"If you always listen, why don't you ever learn anything?" Chiun asked.
"Just lucky, I guess," Remo said with a grin. It felt good to be back; good to be Remo again. "The prince of whom I spoke was Wo and he had a brother with his eye on the throne, a brother massing a large army far greater than he needed to defend his own lands."
"This sounds like where we come in," Remo said.
"It is, but not if you keep interrupting." He glared at Remo and took a sip of tea. "Prince Wo wished to rid himself of this scheming brother and yet did not wish to have the death laid at his own doorstep, so Prince Wo sent for Master Pak and a bargain was struck. The very next day, the Prince's brother died, by falling from the parapets of his own castle."
"And when the assassin came to be paid?" Remo said.
"He was dismissed. Prince Wo insisted that his brother's death had been a true accident and he would not acknowledge the Master's work. He refused to pay the tribute that was agreed upon."
"This is getting interesting," Remo said, trying to please Chiun.
"It is getting long because you keep interrupting me. Anyway, the following morning the prince's concubine was found dead. The news and manner of her death spread quickly throughout the kingdom and soon everyone knew that the prince's brother had not died by accident. Master Pak had sent his message. He wanted to be paid."
"It's a great way to send a message," Remo said. "A lot more zip than Federal Express. And the prince still refused to pay?"
"No," said Chiun. His thin lips turned up in a wintry smile. "Prince Wo realized his error at once and sent a courier to the assassin with double the payment, one part for the assassination and another to ensure Master Pak's silence."
"All that extra gold. Sounds like a happy ending to me. They must have broken out the party hats back in that mudhole by the bay."
"What mudhole?" Chiun asked.
"Sinanju," Remo explained.
"Silence, you nincompoop," Chiun snapped. "The payment was only part of it. More important than the payment is the manner in which it is made. Prince Wo did not wish to be seen by his subjects as having been forced to pay the assassin, but Master Pak could not let this happen. If one prince refused to pay him, others might try the same. It was no longer enough to be paid; he had to be paid publicly, in tribute, as was his right."
"So he sent the gold back," Remo said.
"Of course not."
"Right."
"He sent back the empty sacks requesting that they be filled again and payment made again where all could see it. Prince Wo refused, for his own pride was so great that he did not wish to be seen bending to any man's will. Instead, he summoried his warriors and mobilized an entire army to pursue and kill a single man."
"I bet it didn't work," Remo said.
"It did not. Prince Wo's oldest and wisest general devised a plan called the seven-sided death. Each manner of death was inscribed on a separate stone. Death by sword, by fire and so forth. But none of the ways worked and Prince Wo's army was decimated and each of the first six stones was shattered.
"The great army had dwindled down to a handful of men and the only way left was that of the seventh stone. It was said to be ultimate, invincible, the one way that would work when all the others had failed."
"So that's why Pak is known as the Master Who Failed?"
"No, that's not why. The seventh stone was never used. Prince Wo and his remaining followers put out to sea and finally disappeared from the known world. And when they vanished, the seventh stone vanished with them."
"Well, what happened to Pak?" Remo asked.
Chiun sighed. "He spent the rest of his days searching for Prince Wo. Finally he was so overcome by disgrace and his own inability to find the prince that he retired to a cave and took no food or water until finally he died. He had a vision though in the very last moments of his life. He foresaw a future time when the descendants of Wo would try to wreak vengeance on another Master of Sinanju. With his dying breath, Pak left a cryptic message, a warning that the seventh stone spoke truth."
He looked up to Remo for comment. Remo shrugged. "Interesting story but that's two thousand years ago. Maybe they wanted to get even once, but, come on, it's a long time ago."
"As long as the bloodline flows unbroken, the memory does not die," Chiun said. He drained his teacup. "Remember when we first came down here? That little article you told me about, the one that described the big stone that they had dug up on this island?"
"I remember mentioning it," Remo said. "Are you telling me that was the seventh stone?"
