Line of Succession td-73

by Warren Murphy

  "I told you. We came to protect you from assassins."

  "This other person did that. And someone was in my bedroom a few moments ago. And I don't think it was any of these teenage hoodlums," said the governor, gesturing to the bodies strewn about the parlor. Noticing the headless form of the late Antonio Serrano, he grew a little green along the edge of the jaw. He turned away.

  Remo shook his head. "Look, just think about it a minute. This guy waltzes in here, won't show his face, won't tell you his name, flashes a card that says he's from the President but which doesn't bear any name or picture or fingerprint, and you accept him for what he says he is?"

  "Of course," said the governor. "In his line of work, those kinds of identification would cripple him. And you should talk. You're not carrying any identification at all. Either of you. I think you should both get out."

  Not far off, the wail of police sirens grew closer.

  "I guess that's our cue," Remo told Chiun. "What about you, pal?" he asked the man in black.

  "I will return to the shadows. If the governor needs me, he has only to whistle."

  "I think I'm going to throw up."

  "Then throw up for me too," said Chiun. "I do not think this circus clown is worth the effort."

  Giving a short bow, the ninja stepped behind the screen. "Oh, give me a break," Remo said, whipping the screen aside. He found himself looking at old wallpaper. There was no place the ninja could have gone, no door or window behind the screen.

  "How did he do that?" Remo asked no one in particular.

  "Who cares?" said Chiun. "Ninjas always cheat. Let us be gone."

  As they slipped out the back door, Governor Princippi called after them, "And don't think I'll forget this. If this is the caliber of operative Smith employs, the sooner he's shut down, the better."

  "Smitty is sunk, Little Father," Remo said glumly as they got into the Lincoln.

  "The governor is merely distraught," Chiun said worriedly. "He may change his mind after the election."

  "Not when he finds that letter is missing," Remo retorted, starting the engine. "He's going to want our heads. And the line forms behind the Vice-President."

  Chapter 17

  It was on nights such as this that Dr. Harold W. Smith wished that CURE security was not so critical.

  He stood looking out the big picture window. A steady rain pelted the waters of Long Island Sound. Although he was in his office, the sight of that remorseless rain made Smith shiver in sympathy and yearn for home, with a nice crackling pine log in his fireplace.

  But tonight Smith had to stand by the CURE telephones waiting for word from Remo and Chiun. If CURE's very existence had not been a national-security secret, Smith could have installed a private extension in his house. He could now be waiting in the snug comfort of his Rye home, instead of dreading the drive home through the rain. A drive that he might not be able to make for many hours yet. Maude would not be waiting up for him. Smith's wife had long ago given up on waiting up for her husband. Sometimes he wondered what kept them married.

  Smith dismissed his gloomy thoughts. What was keeping Remo from calling bothered him more. Obtaining a simple letter from Governor Princippi could not be so difficult. Not for people with Sinanju powers. He hoped that this last mission had gone better than the botched attempt to safeguard the Vice-President's life.

  Tired of watching the rain, Smith took his seat and called up the CURE terminal. Message traffic on CIA and Secret Service levels was busy. The Service was still trying to explain the deaths of the detail that had been slaughtered while protecting the Vice-President. Newspapers screamed about Middle Eastern terrorist interference with the American election, just days away.

  Smith had been in touch with the President. The President had received another call from the Vice-President.

  Oddly, this time the Vice-President had called to thank the Chief Executive for sending a new bodyguard, a martial-arts expert known by the code name Adonis.

  The President had not told the Vice-President the truth-that he had not sent for this Adonis. Had Smith?

  "No, Mr. President," Smith had replied. "I have no idea who this person is."

  "But your person was on the scene?" the President had asked.

  "Yes, he was."

  "The Vice-President claimed that there were two CURE operatives at Blair House," the President said slowly.

  "Ah, he must have been mistaken," said Smith, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

  "Yes, he must have been," said the President. "We lost our American enforcement arm last year during that fiasco with the Soviets."

