Blood Ties td-69

by Warren Murphy

  Smith sighed. "What shame is that?" he said. There would be no talking to Chiun until the old Oriental had gone through his full song and dance.

  "In times past, Masters of Sinanju have been called upon to preserve the lives of certain personages. Kings, emperors, sultans. There was even a pharaoh of Egypt who came under the protection of a Master of Sinanju when that pharaoh ascended his throne. He was but six summers of age but the Master who protected him saw him rule until his ninety-sixth birthday. It is recorded as the longest reign in history and it would never have happened without Sinanju at his side. Now that was a trust of honor. Would that the current Master had such an illustrious charge."

  Smith tensed. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

  "But not Chiun," the sorrowful voice continued. "Chiun is not given kings to guard. Not even a lowly prince. Or a pretender. I could hold my head high if I were charged with guarding a pretender to a worthy throne."

  "Did something happen to Drake Mangan? Is he all right?"

  "Instead, I have been given a fat white merchant, a merchant whose life is not even important to his loved ones. How can one do one's best work when one is asked to work at such an unworthy task? I ask you. How?"

  "Is Mangan dead?" demanded Smith.

  "Pah!" spat Chiun. "He was born dead. All his life, he lived a living death, eating and drinking poisons that increased his deadness. If he is more dead now, it is merely in degree. The only difference between a living dead white man and a dead dead white man is that the latter does not bray. Although he does still smell."

  "What happened?" Smith asked wearily.

  Chiun's voice swelled. "A terrible creature descended upon him. Huge he was, his bigness as that of a house. A veritable giant. But the Master of Sinanju did not fear this apparition, this giant whose enormity rivaled that of a great temple. The Master of Sinanju moved forward to confront him, but it was already too late. The fat white merchant who was already dead before Sinanju ever heard of him, became still."

  "All right," Smith said. "He got Mangan."

  "No," said Chiun. "His weapon did. These guns are a menace, Emperor. Perhaps it is time that laws were passed."

  "We'll discuss it later," said Smith. "He got Mangan. But you got him, is that correct?"

  Chiun hesitated before answering. "Not precisely correct."

  "What does that mean?" demanded Smith, who had seen the seemingly frail Master of Sinanju rip through a squadron of armed soldiers like a hurricane through a cornfield.

  "It means what it means," said Chiun haughtily. "The Master of Sinanju is never vague."

  "All right, all right. He got away. Somehow he got away from you. But you saw him. It wasn't Remo?"

  "Yes and no," Chiun said.

  "I'm glad you're never vague," Smith said dryly. "Either it was or it wasn't Remo. Which was it?"

  Chiun's voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper. "He gave his name. It was most strange. Amateurs seldom appreciate the value of advertising. But this one gave his name. "

  "Yes?"

  "He said his name was Remo Williams. But he was not the Remo Williams we know. Why would he lie?" Smith quickly brought the CURE computer system on line and began keying a search sequence.

  "Maybe it wasn't all a lie," Smith said. He typed in the name REMO WILLIAMS and hit the control button. The search program was initiated, working with a speed that would have astonished the operators of the Pentagon's "numbercrunching" supercomputers; all possible public records in America were scanned for the name of Remo Williams. When Remo had been recruited to work for CURE many years ago, all files on him had been deleted. If there were now any references to a Remo Williams, it would indicate an impostor was using his name.

  "Describe the man," Smith asked Chiun, activating an auxiliary computer file on which to record the description. "He was pale, like a white, and too tall, with big clumsy feet, like a white. And like most whites, he had coarse hairs growing from his chin."

  "A beard?"

  "No. Not like mine. I have a beard. This white thing had hair ends growing from his face."

  Smith keyed the fact that the killer had needed a shave. "Age?" asked Smith as he watched the search program run on the split screen. Millions of records, glowing an electronic green, scrolled past his eyes in a blur. It hurt to look at the running program and his fingers poised to record the answer to his question.

  "He is no more than fifty-five winters, perhaps less," Chiun said. "Do you know him now?"

  "Master of Sinaju," said Smith slowly, "think carefully. Did this man look like Remo? Our Remo?"

