An Old Fashioned War td-68

by Warren Murphy

  "Do you wish to invent one this afternoon, darling? Or did you bring one with you from America?"

  "Let the people vote for the kind of government they want."

  "They have. It's communist."

  "Those elections are rigged."

  "No, darling, it's that there is no other party running against them. The communists are the only people they can vote for or against. That's the only structure in this country. There is the Communist party or war."

  "It just makes my bones rattle to give an army to communists. Communists are the biggest troublemakers in the world. In fact, and I don't care whether you like to hear this or not, Anna, they are the main troublemakers in the world."

  "You're thinking of the countries which don't have power, darling. In Russia, we are just like any other corrupt political machine. The last revolutionary was shot by Stalin. The Politburo is the safest group to run any army. They don't want to lose what they have."

  "I still don't like it," said Remo.

  Anna crossed her legs and gave Remo a friendly pat on the wrist, careful not to let his divine hands get her going again.

  At Anna's special apartment, one with the best perks in Moscow, roughly equal to an upper-middle-class condominium in America, Remo told Anna everything he knew about Mr. Arieson.

  Why, she wanted to know, did Mr. Arieson have some form of antagonism against Sinanju?

  "I don't know, but Chiun seems to know. He made a deal with Arieson."

  Anna nodded for Remo to go on. She poured herself a brandy in a Waterford crystal snifter and sat down on her imported French couch a cushion away from him. The night lights of Moscow glittered through her window. She had once had a fireplace but it was so badly constructed, like most buildings in Russia, that every time she tried to use it she would set fire to the building.

  And only in Russia would the concrete catch fire. She knew her country better perhaps than any of the older men and women in high positions. But none loved it better. She loved it more than she loved this marvelous man Remo, so she forced herself on this warm evening to keep her hands off him and get on with business.

  Remo did not know precisely what the feud was between Sinanju and Arieson. But it went back a long way.

  "How long? Ten years? Twenty years? Seventy years? I am a communist, Remo, and I think in long periods of time," said Anna.

  "Three, four thousand years, I don't know." Anna dropped the brandy snifter. It fell to the deep pile rug. Since the rug was manufactured in Russia, the crystal cracked.

  "I don't understand. How can a feud go on for thousands of years?"

  "The House of Sinanju has been going on since before any modern country existed, except maybe Egypt, and I do believe we've got them by a few centuries, but I don't know. Chiun knows him or knows of him, or something. He told me from the beginning that I wouldn't be able to handle him."

  "You did, but that's something else."

  "I didn't destroy him, though."

  "No. You didn't. But you didn't join some army either."

  Remo shrugged. How could he join an army knowing what he knew, being Sinanju? He could no more join an army than he could stop Sinanju working within him. He was once a marine. He understood marines. He could never be a marine again. Anna seemed interested in this. He told her about the tributes to Sinanju and the scrolls and the indentation made by a large marble thing in the mahogany floor of the treasure house of Sinanju.

  He told her of his sense of connection with the frescoes in the old tunnels under Rome to that one room of the treasure house. He told her about the trip through Rome with Chiun and the pausing at the old temples.

  Anna dismissed that point.

  "New gods or old gods are just a waste of time. What is this thing between Sinanju and Mr. Arieson?"

  "I don't know," said Remo. "And Chiun won't tell me. He's mad about the loss of the treasure, and he says knowing who Mr. Arieson is won't do any good until we get the treasure back."

  "I know a bit about your surrogate father. He is quite a manipulator and the whole thing may have nothing to do with the treasure. He just wants it back. Being the standard-bearer of the world's greatest anachronism, I am sure the trappings of the past are of great importance to him."

  "If it's an anachronism, why can we do things no one else can? If it's an anachronism, why don't I go running off like some idiot for war? If we're an anachronism-"

  "I'm sorry, Remo, if I offended you."

  "You didn't offend me. You just sounded like some communist twit. You know, just because it wasn't invented yesterday doesn't make it invalid. It's more valid because it survived the test of time."

