Line of Succession td-73

by Warren Murphy

  "Taking the spy by the scruff of the neck, Master Sam demanded of this man his true business. And the spy, knowing full well the power of Sinanju, trembled and said, 'O Master, my emperor seeks the wisdom of Sinanju, which I was to observe and report to him, just as I have observed you kill the others.' And the spy also revealed that the emperor had no known enemies. The Master had been slaughtering peasants."

  "That's terrible," said Smith.

  "Not as bad as it could have been." Chiun shrugged.

  "I fail to see how it could have been worse."

  "Master Sam was paid for his work in advance."

  "Oh," said Smith.

  "Now," Chiun continued, "having learned these things, the Master had a final question for the spy of the Japanese emperor, and it was this, 'What have you learned, spy?' And the spy replied in a suitable quavering voice that he had learned from watching the Master of Sinanju how to move stealthily by wearing clothes the color of night, how to climb sheer walls like a spider, and certain ways of killing with openhanded blows."

  "And Master Sam killed him, naturally," said Smith, thinking that he understood how the mind of Sinanju Masters worked.

  "No, of course not," Chiun said irritably. "The Japanese emperor did not pay him to kill that man." Why was Smith so dense? It must be a white trait, he decided. Remo was like that too.

  "He let him go, even though he had learned Sinanju?"

  "Imperfectly," corrected Chiun. "He had learned Sinanju imperfectly. His blows were weak, and in order to climb walls he needed artificial aids. Like spikes and grappling hooks. No, he did not learn Sinanju. He stole the inspiration, but in practice he was like a mechanical man pretending to be human. So Master Sam said to this man, 'Return to your emperor and tell him you have learned naught but how to skulk and steal, and also tell him that the Master of Sinanju kills for payment, not for the enlightenment of emperors.' "

  "What was his name, this man?" wondered Smith.

  "Why would you ask such a question?" demanded Chiun in an exasperated voice. "What has that to do with anything?"

  "Historical curiosity," said Smith. "That man was the founder of ninjutsu."

  "Founder!" spat Chiun. "He did not find anything, he stole it! Have you not listened to a word I have said? You whites are all alike."

  "Er, never mind," said Smith hastily. "I'll look it up later. But you haven't told me why the ninjas go about masked. "

  Chiun subsided. "Very well," he said in a controlled voice. "It happened years later, after word came out of Japan of a new sect of assassins who dressed in black and were known as ninjas. And Master Sam ventured back into Japan, unsummoned and unknown, in order to evaluate this new competition. And he found a tiny band of these ninjas, and their leader was this unimportant thief from years before, who had trained others. Of course, they were as clumsy as monkeys, but that is not the point. They were taking work that should have gone to Sinanju."

  "So naturally Master Sam killed them all this time," said Smith, who knew that Sinanju Masters stopped at nothing to guard their livelihood.

  Chiun froze in the middle of a grand flourish and fixed his brittle hazel eyes upon Dr. Harold W. Smith.

  Smith felt a chill, as if the cold rain had somehow penetrated the great picture window to run down his back. He shook his head in a silent negative.

  Chiun shook his head in response, and went on, the edge in his voice glittering. "Master Sam stood before this thief and his face was wrathful. But he did not slay him. Instead, he said to him, 'You have stolen that which lasts longer than rubies. You have stolen wisdom. I could kill you, ninja, but you are a child imitating his elders, and I will not kill you. Instead, hear my curse: you are a thief, and I curse you, and all who follow in your path, to forevermore conceal your faces in shame. And should any of your number in succeeding generations ever go about his skulking work with his face uncovered, the Master of Sinanju will no longer suffer your existence. And that is why to this very day these so-called ninjas go about with their heads covered."

  Chiun folded his long-nailed hands into the belled sleeves of his suit complacently.

  "There is one thing I still do not understand," Smith said cautiously.

  Chiun's forehead gathered in wrinkles. "I believe I covered everything."

  "Why didn't the Master Sam kill the ninjas?"

  "He was not paid!" screeched Chiun like a teacher before a recalcitrant child.