  "Yes," said Smith uncomfortably. A year ago, when CURE had been compromised by the Russians, it had nearly ended for all of them. Thinking that he would never see Remo or Chiun again, Smith had allowed the President to believe that Remo had been liquidated by Smith's own hand. It had been Smith's way of atoning to Remo for past injustices, now that Remo had decided to settle down in Sinanju. For the past year Smith had lived in dread that the truth would come out.

  "People under stress are often confused," the President agreed slowly. "And the Vice-President has escaped two assassination attempts now."

  "I have a new lead on the leak," said Smith. "There is a man named Tulip who has sent a letter detailing our operation to the Vice-President. There is reason to believe that Governor Princippi has also received an identical letter. The Master of Sinanju is trying to verify this right now."

  "Who? Why? It sounds as if this person is bent on shutting you down, Smith."

  "If so, his approach is inefficient. He could have easily leaked what he knows to the press. I would have no choice but to terminate operations if this broke publicly. "

  "I know one thing. I did not send anyone named Adonis to protect the Vice-President. I told the Vice-President otherwise only because he was yelling for your head. He wants you placed under arrest. "

  "Sir, it may be possible that a rival intelligence agency, having learned about CURE, is copying its methods in an effort to replace us."

  "I doubt the KGB would detail a man to protect an American politician."

  "I meant a domestic rival group. The CIA or the Defense Intelligence Agency. Or possibly someone on your National Security Council. "

  "Don't start that with me, Smith. The NSC is not involved with this."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. President, but I cannot ignore any possibilities. "

  "Just don't stir up any unnecessary mud. As far as I'm concerned, you remain sanctioned to operate. Don't give me a reason to change my mind." And the President hung up.

  That had been hours ago. Smith had pondered the situation without respite. His CURE computers showed no strange activities on any level of America's regular intelligence agencies. And Smith had many people on his payroll who worked for the CIA, the DIA, and the NSA but who actually reported to him without realizing it.

  If it was not any of those agencies, who then?

  By the time night fell and the rain started, Smith was still lost in the imponderability of it all.

  Hours later, Remo and Chiun walked in unannounced. "Remo," Smith said in surprise. "And Master Chiun."

  "Hi, Smitty," said Remo. "I've got good news and bad news. "

  "He means good news and better news," corrected Chiun.

  "Let me tell it, will you, Chiun?"

  "Ignore him," said the Master of Sinanju, lifting the crease of his trouser legs delicately and settling into a chair. "He is tired from our long journey. And his memory may be failing him."

  Remo turned to Chiun. "I tell you, Little Father, I saw him as plain as day. He had Western eyes."

  "Nonsense. His eyes were Japanese. I know a Japanese when I see one. "

  "Japanese don't normally stand over six feet tall."

  "Nor did he," insisted Chiun. "He was much shorter than that. He was short even for a Japanese, who walk with their legs bent like monkeys."

  Smith interrupted wearily. "What are you two arguing ab
out now?"

  "Nothing important," said Chiun.

  "The bad news," said Remo.

  "Give me the good news," sighed Smith, grateful that this was his final operation involving Remo and Chiun. Remo scaled a letter across the room. It landed between fingers of Smith's upraised hand. An observer would have sworn Smith had plucked it from his sleeve like a magician. "I wish you wouldn't do things like that," Smith said, looking at the envelope. It was addressed to Governor Michael Princippi. The letter bore Korean stamps and a Seoul cancellation mark.

  "The letter?" Smith asked, plucking the contents out and unfolding them. There were three sheets of paper covered with small spidery handwriting. Smith scanned the contents all the way to the end, where it was signed "Tulip."

  "Whoever this Tulip is, he knows everything about us," said Smith, his face sagging like candlewax reaching its melting point.

  "Hey, that was supposed to be the good news," said Remo. "You wanted the letter. We got it for you. Don't break the furniture in your rush to thank us."

  Smith let the letter fall from unfeeling fingers. He ran his hands through his thinning hair once and buried his face in them. He felt numb.

  "What is the bad news?" he asked hollowly.