  There was a long silence over the line before the Master of Sinanju replied.

  "Who can say? All whites look alike. Wait. He had a scar on his face, along the right side of the jaw. Our Remo has no such scar."

  But Smith could tell from the tremor in Chiun's voice that the Master of Sinanju was thinking the same thing that he was, thinking that the one eventuality that the people who had originated CURE had never foreseen, finally had come about.

  "Could this shooter of guns be Remo's father?" asked Chiun. "Is that what you are thinking?"

  The search file stopped running before Smith could answer. The computer screen flashed: NO FILE FOUND ... PRESS: ESCAPE KEY.

  Smith hit the escape key and brought up Remo's original CURE file.

  "At fifty-five, the man would be the right age. But he couldn't be. Remo is supposed to be an orphan. He has no known living relatives of any description."

  "Everyone has relatives," said Chiun, thinking of his wicked brother-in-law, now dead. "Whether they want them or not."

  "Remo was an infant when the nuns found him on the doorstep of St. Theresa's Orphanage," said Smith, skimming the Remo file. "It's not clear who named him. Perhaps they found a note with the baby or the nuns named him. The records that might have told us-if they ever even existed-were destroyed in a fire years before Remo joined CURE. St. Theresa's is long gone, too."

  "Remo must never learn of this," Chiun said.

  "Agreed," said Smith, looking away from the file. Sometimes it bothered him to read it. He had done a terrible thing to a young policeman once, and even though it was for a greater purpose, that didn't make it any less of a terrible thing.

  "This man who calls himself Remo Williams is your assignment, Chiun. I expect you will carry it out."

  "If this man carries the same blood as Remo, then I have as much to lose as you," Chiun said coldly. "More." Smith nodded. He knew that Chiun saw Remo as the next Master of Sinanju, the heir of a tradition that went back to before the recording of history. It was one of the great conflicts in the arrangement between Smith and Chiun that each saw Remo as his own. Neither bothered to ask Remo what he thought.

  "Good," said Smith. "I have heard from Remo, our Remo, but I have refused to tell him where you are. I will hold him off as long as I can and in the meantime, perhaps you can dispose of this matter."

  "Consider it done, Emperor," Chiun said.

  "The other two big car men are James Revell and Hubert Millis. They have announced that they will be at Lyle Lavallette's press conference tomorrow. If an attempt is to be made, it might be made there again."

  "This killer's hours are numbered, O Emperor," said Chiun gravely. "You do not know where our Remo is?"

  "He was in Utah. I expect he'll be coming here to find out where you are. I'll try to stall him until I have your assignment-completed call," Smith said.

  "That will be fine," Chiun said and hung up.

  Smith closed down Remo's file. Chiun would take care of this man who might or might not be Remo's father. And that would be the end of that and Remo would never know. Perhaps it was unjust but what was one more injustice on top of the others? When Remo Williams had become the Destroyer for CURE, he had lost all his rights, both natural and constitutional. Losing a father he never knew he had wouldn't really make much of a difference.

  Remo Williams, the Destroyer, arrived in Detroit around midnight.
/>
  After Smith had refused to tell him where Chiun was, Remo had been at a loss until he remembered that Smith had mentioned Detroit. Mentioned it twice, in fact. Smith had thought Remo was calling from Detroit, and why would he have thought that?

  There was only one good answer: Smith had jumped to the conclusion that Remo was in Detroit because the CURE director knew that Chiun was already in Detroit.

  That was simple and it annoyed Remo that Smith would not expect him to figure it out. The more he thought about it, the more annoyed he got and when he reached the Detroit airport, he went to the car-rental counter and asked for the most expensive car they had.

  In his wallet, he found a credit card for Remo Cochran. "I'm sorry, sir, but all our cars are the same rate," the clerk told him.

  "Okay," Remo said. "Then I want four of them."

  "Four?"

  "That's right. I don't like to be seen in the same cheap car too long. It hurts my image."

  "Well, is it just you?"

  "Yes," Remo said. "Do I look like more than one?"

  "No, sir. I was just wondering who will drive the other three cars."

