to absorb Sinanju training. Yet this supposed white has taken to Sinanju like no other in the history of my humble village."

  "That's good, isn't it?" asked Smith, who could not figure out what Chiun was driving at.

  "Of course," said Chiun. "It means that Remo is really Korean." He mumbled some words in the Korean language.

  "What did you say?"

  "Just his name. Remo the Fair. He is part Korean. There can be no other explanation."

  "Perhaps Americans just naturally take to Sinanju," Smith said. "You've never had to train an American before Remo."

  Chiun made a face. "You are being ridiculous. But enough. Remo is learning Sinanju faster than any Korean. Therefore Remo is not white."

  "And therefore," said Smith, "your earlier demands for extra payment for training a white are no longer valid."

  "Exactly," Chiun said.

  Smith hesitated while he searched Chiun's face, but the expression was bland. Smith had never been able to read his face.

  "Are you saying that you're willing to take less money because of that?" he asked.

  "Of course not. I contracted to train a white for you, and knowing whites, you would have gotten somebody who jumped around, grunting, breaking boards with much noise. Instead, you have gotten a true Master of Sinanju. You have been getting a bargain for all these years and this will require an adjustment, not only on our next contract, but radioactive payments on all preceding contracts."

  "Retroactive," Smith said. "You mean retroactive payments."

  "Good. Then we are in agreement. I knew you would understand, wise Emperor."

  "I do not understand," Smith snapped. "but I don't want to argue the point. Just tell me. What are your demands this time?"

  Calmly, slowly, Chiun picked up another scroll and unrolled it.

  "We do not have demands," he said haughtily. "We have requirements and they are these." He began to read from the scroll.

  "Two jars of emeralds. Uncut.

  "Twenty jars of diamonds of different cuts. No flaws.

  "Eight bolts of Tang-dynasty silk. Assorted colors.

  "One Persian statue of Darius. Of shittimwood.