  "Someone tried to kill Governor Princippi when we were at his house."

  "When you were-"

  "I personally dispatched three of the vermin," said Chiun, leaping to his feet. "You should have been there, Emperor Smith. You would have been proud of your servant. Though alone and outnumbered, bullets flying all about my aged head, I dispatched them one, two, three."

  "Alone? Where were you, Remo?"

  "I was in the governor's bedroom stealing the letter."

  "The governor did not know you were there, of course."

  "He didn't see me steal the letter," Remo said quickly.

  Smith relaxed. "Excellent. You recovered the letter and prevented an attempt on the governor's life without anyone being the wiser."

  "Not exactly," said Remo.

  "Not exactly? Please don't tell me that-"

  "Smitty, something strange is going on," Remo said. "When the shooting started, the governor came downstairs to see what was happening. Chiun had killed most of the killers, but there was still one running loose."

  "And you got him?"

  "No, some screwball in a ninja suit beat me to it. I would have had him easy but I lost a few seconds when the guy drew aim on the governor. I had to step in front to protect the governor's body. Otherwise I would have been all over the ninja. Honest."

  "The governor saw you." It was not a question, but a sick statement of fact.

  "Sorry, Smitty. When he discovers the letter's gone, he's going to know it was us. We tried asking for it earlier in the day, but it was no go."

  "Oh, my God," said Smitty.

  "Smitty, there was another thing. This ninja popped out of nowhere. He said he was from the President. It was just like the situation with the Vice-President, only instead of a kung-fu beach boy, it was some white guy in a ninja suit."

  "He was Japanese!" shouted Chiun. "His eyes were Japanese."

  "I stood closer to him than you and I say he was white," insisted Remo.

  "Are you saying that my eyes are fading?" bristled the Master of Sinanju.

  "I saw what I saw. Something's fishy here, Smitty. The President doesn't employ ninjas."

  "I had a call from the President," said Smith dully. His eyes were focused in on themselves, like those of a man who had been told he was terminal. "According to him, your Adonis had represented himself to the Vice-President as an official presidential bodyguard. The President denied it, but now I don't know. Anything is possible. Anything."

  "I am glad to hear that anything is possible," said the Master of Sinanju, floating out of his chair. He stepped up to Smith's desk and set a plastic card on it. "If anything is possible, then it will be possible for the Master of Sinanju to obtain a card such as this one."

  "I told you," said Smith, picking up the card idly. "American Express won't do business with you anymore. But perhaps I can work out something with one of the other credit-card companies." He stopped speaking and stared intently at the card.

  "Hah!" said Remo triumphantly. "It's a phony, isn't it? I can tell by your face. I knew that fake ninja was spinning a story."

  "This card is blank," said Smith, turning it over several times.

  "Give it here," demanded Chiun, taking it back. He looked at the card. Remo leaned over his shoulder to look at it too.

  The Master of Sinanju held a black plastic card. Both sides were blank, without writing of any kind.

  "But this was the card," Chiun exclaimed.

  "Yeah, it was," said Remo, recognizing the shape and texture. "Smitty, the ninja flashed this thing at all of us. It was covered with gold letters saying that it belonged to an agent of a secret government agency. And it was signed by the President. At least, it was the President's name. I don't know if it was his handwriting."

  "This card?" asked Smith.

  "Yes!" said Remo.

  "That's rubbish!" said Smith. "No secret agency with any sense would issue such a ridiculous piece of identification. "

  "That's what I tried to tell the governor, but would he listen? No. He swallowed the ninja's story whole. He wasn't even a real ninja. He was white."

  "Japanese," muttered Chiun, looking at the card with puzzlement.

  "There's no lettering on either side," Smith said, holding it up to the fluorescent ceiling lights.

  "Maybe he used invisible ink that works on plastic," said Smith slowly.

  "Does this mean I cannot obtain a card like it?" Chiun asked unhappily.

  "How can I duplicate it if I don't know what was written on it?" Smith asked in a reasonable voice.

