Assassins Play Off td-20

by Warren Murphy

  "Oh, Remo," he said in a sad, pained voice. He said nothing further as he unwrapped the left shoulder and then he said it again, "Oh, Remo."

  "The one who hit the leg was the best of all," Remo said. "Wait until you see it." He paused. "Chiun, how did you know I would come here?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "When you said goodbye to Smith, you said I would be here."

  Chiun shrugged as he bent toward the bandage on Remo's right thigh. "It is written that you would."

  "Written where?" asked Remo.

  "On the men's room wall at Pittsburgh Airport." said Chiun nastily. "In the books of Sinanju," he said.

  "And what does it say?" asked Remo.

  Chiun deftly removed the bandage from Remo's thigh. This time he said nothing.

  "That bad, huh?"

  "I have seen worse," said Chiun. "Although not on anybody who survived."

  He took a bowl from a small table near Remo's sleeping mat. "Drink this," he said. He lifted Remo's head and brought a cup to Remo's lips. The liquid was warm and almost tasteless except for what seemed to be a trace of salt.

  "Awful. What is it?"

  "It is a mixture from the seaweed that will start making you well again."

  He let Remo's head down slowly. Remo felt tired. "Chiun," he said in a questioning voice.

  "Yes, my son."

  "You know who did this to me, don't you?"

  "Yes, my son, I know."

  "He is coming, Little Father," said Remo. His eyelids grew heavier as he spoke. It seemed as if his words were being spoken by someone else.

  "I know, my son. He is coming."

  "He may try to hurt you, Little Father."

  "Sleep now, Remo. Sleep and heal."

  Remo's eyes closed and he began to drift off. He heard Chiun's voice again. "Sleep and heal, my son."

  And then Chiun's final words. "Heal quickly."

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  And thus it came to pass that the Master of Sinanju did walk along the path in the village where he had once been of such honor.

  His feet were heavy, as was his heart, because he knew that powerless, unprotected was the young disciple from the land across the sea, and because he knew that the evil force that would destroy that disciple would soon make its appearance on the rocky soil of Sinanju.

  And the Master thus had no patience with the tongues of fools, and when people approached him on the path, to talk about the young disciple, about the leadenness of his step, about the infirmities that seemed as if they were of age, the Master had no patience with them and flailed about and scattered them as the barking dogs scatters the goose. But he did not harm the people who gave him such aggravation, because it has always been written, since the dawn of writing, that the Master must not raise his hand in anger to harm a person from the village.

  And it was this very command that gave the Master such pain of spirit. Because the one who was coming to destroy the young disciple was of the village of Sinanju, yea, even of the blood of the Master, and the Master could find no way in which he might violate his ages-old vow and inflict upon that one the death he deserved.

  Yea, as the Master walked alone, he thought that his disciple, injured as he was, defenseless as a babe as he was, that his disciple would be killed, and Chiun, the Master of Sinanju, could not protect him because of his vow never to hurt someone from the village.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Premier Kim Il Sung was at the plain wooden desk in his office in the People's Building in Pyongyang when the secretary entered the room.

  The secretary was a young captain of artillery. He affected a gabardine military uniform instead of the rough canvas-textured khaki that was official government issue, but Sung had never held this against him because he was a good secretary.

  Communists could come and Communists could go; military styles could come and go; pride even could come and go, but good secretaries were to be nurtured.

  Once, years before, Sung had been accused of turning into a reactionary rightwinger after seizing power, and he had explained in what he considered his gentle voice that all revolutionaries become conservatives after gaining power. "Radicalism is fine for revolution," he had said, "but conservatism is what gets the trucks out of the garage in the morning."

  He had then displayed his continuing revolutionary zeal by throwing the insulter into a prison for two weeks. When the man was released, Sung summoned him to his office.

  The man, a minor official from one of the provinces, had stood before Sung, humiliated, chastened.

  "Now you know you cannot judge everything by appearances," Sung had said. "It was an easy lesson for you to learn because you are still alive. Many have not been so lucky."

