Last Rites td-100

by Warren Murphy

  They took no vacations as such. Remo had no known relatives to visit. No friends, past present or future. He had only Chiun. And the Master of Sinanju had his village.

  But they weren't going to North Korea, it seemed. They had bypassed it in favor of Tokyo. Now they were in Honolulu, according to the audit trail of creditcard expenditures and airline reservations. Smith, who had Remo's many credit cards under fictitious names on his data base, had access to the credit-card companies' minute-by-minute computerized credit-cheek records. The minute Remo booked a flight, it appeared on the airline's worldwide computerized reservation system and could be called up on Smith's Folcroft office computer screen instantly.

  Smith wondered if they were on some kind of extended vacation. But that seemed unlikely. They were in the air more than on the ground in most cases. Thus, they could not be sight-seeing, he concluded.

  A check of world trouble spots showed no correlation between their travels and global events.

  Perhaps this was some old business of the House of Sinanju, Smith reasoned. Yes, that must be it. Something from Chiun's past had called them to trot all over the globe.

  He hoped it was nothing serious, that it would not impact on their availability. Smith had long ago realized his two agents were for all practical purposes virtually uncontrollable.

  As it was, he had no missions for Remo. As long as Remo wasn't needed, Smith would force himself not to worry about their activities.

  But just to be sure, he popped four extrastrength Tums before leaving his office for lunch. It never hurt to anticipate stomach upsets. And where Remo and Chiun were concerned, upsetting news invariably followed.

  SMITH DROVE his aging station wagon to nearby Port Chester, and its post office. In the early days of CURE, letters from field informants and others filled the mailbox every week. In these days of E-mail, Smith received fewer and fewer tips through the mail. One trip a week was usually enough. Rarely did a letter from the field lead to a mission for Remo and Chiun.

  Old habits die hard. Smith got in line before going to his box. That way he could scan the foyer unobtrusively. There were no suspicious people hanging about. That was one of the reasons Smith picked up his own mail. Post-office boxes were very safe and extremely anonymous. The federal government didn't tolerate loiterers lying in wait at mail boxes for boxholders.

  Smith grudgingly bought a one-cent stamp-the lowest denomination he could purchase-and then went to the bank of boxes. Inserting a brass key shiny from long use, he opened the box.

  Inside was a sheaf of mail. He took it, shut the box and left the foyer, clutching the envelopes protectively. Behind the wheel of his station wagon, Smith examined each one to be sure it was addressed to him. Although he had maintained the box for some thirty years now, sometimes Smith still received other people's mail. The fourth letter in the stack brought a chill to Harold Smith's age-curved spine. Written in flowing blue ink, it was addressed to Mr. Conrad MacCleary.

  There was no return address. Only an Oklahoma postmark. Smith tore open the envelope and read the folded note inside with startled eyes.

  Our Lady of Perpetual Care Home for the Infirm

  My Dear Mr. MacCleary,

  I trust you are well.

  As promised so very long ago, I am writing to inform you of the imminent passing of Sister Mary Margaret Morrow. She has been in declining health for several years now, yet has clung to this earth most wonderfully. But the nurses do not believe that she will survive the month of July.

  If it still is your wish to attend the funeral, I cannot say with certainty when this will be, but you should know that Sister Mary Margaret's time is very short. In this case, you would do well to contact me by telephone so I might better advise you. Yours in Christ, Sister Novella.

  Harold Smith read with eyes that skated over the ink script uncomprehendingly. He read the short note again. And for the third time.

  "She's alive," he breathed.

  Smith thought back. Conrad MacCleary had been his right hand in the creation of CURE. Grizzled, hard drinking and indomitably patriotic, he had executed the frame that had brought Remo Williams to CURE in the first place.

  Harold Smith had engineered it all. Masterminded the plan. But Smith couldn't go into the field. As head of CURE, he wasn't expendable. MacCleary was.

  From stealing Remo's police badge, to rigging the electric chair to deliver a nonlethal charge, to visiting Remo on death row disguised as a Capuchin monk in order to slip him the pill that suppressed his life signs so he could be pronounced dead after the mock execution, MacCleary had done it all, leaving no fingerprints and no witnesses.