  "That Japanese thief," snapped Chiun bitterly. "He will rue the day he tricked the Master of Sinanju."

  "What did he look like?" asked Smith.

  "His face was masked, ninja-style," Remo said.

  "And with good reason," said Chiun. "Did I ever tell you about the ninjas and the Masters of Sinanju, Emperor Smith?"

  "I don't believe so," said Smith.

  "You will like this tale," said Chiun, drawing up a chair so he could be closer to Smith. "And I have many more besides. "

  "While you're regaling Smith with tales of Sinanju, I'm going for a walk," said Remo. "And for the record, Smitty, the ninja was six-foot-one, white, and had blue eyes."

  "He was my height, Japanese, with beady black eyes," insisted the Master of Sinanju.

  "And I'm Kris Kringle," snorted Remo, slamming the door behind him.

  "Do not mind him, Emperor," said Chiun after Remo had gone. "Obviously he is not well."

  "What makes you say that?"

  "Any man who would mistake a Japanese ninja for a fat white man in a ninja costume is obviously sick. I think Remo's mind is going soft. After all, he is the first white to learn Sinanju. For years I have been concerned that his weak white mind could not endure the strain of perfection, and now I am sure of it. I only hope he does not reject his training entirely. All the more reason for us to reach a new agreement. "

  "Didn't Remo say the ninja wore a mask? It's possible that one of you was thrown off because his face was obscured," said Smith, turning the black plastic card over and over in his hands, as if its secret could be worried from it.

  "All ninjas wear masks," spat Chiun. "It is a curse that Sinanju has placed upon them. Let me tell you that story."

  "Yes, of course," said Smith absently. The plastic card held his attention.

  "Once," said Chiun, striding to the center of the room, "a Master of Sinanju was hired by a Japanese emperor. The year was A.D. 645 by Western dating."

  "What was the Master's name?"

  Chiun paused in his pacing of the room. "That is an excellent question," he complimented. "A very excellent question. Remo has never asked such an intelligent question in all the years I have worked with him."


  "Thank you," said Smith. "But I was just curious."

  "Master Sam was his name," said Chiun, bowing in recognition of the wisdom of Emperor Smith in asking such an insightful question. "Now, Sam was summoned to the court of Japan by its emperor of that time."

  "His name?"

  "Sam. I have said it already," said Chiun, his face stung. "No, I meant the Japanese emperor."

  "Pah! What matter his name? That is not important to the legend."

  "Keep talking while I look it up," said Smith, reaching for his computer keyboard. After a moment he looked up. "It was Emperor Tenchi."

  "Possibly," said the Master of Sinanju vaguely. Why did Smith always insist upon wallowing in foreign trivia? he wondered. "Now, this emperor," Chiun went on, "whose name might have been Tenchi, told the Master Sam that he had enemies. And the emperor told where his enemies might be found, in their homes or in their places of business. And one by one, the Master swooped down upon each of these enemies and they were no more. And each time Master Sam returned to the ruler of Japan to report success, the emperor said unto him, 'Go not yet, for I have discovered a new enemy. Attend to him as you did the others before him and I will increase the tribute to be paid to Sinanju.'

  "And because the Master Sam did not wish to leave his work undone, he took responsibility for each new victim as they were brought to his attention by the emperor. Until with the fifth victim, the Master of Sinanju grew suspicious because some of these men were simple peasants, without wealth or will to plot against the chrysanthemum throne."

  "I see," said Smith, his eyes drawn to the greenish light of his computer terminal as a steady stream of news digests flashed on and off.

  The Master of Sinanju ignored his emperor's rudeness. The legends of Sinanju were traditionally shared between Master and pupil, not Master and emperor. Did Smith not understand why he was being told this story? Still, he would ignore Smith's inattentiveness this time. The white mind was congenitally incapable of focusing on one thought for very long.

  "And so, charged to eliminate a sixth victim, the Master went early to the place the emperor had told him the plotter would be found. Arriving there, he discovered concealed high in a tree a spy who had been sent there to watch the Master Sam work his art.