  So it was that Kim Il Sung rated his secretary by secretarial standards and not by any standard of appearance set for soldiers. And so it was that Sung rated the man his secretary ushered in to see him, not by his size or his clothing or his speech, but by a kind of internal fire that seemed to come through the man's eyes and that invested all his words with power.

  "I am Nuihc," the man said, "and I have come to serve you."

  "Why am I so lucky?" said Sung.

  He saw immediately that the man named Nuihc had no sense of humor.

  "Because it is through you that I can regain the hereditary title of my family. Master of Sinanju."

  "Yes," said Kim Il Sung. "I have met the Master. He is a charming old rogue."

  "He is a very old man," said Nuihc. "It is time for him to tend his vegetable garden."

  "Why do you bother me with this?" asked Kim Il Sung. "Who cares what a small band of brigands does in one tiny village?"

  He had chosen his words carefully and was rewarded by a small flash of anger in Nuihc's eyes.

  "You know, my Premier, that that is not so," said Nuihc. "The House of Sinanju has for centuries been famed in the ruling palaces of the world. Now it is up to you to decide whether or not you wish the house to be run by a Westerner… an American. Because that is the choice. Who will be the new Master: Me? Or an American who represents the CIA and the other spy agencies of the government in Washington?"

  "And again, I ask, why does it concern me?"

  "You know the answer to that," said Nuihc. "First, our nation will be a laughing stock if this hereditary house becomes the property of an American. And second, the powers of the House are well known to you. Those powers could be put to use in your behalf, to the benefit of your rule. Not as they are now, working for the capitalists of Wall Street. Do you know, for a certainty, that the power of Sinanju will not be turned against you tomorrow or the next day? Whenever Washington wills it, Premier, you will pass into the pages of history for the dead, killed in office. You can prevent that."

  Sung thought about those words for a long while before answering. He had met Chiun, and there had seemed to spring up almost a bond of friendship, but the old man had told him that he worked for the United States. This Nuihc might be right. One day, a word might come and soon Kim Il Sung would be dead.

  On the other hand, what guarantee did Sung have that Nuihc would be any better? He looked carefully into Nuihc's face. His blood relationship with the old man was obvious; there were the same lines of face and body, the same feeling of coiled spring tension when the man only stood casually in front of Sung's desk.

  "You wonder," Nuihc said, "whether or not you can trust me."

  "Yes."

  "You can trust me for one reason. I am driven by greed. The leadership of the House will give me power and wealth. Beyond that, I want our nation to rise high in the world; I want it to happen because at the side of Kim Il Sung is Nuihc, the new Master of Sinanju."

  Kim Il Sung thought again for a long while, then he said, "I will consider it. In the meantime, you may avail yourself of the hospitality of my house."

  It was almost dark when Chiun returned to his home. Remo still slept. The Korean girl who was Chiun's servant knelt by the white man's side, occasionall
y blotting up the sweat from his brow.

  "Be gone," said Chiun.

  The girl rose and bowed deferentially toward Chiun.

  "He is very ill, Master."

  "I know, child."

  "He has no strength. Are white people always so weak?"

  Chiun looked at her sharply but could tell she meant no disrespect. Yet here she was, Chiun's servant, the one loyal follower in the village, and even she could not hide her disappointment that Chiun had picked a white man to learn the role of the Master for that day when Chiun would rule no longer.

  He struggled to keep his temper, then said softly, "Many are weak, child. But this one was strong, a giant among men, until he was brought down by the cunning attacks of a cowardly jackal's henchmen, a jackal too cowardly to attack himself."

  "That is terrible, Master," said the girl, her face and voice ringing with the earnestness of someone who wanted desperately to believe. "I wish I could meet this jackal."

  "You shall, child. You shall. And so shall he," Chiun said. He looked at Remo as if looking at a faraway cloud and then returned to the present moment and chased the girl from the room.

  "Heal quickly, Remo," he said softly in the silent room. "Heal quickly."