  Except apparently Sister Mary Margaret, the one person who had shaped Remo Williams's young life. Smith remembered the conversation that had taken place so long ago.

  "What about the nun?" MacCleary had asked. "Is she a problem?"

  "She was like a mother to Williams. Even after the plastic surgery, she would be able to recognize his eyes or his voice."

  "Where is she now?"

  "Still holding down the fort at St. Theresa's."

  "It's to be burned," Smith ordered. "To the ground. There must be no record of any Remo Williams."

  "Got it," McCleary said. "But what about the sister?"

  "No one must be allowed to place the program at risk. The nation depends on it."

  "Understood," MacCleary replied.

  That was all. That was the way they worked. Smith did not have to say that Sister Mary Margaret, despite her good works in life, had to die. Just as Remo Williams had had to die. Just as so many who threatened CURE over the years had had to die. It was understood. MacCleary was a seasoned agent. He had been one of the finest cold warriors Harold Smith had ever known.

  It was true he was a hard-drinking SOB with a tendency to get sloppy drunk and sentimental. But it had never interfered with his duty. In fact, MacCleary had a saying for those occasions when the work got nasty: America Is Worth A Life.

  But as Harold W. Smith folded the letter after committing Sister Novella's address and phone number to memory and burning it in the immaculate ashtray of his dashboard, he remembered another fact.

  Conrad MacCleary had been a Catholic. Although a lapsed Catholic, obviously he'd not been without sympathy for a nun who had done nothing wrong and perhaps everything right.

  Smith crushed the warm gray ashes to powder as he drove back toward Rye and Folcroft, his patrician face was thoughtful.

  From beyond the grave, Conrad MacCleary may have provided CURE with the one thing it most needed now. A way to hold on to its enforcement agent.

  Smith said a silent thank you to the memory of his old comrade in arms.

  As a precaution, he emptied the ashes into three different trash receptacles along the route so no one could ever resurrect the note.

  Chapter 16

  "I'm going to hit the sack," Remo said when the keel of the rowboat finally grated on the sands of Waikiki Beach.

  Dawn was peeping over the Pacific. The night wind off the water had abated, leaving only an eerie calm. "If you slept on the boat, as you claim, why do you need more sleep?" Chiun asked, waiting in the boat for his pupil to drag the craft out of the water by its painter so he could step off onto dry ground, as befitted his station as Reigning Master.

  To Chiun's surprise, Remo did no such thing. He started inland, saying with utmost disrespect, "I'm going to find a nice quiet hotel and sleep on a Western bed for a change."

  Chiun's facial hair trembled in anger. "You will not sleep on a Western bed. I forbid it!"

  "Try and stop me," Remo hurled back.

  Suddenly the Master of Sinanju was standing in the darkness before Remo.

  Remo took a wary step backward. "Do I have to fight you, too?" he asked wearily.

  "It is not yet time."

  "What do you mean?"

  "If you desire sleep so much, I will allow this. But on the morn we journey to Hesperia."

  "Tomorrow we'll see
about Hesperia."

  "We are going to Hesperia," Chiun insisted.

  "I said we'll see!" Remo flared, and stalked off into the night.

  The Master of Sinanju watched him go, saying nothing, his face a stiff mask of papyrus. In the moonlight it had the grim aspect of a death mask.

  REMO CHECKED into the Waikiki Sheraton and threw himself facedown on a queen-size bed the moment he stepped into his suite. It was against all of Chiun's teachings to sleep on a bed and not a reed mat, but Remo no longer cared. After all that Chiun had put him through, the old Korean could take a flying leap into the Void.

  Sleep took Remo within seconds of his face hitting the down pillow.

  HE FOUND HIMSELF in a room of gold walls, heaped with treasure. In the center a thick-bodied man sat on a throne of teak chased with silver and gold. He wore a flowing silk robe of the brilliant red hue believed in the Orient to ward off evil demons.

  Remo recognized the man on the throne instantly. "Wang?"

  "The Great Wang, if you please." And the Great Wang grinned like a cherub. "I see you've made it all the way to the Rite of Attainment. Good for you, Remo Williams. Good for you. I was beginning to wonder about you."

