Line of Succession td-73

by Warren Murphy

  "I will. But let us get our story straight before we plunge in. "

  "Tell him whatever you want," said Remo, handing Chiun the receiver.

  "I do not know the stupid codes," said Chiun.

  "Make you a deal. You put the quarter in the slot and I'll work the security code."

  "Done," said the Master of Sinanju, removing a red wallet from an inside pocket and extracting a quarter from it. He dropped the coin in the slot, holding the receiver tight to one ear while Remo punched the buttons.

  Remo always hated the codes. He could never remember them, and since he was no longer an official CURE employee, he no longer tried. The last time he had used the code, it had been a continuous one. Remo pressed the one button and held it down. He asked Chiun, "Have you got him yet? He should be coming on about now."

  "No," said the Master of Sinanju. "I am instead listening to some woman claiming to tell me the correct time. She is off by two seconds." Chiun hung up.

  "What'd you hang up for? That was Smith."

  "Has Smith become a woman?"

  "No, the telephone signal goes through the phone system's correct-time service. Smith comes on after the weather."

  "He should have come on before the woman."

  "Let's try again, shall we?"

  "Your quarter this time," said Chiun.

  "I'll have to owe it to you," sighed Remo.

  "And I will have to charge you interest," countered Chiun, dropping another quarter into the slot. Remo leaned on the one button. After a moment Chiun began to chatter anxiously.

  "It is not my fault, Emperor Smith. I tried. Even Remo tried. We could not help what happened. I hope you will keep our past record of success in mind at the next contract signing, for when deciding such important matters it is always wise to keep the total service of a Master of Sinanju in mind."

  "What are you telling him?" asked Remo, grabbing the phone. "What happened to breaking the news gently?"

  "I am beside myself with worry. Never has such a thing happened."

  "Right," said Remo. Into the phone he said, "Hello, Smitty? "

  Harold Smith's voice was dead and flat like that of a man speaking from the grave.

  "Remo, please don't tell me that the Vice-President is dead."

  "No, he's not dead," Remo said. "How badly is he wounded?"

  "He's not."

  "Then what was Chiun babbling about?" Smith wanted to know, his voice rising.

  "I'll make it short," Remo said. "There was another attack. Middle Easterners again. Chiun and I got two of them, but one got past us."

  "Around us," Chiun said loudly enough to be heard three blocks away. "He did not get past us."

  "He got to the Vice-President before we could. Then someone else got to him. Some muscle-bound kung-fu clown. "

  "As fierce a warrior as I have ever before seen," yelled Chiun. "Swift he was, and deadly of hand and eye. Also, he cheated. He climbed in through a window instead of using the front door like a civilized bodyguard."

  Remo just looked at Chin blankly. Chiun subsided into silence.

  "As I was saying," Remo went on, still looking at Chiun's worried face, "this guy beat us to the punch. He took out the last killer. Claimed he's the Vice-President's new bodyguard, but wouldn't say who sent him until we were out of the room."

  "I see," said Smith. "I assume you're calling from Blair House to request an identity check on this new element?"

  "Not exactly," said Remo. "We're out on the street. The Vice-President kicked us out."

  "Kicked-"

  "Yeah, he thought this kung-fu surfer was great shakes. He also thinks we took out his Secret Service protection just so the terrorists could get a clear shot at him. I think he blamed you, Smitty."

  "Me?" Smith's voice was sick.

  "He was yelling about an investigation, charges. Says we're all washed up."

  "Think of plausibility," yelled Chiun. "It is not too late. I will be as your Colonel South. I have many neat ideas."

  "What are you babbling about?" asked Remo.

  "It is not of your concern, unemployed person," Chiun sniffed.

  "What was he talking about, Smitty?" asked Remo. "Who's this Colonel South? The blond guy, Adonis?"

  "No. Never mind," Smith sighed.

  "What do we do now, Smitty? We were kicked out, but we take our orders from you. Do we go back in and mop up this guy, or what?"

  "I think under the circumstances if the attackers have been eliminated, we might leave the Vice-President in the hands of this new person. You say he's competent?"