  "But not killing them took money and employment away from future Masters," Smith pressed on. "Wouldn't it have been better to have killed the ninjas?"

  "That is the way the story is written in the histories of my ancestors," Chiun returned defiantly. "To ask for information not written in those scrolls is impertinent."

  "I'm sorry," said Smith stubbornly. "I thought it was a reasonable question."

  "Reasonable to whom? I am sure Master Sam had a good reason for handling it the way he did. He must have forgotten to write it into his scrolls."

  "Scrolls," said Smith suddenly. He was looking at the letter signed "Tulip." The envelope had been mailed from South Korea. Smith had been puzzled by that, but his full attention had been captured by the contents of the letter itself. Now the significance of the postmark was beginning to sink into his mind.

  Looking up, he asked the Master of Sinanju a question. "You mentioned the scrolls of your ancestors," said Smith. "Might I assume that you regularly transcribe the history of your service to America in similar scrolls?"

  "In great detail," said Chiun proudly.

  "I see. And where are these scrolls now? Yours, I mean."

  "In Sinanju. In past times I kept them with me, but I was unable to bring them back with me when I last returned to these shores. But do not worry, Emperor Smith, I have an excellent memory. When I am free to send for my scrolls, I will duly record this most recent year of service to your highness. And while I am on the subject," he said, removing a blue-ribboned scroll from his coat, "I have completed the latest contract. It only needs your signature to guarantee that you will be served well in the coming year."

  "Leave it on the desk," said Smith. "I will read it and we will discuss it later."

  "It is exact in every detail of our last negotiation," protested Chiun.

  "I am sure that it is," said Smith. "But if you'll look out the window, you'll notice that the sun is coming up. We've been here all night. I really need some rest before I can deal with such a weighty matter."

  "Let me read it to you, then," said Chiun. "There is no need for you to strain your royal eyes."

  "I'd rather read it at my convenience, if you don't mind," insisted Smith, gesturing for the scroll to be left on his desk. The Master of Sinanju hesitated, but he had already snapped at the Emperor Smith twice this night. There was no need to push the matter. What was another few hours? Reluctantly he set the scroll on the desk and bowed from the waist.

  "I will await your decision," he said.

  "Thank you," said Smith.

  When the Master of Sinanju had gone, Smith considered the envelope on his desk. Yes, it made sense. There was no way for CURE's existence to leak out of the American government, whether from past or present administrations. In all his years at the helm of CURE, Smith had overlooked the simple fact that all along the Master of Sinanju had been recording his every assignment for posterity. The events of the last year had caused those scrolls to be left unguarded, and now it had come to this.

  There was no telling what the consequences might be, but CURE was not necessarily doomed. It all hinged upon whether the next President kept his campaign promise. And Smith, knowing politicians, would not bet on that.

  Smith looked at his watch and decided to wait another hour before he reported his findings to the President. No need to wake him. And noticing also that his secretary was due to arrive for work at any moment, Smith sent the CURE terminal slipping back into its desk well.

  Smith's secretary was as punctual as always. She knocked on Smith's door before ent
ering. She was a bosomy middle-aged woman in bifocals, her hair tied into an efficient bun.

  "Good morning," she said, setting a container of prunewhip yogurt and a can of unsweetened pineapple juice on the desk. "I picked up your usual breakfast from the commissary."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said. Taking from a desk drawer a disposable plastic spoon with which he had eaten his yogurt for the last twenty years, he dug in.

  "I see you've been working all night."

  "Er, yes," Smith admitted, puzzled by his secretary's overly familiar tone. She did not normally remark on matters outside of her duties. "Important matters," he said.

  "I imagine curing the ills of the world is worth losing a night's sleep here and there," she said, closing the door behind her.

  Smith's mouth hung open. Yogurt ran down his chin and dripped, unnoticed, onto his wrinkled trousers. He had completely forgotten he was eating.

  "Figure of speech," Smith assured himself huskily. "Yes. A figure of speech. She couldn't know. Not Mrs. Mikulka. I've got to relax. This thing has me jumping at shadows."

  Chapter 18

  The President of the United States was already awake when the special telephone rang. He had been lying in bed enjoying a few minutes of extra rest before having to get up, when the muffled ringing started.

  "Not again," cried his wife.

  "Could you excuse me, dear?" the President said, maneuvering himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. The phone rang again.

  The First Lady mumbled something under her breath and climbed into a sheer nightgown. "If that's World War III, I'll be in the shower."

  When she was out of hearing, the President opened the end-table drawer and lifted the receiver of the red phone. "Good morning," he said cheerily.

  "I'm sorry to wake you, Mr. President," said the voice of Dr. Harold W. Smith.

  The President's voice hardened. "I've been awake for several minutes. Why does everyone assume I'm not awake at this hour? It's already nine o'clock."

  "Yes, Mr. President," Smith said stiffly. "If I may make my report."

  "Fire away," said the President.

  "As you may know, there was an attempt on Governor Princippi's life last night."

  "A gang of street punks," said the President. "Probably copycatting the attacks on the Vice-President."

  "There's no reason to believe otherwise at this point in time," Smith said, "but we should not assume anything."

  "The gang members are dead, I'm told."

  "Yes, my special person accounted for most of them."

  "That should impress the governor."

  "Mr. President, the governor knows about our operation. And he's not happy with it, or with me."

  The President's hand tightened on the receiver. "How?"

  "It appears that an unknown person signing himself 'Tulip' has sent letters describing CURE operations to both the governor and the Vice-President. The governor's letter is in my hands. It's postmarked South Korea. From that, I believe I can infer the source of Tulip's knowledge."

  "Yes?"

  "He seems to have accessed personal diaries of our special person which have remained in the village of Sinanju since the incident with the Soviets last year."

  "I remember it well," the President said bitterly.

  "A fluke, sir," Smith said uncomfortably.

  "Well, this makes two flukes in one year."

  "I am aware of that, sir. If it's your wish that I cease operations, I can be shut down within the hour. I should have been aware of this possibility."

  "I'm not prepared to do that, Smith," said the President without hesitation. "After that last incident, you'll recall we decided that you could operate without an enforcement arm. You'd be doing that if your special person, the Korean, hadn't returned to America and offered you another year of service. Isn't it about time for your contract with him to lapse?"

  "Yes, he handed me a new one just this morning. Its terms are quite generous. Of course, I explained to him that if I sign it, I may not be able to guarantee its terms after you leave office."

  "What the next administration decides is their business. For now, you will continue operations."

  "And our special person?"

  "Have him destroy his records. Make that a stipulation of this new contract. If he refuses, terminate his employment. Is that all?"

  "Not quite, sir. There was another player in the Governor Princippi incident. A ninja master. He claimed that he was protecting the governor at your behest."

  "I have no such report, Smith."

  "No?" said Smith vaguely.

  "You do believe me, don't you?"

  "Yes, of course. I have no reason to think otherwise."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence," the President said acidly.

  "I apologize for my tone, Mr. President, but you have to understand my confusion. Two martial-arts experts have preempted separate assassination attempts. Both claimed to be working for you."

  "Governor Princippi has said nothing about any ninja. His story is that the assassins were stopped by persons unknown. I assumed that it was your unknown person."

  "It was, but this ninja was also on the scene. I don't understand how he could have known of an assassination attempt ahead of time, unless he is sanctioned, or. . . "

  "Or what?"

  "Or he's part of the plot."

  "I'll have the Secret Service look into it."

  "I could handle it, sir," Smith said hopefully.

  "Stick to your computers, Smith. For now. That's all." And the President hung up.

  In his office at Folcroft Sanitarium, Dr. Harold W. Smith rose from behind his desk and locked the door. From a closet he removed a gray three-piece suit identical to the one he wore. Changing out of the wrinkled suit, Smith plugged in an electric razor and efficiently scoured the stubble from his face. He checked himself in a hand mirror and adjusted his rimless glasses. When he was done, he buttoned his fresh white shirt and knotted his Dartmouth tie. Putting away the razor and hand mirror, Smith tripped the intercom.