  "Maybe you can tell me why I'm having all these dreams about past Masters."

  "Chiun didn't tell you?"

  "Chiun flat-out denied my dreams mean anything."

  "That is so like him. Cloaking a simple ritual in mystery just to milk the moment."

  "Simple ritual? Do you know what he's got me doing?"

  Wang beamed. His perfect smile made his high forehead fall into doughy rolls of flesh. "Sure. Been through it myself. You chase around till you're ready to drop. When you do, past Masters visit you, look you over and, if they like what they see, dispense wisdom."

  "The dreams are part of the Rite?" Remo demanded.

  "It was so from the first Master who emerged from the Caves of Mist to those who came just before you."

  "So that's who that was."

  "Hey. Did you meet Sa Mangsang yet?"

  "Yeah. And I hope I never do again. Was it a dream?"

  "Is this a dream?"

  Remo frowned. "It feels like a dream. I'm asleep. I think. But these dreams are making too much sense to be dreams."

  "Have you fought the Minotaur yet?"

  "Yeah. It was only Chiun in the dark wearing a bull mask."

  "Too bad. In my day we had a real Minotaur. It made for an interesting experience."

  "Minotaurs aren't real."

  "They say that about dragons now. But I slew a few in my time."

  "Hey, I thought Masters were supposed to have a visit from the Great Wang only once in their lifetime."

  "They are. That was when you were awake. My appearance signified you had reached full Masterhood. Since you're fast asleep, this doesn't count."

  "Oh," said Remo.

  "And now you're on the threshold of taking over the House. You know, Chiun should have retired years ago."

  "Really?"

  "Absolutely. Instead, he's been hogging all the glory long after his time." Wang shook his round head. "Tsk tsk. Reckless. What if you both fall into the same trap and die? No more House."

  "I never thought about it before."

  Wang leaned forward conspiratorially. "Did you guess the riddle of the Sphinx?"

  "No"

  "No? How could you miss that? It was as plain as the nose on your face."

  "That's what Chiun said."

  "Look, I'll give you a hint." And laying a finger beside his nose like old Saint Nick, the Great Wang pushed his broad nose aside, flattening it. He made his ears stick out, as if pushed forward by a pharaonic headdress.

  "You! That was you?"

  "The very same," said the Great Wang, letting his nose and ears bounce back. "When a later pharaoh begged me to come help him out, I went back and collected. Made those untrustworthy welchers recarve the entire face to match mine. They were hopping mad when I spurned their gold, but a promise made to the House of Sinanju must be kept. If we let pharaohs go back on their word to us, soon every ragtag emir, caliph and pasha would take advantage."

  "You're the Sphinx."

  Wang leaned back on his throne. "The Great Sphinx. You keep forgetting my honorific. I worked very hard to earn it."

  "Sorry."

  "Don't tell Chiun I told you, either. Let him think you figured it out for yourself."

  "Did Chiun figure it out for himself?"

  "Sure. He's very sharp."

  "So, do I have to fight you, too?"

  Wang grinned broadly. "Do you think you'd win?"

  "Well, you are the Great Wang."

  "And you're the dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju. The avatar of the prophecy. Shiva incarnate himself."

  "I don't believe that Shiva stuff."

  "Hey, you're talking to the prophet who first prophesied that."

  "Sorry."

  "Well, you'll find out. You are allowed to ask me one question, by the way. Got anything interesting?"

  "Yeah. When you first discovered the sun source, a ring of fire appeared in the sky and a voice spoke to you. What was it?"

  The Great Wang shrugged good-naturedly.

  "I've been trying to figure that one out these last two or three thousand years. The fire blinded me and the voice filled my brain. I think it was Sanshin."

  "The Mountain Spirit. Don't tell me Chiun never told you about the Mountain Spirit?"

  "Maybe he did. I don't pay much attention to the mystic stuff."