  "He was fast, I'll give him that much."

  "But he was fat," said Chiun. "He is not like us, Emperor, mean and lean. We are the sizzling bacon of the Constitution. "

  Remo glared at Chiun again. "I wish you'd make up your mind," he said.

  "I am negotiating the treacherous surf," Chiun whispered. "Try it sometime. You will get less brine in your mouth."

  "Right, brine," said Remo.

  "Anything else?" asked Smith.

  "No," said Remo in a distant voice. Then, suddenly. "Yes. Actually, there is. We found out where the Vice-President learned about CURE. He says he got a letter from someone who knew all about the operation. And about Sinanju too."

  "Any identification on this letter writer?"

  "The Vice-President had no idea. Said the letter was signed 'Tulip.' "

  "A letter," Smith said slowly. Through the receiver came the tapping of computer-terminal keys.

  "While you're fiddling with your files," Remo said, "how about we come back? We're as useless as sponge boys in a cathouse down here."

  "Speak for yourself, sponge boy," Chiun said haughtily.

  "No," said Smith. "Wait, I'm calling up the current whereabouts of Michael Princippi."

  "He's calling up the current whereabouts of Michael Princippi," Remo told Chiun, who was tugging on Remo's belt, demanding to know what was happening.

  "Good," said Chiun firmly. In a softer voice he asked, "Who is that?"

  "Chiun wants to know who Michael Princippi is," Remo said into the phone.

  "I did not!" snapped Chiun. "Of course I know the famous black American singer."

  "I think you're thinking of the wrong Michael. Or the wrong Prince. I'm not sure which," said Remo. "But the name sounds familiar somehow."

  "Michael Princippi is the Democratic nominee for President," Smith said. "Surely you remember, Remo. You showed me an article concerning him only this afternoon."

  "Oh, yeah," said Remo. "I forgot. Why should we care where that guy is?"

  "If the Vice-President's source for his information on CURE is this Tulip, it follows that Princippi may have also received a letter from this man. Princippi has returned to his office in his home state. Fly there immediately. Identify yourself as CURE personnel and politely but firmly ask about any letters he might have received from Tulip. Find out all you can, Remo. If there is a letter, confiscate it. Maybe it will tell us something."

  "Gotcha," Remo said. "Anything else, Smitty?"

  "Good luck. As of now, CURE is hanging by a thread." Remo hung up.

  "What did he say?" Chiun asked plaintively.

  "He said CURE is hanging by a thread."

  "Then let us be as flashing needles, moving swiftly to strengthen that thread, " Chiun said, fluttering his fingernails dangerously.

  "I thought we were negotiating a treacherous surf."

  "That was earlier," said Chiun. "You should stay current. "

  "I'd settle for staying sane," said Remo, rolling his eyes to the heavens.

  Chapter 13

  Michael Princippi liked to consider himself a common man. During his two terms as governor, he had disdained the trappings of high office. Every day, he faithfully took the trolley to work. When he did have to drive, he used his wife's 1979 station wagon. His office in the State House was furnished with government issue. His campaign literature emphasized his frugal and levelheaded approach to government and cha
racterized him as the son of simple immigrants who just happened to rise to the highest office in his state, and who felt that the highest office in the land was not above his reach.

  Those who knew him well knew that Michael Princippi's "frugality" was a nice way of saying the guy was cheap. He was so levelheaded he put fund-raising audiences to sleep, and while he was indeed the son of simple immigrants, he always forgot to mention that his simple parents arrived in America very, very wealthy.

  His advisers tried to convince Governor Princippi that his everyman approach was fine for state politics, but ineffective for someone with his eyes on the Oval Office. It wasn't presidential to drive a junkbox, eat lunch out of a brown bag, or to continue to live on a shabbily genteel street where parking spaces were secured by leaving an empty trashcan out by the curb. But Michael Princippi was stubborn. He did not believe in perks or privileges. He would not budge.

  Not even when the federal government had insisted on assigning a Secret Service detail to watch over him after he had captured the Democratic nomination for President. "No way," he had said.

  "It's for your protection, sir."

  "I appreciate that. But I have state troopers who guard my office. I stopped taking the trolley. You know it costs me almost double? Gas isn't cheap. But I don't need extra protection. I'm the Prince of Politics. The people love me." The Secret Service had been adamant. But so was Governor Michael Princippi. He won.

  As a consequence, when he walked into his office at 6:27 A.M., he was alone. Not even his secretary was at her reception desk.

  Governor Princippi dropped behind his desk and picked through his latest position papers. With the polls showing the two presidential aspirants virtually neck-and-neck, it was all going to come down to the big election-eve debate in a few days, and Michael Princippi was not going to lose the election because he was not up on the issues.

  Governor Princippi had no time to react to the knock at his heavy office door. The door opened before he could say "come in."

  He felt a very brief stab of regret about turning down Secret Service protection, but it went away when he saw that the persons entering were obviously no threat to him.

  Standing in the doorway was a tall man and a shorter, older Oriental. The man was obviously unarmed and the Oriental was ancient.

  "How did you two get in?" Michael Princippi asked pointedly.

  "We walked in," the tall man informed him.

  "I mean into the State House, not this office. There are guards."

  "Pah!" said the Oriental. "You call those guards? They are not guards. They did not notice us entering. We are guards. Also assassins."

  "What!" Governor Princippi's busy eyebrows jumped in surprise.

  "He didn't mean it like that. Sit down, Mr. Governor. I'm Remo. This is Chiun. Smith sent us."

  "Smith? Oh, that Smith."

  "Yeah, we're with CURE. You do know about CURE, don't you?"

  "Perhaps," said Michael Princippi guardedly. "If you are who you say you are, you'll have identification on you." Remo and Chiun exchanged glances.

  "Actually, no," Remo admitted.

  "No identification? What kind of an organization does not provide its agents with identification?"

  Chiun raised a wise finger. "A secret organization," he said.

  "The organization isn't supposed to exist, remember?" Remo said. "Or didn't Tulip mention that part?"

  "He might have," Governor Princippi said, rolling a pencil between his fingers. "But how do I know that you are who you say you are?"

  "Look," said Remo. "Before this mess, we never walked in and identified ourselves like this. We just sort of slid in and out. I used to carry all sorts of fake ID, but technically I'm retired from CURE."

  "I would show you my American Express Gold Card," said Chiun, "but, alas, it was taken from me."

  "I see," said Governor Princippi slowly.

  "You could call Smith," Remo suggested. "He'll vouch for us."

  "And how would I know I was talking to this Smith? I've never met him. I don't know his voice."

  "He has a point, Little Father," Remo told the Master of Sinanju.

  "There are other ways of identifying oneself," Chiun snapped. "Is that an orange sitting on your desk?" he asked Governor Princippi.

  "Yes. My breakfast."

  "You have heard of Sinanju. The letter told you that much?"

  "Possibly. "

  "Then be so good as to toss the orange to me." Michael Princippi shrugged. What did he have to lose? He flipped the orange with an underhand toss.

  It landed, spinning, on the tip of the Oriental's raised index finger. The Oriental dipped his hand and the orange shifted on its axis. In a twinkling, the orange blurred.

  Something flashed across the room and plopped onto the governor's government-issue desk. Michael Princippi looked. It was an orange peel as long as his arm. He picked it up. It hung in one piece, a corkscrew of orange peel.

  When he looked up, the orange was still spinning on the Oriental's fingertip. It was without its skin.

  "Here," said the one called Chiun.

  Michael Princippi caught the tossed orange. He examined it. The translucent inner skin was unbroken.

  "Satisfied?" Remo asked.

  "A nice trick," Governor Princippi admitted. "But hardly proof of anything."

  "Have you any enemies?" asked Chiun politely.

  "Every politician has enemies."

  "Merely choose one and we will dispatch him as my ancestors once slew the infidels of ancient Persia."

  "Slay?"

  "Consider it an offering toward future employment, should you assume the throne of this fine nation."

  "He doesn't mean that, either," Remo said hastily. "This isn't how you negotiate with rulers in this country, Little Father. "

  "Hush, Remo. I know how to deal with rulers."

  "If there is something specific I can do for you, be good enough to state it plainly," said Governor Princippi. "I am very busy."

  "We'd like to see the letter Tulip sent you."

  "Out of the question."

  "Why?"

  "I do not share my personal correspondence with others. Especially people who don't carry identification."

  "Then you still have it?" suggested Chiun.

  Michael Princippi hesitated. His eyes darted to his open briefcase. "Possibly," he said.

  "That is all we need to know," said Chiun. "Come, Remo. "

  "Wait a minute, Little Father, We're not done here."

  "I think you are," said Michael Princippi.

  "Listen to the man, your possible future employer," Chiun told Remo as he tugged him toward the door. He paused to speak parting words to the governor. "We are going now. May you have much success in your quest for power, and always remember, a good assassin is the true power behind the throne. And among good assassins the name of Sinanju rises above all the others."

  "It's not like it sounds," said Remo, closing the door. "We're really nice people. Smith too. Please keep that in mind, just in case."

  "Come, Remo," said Chiun.

  Remo closed the door after him.

  Out in the corridor, Remo stopped the Master of Sinanju. "Why'd you yank me out of there like that? Smith wants that letter. You could have at least let me keep talking."

  "A waste of time," said the Master of Sinanju. "I know where the letter is."

  "You do?"

  "I am constantly surprised by your astonishment over my amazing powers," said Chiun.

  "Huh?"

  "Never mind," said Chiun. "You have just solved that riddle for me. I will explain. Did you notice that man's eyes when I asked him if he still had the letter?"

  "Not particularly."

  "They sought his briefcase. The letter is in that."

  "That doesn't put it in our hands."

  "No, but it makes our task easier. We will steal the letter."

  "Is that a good idea?" Remo asked.

  "Success is always a good
idea. We will wait until nightfall. Then we will return and rescue the letter for Smith."

  "If you say so, Little Father," said Remo as they walked out the front of the State House. State troopers regarded them curiously. "But what do we do in the meantime?"

  "We will find a quiet place to sit," said Chiun, extracting the blue-ribboned parchment scroll from inside his coat. "I have an important matter to attend to."

  "Want help?" asked Remo, looking at the scroll with a puzzled expression.

  "Yes," said Chiun, spotting an empty bench in front of the building. "You can shoo the pigeons away so that I may concentrate. "

  "That wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

  "How can you tell?" cackled Chiun as he settled onto the bench. "Its emptiness is so vast. Heh, heh. Its emptiness is so vast. Heh heh."

  Chapter 14

  Antonio Serrano thought he was big-time.

  He ruled Trenton Street. He had ruled it since his fifteenth birthday, last December 17. He hoped to rule it when he turned sixteen. Beyond that, who knew? On Trenton Street, even the rulers did not make it much past sixteen, not without moving from the neighborhood.

  Antonio Serrano could have moved. He made over one thousand dollars a week. He drove a green Cadillac convertible that cornered liked a parade float. He had plenty of girls. Good-looking girls with plenty of blue eye shadow and tight skirts they bought at the Eastie Mall. He could have lived anywhere. But Antonio had grown up on this street. He would be lost without this street. This was Eastie Goombah territory and Antonio Serrano was the head of the Eastie Goombahs.

  Antonio Serrano started off boosting stereos from cars. He had moved up to the big time, dealing crack. That was where the money was. He sold it himself, on street corners and in the school playgrounds, and if there was trouble he had the Goombahs to back him up. The Goombahs got their cut. They also were the ones who got cut when the crap started flying.

  Antonio had gotten cut in the old days when he was new to the Eastie Goombahs. That was a long time ago, back in 1986. Antonio had gotten tired of being a grunt and stepped into the leadership position of the Goombahs when the old leader, Alphonse Tedesco, had his stomach ripped open by a gang of blacks from the South End. Alphonse was history. Hell, he had been an old man, practically. He was nearly nineteen when he died.