  "You indicated yourself that you were suspicious about the treasure playing any part."

  "Yeah, well. That's something else," said Remo.

  "The something else," said Anna wisely, "is that I am talking about your family, and you may think the worst about Chiun, but God help anyone else who thinks the same way."

  "Let's get on with business. Where are these special troops?"

  "We're not sure. They seem to be all over."

  "Chiun usually has an idea of where he might appear. If you can get to Smitty, I can get to Sinanju. We have a special secure line," said Remo. He did not tell Anna about overlapping the American system with the Russian one in Cuba. Remo didn't understand the electronic theory exactly, only that he had overcome his little portion of it, and was proud of it.

  After all, for someone who does battle with a toaster with only fifty-fifty odds of success, getting the right plug into the right socket is an accomplishment.

  "All our wires are tapped by the KGB, so keep that in mind."

  "Why are you warning me?"

  "Because despite your marine concept of Soviet Russia, the KGB and the army and my special security service serving the Premier are not all one monolithic block out to fry your precious little buns, dear," said Anna.

  "You have a sharp tongue, lady," said Remo.

  "So have you when you want to," said Anna. Remo lifted the telephone receiver off the hook. It was an old-style phone made of plastic that still had the aroma of the factory. As he got through to Smith, he polished the phone to make it look as though it were manufactured in a modern country.

  Smith got the call and made the transfer to Sinanju, explaining that the signals required a lot of electronic brushing to clean them up.

  Since the line was in the baker's house, Poo's mother answered the phone.

  "Let me speak to Chiun, please."

  "Poo is right here," said the mother.

  "I want to speak to Chiun. This is business."

  "Your lawfully wedded wife waits here every moment for the sound of her husband's voice. Her eyes are filled with tears. The rest of her has been filled with nothing."

  "Yeah, well, let me speak to Chiun," said Remo. He was burning. He smiled at Anna. Anna smiled back.

  "I will give you Poo."

  "Poo, let me speak to Chiun," said Remo.

  "There's another woman in the room with you," divined Poo.

  "This is a business phone and I want to speak to Chiun."

  "You haven't even consummated our marriage and you're cheating already," she wailed.

  Anna did not understand the Oriental language Remo was using in the latter part of his call to Sinanju. But there were some things she did understand.

  When Remo finally had a respite while waiting for Chiun, she asked:

  "Remo, do you have a girlfriend in Sinanju?"

  "No," said Remo honestly.

  "Then who was that woman you were talking to?"

  "What makes you think it was a woman?"

  "Remo, I know how men speak to women. Who is she?"

  "Not my girlfriend. Nothing to do with romance."

  "Who is she, Retno?"

  "My wife," said Remo. He went back to the phone. Chiun was there.

  "Arieson's in Russia. He could start World War III. Where can I find him?"

  "Wo
rld War III is his business. Not ours. So long as he has left us Southeast Asia, I don't care."

  "It's my concern. Where is he?"

  "Until you get the treasure, why bother?"

  "Where is he?"

  "That is no way to speak to your father."

  "Little Father, please tell me where he is. I am in Russia and I don't want to hang around this place looking for him."

  "Well, if he were in the modern country called Russia, that must include Siberia. There is a Tartar encampment between Vladivostok and Kubsk. I would say he would probably be there. He would probably be welcome there for all the damage those little vandals are likely to do."

  "Thanks, Little Father," said Remo.

  "Poo has a word for you."

  "I'll speak with her," said Remo, still in Korean, "only because I owe you a favor."

  "Owe me a favor, Remo? You owe me everything. You just chose to pay back this one small thing. Here she is. Here, dear, don't cry. Remo does not mean to dishonor you and his own father by his failure as a man. Speak freely, Poo."

  "Remo, I miss you. Come home soon."

  "Thank you," said Remo, and turning to Anna, he asked her about a Tartar encampment between Vladivostok and Kubsk.

  She unfolded a map on her imported glass coffee table and drew a circle encompassing thousands of miles.