  "Mrs. Mikulka, could you ask that Mr. Chiun and Mr. Remo come to my office?"

  "Yes, Dr. Smith."

  Minutes later, Remo and Chiun entered. "Please close the door," requested Smith.

  "Sure, Smitty," said Remo.

  Seeing that his new contract lay open before Harold Smith, the Master of Sinanju burst into a broad smile. "Perhaps Remo need not attend this meeting inasmuch as it concerns matters between you and me," Chiun said pointedly.

  "I'd prefer that Remo remain." Chiun's face fell.

  "Thanks, Smitty," said Remo.

  "I'll be brief," began Smith. "I've looked over your contract, Master Chiun. It is accurate, insofar as the terms we discussed yesterday go."

  "Excellent," said Chiun, puffing out his chest. "It just so happens I have with me the ceremonial goose quill. Here."

  Smith raised his hand. "One moment, please."

  "Two moments," interrupted Remo. "Don't I have some say in this?"

  "None," said the Master of Sinanju. "You are not part of this contract. You are dead. Smith has led the President to believe this. And dead people do not sign contracts."

  "I'm not signing anything," said Remo hotly. "I'm returning to Sinanju. You promised that you'd return with me. "

  "I promised no such thing."

  "You didn't say you wouldn't."

  "And I did not say that I would. Emperor Smith has graciously offered me another year of employment in this land, and I have decided, because you are unwilling to accompany me on my Sinanju World tour, that this is the only way I can continue to support the starving villagers of Sinanju. "

  "Bulldookey," said Remo. "You wouldn't let me marry without attending the ceremony, would you?"

  "No, of course not," retorted Chiun. "But would you marry without me being present? That is the true question."

  "We'll find out. I plan on setting the date as soon as I hit the beach."

&nbs
p; "It might be that the Emperor Smith will allow me a week off for that purpose. Say, next summer, perhaps?"

  "Actually I'd like you both to return to Sinanju immediately," said Smith.

  Chiun's parchment face collapsed. "Return?" he squeaked.

  "I'm already packed." Remo grinned, pulling a toothbrush from his back pocket.

  "It has to do with one last stipulation upon which I must insist if we are to come to an agreement here," said Smith.

  Chiun looked at Smith. Then he looked at Remo's pleased face.

  "Very well," he said decisively. "Name it. Whatever it is, I am certain it will be agreeable, for you have been recorded in the histories of Sinanju as Generous Harold the First. "

  "You must destroy every record of your service to America that you have in Sinanju."

  The Master of Sinanju froze. His head flinched as if from a blow. He said nothing for long moments. Finally, in a low, too-quiet voice, he asked, "Why would you ask me to do such a thing?"

  "This letter from Tulip. It is postmarked South Korea."

  "Another place entirely," said Chiun. "Sinanju is in North Korea."

  "I believe this Tulip has stolen or accessed your records. It is the only explanation for the precise knowledge he possesses."

  "Impossible," sputtered Chiun. "The scrolls of Sinanju are kept in the House of the Masters. It is guarded continuously. The door is double-locked."

  "That's right, Smitty," Remo put in. "I locked it myself when I left Sinanju. "

  "Yes, that is correct," Chiun said. He froze. Suddenly he wheeled upon Remo. "You! You were the last one to leave Sinanju! If my scrolls are missing, it is your fault!" he shouted, leveling a shaking finger at Remo.

  "Hey, Chiun, lighten up. You just got through telling Smitty that it's impossible for the scrolls to be missing."

  "It is impossible! But if they are missing, it is no doubt your fault, clumsy white who cannot properly lock a door after him. You probably left the water running too."

  "Not me," said Remo, folding his arms defensively. He turned to Smith. "Are you sure about this?"

  "My computers are secure. They have not been accessed. The only other possible leak is the President. And he denies it. And there's no reason for him to go to the extreme of masquerading as this Tulip. He could shut us down with a phone call."