Bidding War td-101

by Warren Murphy

  "The throne that has requested our presence is one of the richest in the modern world."

  "Are we talking about the same Italy?"

  "No, we are not."

  And for the rest of the evening, the Master of Sinanju would say no more. He sat in his tower meditation room poring over the letters from all over the world that praised Sinanju and pleaded for its protection. His thin lips were wreathed in joy.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  When no one picked up the telephone after eighty-seven rings, Harold Smith began to suspect the very worst.

  It was already bad. There was no good news from the President of the United States, and with only silence out of Mexico City, no one knew which way the flea might jump.

  Logging on to his computer, Smith entered the system that tracked credit-card credit checks. A low groan escaped his lips when he came upon a Visa charge for a Boston-to-Rome flight. One-way.

  That in itself wasn't so terrible. Should Chiun decide to go to work for the Italian government, it wasn't the worst-case scenario.

  What made Harold Smith reach, trembling, for a bottle of aspirin was the knowledge that foreign intelligence services were undoubtedly on the highest state of alert, watching airports and rail stations for signs of the Master of Sinanju.

  The bidding war had begun. Ironically, who won was less important than the sure knowledge that the leaders of the losing nations could no longer sleep safely in their beds once the House of Sinanju made its choice.

  Their reaction was the one to be feared.

  Glancing toward the red hot-line telephone, Smith began to bitterly regret restoring the dedicated line. There was no way to explain this to the President. No way at all.

  For the second time in twenty-four hours, Intel reports of troop movements on the Kuwait-Iraq border crossed Ray Foxworthy's desk. He could ignore it no longer.

  Picking up the NOIWON phone, he called Wool-handler at NSA. "Steve. Ray here. I have another report from the Iraqi DMZ."

  "Don't know what to tell you."

  "I think I have to go with this."

  "Done. This is an official NOIWON call now. Do you want to punch up the others or shall I?"

  "I'll do it."

  A moment later the duty officers of the DIA and NRO came on the conference line.

  "I'm alerting you all of continual but unconfirmed reports of Iraqi troop movements along the DMZ," Foxworthy stated.

  "Those reports are flat-out wrong," snapped a metallic voice.

  "Is that DIA talking?"

  "No," said the voice. "NRO. We heard a whisper ourselves, juggled a Keyhole satellite and found the Republican Guard right where they should be. In Basra. On stand down."

  "Did you check the DMZ?"

  "Why should we? If Iraqi forces are accounted for, there's no problem."

  "Well, I can't ignore two consecutive confirmed sightings," Foxworthy argued.

  "Maybe these are UN troops."

  "UN troops wear blue helmets and ride white tanks," the DIA duty officer said dryly. "It's hard to mistake them for the Republican Guard."

  The line fluttered with the constrained laughter of professionally sober men.

  "I feel I have to alert the Pentagon," Foxworthy said stubbornly.

  Nobody laughed at that. Someone whistled a walking-past-the-graveyard whistle, and another voice essayed a muted "Good luck."

  "Nobody wants to support me on this?"

  The silence of the phone line was Ray Foxworthy's answer.

  "Okay, gentlemen. Your reservations are duly noted. Thank you for your time."

  Hanging up, Ray Foxworthy let out a breath that made his lips vibrate unpleasantly. His hand was still on the phone receiver, and his dialing finger was poised over the speed-dial button marked Pentagon.

  Then a better idea hit him. He called the United Nations instead.

  After a brief runaround he got the under secretary for peacekeeping operations.

  "This is Foxworthy. CIA. We have some low-level intelligence here of Iraqi troop activity along that DMZ you're guarding."

  "I have just this hour received a communication from the UNIKOM commander. No such details are to be found in his report."

  "No military activity at all?"

  "No. Not unless one considers routine Royal Kuwaiti Forces desert maneuvers."

  "No. I don't think that's the problem. But I thank you for your time."

  Foxworthy hung up, frowning. Maybe he'd table that Pentagon call after all. Obviously there was nothing to it. The Kuwaitis could maneuver all they wanted. They weren't a threat to anyone. Unless it was to themselves.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  There was a red carpet waiting at the foot of the Air Italia jet air stairs as Remo and Chiun stepped out into the cool Roman air. At the bottom was a crest showing a three-tiered crown.

  At the end of a carpet sat along white limousine and a liveried footman standing stiffly, his hand on the back door.

  When Chiun's black-sandaled foot touched the carpet, brass trumpets blared and the footman opened the door smartly. Pennants fluttered atop raised poles.

  "What's this?" Remo whispered as they approached the limo.

  "I asked for a restrained reception," said Chiun. "We are here to entertain an offer, not strike a bargain. To be received as the royal assassins would be unseemly and possibly discourage other suitors."

  Gleaming like a bar of white chocolate on licorice wheels, the limo wended its way through Rome's choked and difficult byways. Rome was dirty. All of Europe looked dirty to Remo's eyes. He never understood the fascination American tourists had with European cities. Every time he visited a European capital, his skin pores clogged up. Sometimes the instant he stepped off the plane.

  "Isn't that the presidential palace?" Remo asked, indicating a great brownish marble structure that needed sandblasting if not demolition.

  "It does not matter," said Chiun. "Oh, look Remo, there is the Colosseum."

  "I see it. It's hard to miss. Not many two-thousand-year-old buildings look like crumbling wedding cakes."

  "Take note of the course of the River Tiber. Rivers are important. I will explain why later."

  "Right, right. But what about the presidential palace?"

  Chiun dismissed it with a flutter of fingernails. "It is new. It is nothing compared with the faded glory of the Rome of Caesar."

  "Aren't they expecting us?"

  "No. He is expecting us."

  And through the windshield, Remo saw a sight that made his mouth go dry. An ornate dome.

  "Oh, tell me it isn't true," he moaned.

  "It is true."

  "It looks like the Vatican. Tell me it's not the Vatican."

  "It is," the Master of Sinanju said joyfully, "Rome."

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The chief of staff of the United States Army was attempting to explain the disposition of CONUS forces to his Commander in Chief.

  It was day two. They were in the Situation Room in the White House basement. The President was squinting at a big map of the continental U.S. The more he squinted, the bigger his nose seemed to get. But he was trying. He was really trying, so the Joint Chiefs of Staff were determined to walk him through the briefing no matter how much Excedrin was involved.

  "The Mexican forces are arrayed exactly where they were yesterday," the Army chief of staff was saying as he tapped a series of green triangles wavering just under the southern U.S. border.

  "They're waiting for something!" the President suggested.

  In a corner the chairman of the JCS stifled a groan. He had started the briefing three hours earlier, continuing until the President's stultifying thickheadedness had worn him down.

  The Army chief of staff cleared his throat and swung the pointer upward. "They are not a threat, Mr. President."

  "Not an immediate threat."

  "Not a threat at all," the Army chief repeated firmly. "Let me direct your attention to our disposition of forces."

&nb
sp; The President looked interested. Or astigmatic. Possibly both.

  "This map shows the CONUS—"

  The President lifted his hand as if in school. "Who renamed the nation?" he asked.

  "No one. CONUS stands for Continental United States."

  "Oh."

  "Now, as I was saying, this map is broken down into CONUS armies."

  "We have more than one?"

  "If you'll read the legend, you'll see we have four entire armies headquartered in the nation. The First Army, headquartered in Fort George G. Meade, the Second in Fort Gillem, the Fifth is quartered in Fort Sam Houston and the Sixth is presently based in Colorado."

  The President looked troubled. "Where are the Third and Fourth armies?"

  "The Fourth, Mr. President, is inactive."

  "Well, activate them. We may need every jackboot."

  "That's 'man jack,'" the commandant of the Marine Corps muttered under his breath.

