Line of Succession td-73

by Warren Murphy

  Remo turned to Chiun. "He's got a point, Little Father."

  "Nonsense," snapped Chiun. "If anyone had dared to defile the House of the Masters, my faithful servant, Pullyang, would have seen it and reported it. His last letter to me said nothing of such a crime."

  "Isn't this the same Pullyang you once called a barking dog without teeth?" Remo inquired.

  "Do not listen to him, O Emperor. He cannot tell a Japanese from an American at three paces. No doubt his hearing is going also."

  "It will, if you keep shouting like that," complained Remo.

  "Please, please, the both of you," Smith pleaded. "Master Chiun, I'd like your answer."

  "My answer is no, no one could have rifled the scrolls of my ancestors. That is a certainty. "

  "I meant, will you agree to return to Sinanju to destroy your scrolls?"

  "This is an unfair thing you ask of me," said Chiun hotly. "No emperor in history has ever placed such a ridiculous demand upon the House of Sinanju. My answer is no."

  Smith nodded grimly. "Very well," he said, standing up. He picked the contract scroll off the desk and studiously tore it down the center.

  "Aaaieee!" wailed Chiun. "I worked for days on that scroll. "

  "I'm sorry. I cannot sign this document without your agreeing to that stipulation."

  "I said no, not definitely no," Chiun complained.

  "Then you will agree to destroy the scrolls?" Smith asked.

  "Definitely not!" Chiun shouted.

  Smith tore the scroll again. Chiun's mouth hung open. Remo grinned broadly. "Looks like we're going home."

  Chiun turned on him. "Do not be so smug! This may be your fault for leaving the House of the Masters unlocked."

  "I assume," said Smith, "that if you find the scrolls in question are missing upon your return to Sinanju, you will do everything in your power to track them down and eliminate the culprit."

  "Aha!" screeched Chiun, his eyes flashing. "I see your game now, Smith. You have tricked me! You are expecting service without payment. Yes, I will track down this thief, if such exists, but do not count upon my eliminating him. Remember the story of Master Sam and the ninjas."

  "That is your privilege, Master Chiun. I have my orders. "

  "And my contempt," snapped Chiun, striding out the door. "And be assured that this perfidy will be recorded in my scrolls and your name disgraced for all generations to come. "

  "I'm sorry it had to end this way," Smith told Remo in a quiet voice.

  "I'm not," said Remo, taking Smith's hand. "It couldn't have worked out better. Thanks, Smitty. You want to come along? I'll let you dance at my wedding."

  "I don't dance," said Smith, shaking Remo's hand.

  "A party pooper to the bitter end," sighed Remo. "It's okay. I don't think you'd fit in anyway. Can we count on the usual transportation by submarine?"

  "Of course," said Smith, letting go of Remo's hand. And without another word, Remo skipped out the door, whistling. Watching him go, Smith thought that he had never seen Remo so happy before.

  Remo found the Master of Sinanju in his room, writing furiously.

  "What are you doing, Little Father?"

  "Are you totally blind? I am writing, fool."

  "Don't be like that."

  "What should I be like? I have been terminated by my emperor. "

  "You should be happy. Like me."

  "To be happy like you I would have to be an idiot like you. Thank you, no. I will forgo that illustrious experience."

  "Then be happy for me. And Mah-Li."

  "I am writing to Pullyang now, telling him to prepare for our return. Do not fear, Remo, your wedding will take place as you wish."

  "What's that other letter for?" Remo asked, nodding at a sealed envelope.

  "It is a wedding invitation," said Chiun.

  "I already asked Smith. He says he's tied up."

  "I wish never to see that man ever again. He is a base trickster and a taker-back of Gold Cards."

  "Then who?" Remo asked.

  "No one you know. I have friends who are not known to you."

  "I hope they bring a nice wedding present."

  "It will be one that you will never forget, I am sure."

  "Sounds great," Remo said pleasantly. "But hurry up, will you? The helicopter is waiting."

  Chapter 19

  Dr. Harold W. Smith watched the helicopter lift off from the old docks that reached out like skeletal fingers from the patch of Folcroft land that fronted Long Island Sound. The air was still moist from the evening rain, and a chill fog rolled in off the water.