"It may be," Chiun answered solemnly. "Emperor Smith has pictures of it and he is trying to find out what it says."
"Hold on, Chiun," said Remo. "You speak every language I ever heard of. You can't read this writing?"
"The language is long dead," Chiun said, "and Pak left no instructions in its use."
"It's probably not the same stone at all," Remo said.
"It probably is," Chiun said. "Here is proof." He held up the sword he had taken from the frogman and ran his fingertips over the etching on the blade. "In ancient Indonesian, this says 'Wo' and 'son.' I think the men of the seventh stone are after us."
"And Pak says the seventh stone knows the true way to kill us?" Remo asked.
"So says the legend," Chiun said.
"Then we'd better hope that Smitty finds out what the stone says," Remo said.
"That would be nice," Chiun said agreeably, as he finished his tea.
Chapter Thirteen
Harold VV. Smith sat in front of the computer watching the little lights blink on and off as if someone inside the silent machine was trying to send him a message in code.
Smith loved the computer because it was able to do in seconds or minutes what might take humans days and months. But he hated it too because once it started working, there was nothing to do but sit and wait for it to finish. That made him feel guilty. Technically he might be working, but he really wasn't doing anything at all, except drumming his fingers on the console. After too many years with the government, he still got anxiety pains from not working, a tight little knot in his stomach that felt as if he'd swallowed a hard rubber ball.
He headed his own organization and was answerable to no one but the President himself. Yet he had a recurring nightmare, a dread dream of a day when someone would breeze into the CURE headquarters in Rye, New York, look at him, point a finger and say: "There you are, Smith. Goofing off at the computer again."
He felt a slight loosening of the knot in his stomach as a message took form on the computer's monitor screen. The machine had managed to decipher the first part of the message on the stone found in Little Exuma, although why Chiun thought it was important was beyond Smith.
"The two plums," the computer tapped out. Smith said it aloud just to hear the sound of it, but it sounded no better than it read. That was the trouble with ancient languages. They tended to relate things in terms of fruit and stars and trees and birds and entrails. Everything meant something else because the ancients lacked the gift for direct prose.
The machine had hesitated but now it tapped out two words from the end of the inscription. He now had:
"The two plums ... are bereft."
Not exactly enlightening, Smith thought with a frown. Without the middle, the message made no sense at all, and he had a sinking feeling that even when the computer finally figured out the middle part, the message still wouldn't make much sense.
Still he should let Chiun know what the machine had learned so far. He telephoned Little Exuma and Remo answered on the first ring.
"I've got some information for Chiun," Smith said. "The inscription on a stone he wanted me to translate."
"Terrific. What does it say?" Remo said.
"Well, I don't have the entire inscription yet. Just a sentence and just the beginning and the end. There's some stuff missing from the middle that the computer still has to figure out," Smith said.
"Just give me
what you've got so far," Remo said.
Smith cleared his throat. " 'The two plums,' that's the first part. And then there's a blank. 'Are bereft,' that's the last part." Smith listened to fifteen seconds of silence from the other end of the line. "Did you get that, Remo?" he asked finally.
"Yeah. I got it," said Remo. "The two plums are bereft? That's the great message."
"That's what I have so far."
"What does 'bereft' mean?" Remo asked.
"Destitute, saddened, heartbroken," Smith said.
"Good. And what's the 'two plums' about?"
"I don't know," Smith said.
"Gee," Remo said. "Be sure to call us right away, Smitty, if you get any more exciting news like this. Wow, I can't wait to tell Chiun that the two plums are bereft. He'll be real excited."
"I don't really need your sarcasm," Smith said.
"And I don't really need you," Remo said as he hung up.
* * *
It was a wonderful night for a funeral. Overhead the sky was clear, dusted with a million twinkling stars. There was a steady cooling breeze off the ocean, stirring the flowering vines along the garden wall and filling the night air with their lush sweet fragrance. The weatherman had guaranteed no rain and as if he were comforted by this meteorological perfection, the corpse appeared to be smiling.