  "You don't understand, Mr. President," the Army chief of staff resumed with an angry glance at the Marine commandant. "There's is no Fourth Army. They were—"

  "Decommissioned?"

  The secretary of the Navy began dry-washing his face with his red hands.

  "'Deactivated' is the Army's preferred terminology. They don't exist anymore. Forget I brought them up."

  "Wait a minute. Why don't we—"

  "Reconstitute?" the Army chief said hopefully.

  The President quietly scribbled down the new word. He had a five-page list now. He also knew the difference between a brigade and a division. Although he much preferred the sound of brigade, it was actually a smaller, less formidable force than a division.

  "Yeah. Reconstitute."

  "No time. Not enough volunteers, and I don't think you want to talk about a draft, do you?"

  "Definitely not," the President said.

  "Thought not."

  Around the room smiles were suppressed, producing extremely grave expressions that the President personally admired and reminded himself to practice before the mirror next chance he got.

  "Now, for our purposes we are concerned only with the Sixth Army, whose—"

  "Domain?"

  "Let's say 'domain.' I like that. Their domain is the far western CONUS, and they will have the responsibility for safeguarding California and Arizona."

  "Can't lose those. Think of the electoral votes."

  "The Fifth Army, which is responsible for those areas extending south from Nebraska to include the border states of New Mexico and Texas, will of course guarantee the sanctity of those border states."

  "I still think we need another army___" the President lamented.

  "And you're right," the Army chief of staff said, bursting into a great big smile. "Isn't he right, men?"

  The JCS agreed the President was right.

  "Let me direct your attention to the red circle down here in Panama. That, Mr. President, is the U.S. Army South."

  A confused twinge tweaked the President's face. "No number?"

  "No, sir. The U.S. Army South. Our Southern Command, as we like to call it. Basically, with the Fifth and Sixth perched above the Mexicans and the Southern Command roosting on their back doorstep, we have them surrounded from the git-go."

  The President grinned. He was not only right, but he knew what git-go meant without having to ask. He was starting to get the hang of all this military stuff and decided to venture a solid suggestion. "I propose for the duration of this engagement—"

  "Operation."

  "Operation. I meant to say that. It's not an engagement until we actually engage, is it?"

  "No, sir. And even then it will be a war. But you had a suggestion?"

  "Yes. For the duration I propose we rename the Southern Command the US. Seventh Army so there's no confusion."

  The faces of the JCS fell like crumbling outcroppings.

  "Can't. We already have a Seventh Army."

  "I don't see them on the map___"

  "That's because they're headquartered in Germany."

  "Maybe we should call them back."

  "Not a good idea."

  "Okay. Then the Southern Forces will be the Eighth Army."

  "They're hunkered down on the Korean DMZ. We pull them out, and I guarantee you Seoul will fall in two days flat."

  "Damn," said the President. "Is there a Ninth Army?"

  "Not in name."

  "Then who's protecting Alaska and Hawaii?"

  "That would be the U.S. Army Pacific."

  "Why aren't they on the map?"

  "Because for the purposes of this briefing, we assume no Mexican military threat to Alaska and Hawaii, Mr. President."

  "I think I follow you now."

  "So in conclusion—" the other JCS members perked up at the welcome word, conclusion "—I submit to you that our borders are secure."

  The President beamed. "I can see that now."

  "Great."

  The phone shrilled. It was the direct line to the Pentagon.

  The JCS chair picked it up and said, "We're briefing CinC CONUS here."

  "That's you, Mr. President," the secretary of the Navy said to the President. "It's short for Commander in Chief CONUS."

  The President positively beamed. He had a new title.

  "What's that?" the JCS chair said into the receiver. After listening a moment, he said, "I'll pass the word." And he hung up.

  The JCS chair adjusted his glasses and said, "That was the Pentagon. We have word from our Marine air base listening post in Yuma that the Mexicans are announcing to the world they have a secret weapon."

  "What's it called?"

  "El Diablo."

  "Isn't that Spanish for 'the Devil'?"

  "That's what they're calling it."