  Smith stood before his big office window. For some reason, he felt a need to watch them go. To see Remo and Chiun leave his life forever. It had been a long twenty years. It was strange that it would end on this difficult note, but perhaps that was for the best.

  As Smith watched, Remo helped the Master of Sinanju, who had reverted to his traditional Korean dress, into the medical helicopter. Smith had summoned the helicopter on the pretext that Mr. Chiun, an Alzheimer's patient, and his guardian, Mr. Remo, needed immediate transportation to another facility. The helicopter would drop them off at Kennedy Airport, from where they would take a commercial flight to the San Diego Naval Air station, where the submarine Harlequin was waiting to take them back to the shores of Sinanju for the final time.

  The door closed and the helicopter, its rotors beating the air, lifted. It disappeared into the fog as if swallowed. "It's over," breathed Smith. He returned to his familiar desk terminal. From now on, CURE was just him and his computers.

  There was a tentative knock on his door. "Yes?"

  The bespectacled face of Mrs. Mikulka poked through the door.

  "They're gone?" she asked.

  "Yes," said Smith, not looking up.

  "Back to Sinanju?"

  "Yes, back to-" Smith froze. "What did you say?" he croaked. He was staring at his secretary, who had served him loyally for over five years, who ran Folcroft as capably as himself, and who knew nothing-or should know nothing-about Sinanju.

  "I asked if Remo and Chiun had returned to Sinanju."

  "Come in, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said coldly. "And close the door behind you, if you would."

  When Smith saw that his secretary had seated herself on a long divan, he asked in a tight voice, "How do you know about Sinanju?"

  "I know about CURE too."

  "Oh, God," said Smith. "Did you receive a letter from Tulip too?"

  "No."

  "Then how?"

  "I am Tulip."

  "You!"

  "Tulip is not my real name, of course."

  "You are Eileen Mikulka. Before you were a secretary, you taught high-school English. I did a thorough background check before I hired you."

  "No," said the voice of Eileen Mikulka. "Eileen Mikulka is locked in a patient's room on an upper floor. She met with an accident as she carried your yogurt and fruit juice from the commissary this morning. Oh, do not worry, she is not dead. It was an effort for me not to kill her, but if I killed her, I might not have been able to stop killing. And then where would my plans be?"

  "You look just like her. Plastic surgery?" Smith let one hand drop to his lap. He tried to be casual about it. His gray eyes locked with those of this woman, so that his gaze would not betray any surreptitious movement.

  "Plastic surgery would not give me her voice, her manners. And do you really think I-or anyone-would go to the ridiculous extreme of becoming a middle-aged woman permanently to achieve a goal?"

  "What you say is logical," admitted Smith, tugging open the middle-left-hand desk drawer with two fingers. He hoped it would not squeak before he could reach into it for his automatic. "May I ask why you wish CURE terminated?"

  "I wish no such thing," said the voice of Eileen Mikulka. "You are not my target, nor is your operation. Nor were the presidential candidates I ordered assassinated."

  "You?" blurted Smith. He was so shocked he let go of the drawer handle. "You wer
e the person behind the attempts upon the Vice-President and Governor Princippi? Why, for God's sake?"

  "So I could stop the assassins."

  "You?"

  Abruptly the figure of Eileen Mikulka shimmered. Smith squinted. Instead of the familiar bosomy plumpness of his secretary, a man sat on the divan. He was blond and bronzed, and wore a white karate gi. He smiled broadly. "Call me Adonis."

  "What?" Smith croaked. Then he remembered his weapon. He had the drawer open a crack. He tugged on it again. He dared not look down to see if it were open wide enough. He fumbled with his fingers. The opening was too narrow.

  "Or call me ninja master."

  And the handsome face melted and ran, tanned skin turning into black folds of cloth. The figure on the divan was garbed in ninja black now, his face concealed by the flaps of his mask. Only his eyes showed. Smith saw that they were blue.

  "Chiun was mistaken," he said in a stupid voice. "He thought you were Japanese."