  "These are what we call tribal lands. It is amazing that Chiun knows of them. From the czars to us, every Russian government has allowed these people to live alone the way they wanted in total autonomy. We don't bother them and they don't bother us.

  Every year, whatever government is in power delivers massive amounts of grain and feed for their horses. Even if we are starving, we deliver them grain."

  "Why?" asked Remo.

  "Because we want to be left alone."

  "But if they use horses, why are you afraid of them?"

  "Because they, Remo, are the descendants of Genghis Khan's horde."

  Remo turned up his face. Sinanju knew Genghis Khan. Another military leader. Another bloodsoak-sack-a-city-destroy-a-culture-go-on-with-the-bloodfest military butcher.

  "You have some revulsion for Genghis Khan?" asked Anna.

  "Not that much. That was someone else's problem, and that problem was taken care of."

  As they arranged a flight into the restricted tribal territories, Anna said:

  "You might not know this, but Genghis Khan was never defeated in battle. The horde stretched west, overrunning all the Moslem East and driving into Europe before it simply turned back."

  "Yeah," said Remo as they boarded a Russian Fox three-seat fighter plane for the great eastern expanses of Russia. "I know. He overran Baghdad against Sinanju's warnings, and we took care of him."

  "Genghis Khan died of a heart attack," said Anna.

  "I'll show you what I mean when we get there." The pilot was afraid to land his plane on the frozen wastes. He knew the tribal areas of Russia and knew that no pilot ever came back alive. Once, one had bailed out and certain delicate and private portions of his anatomy were left with his uniform at the tribute station.

  Remo made the pilot think otherwise by getting hold of the nerves in the pilot's neck and showing him that there were worse things than death.

  The pilot made a very bumpy landing. When Anna and Remo climbed out, jumping down to the frozen tundra, he took off immediately, almost crashing because he wanted to get out so quickly. Almost immediately, hundreds of horsemen in fur hats on small ponies appeared in the distance from all directions.

  Anna grabbed Remo's hand.

  "I'll show you the Genghis Khan heart disease," he said.

  As the horsemen got closer, they seemed to drive themselves harder, as though the first to get to the intruders would be able to claim them.

  The first horseman extended his hands during the ride, reaching for Remo's head. There was a Mongol game where they would fight for the head of a victim as sport. This sport was later transferred to India, where the British learned it and named it polo.

  Remo caught the horseman, lightly plucking the small deadly warrior from the saddle like a ring on a carousel.

  He slipped his right hand into the man's chest and through the sternum, feeling his heart collapse, his hand around the upper rib cage, blocking external movements of the heart. The man's eyes popped wide. His mouth opened in desperation, he let out a groan, and then slumped backward, his face contorted, his lips blue.

  "Heart attack," said Remo to Anna, dropping the first one. He had to handle the next two simultaneously because they had arrived that way.

  On one he scratched markings into the face and crushed the spleen.

  "Pox," he said.

  On the other, he manipulated the blood vessels in the neck until the warrior was unconscious. "Stroke," he said.

  He caught the next, and with deft movement around the rib cage, in a manner Anna could not understand, made the joints swell suddenly.

  "My rheumatoid arthritis," said Remo pleasantly. "Good, but not great. Chiun's is absolutely perfect. We can do lots of other diseases but we need time for the heavyweight loss involved."

  And time was what they did not have. The invincible horde was just about to close on them from all directions and Anna could not see how Remo could get them out of this one.

  Chapter 11

  Huak the greater warrior, son of Bar, grandson of Huak Bar, great-grandson of Kar, all of whom traced their lineage to Sar Wa, who himself carried the seven-yak-tail banner of the Great Khan, Genghis himself, had lost none of his horse skills. He had not lost one flickering finger of accuracy with the short bow.

  Nor did he fail to understand the gun, which his great-great-grandfather had been the first to capture from the whites.