  Nuihc had not tried to leave the room that Kim Il Sung had provided for him in the palace. He was not worried by the guards he knew were outside the door, but he was waiting for an answer.

  At dinner time, there was a knock on the door.

  It opened before Nuihc could speak.

  Kim Il Sung was there. He saw Nuihc sitting on a chair, looking out the window, toward the east, toward west, toward Sinanju. He smiled.

  "Tomorrow we go to Sinanju," Sung said. "To crown a new master."

  "You have chosen wisely," said Nuihc. He smiled also.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The caravan arrived in Sinanju shortly after noon the next day.

  There was a lead car in which sat Kim Il Sung and Nuihc, followed by a car containing the governor of the province and Sung's adviser Myoch'ong. Lesser party officials followed in other cars, and while their mission was to drive the hated American influence from the history of Sinanju, none of them thought it incongruous that they drove in Cadillacs and Lincolns and Chryslers. The motorcycle escort of soldiers, six in front, six behind, six on each side, drove Hondas.

  The caravan was spotted more than a mile outside the city, on the paved road leading to the town which had grown up around the old village of Sinanju. Within minutes, word had reached the old quarter that the premier was coming, along with the real Master of Sinanju, and in only moments word was at the home of Chiun.

  "Master," said the granddaughter of the carpenter to Chiun, who sat on a mat staring through one of the house windows toward the bay, "many men are coming."

  "Yes?"

  "The premier is with them. And so, they say, is one of your blood."

  Chiun turned slowly on the mat to look at the girl.

  "Know one thing, child. When trouble comes, it comes at its own time, never at yours. Even now, how quickly comes the day of darkness."

  He turned back toward the sea and folded his arms and seemed to gaze beyond the bay, as if searching for a land where the sun might yet be shining.

  "And what shall I do, Master?"

  "Nothing. There is nothing we can do." Chiun's voice sounded old and tired.

  The girl stood for a moment, waiting for more, then walked slowly away, confused and not really understanding why the Master was so deeply depressed.

  The caravan of cars skirted the main city of Sinanju, turned toward the shoreline, then followed a dirty sand road that led into the heart of the old village.

  They halted in the square in the center of town, and Nuihc and the premier stepped out onto the street. The premier wore his military tunic, Nuihc a two-piece black fighting costume. In the custom of Sinanju, it was unbelted. Fighting uniforms were belted for demonstrations; for fights to the death, no belts were worn. This tradition dated back four hundred years when two of Chiun's ancestors had fought for the vacant title of Master of Sinanju. One of the contenders wore a uniform with belt. Five minutes later he had been strangled with the belt. Since that time, no Master had worn a belted uniform except in exercise, practice, or demonstration. But never in combat.

  Nuihc looked up and down the streets. He could see people peering through their windows but afraid to come out onto the street until they knew more about this caravan and its meaning.

  "It has been many years since I walked this ground," said Nuihc. A heavy breeze blew off the bay and swirled his long, shiny black hair about his face. His eyes were narrowed into slits that looked like knife-cuts in smooth yellow flesh.

  Kim Il Sung saw Nuihc's eyes and the blood lust in them, and it was there as if it always belonged there, and for just a moment Sung again wondered if it were not just a matter of time before that lust was turned upon him.

  Chiun's palace was at the end of the street, thirty yards from the square, and now Nuihc looked at it and his face broke into a smile.

  "Let us do it," he said.

  Without waiting for an answer, he stepped off through the dust and sand toward the house of the Master of Sinanju. Kim Il Sung remained standing alongside his vehicle. Purposefully, conscious of the eyes watching him, Nuihc strode to the front door of Chiun's home and pounded on the door with his fist. Under the hammering, shells cracked and broke loose and powdered the wooden step in front of the door.

  "Who is there?" answered a young woman's voice after a long pause.

  "Nuihc is here," said the long-haired man in a loud ringing voice. "Descendant of the Masters of Sinanju, himself the new Master of Sinanju. Send out the American weakling and the senile traitor who has given him our secrets."