The vast emerald-green expanse of Reginald Woburn's back lawn was crowded with the gathered descendants of the Wo clan. Clothed in flowing silk robes, leisure suits, loincloths, they filed past the grave of Ree Wok, their fallen kinsman. He had made the ultimate sacrifice, paid the price that can only be paid once. He had died in battle, the only true way for a Wo warrior to die. In every mind was the thought that there was no greater honor, no greater nobility than that which was now Ree Wok's.
The cool night air was filled with wailing, keening, whispered prayers and warbling chants for the safe swift passage of Ree Wok's departed soul, a symphony of grief played on dozens of different linguistic instruments.
Ree Wok's beautifully appointed satinwood coffin was covered by a thick carpet of flowers, some of species so rare that they had never before been seen in the western hemisphere.
Other descendants of Prince Wo left a variety of objects at the graveside, each a mark of how a great death was honored in their own native culture.
When the last of the mourners had paid their respects and the grave had been filled in, the tall French doors of the mansion parted and Reginald Woburn III emerged atop a sleek black stallion, its head capped by a coronet of three fluttering plumes, its glistening flanks festooned with jewel-encrusted ribbons.
Reggie said nothing. He looked not right or left. All the kinsmen of Prince Wo could see the grave, solemn set of his handsome features and they knew that for this one moment they did not exist for Reginald Woburn III. Each was sure that his grieving was so pure, so intense that his mind held no room for any other thing. In his overwhelming despair, they knew his soul was as one with that of his departed brother, Ree Wok.
It was a beautiful moment, a time, an event that would live in story and song, a treasured memory passed down from one Wo generation to the next.
Reginald Woburn III gigged the jeweled stallion forward. His face solemn, he rode slowly, regally to the graveside.
Overwhelmed by the magnificent sight, the descendants drew a collective breath. They might speak dozens of different tongues, live dozens of different creeds and cultures, but each at last saw Reginald Woburn III as a true prince, the true leader of his flock, heartbroken by the death of one of his own.
Reggie reached the grave site and carefully backed the noble stallion up so that the animal was standing directly over the rectangle of freshly turned earth. Only then did he acknowledge the presence of others. Sitting ramrod straight in the saddle, he turned his head slowly, his clear blue eyes sweeping the crowd.
Then he reached out and slapped the horse's neck.
"Okay, Windy," he yelled. "Do it for Daddy." There was a loud whooshing sound like a balloon bursting as the black stallion broke wind. And then took a long, giant dump atop the grave. The rancorous smell of the manure overpowered the sweet scent of the thousands of flowers and blocked out the delicate smoke of the burning incense. The odor of the horse excrement hung heavy on the cool night air, as thick as the smell of death itself.
"Good boy," Reggie said, clapping the horse's throat. He glared around and said, "That's how we reward failure. What the hell good is trying if you don't succeed? I'm fed up with this family and all its failures and I'm glad this son of a bitch is dead and the next one who fails I may just hang from a tree to rot. Now. Who's going to be next?"
Nobody moved. No one spoke. The silence was so thick it could have been spread on a cracker.
"Well?" Reggie demanded. "Who's next?" After a long minute, there was a stirring in the shadows. A beautiful woman emerged, the reflected moonlight silvering her lustrous black hair.
"I will be next," Kim Kiley said quietly.
Reggie smiled. "Why have you finally deigned to join us?"
"I was researching the subject," Kim responded calmly. "I am ready now."
"How will you kill him?" Reggie demanded.
"Is the white man the important target?" Kim asked coolly.
For a moment Reggie was flustered, then said. "No. Of course not. The Korean is the real goal."
"Correct," she said. "You asked how I will kill the white man," and she shook her head. "Not I alone. That way will lead to only more failure. We will kill him. All of us."
"In what manner?" Reggie said.