  Huak had the first flintlock taken from a Russian nobleman, whose head was strapped in a bag with a dozen scorpion beetles. He had the Enfield taken from the British troops who tried to help one of the Russian armies during its rebellion. He had the shortnosed submachine guns taken from Russian troops who got lost on their way to the border with Korea.

  But his favorite weapon was the short razor-sharp sword that could take the ears off a man before he could hear the words of challenge, lie facedown, and submit.

  This sword did the chunky five-foot-two-inch Huak, warrior, brandish before him, lathering his horse to reach the two whites before there was nothing left to attack.

  Because Huak had taken the time to command everyone to attack the whites, because he had called out the ancient battle cry, "Let blood honor your swords," because he had been in his own mind too much of a gentleman, there would now be nothing left.

  They would already be disemboweled. The ears would be gone. Someone would undoubtedly have plucked the eyes with a dagger, and as for the sexual organs of the two, those would be the first to go. There might not even be a bone left.

  That was what Huak would get for being a gentleman, and as he raced his little pony, also a descendant of the horses of the horde, the only army in the world never to lose a battle, Huak the Greater thought: No more Mr. Nice Guy.

  But when he was less than a spear's throw away from where the remnants should be, he saw the white man whole, the woman whole, and at least eighteen of his brothers lying peacefully in repose, numbers nineteen and twenty rapidly following suit, and with the great horse skills undiminished since the horde left the Gobi desert to devour everything and everyone in its path, Huak pulled his steed up short, almost breaking its neck.

  "Skirah," he screamed, and that meant "spirit." Huak was not afraid of death. He believed that a man killed honorably in battle would live to fight again. Only those who fled from battle died like tow animals. But the spirit that came from the winds, that could snuff his soul and put him in the sleep from which his spirit would never awake-that would torment him for eternity, leave him without a horse forever, without a sword forever, and steal his name so Huak would not even know who he was but be like some grain of sand, nothing, undifferent from any
other, unbeing.

  A few were not in time to hear his warning about the evil wind spirit, and went to sleep at the spirit's hands. He had brought his pale woman with him, probably also to feast on the souls of those to be made like dust, like sand, like nothing.

  Of those gone before the other horses were able to rein in, the number was twenty-two, not dead so much as lost forever.

  A young warrior, hearing Huak's command, but thinking there were so many of them that the white man could not possibly dodge a hundred arrows, pulled back his bow in the quick short draw of the bowstring made famous at the gates of Baghdad and at the fringes of Europe.

  Huak's knife cut that short with a snap jab into the jugular. The boy fell instantly like an old wineskin spilling its red contents on the tundra.

  The boy's father, riding adjacent to the son, saw what Huak had done, and said:

  "Thank you, brother Huak." And no more was said. The father understood that if the son had died at the spirit's hands, his soul would be gone forever. Now they could take the body back with them and bury it knowing it was still part of them, possibly returning even in the next birth, a boy of course.

  Male spirits never came back as women. Thus was the belief of the horde unchanged in its centuries of unbroken triumph.

  A thousand horses came to snorting, stamping rest around the two whites. Clouds of warm air from their nostrils puffed out into the cold Siberian air. "Oh Skirah spirit, what have you come for, what can we give you to appease you, to honor you so that you will leave our souls in peace and seek others?"

  "Get your horses back, they smell. The whole horde smells like a shit farm," said the white man in the older tongue used at the time of Genghis Khan himself.

  "How many languages do you speak?" whispered Anna. She had seen Remo kill before, and all of it looked so smooth, it could have been someone stacking crates at an hourly wage.

  "I dunno," answered Remo in English. "You read the scrolls, you pick up dozens of languages. Sinanju needed them for work."

  "I presume, darling, that's Mongolian," said Anna.

  "No. The horde spoke a dialect peculiar to Genghis Khan's tribe."

  "How many words do you know?"

  "If you know to tell them to move their smelly horses back, you've got fifty percent of everything you ever need to tell a Mongol," said Remo, and in the language Chiun had taught him during a training session outside Dayton, Ohio, while Remo was still learning basic breath, he said: