Bidding War td-101

by Warren Murphy

  "Back to you soonest." Foxworthy disconnected and stabbed an inside-line button.

  A dry voice said, "Linguistics."

  "Foxworthy. Korean."

  An Asian voice came on. "Go ahead."

  "Sinanju. What does it mean?"

  "Exact pronunciation, please."

  "The way I told it to you is the way I have it," Foxworthy snapped.

  "Well, depending on how the syllables break, it might mean New Hors d'Oeuvres."

  "Hors d'ouevres! As in canapes?"

  "That's the closest English equivalent."

  "Hors d'ouevres isn't English."

  "The exact translation of 'anju' is 'something tasty to have with drinks. 'Sin' can mean 'new.' Now, if we assume it's not 'anju' as in hors d'ouevres,' but two separate words, then 'ju' means 'far.'"

  "And you said 'sin' means 'new.'"

  "Right."

  "So we get New-blank-Far. What's does 'an' mean?"

  "That's a long list, starting with a common Korean last name. Without knowing the exact pronunciation, this is as far as I'm willing to take this linguistic analysis."

  "That'll do. No sense getting too deep in."

  Hanging up, Foxworthy got back to Chattaway at the NRO. "There's some muddiness here, but 'sin' means 'new' and 'ju' is for 'far,' so we have New-something-Far Scorpion."

  "Hmm. This is not good. New-something-Far Scorpion. Sounds long-range."

  "Definitely long-range."

  "Well, I guess we're on the NOIWON now."

  The other intelligence agencies came on the line, and no one had anything to offer to the analysis as the NRO laid it out.

  The JCS chair came on the line and said, "Thank you, gentlemen. This is all I need to know."

  And everyone wondered what the JCS chair was going to do about the new North Korean threat that made the atomic bomb seem as dangerous as a runaway cheese wheel.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Over a city whose airport control tower welcomed them to the true Macedonia, the Master of Sinanju looked down at a shining river and said, "They lie."

  "What river is that?" Remo asked.

  "The Ishm."

  "So where are we?"

  "Over Illyria."

  Remo consulted a map on his lap. "I don't see any Illyria."

  "Country names are transitory. Find the Ishm."

  "Right. Oh, here it is. We're over Tiranë. Capital of Albania. I'd better go talk to the pilot."

  When Remo came back from the cockpit, he told the Master of Sinanju, "The tower offered him a pile of gold to land us here."

  "He has been properly chastised?"

  "The copilot can handle things while the pilot's fingers are out of commission."

  Finally at the Skopje airport, Remo stepped out first. From the air Skopje looked like Athens. But Chiun had pronounced the river to be the true Vardar.

  There was an honor guard, but the uniforms were a different shade of green, though just as bold. A trumpet and drum fanfare began.

  When Remo appeared, the artillery salute commenced and a red carpet unrolled like a frog's tongue seeking a fly. When the gold-fringed end reached the bottom of the air stairs, it exposed the sixteen-point golden Sun of Vergina that Remo remembered from the official stationery of the Macedonian government.

  Remo called back into the cabin. "We're here!"

  Only then did Chiun stride majestically out, his chin up, his hazel eyes agleam.

  He took a deep breath that puffed out his chest.

  "Yes, this is Macedonia."

  "How do you know?"

  "The air smells of the Vardar. It smells correct."

  "I'll take your word for it," said Remo, who smelled goat cheese and grape leaves and other odors he associated with Greece.

  An erect man in a plain business suit wearing a red tie with the Sun of Vergina on it came striding up to meet the Master of Sinanju. His thick silvery gray hair lay close to his skull, as if a flatiron had tamed it.

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Chiun eyed him haughtily.

  "I am who summoned you," the erect man said.

  "No one summons the Master of Sinanju, lackey. Where is the king of Macedonia?"

  "King?"

  "Yes. I will treat with him and no other."

  "But I am he."

  "Where are your robes, your crown, your scepter of gold?"

  "This is the twentieth century. We have no more of these things. I am the president."

  Chiun's face collapsed.

  "Democracy," he spit. "If Sinanju is to serve your land, you must appoint a proper king."

  "That is all it will take?"

  "That and gold."

  "We have gold. Some. Yes, if the House requires a king, then I shall be your king."

  Then and only then did the Master of Sinanju bow his respects to the ruler of Macedonia.

  On the way to the black limousine sporting decals of the Sun of Vergina on the hood, trunk, door panels and hubcaps, the ruler of Macedonia regarded Remo warily and asked, "Are you Greek?"

  "No."

  "Good," said the ruler of Macedonia.

  "He is my apprentice," said Chiun.

  "A Westerner? Does he have Macedonian blood in him?"

  "Definitely not," said Remo.

  "Possibly," said Chiun. "He is unfortunately a mutt. There is no telling what ichor befouls the purity of his Sinanju-blessed veins."

  "I resent that," Remo declared.

  "Better a mutt than a cur," said the ruler of Macedonia as the limo door was opened for him.

  He graciously allowed the Master of Sinanju to enter first. Then he stepped in, closing the door on Remo's hurt face.

  Remo took a step back and kicked the rear tire flat. The limousine settled, and amid a flurry of retinue and aides, a backup limo pulled up, looking less like the Batmobile than the first.

  This time Remo was allowed to climb in first. Next to the chauffeur.

  At the presidential palace the ruler of Macedonia excused himself while Remo and Chiun were seated on plush floor pillows and serenaded with lyre and zither music. Songs were sung. All in praise of Aleksandar Veliki—Alexander The Great.

  Chiun sat serenely through it all. Remo yawned a lot.

  The ruler of Macedonia showed up within the hour, wearing scarlet robes trimmed in ermine. On his silvery head perched a heavy crown of gold adorned with emeralds. The gold looked like gilt, and the emeralds lacked luster and had collected visible scratches.

  On the chest of the newly renamed king of Macedonia glowed the Sun of Vergina. Remo was reminded of Captain Marvel and, for lack of something better to occupy his mind, began wondering if they still published his adventures. Remo had liked Captain Marvel as a kid. He was a lot more fun than Superman, who was stuck with that pesky Lois Lane. Though Captain America had his qualities, too.

  "And now we will feast!" proclaimed the king of Macedonia in an expansive voice. And all raised glasses of plum brandy in toast to the return of the Master of Sinanju.

  Chiun beamed more broadly. His thin eyes narrowed to happy little walnuts of pleasure. His long-nailed hands came together like an infant applauding himself.

  "Did you hear that, Remo? A feast. Smith never so much as invited us to break bread in his home."

  "Good. I'm starved."

  "Hush. The feast is not for our stomachs, but for our souls."

  "Still, I'm eating."

  "Remember your pledge. No maize."

  "Don't remind me."

  When the food came, it was conveyed in steaming pots and samovars. There was much lamb, great hunks of beef and fowl and other dishes that delighted the senses with their vibrant colors and scents.

  When all was laid out before them and the king of Macedonia had joined them on the floor of his palace dining room, whose Western-style furniture had been cleared out in deference to the more refined sensibilities of the Master of Sinanju, Remo and Chiun both spoke the same sentence in the same beat.

  "Where i
s the rice?"

  "Rice?" said the ruler of Macedonia. "Rice is Greek."

  "Rice is Korean," said Chiun.

  "Rice is food," echoed Remo.

  "Have we rice?"

  The chief said, "No. Rice is outlawed as a forbidden Greek foodstuff."

  Remo started. "You outlawed rice?"

  "Greek rice," the Macedonian king said hastily. "Unfortunately we have no Korean rice."

  "Japanese rice will suffice," said Chiun.

  "Or Chinese," added Remo.

  "Alas, we have no rice of any kind due to an unjust Greek embargo."

  Chiun's hands fluttered in annoyance. "No rice? No rice? The first Master of Sinanju was paid in rice."

  The downcast king of Macedonia brightened. "Truly? You would accept rice in payment?"

  "No. I said the first Master, for in the days of the first Master gold was unknown and the first coins lay in the dirt unminted."

  "I didn't know that," said Remo, genuinely interested. "I guess that's sorta like Will Work For Food, huh?"

  A slap on his knee informed Remo that he was not to interrupt again.

  "It was in the days of Master Kum that the House first knew of gold. When offered gold instead of rice, he instead slew the king who requested service."

  "Did he keep the gold?" the Macedonian king wondered.

  "Of course. For it was payment," Chiun answered testily.

  "Later, a king of Lydia named Croesus created the first coins of gold, and Kum, curious of this, sought service of him. When the coin was proffered, it looked to Kum's eye like a kind of food the Japanese made, ornate and appealing to the eye. When the king attempted to show its purity by making tooth marks on it, Master Kum took the coin and attempted to eat it."

  "He slay Croesus?" Remo asked.

  "No. But as gold and coin became the currency of greatest value in the ancient world, Masters ever since have demanded gold first and other valuables secondly."

  "You will not accept rice?" asked the king of Macedonia.

  "As tribute, yes. As payment, no. You have gold?"

  "Some. Some. But I must tell you about Macedonia."

  "Where's the fish?" interrupted Remo.

  "In with the stew."

  "I can't eat fish stew."

  "It is good."

  "It has corn floating in it," Remo complained.

  "Pick the corn out."

  "He cannot taste any food that has been contaminated by corn," Chiun said loftily. "For he has allergies."

  Remo hunted among the arrayed dishes with his dark eyes. "You got duck?"

  "No duck. But there are many delightful dishes prepared. Sample any. If you like it, eat your fill."

  "I'll have water," said Remo unhappily.

  A flagon of water big enough to bathe in was hauled in by two strapping waiters.

  Remo dipped a finger in, sniffed and sampled it.

  "Brackish."

  "It came from the Varda."

  "Brackish," Remo repeated.

  Chiun spoke up. "Back to the gold."

  "This is a proud land," said the king of Macedonia, beating the sunburst on his chest in his deep pride. "The Serbs conquered us. The Turks conquered us. The Greeks conquered us. But we are still here. We are still Macedonians."

  Chiun nodded sagely. "Do you contemplate continued service or a single dispatch?"

  "We invite the House of Sinanju to bask in the radiance of the Sun of Vergina for as long as you wish, because our houses share such deep historical ties."

  "Yes. Very good. Macedonia is eternal," Chiun stated.

  "I am glad you think that way."

  "But gold is forever. Duration of service equals the weight of gold. In order to speak of the gold, the service required must be known."

  "You may have all the gold in our treasury, if only you will swear allegiance to Great Macedonia," the king said magnanimously.

  Chiun's small nose wrinkled up. Remo dipped a cup into the brackish water and sipped slowly through his clenched teeth, hoping to strain out the most disagreeable impurities. To the horror of all, he ended up spitting the water back into the flagon.

  The Master of Sinanju raised his voice to cover the rude noise.

  "Sinanju will consider extended service, then. And the gold in your treasury will suffice—"

  The king of Macedonia clapped his hands together. "Excellent!"

  "—providing it is equivalent to the gold bestowed upon the House by the Persian, Darius."

  The king stroked his chin carefully. "How much gold was that?"

  Eyeing the attentive retinue, Chiun said, "Some matters are best not spoken of in the presence of those who depend upon the gold of the emperor for their comforts."

  "Ah." The king leaned forward. An amount was whispered in his ear.

  The king froze, leaned back on his cushion and went so pale his scarlet robes deepened to crimson.

  "That would be acceptable," he said slowly.

  "Good."

  "—if we had such an amount. But we do not."

  Chiun frowned. "How much gold does your treasure house contain?"

  The king looked left and right and leaned forward. He whispered an amount.

  On his cushion the Master of Sinanju stiffened, hazel eyes widening.

  All the color drained from his face. He arose, so perfect he might have been a yellow flower seeking the sun.

  "Come, Remo," he said in a cold voice. "We must leave this fraud that dare call itself Macedonia, for they have no gold."

  The king of Macedonia leapt to his feet. "Please do not go."

  "Forget it," said Remo, opening the exit door for the haughty figure of the Master of Sinanju. "Next time remember the rice."

  Remo had to drive the limo back to the airport, and when he got there, the entire artillery complement of the Macedonian army sat waiting. Both cannons.

  After a knot of sweating officers finished ramming the iron balls into the mouth and tamping them down with ramrods resembling giant Q-Tips, they fired the powder hole with a Bic lighter.

  Remo was just exiting the limo when the cannon-ball began whistling in his direction.

  One ball arced high from the west. Remo stepped to the rear fender and slammed the trunk lid with a hand that caused it to spring open.

  The ball impacted the vertical armored trunk lid, making a wonderful reverberation. The ball stuck to the lid. Remo smacked it with his hand, dislodging it. It toppled into the trunk, and Remo slammed the lid back. The limo stopped rocking on its springs.

  The other ball came whistling from the south and, after it whistled over their heads, went whistling happily to the north.

  It landed somewhere in a patch of weeds with a meaty thunk.

  Climbing aboard the waiting jet, Remo waved to the chagrined artillery officers and closed the door behind the Master of Sinanju.

  There was no problem getting clearance. All Remo had to do was promise the tower he'd stop flinging luggage at their heads if they were cleared immediately.

  He was thanked for his consideration. Chiun translated.

  "What language was that?" he asked Chiun.

  "Bulgar," sniffed Chiun.

  "I thought Macedonia was Greek."

  "Macedonia," intoned Chiun as the jet's wheels left the ground, "is no more."

  "We came all this way to do a little business, and not only did we get rooked on a decent meal, but they try to kill us to boot."

  That last thought brought a wistful smile of satisfaction to the Master of Sinanju's papery lips.

  "There is at least consolation in that."

  Remo just rolled his eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff wore his face like a waxen mask. His mouth moved as he spoke in a mechanical fashion, but nothing else did. His voice was grim. His eyes were lusterless stones.

  "Mr. President, we are embroiled in a new arms race."

  "With whom?" asked the President.

  "With everyo
ne outside of Uruguay and Samoa," he said flatly.

  It was like a slap in the face to the beleaguered Chief Executive. The grim tone of the JCS chair's voice carried no accusation, but the harsh lash of his words seemed to say, It is your fault and you must deal with it.

  "We do not yet understand the nature of this weapon, Mr. President, but we must initiate a response. We cannot—I must repeat this—cannot and must not allow this first phase to pass by without a stern and uncompromising response."

  "To who? Mexico?"

  Around the Situation Room the faces of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the secretary of defense paled noticeably. No one spoke. All eyes were locked on the masklike face of the JCS chair.

  "I do not advocate a ground war with Mexico," he said.

  Pent-up breaths were released in a slow rush. Color returned to the faces in the cramped white soundproofed room.

  "Let me show you something," the JCS chair said.

  From his black valise case came a sheaf of satellite photographs to which were clipped brief typed reports, one for each man in the cramped room. Their chins dropped as their eyes fell on the documents.

  "You are looking at an hours-old high-res satellite photograph of an installation on the west coast of North Korea that appears to house the Korean version of this new wonder weapon. Note the three-lane highway and the obvious attempts to camouflage the site as a fishing village."

  Everyone agreed that it was a fishing village with its own three-lane superhighway.

  "What are these two curved shadows on the beach?" the President asked.

  "That," said the JCS chair, "is the question of the hour. I have here a computer-generated image of what they probably look like from ground level."

  A glossy color graphic was placed in the center of the table. The President took it. The others leaned in.

  It showed, in the vivid paint-box colors of cyberspace, the beach as seen from the water. There was sand, tumbled rock and in the background a cluster of ramshackle fishing shacks.

  At either end of the beach was a half arch of what appeared to be natural rock. The tips of both horns faced one another. Pushed closer together, they would form a natural arch.

  "Christ!" said the secretary of defense. "These look like the Horns of Old Saint Nick."

  "My thought exactly," breathed the President.

  "We didn't know what it is. We don't know what it does. Assuming these new terror weapons are one and the same, we have only to locate similar formations in other hostile countries, target them with our ICBMs and we have our countermeasure."