  The President looked shaken. "This sounds serious. Can they have a secret weapon with a name like that?"

  "If they do, it's their secret weapon. They can call it whatever they want."

  "I don't like the sound of it…"

  "Propaganda."

  "What if it's not? What if American cities are at risk?"

  The Joint Chiefs of Staff exchanged doubtful, worried glances. For once they didn't know what to tell the President of the United States. They had never heard of any weapons system like El Diablo, but the very name made them fidgety.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  "No matter what happens," Remo Williams was saying, "I'm kissing nobody's ring."

  The Master of Sinanju made no reply. He had held his silence since the white chocolate limousine had conveyed them through one of the three gates to the walled city-state in the heart of modern Rome called the Vatican.

  "You hear me? I don't kiss rings."

  They were following the ramrod figure in the crimson vestments who had greeted them as they exited the limousine.

  He had announced himself in heavily accented English as the cardinal secretary of state. Chiun had said nothing then, only inclined his head politely toward the cardinal, who gestured them to follow.

  Now Chiun spoke, his voice sounding faraway. "On these grounds good Nero had his gardens and his circus. Christians were put down in wonderful numbers."

  "I don't give a novena," said Remo.

  "Lower your rude voice, and banish from your mind that we are about to meet the supreme pontiff of your childhood religion. For this pope is also the head of this state, and we must treat him as we would treat a ruler whose favor we court."

  They were escorted through a green-grown path and after turning a corner found themselves in the verdant splendor of the Belvedere Courtyard.

  Remo saw the stooped man in dazzling white, flanked by two medieval figures following with raised pikes. The pontifical Swiss Guard.

  The pope's kindly eyes brightened at the sight of the Master of Sinanju. He came forward, his white vestments floating about his legs. He walked with a cane now, Remo saw. But his step was confident. A gold crucifix as long as a child's forearm gleamed on his immaculate white breast.


  Only when he was very close did Remo detect the fragility of age again. The kindly eyes skated past him momentarily and it was like a kick in his stomach.

  The Master of Sinanju ceased his forward glide, pausing expectantly. The pope halted. Only three feet separated them. Their ancient eyes locked. Held. And an arduous minute passed.

  "What's going on?" Remo asked Chiun in low Korean.

  "Kiss his ring," Chiun hissed. "Quickly."

  "Not a chance. What's the freaking holdup?"

  "This upstart is waiting for me to bow to him."

  "So, bow. It won't kill you."

  "I kissed his ring last time. It is your turn," Chiun declared.

  "Fine—just say something."

  "I cannot. I am waiting for him to bow."

  "The pope isn't going to bow to you."

  "That is why you must kiss his ring. To dispel the awkwardness of this difficult moment," Chiun explained.

  "I am not kissing his freaking ring!"

  Standing to one side, the cardinal secretary of state whispered low words in Latin. Chiun replied in the same tongue.

  The cardinal then whispered into the Pope's tilted ear.

  The careworn face of the supreme pontiff brightened, and he turned to Remo to say in English, "My son, my son. It is good to make your acquaintance."

  And when the pope's heavy gold ring came up, Remo couldn't help himself. He half knelt and kissed it.

  After that the ice was broken.

  The pope and the Master of Sinanju drew off to one side to confer in low whispers. From time to time the pope beamed in Remo's direction. For his part the Master of Sinanju was animated. His arms flapped frequently, his deadly nails orbiting the Pope's still form so tightly Remo began to fear Chiun would slay him with a careless gesture.

  Feeling left out, Remo struck up a conversation with the portly cardinal secretary of state. "What did Chiun say to you?"

  "The Master conveyed the happy news that the next Master of the House of Sinanju was a Christian."

  "He told the pope that!"

  "His Holiness was quite pleased. For it has been too long since the House stood beside the Holy See."

  "We worked against Rome, too," Remo argued.

  The cardinal secretary of state paled slightly and excused himself, hurrying away like a frightened red robin.