  "The Master of Sinanju is never wrong," said the figure, and his words were in the singsong accents of Japan. Smith looked closer. The ninja's eyes were black and almond-shaped. And his robust physique seemed to have shrunk.

  Smith forced himself not to react. With an effort he kept his voice level. "I suppose I would be wasting my time if I asked you to identify yourself?"

  The ninja stood up and came toward Smith.

  "You have the letter before you," he said. "You saw my signature. "

  Smith's hand touched cold metal. He had the automatic. "It says 'Tulip.' That means nothing to me."

  "That is because you have not thought about it, Smith."

  "I'll think about it later," said Harold W. Smith, whipping up the automatic. He held it at desk level, resting the butt on the desktop to keep it steady. "Please stop where you are."

  But the ninja kept coming, his body swelling and running like a million multicolored candles melting together. Suddenly it was the figure a young man with a flowing mane of yellow hair and purple garments who came toward him on quiet, confident feet. His eyes were so blue it hurt to look at them.

  Smith steeled himself and fired.

  The purple figure kept coming. Smith fired again. This time he saw, incredibly, the afterimage effect as the figure returned to its path of approach. The figure had dodged the bullets. Had dodged them so fast that it looked to the untrained eye as if he had allowed the bullets to pass through him.

  Smith knew he was looking at a being trained in the ancient art of Sinanju, and suddenly the significance of the name Tulip was clear. He knew whom he faced. What he faced. But his knowledge came too late, far too late for Harold W. Smith.

  "I have no quarrel with you, Smith," a different voice rang in his ears. "I want Remo. I want to destroy him. You have helped me with the first phase. Do not think I am not grateful-or unmerciful. You will feel no pain, I promise."

  And for Harold W. Smith, the world went black. He never saw the hand that struck him.

  Chapter 20

  The letter arrived in Sinanju the next day. It had come via Pyongyang, the capital of North Korea, and was delivered to Sinanju by a People's helicopter. It was left in an iron mailbox at the edge of the village, for it was forbidden for any who were not of Sinanju to enter Sinanju without permission.

  When the helicopter departed, a boy was sent to the mailbox. He came running back and gave the letter to Pullyang, who was again at his post, guarding the House of the Masters.

  Old Pullyang placed the letter in the dirt while he got his pipe going. After a few preliminary puffs he opened the letter, which he recognized as from the Master of Sinanju. His tiny eyes took in the message of the Master eagerly.

  "Summon Mah-Li," Pullyang told the boy, who would not go until he had heard the news from America.

  "Is it good news?" the boy asked.

  "Joyous news. But I must tell Mah-Li myself."

  Mah-Li climbed the low hillock to the House of the Masters, expectation on her radiant face.

  "What word from America?" she called.

  Pullyang waved the letter. "It is from Master Chiun. He returns soon. He bids us to prepare for the wedding of the white Master, Remo, and the maiden called Mah-Li."

  Mah-Li's hands flew to her throat in surprise. "Remo," she breathed. "And what word from him?"

  Old Pullyang shook his head. "None."

  Mah-Li knit her smooth brow. "None. No message for me?"

  "The Master wrote, not Remo."

  "Oh," said Mah-Li, her face clouding. "It is not like Remo. You do not think he has changed his mind, do you, Pullyang? After all, it has been a year since we last saw him."

  "The Master Chiun would not order the wedding preparations if the groom had changed his mind. Why would you say such a foolish thing, child?"

  "I do not know," said Mah-Li, dropping to her knees beside Pullyang. With nervous fingers she picked at a clump of coarse grass. "It is just that ever since the purple birds came to us in the night, my sleep has been troubled and I know not why."

  "You are a child still. And children are often subject to strange fears," Pullyang said tenderly.

  "You yourself called them a bad omen, Pullyang. What did you mean by that?"

  And because Pullyang did not himself know, he shrugged and tried to look sage. He took a long draw from his pipe and hoped that Mah-Li would not press the point.

  "I think you were right about their being a bad omen," said Mah-Li after a time.

  "They are gone," said Pullyang.

  Mah-Li looked up into the morning sky. It was gray and troubled. "I know, but my dreams tell me that they will be back." And she folded her arms and shivered.