  "Nobody," Remo said. "I want them to sit here in the parking lot until I come back for them. Better make it a three-month rental on all four."

  With discounts for long-term use and for Remo's excellent driving record, but adding in penalties for renting on a Friday which cost Remo the weekly special rate which was only good if your week started on Tuesday, and adding in the insurance which Remo insisted he wanted, the bill came to $7,461.20.

  "You sure you want to do this, sir?" the clerk said.

  "Yes," Remo said.

  The clerk shrugged. "Well, it's your money."

  "No, it's not," Remo said. Let Smith chew on that bill when he received it. "Where's your nearest phone?"

  The clerk pointed to a booth three feet from Remo's left elbow.

  "Didn't see it," Remo said. "Thanks."

  "You want the numbers of every hotel in the city?" the information operator asked in a frightened voice.

  "Just the best ones. He wouldn't stay anywhere except at the best hotels," Remo said.

  "I'm sorry, sir. But making quality judgments on various hotels is not the policy of American Telephone and Greater Michigan Bell Consolidated Amalgamated Telephonic and Telegraphic Communications Incorporated."

  "Gee, that's a shame," Remo said, "because now I'll just have to get the telephone numbers of every hotel in Detroit. Every hotel."

  "Well, maybe you can try these," the operator said reluctantly. She gave Remo a half-dozen hotel numbers, and he started dialing.

  "Hotel Prather," said the first hotel's switchboard. "Do you have an elderly Oriental staying there? He probably arrived with a bunch of lacquered steamer trunks and gave the bellboys a hard time?"

  "Under what name would he be registered?"

  "I don't know. It could be anything from Mr. Park to His Most Awesome Magnificence. It depends on his mood."

  "Really. You don't have his name?"

  "Really," Remo said. "And exactly how many Orientals fitting that description do you think you have in the hotel?"

  The switchboard operator checked. No such Oriental was staying at the Hotel Prather.

  Remo asked the same questions of the next three hotels. His fifth call confirmed that an Oriental fitting that description was indeed staying at the Detroit Plaza and that the bell captain who had overseen the carrying of the gentleman's trunks up twenty-five flights of stairs, because the gentleman did not wish his luggage transported by elevators that might crash, was recovering nicely from his hernia operation. Did Remo wish to ring the old gentleman's room? "No thanks," Remo said. "I want this to be a surprise." Chiun's door was locked and Remo knocked on it twice. Chiun's voice filtered through the wood. "Who disturbs me?" he asked. "Who galoomphs down the hall like a diseased yak and now pounds on my door interrupting my meditation?"

  Chiun knew very well who it was, Remo knew. The old man had probably heard him when he got off the elevator a hundred feet away and had recognized his footsteps on the heavy commercial hallway carpet.

  "You know damn well who it is," Remo said.

  "Go away. I don't want any."

  "Open the damn door before I kick it in," Remo said. Chiun unlocked the door but did not open it. When Remo pushed it open, the old man was sitting on the floor, his back to the door.

  "Nice reception," Remo said. He looked around the room. It was exactly what he expected, probably the honeymoon suite. It looked perfect for starting a harem. Chiun sniffed. That was his answer.

  "Don't you want to know where I've been?" Remo asked.

  "No. It is enough that I know where you have not been," Chiun said.

  "Oh? Where have I not been?"

  "You have not been seeing Nellie Wilson to arrange for the Assassin Aid Concert. And here I have gone to all the trouble of getting permission from that lunatic, Smith."

  "I didn't have time for Willie Nelson, Little Father," said Remo. "I was in a plane crash."

  "Paaah." Chiun waved a long-nailed hand over his head in dismissal of such trifles.

  "I realized something, Chiun."

  "There is always a first time for everything," Chiun said.

  "I finally understood what you mean when you say feeding your village is not just a responsibility, but a privilege too." He saw that Chiun was slowly turning around to look at him. Remo said, "I helped save the people on the plane. It was like they were family, my family for a little while, and I think I know how you feel. "

  "One cannot equate the survival of my very important village with saving the lives of a bunch of worthless fat white people," Chiun said.