  There was a long pause.

  Then the woman's voice again.

  "Go away. No one is home."

  Nuihc pounded upon the door again. "There is no hiding for you, old man, not for you or for the white lackey you would impose upon the people of this village. Come out of there before I come in and drag you out by the scruff of your scrawny neck."

  Another pause.

  The woman's voice again.

  "It is not permitted to enter the Master's house without the Master's permission. Be gone, urchin."

  Nuihc paused as it seeped into his head what Chiun's game was. Nuihc was protected in anything he said to Chiun because the old man, as Master of Sinanju, was not permitted to raise a hand against another from the village. But that protection ended should Nuihc enter Chiun's home uninvited, and Chiun could have the right to deal with him as just another burglar. Nuihc did not like the prospect. Still, how to get the old man and the American out of the house?

  He walked back, jauntily, toward Kim Il Sung. His mind was clicking and he knew the answer.

  He spoke to the premier, and then Sung and his entourage followed Nuihc back to the house.

  Again Nuihc pounded on the door. Again the woman answered: "Go away, I told you."

  "The premier is here," said Nuihc, raising his voice to be sure both Chiun and the villagers heard.

  There was a pause.

  The woman's voice again.

  "Tell him he is in the wrong place. The nearest brothel is in Pyongyang."

  Nuihc spoke out crisply. "Tell the old man that unless he and the imperialist white swine come out, the premier will order this house destroyed by explosion for being what it is: a spy's den giving comfort to an enemy of the state." He turned and smiled at Sung.

  Another pause. Longer this time.

  Finally the woman's voice again: "Return to the village square. The Master will meet you there."

  "Tell him to hurry," ordered Nuihc. "We do not have time to waste on the doddering of the ancient." He turned and walked alongside the premier, back the thirty yards to the village square, where they waited by the premier's Cadillac. Now they were not alone. The people of Sinanju, who had been watching and listening from inside their ho
mes and shops, now stepped out onto the old wooden sidewalks and, as the premier and Nuihc passed, they cheered.

  Inside his home, Chiun had heard Nuihc's final ultimatum and now he heard the cheers and knew what they were for. He stared out toward the bay. After all these years, after all his service, after all the centuries of tradition, it had come to this: a Master of Sinanju, humiliated in his own village by one of his own family, with the village citizens cheering the intruder.

  How pleasant it would be to do what should be done. To step out into the square and to reduce Nuihc to the pile of flesh and bone chip that he should be. But the centuries of tradition that had given him pride also gave Chiun responsibility. He was disgraced now before the villagers, but he would be disgraced in his own eyes if he should strike Nuihc.

  The younger man knew that, and the knowledge of his freedom from attack had emboldened his tongue.

  It should have been Remo, Chiun knew. It was for Remo to meet this challenge, to destroy Nuihc for once and all. So it had been written in the books ages before. But Remo lay asleep, his muscles unable to work, more helpless than a child.

  And because neither Remo nor Chiun could raise an arm against Nuihc, the title of Master of Sinanju was going to pass, for the first time in unremembered centuries, into the hands of one who would not wear it with pride and honor.

  Chiun rose from his mat and went into the main living section of the house and he lit a candle. From a chest, he took a long white robe, the robe of innocence, and a black fighting uniform. He fingered the black uniform fondly, then dropped it atop the chest. He would wear the white robe, the color of the unspoiled. The color of the chicken.

  He donned the robe quickly then kneeled before the candle and prayed to his ancestors. In that moment was crystallized all the training of Sinanju, because its root was: to survive.

  And Chiun had made his decision. He would give up the title of Master. He would trade it for Remo's life. And then one day, when Remo was well, there might be a chance for Remo to reclaim that title.

  It would do Chiun no good. He would, by that time, have been marked in history as a disgrace, the first Master ever forced to give up his title. But at least the title might one day be wrested from Nuihc, and that was some small measure of consolation.