"In the manner described by the stone," Kim said with a smile. "And that will bring the old Korean into our grasp too." She paused and stared directly at Reggie, who fidgeted in his saddle. "It was there all the time," Kim said. "You just had to see it. You see, Remo's only weakness is the old man, Chiun, the Korean. And Chiun's loyalty is to Remo. They are two of a kind. They are the plums of the stone."
"But how do we kill them?" Reggie asked.
"The old man is the first plum," Kim said.
"And the way to kill the first plum . . ." She hesitated and smiled. " . . . is with the second plum."
"And how do we kill the second plum?" Reggie asked.
"With the first plum," Kim said softly.
Chapter Fourteen
"There's something outside the door, Chiun," said Remo.
"Of course there is. All through the night, I heard herds of people throwing things against our front door. I didn't sleep for a second," Chiun grumbled.
"It's only an envelope," Remo said. He turned the buff-colored square of paper over and saw his and Chiun's name written on the front in a bold flowing hand with lots of curlicues and swirls.
The note inside carried a lingering trace of familiar perfume.
Dear Remo.
Sorry about the disappearing act yesterday. But the current finally pulled me and the surfboard back to shore and I wanted to get the board back to the rental place before they charged me overtime. Anyway, I know you're a good swimmer so I knew you were safe. But I still feel bad about leaving you without a word, so to make up for it, I'd like to invite you to a party. It's a kind of family reunion that my people are having. It starts at two this afternoon at the Woburn estate on the northern tip of the island. Please bring Chiun along too. I've told everyone so much about you two and the family is very anxious to meet you both. There'll be a special surprise.
Love, Kim
Chiun padded out of the bedroom and saw Remo in the doorway reading the note.
"Are you finished reading my mail?" Chiun asked.
"What makes you think it's for you?"
"Who would write anything to you?" Chiun said. He snatched the note from Remo's hands and read it slowly.
"It's from Kim," Remo said. "An invitation to a party."
"I can see that for myself. I remember you took me to a party once and people kept trying to get me to eat vile things that were piled up on crackers and
buy plastic bowls with lids on them. Do you think this will be that kind of a party?"
"I don't think so," Remo said.
"Wait. Hold. A special surprise, she says," said Chiun.
"Right."
"What is that?" Chiun asked.
"I don't know. If I knew, it wouldn't be a surprise," Remo said.
"It's Barbra Streisand," Chiun said. "I know it. This Kim person has been feeling guilty because she has been keeping you away from your training and now she is going to present me with Barbra Streisand to make amends."
"I don't think any party you're likely to go to is going to make you a gift of Barbra Streisand," Remo said.
"We are going," Chiun said with finality. "I will wear my new robes. Do you want one of my old robes to wear?"
"No, thank you."
"What are you going to wear?"
"A black T-shirt and black pants," Remo said. "Casual, yet restrained. A perfect complement for every occasion."
"You have no imagination," Chiun said.
"Yes I do," Remo said. "Today I'm thinking about wearing socks."
"I'm sure all will be impressed," Chiun said.
"Nothing's too good for Barbra Streisand," Remo said.
They left to walk to the party but were only a few yards along the beach when the telephone back in their condo rang.
"I'll get it," Remo said, turning back toward the front door.
"Get what?"
"The phone," Remo called back.
"Just don't bring it back with you," Chiun said. "I hate those things."
Smith was on the other end of the line. "I have it," he told Remo. "The whole inscription."
"What is it?" Remo said.
"The first part seems to be a listing of weapons. It talks about using spears and fire and the sea and finally it says to use time. It talks about a special killer. Does that mean anything to you?"
"No, but maybe to Chiun. Anything else?"
"But the rest of it, that missing section?"
"Yes?" Remo said.
"The missing word is 'cleaved.' "
"Cleaved?" said Remo.
"Right. Split. Broken. The inscription reads: 'The two plums, cleaved, are bereft.'" He sounded proud.
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