  "I know, I know, I know," Remo said. "I know all that. It was just that the idea was the same."

  "Well, perhaps you are not so hopeless as I thought," Chiun said and his hazel eyes softened. "Let me see your hands," he said suddenly.

  "What for?"

  Chiun clapped his hands together. The sound shook a nearby coffee table and rattled a window.

  "Your hands, quickly."

  Remo extended his hands, palms up. Chiun took them and stared at them. His nose wrinkled.

  "Want to check behind my ears too?" Remo asked.

  "You have fired no guns recently," Chiun said.

  "I have fired no guns in years. You know that," Remo said. "What's with you?"

  "You are," said Chiun, turning away. "But not for long. You must return to Folcroft. Emperor Smith has need of your services."

  "Why do I get the impression that you're trying to chase me away from here?" Remo said.

  "I have no interest in your impressions," Chiun said. "I am here on a personal matter that concerns the Master of Sinanju. Not you. Be gone. Go see Smith. Perhaps he can make use of you."

  "Not so's you'd notice," Remo said. "Look . . ." he said, then stopped dead. He saw a streak of red that scored the scalp under the hair over Chiun's left ear. "Hey. You're hurt." He reached forward and Chiun slapped his hand away angrily.

  "I cut it shaving," Chiun said.

  "You don't shave," Remo said.

  "Never mind. It is only a scratch."

  "You couldn't be scratched by a rocket attack," Remo said. "What the hell is going on?"

  "Nothing. A lunatic gunman. I will be done with him by tomorrow. Then we will speak of other matters. We will make plans for the concert."

  "Somebody with a gun did that to you?" Remo said and whistled. "He must have been real good."

  "Only his name is good," Chiun said. "Tomorrow he will be dog meat. You return to Folcroft."

  "I'm staying," Remo said.

  Chiun swept out his hands. His fingernails shredded the heavy damask drapes.

  "I don't need you," Chiun said.

  "I don't care. I'm staying."

  "Then stay out here and leave me alone. I will have nothing to do with you," Chiun said and walked into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

  "I'm s
taying anyway," Remo shouted through the door.

  "Stay if you must. But stay out of my way," Chiun said.

  Chapter 10

  Remo heard the door from the bedroom to the outside hallway open, then close. Chiun was leaving. He went to the door of the suite, listened for a moment, then heard the elevator doors in the middle of the floor open and close.

  Chiun was riding downstairs.

  Remo ran from the room and into the stairwell, racing down the steps in giant jumps that looked effortless, but which touched only one step between each landing. It was the way a sixty-foot-tall giant would have walked down those steps.

  Remo was not moving at top speed since he knew he had plenty of time to get to the lobby before the elevator arrived. Then he would hide there and follow Chiun and see just what was so important that Chiun could not tell him about it.

  In the lobby, he sank into a soft wing chair and held a newspaper up in front of his face. Over the top of the newspaper, he could see the elevator's control lights. The elevator was now passing the fourth floor on its way to the lobby.

  It reached the lobby; the door opened. The elevator was empty.

  Where the hell was Chiun? Remo stood up and looked around. He found Chiun sitting in a wing chair directly behind his.

  "Sit down, you imbecile," Chiun said. "You are drawing attention to yourself, acting like a man looking for a lost dog."

  Remo grinned in embarrassment. "I heard you leave the room," he said.

  "I heard you following me," Chiun said.

  "I came down the steps to get here before the elevator," Remo said.

  "So did I," Chiun said.

  "So now what do we do?" Remo asked. "Do we play hide-and-go-seek all over Detroit?"

  "No," Chiun said. "You go back to the room. Or go see Emperor Smith in Folcroft. Or go find Nellie Wilson and convince him to sing for our concert. Any would be acceptable. "

  "And you?" Remo asked.

  "I have business which does not concern you," Chiun said.

  "Not a chance," Remo said. "You move from here and I'm going to be on your tail like burrs on a beagle."

  Chiun brought his chair around and sat down next to Remo. His hazel eyes were sincere and thoughtful as he said, "Remo, there are some things you do not understand."