  Chapter 21

  The USS Harlequin broke the slate waters of the West Korea Bay and settled in the trough of a wave. Water crashed over the submarine's hull and ran out the deck gunwales.

  Sailors popped open a hatch and set about inflating a collapsible rubber raft. When they had it inflated, one called down the hatch, "All set on deck, sir. "

  Remo came up first. The moon was high, a crescent moon that shed little illumination. Remo saw the Horns of Welcome jutting up from the shore. They framed the low hill on which the House of the Masters stood, like some arcane emblem of antiquity. But to Remo the forbidding sight was a happy one.

  He called down the hatch, "Shake a leg, Chiun. We're home. "

  The Master of Sinanju's head emerged like a squirrel peering from its hole. "Do not rush me, Remo. I am an old man. I will not hurry just because you are in heat."

  "I am not in heat," said Remo, taking Chiun by one elbow as he clambered out of the hatch.

  The sailors were lowering the raft into the water. "Better hurry, gentlemen," one of them called. "These seas are running high."

  Remo and Chiun climbed down the submarine hull until they were safely on the raft. Two crewmen manned oars. There was an outboard motor but it was not used because of the fear that the sound would attract North Korean patrol craft and create an international incident.

  The raft got going.

  "Sure seems strange to come back without any gold, huh, Little Father?" Remo said quietly.

  "Do not remind me of my failure," Chiun said morosely.

  "I was just making small talk. Why are you on my case? You haven't said a civil word all the way across the Pacific."

  "If my scrolls are missing, it will be your fault."

  "Christ, Chiun. I told you and told you. I did not leave the door unlocked."

  "We will see," warned Chiun.

  The raft bumped one of the natural stone breakers that jutted from the Sinanju beach, and Remo stepped out to help Chiun onto the slick tumble of rock.

  "Thanks," Remo told the sailors.

  "Do not say thanks," said Chiun. "Tip them."

  "I don't have any money, remember?"

  Chiun told the sailors, "You may keep this person if you wish, in place of a proper tip. He is not of much use, but perhaps you can put him to work peeling potatoes."
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  "Next time, guys," Remo said. And the raft shoved off. The Master of Sinanju strode from the bleak rocks to the stretch of sandy beach. He looked around him, his face unreadable.

  "At least I am home, where I am respected by my people," he said solemnly.

  "You've got a short memory, Little Father."

  "No, it is my villagers who have short memories. In the past, they thought well of you because you had agreed to care for the village and uphold its traditions when I am gone. But a full year has passed. Their memory of your promises has faded from their hardworking minds. Instead, they will remember the great accomplishments of Chiun, who has brought new glory to their lives."

  "We'll soon know, because I see people coming now." A small group of villagers stumbled down to the beach. Remo recognized old Pullyang in the lead.

  "Pullyang will know if there has been a problem," Remo said confidently.

  "Yes," agreed Chiun. "Pullyang will know." He closed his eyes and stuck out his hand so that his worshipful villagers could kiss it as they sang adorations. In a moment, he heard the traditional Korean words in all their glory.

  "Hail, Master of Sinanju, who sustains the village and keeps the code faithfully. Our hearts cry a thousand greetings of love and adoration. Joyous are we upon the return of him who graciously throttles the universe."

  But his hand remained cool, unwarmed by adoring touches.

  "Cut it out," complained Remo. "You're drooling all over my hand. Chiun, how do you get them to stop?"

  The Master of Sinanju's hazel eyes blazed open. The sight was a shock to his aged heart. There were the villagers-his people-clustered about Remo, kissing his hands and offering him the traditional greeting.

  Chiun stamped a sandaled foot. A nearby barnacled rock split and fell in two sections. Chiun yelled in Korean. "He is not Master yet! I am still Master! I, Chiun. Do you hear me? You, Pullyang, speak to me. Has there been any trouble since last you wrote? Is the treasure safe?"

  "Yes," said Pullyang, scurrying to fall at Chiun's feet. "And are my scrolls still in their resting places?"

  "Yes, O Master," said Pullyang.

  "Pullyang deserted his post," said a pinch-faced woman, running to Chiun's side. "He fled when the devil herons came."