  "Sanshin is the Mountain Spirit. A good spirit. If it wasn't Sanshin, then it could have been Hanunim, the Celestial Emperor, or maybe the man in the moon. I know it wasn't Yong-Wang, the Dragon King. He rules over water, and I wasn't anywhere near water. Maybe it's better not to know. The fire came, I understood my brain and my body better than any Master before me and the House was saved."

  "I always wondered about that."

  "If you ever find out," the Great Wang said, "look me up when you get to the Void and tell me."

  "Mind telling me how long the Rite of Attainment goes on?"

  "Sorry. You used up your one question. Next time."

  "There's a next time?"

  "No. Figure of speech. Listen, before I go, I have a question for you. How come you didn't ask me about your father?"

  Remo started. "How would you know about my father?"

  Wang wagged a remonstrating finger. "Uh-uh. That was a question. Ask Nonja. Maybe he'll tell you." And standing up, the Great Wang threw up his arms, making the folds of his red robe lift like wings. When they covered his face completely, the red silk dropped, empty, to drape the teak throne.

  And in the empty air, the Great Wang laughed happily.

  IN THE MORNING, Remo checked his suite. There was no sign of the Master of Sinanju. So he called Harold W. Smith at Folcroft, knowing that it would be afternoon there.

  "Smitty, I need a favor."

  "I have news about your past."

  "Save it. I'm not interested."

  "Do you mind telling me why this change of heart?"

  "Yes. Now, about that favor."

  "State this favor," Smith said coldly.

  "An assignment. Fast."

  "1 thought you were on strike."

  "I'll strike later. I need an assignment yesterday."

  "I have nothing for you."

  "Make something up. I gotta get away from Chiun."

  "Why?"

  "He's dragging me to hell and gone and back again. It's called the Rite of Attainment and it's killing me. I gotta get away for a while. He's got me doing these things he calls athloi. "

  "Athloi?"

  "I don't know what it means, either, but so far I've run against the bulls of Pamplona, moved the Sphinx, fought the Hydra and the Minotaur-"

  "Did you say Minotaur?"

  "It was only Chiun in a costume."

  "Remo," Smith said, "what you are describing reminds me of the Twelve Labors
of Hercules."

  "Yeah, that's what I said six or seven athloi ago."

  "No, I mean literally. To atone for the slaying of his wife Megara and their three sons, done under the influence of madness visited on him by the goddess Hera, Hercules was instructed by the Oracle of Delphi to complete twelve athloi, or labors, after which he would become immortal."

  "Wait a minute. Athloi is Roman, not Korean?"

  "Actually the word is Greek."

  "You get that off your computers?"

  "No, from my classics studies. But I am calling up my data base. Here it is. Scholars disagree on the number and order of these labors, but generally they include besting the Nemean Lion, the Lernaean Hydra, the Erymanthian Boar-"

  "You mean 'bear.'"

  "It says 'boar.'"

  "I tangled with a polar bear. Chiun tried to get me to wear the skin."

  "Hercules wore the skin of the defeated Nemean Lion. Did you encounter a lion?"

  "Not unless you count the Sphinx. He had me move it. What else?"

  "There are defeating the Stymphalian Fowl, cleaning the Augean Stables-"

  "I think I got them both in one shot on a Greek isle," Remo muttered.

  "Besting the Cretan Bull, capturing the Horses of Diomedes, winning the Apples of the Hesperides, finding the Girdle of Hippolyta, saving the Oxen of Geryon, tricking Cerberus. Conquering Cacus the oxrustler, Antaeus the wrestler and the Arcadian Hind round out the list," finished Smith.

  "What's a hind?"

  "An animal with hooves of brass and antlers of gold."

  Remo groaned. "Man, I feel like I've been wrestling dinosaurs and I hardly made a dent in that list. You gotta find me an assignment, Smitty. Anything."

  "Remo, I may have something that will interest you."

  "What's that?"

  "Do you remember Sister Mary Margaret Morrow?"

  "Yeah. What about her?"

  "She is still alive, Remo."

  In the hotel suite, Remo was quiet for a long time. When he spoke again, his voice was seared with shock.

  "MacCleary swore she was dead. Said she died when the orphanage burned down."

  "MacCleary lied. Sister Mary Margaret is in a nursing home maintained by the Catholic Church."