"What does it mean though?" Remo asked. "It sounds like some whiny housewife's note to a grocery store. 'The two plums, cleaved, are bereft.' Who cares about broken plums?"
"I don't know," Smith said. "I thought you would."
"Thanks, Smitty. I'll tell Chiun."
When he told Chiun of Smith's report, the old Korean seemed more interested in the listing of weapons.
"You say the last one on the list was time?" Chiun asked.
"That's what Smith said. What kind of a weapon is time?" Remo asked.
"The most dangerous of all," Chiun said.
"How's that?"
"If one waits long enough, his enemy will think he has forgotten and relax his guard."
"So you think this was really from the seventh stone of Prince Wo?" asked Remo.
Chiun nodded silently.
"And what is that about 'The two plums, cleaved, are bereft'?" Remo asked.
"I think we will find out soon," Chiun said. The rolling lawns of the Worburn estate looked like the site for the annual Christmas picnic of the United Nations. People in every form of native garb Remo had ever seen milled about. They moved aside silently to let Remo and Chiun pass, then closed up behind them. The sounds of untranslated whispers followed them across the green field.
Remo counted ten long tables draped in white damask and laden with all kinds of food and drink. The mingled aromas of curry, fish and meat competed with steaming cabbage and spicy Indonesian lamb. There were steam tables of vegetables and bowls of fresh fruit, many that Remo had never seen before.
"This place smells like a Bombay alley," Chiun said, his nose wrinkling in disgust.
Remo pointed ahead of them. There was a small linen-covered table. Atop it was a silver pitcher of fresh water and a silver chafing dish heaped to the top with clumpy, mushlike rice.
"For us," Remo said. He thought it was nice of Kim Kiley to remember and he wondered where she was.
He looked but could not see her in the crowd. She had said this was a family reunion and he had expected a couple of dozen people in leisure suits, shorts and funny straw hats, clustered around a barbecue grill. He hadn't expected this.
"I don't see Barbra Streisand," Chiun said.
"Maybe she's going to ride in on an elephant," Remo said.
A man in tweeds stepped up and offered his hand to Remo. "So very glad you could come," he said. "I'm Rutherford Wobley." He nodded politely to Chiun as Remo shook his hand.
"And this is Ruddy Woczneczk," he said. Remo went through the process again with a moonfaced Slav.
"Lee Wotan," the Oriental next to him said and bowed. "And these are. . ." He began to rattle off the names of people standing near. Wofton, Woworth, Wosento and Wopo. All the names sounded alike to Remo and he nodded and smiled and as soon as he could slipped away into the crowd.
The names, he thought. Why did every one of them start with W-O? And it wasn't just the people he'd met this afternoon. There were William and Ethel Wonder, the film people, and Jim Worthman, their photographer. And what about the fanatical Indonesian who tried to kill the President? His name had been Du Wok. It seemed to Remo that everywhere he had gone in the last few weeks, he had run into people whose names began with W-O.
With one bright, shining exception.
Remo sauntered up the bright lawn toward the house. He had left Chiun behind, in animated conversation with a young aristocratic man dressed in an impeccable white linen suit. It seemed that he and Chiun had met on the island before because they were talking like old friends.
Nearer the house was a series of reflecting pools strewn with water lilies and a large latticework gazebo.
Next to the house he saw four towering columns, like flagpoles, each of them topped with a cluster of rectangles covered completely with dark cloths.
He slipped into the house and found a telephone in the library. Smith answered on the first ring.
"Look up a name for me," Remo said. "Kim Kiley."
"The movie actress?" Smith asked.
"That's the one."
"Hold on." Smith put the telephone down and Remo heard the click of buttons being pushed and then a muted whirring sound. "Here it is," Smith said as he came back on the line. "Kiley, Kimberley. Born Karen Wolinski, 1953. . . ."
"Spell that last name," Remo said.
"W-o-l-i-n-s-k-i," Smith said.
"Thank you," Remo said. He hung up the telephone and stood there still for a moment, not quite ready to believe it. But it had to be true; there was just too much to be written off as coincidence.
The sounds of the party drifted in through the open window. Laughter, music, the clinking of glasses. But Remo was not in the party mood anymore and he walked out a side door of the mansion and ambled along the beach.
It was all connected somehow. Kim and all the others whose names began with W-O. All the loose threads tied in with the attempts on his life, an ancient stone that spoke the truth, an unbending prince and his descendants and Masters of Sinanju, past and present. They were all bound together by a cord that stretched from this moment back across the centuries. What was it Chiun had said? Remo remembered:
"As long as the bloodline flows unbroken, the memory never dies."
Remo found that his footsteps had carried him to the secluded cove where he and Kim had first made love. That still bothered him. If Kim was a part of some kind of revenge scheme, why had she stayed in the cave with him? They had been making love when the giant wave came crashing in. If she had lured Remo there to kill him, surely she must have realized that she was going to her own death as well. Somehow he didn't believe that.
Kim might be a loyal descendant of Prince Wo but she didn't seem like the kind of woman who would kill herself just to even up a two-thousand-year-old score.
Remo padded into the cave and smiled when he saw the spot where they had lain together on the warm sand. The memory was still vivid, as real as the salt in the sea air.
He wandered back farther into the cavern. He remembered now that when the thundering wail of water had filled the mouth of the cave, Kim hadn't run instinctively toward the entrance. She had turned instead and bolted toward the back of the opening, farther from safety, farther away from the air and the land above.
Remo walked back to the spot where he had scooped her up as she kicked and struck and bit at him. He glanced up and saw a glimmer of light from above. There it was. An opening in the roof of the cave, just big enough for one person to pass through. If a person were standing on this exact spot, the onrush of water would lift him up right to that opening.
No wonder Kim had fought so hard when Remo grabbed her. He had chalked it up to panic but, in truth, she had been trying to break free to save herself, never considering the possibility that Remo would be able to swim against the onrushing water and carry them both to safety.
Just to make sure, Remo clambered up the rocks and boosted himself through the opening. It was a tight squeeze for him, but it would have been easy for Kim Kiley.
He found himself on a rocky promontory above the cave. Even when the tide was highest, someone standing here would have been safe.
There was nothing to do now but to accept the facts. It had been Kim all along, not caring for him at all, but leading him around like a sacrificial lamb. First the cave and when that had not worked, out into the ocean where the frogman had been waiting to finish him off. And she had probably been tied in with the gunmen too, those at the Indian reservation.
What Remo had thought was an affectionate caring woman had turned out to be nothing more than an attractive piece of bait.
Remo made his way back along the beach, through the mansion and out onto the spacious lawn. The party was in full swing. He saw that Chiun was still talking to that aristocratic man in white, as well as a half-dozen others gathered around in a tight circle.
Remo felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Kim there, looking heartbreakingly beautiful in a low-cut blue silk dress.
"Da
rling," she whispered and threw her arms around his neck.
She held Remo tight, pressing against him. His nostrils filled with the scent of the perfume she wore. It was just as he remembered it from the very first day, rich and exotic. Bitterly he told himself: as primitive and powerful as a carved stone on a tropical beach.
She finally released him but the heavy perfume seemed to cling to his clothes like a constant painful reminder of his own vulnerability.
"Are you having a good time?" she asked with a Hollywood dazzler of a smile.
Remo said nothing. He looked at her once more, then turned and started through the crowd to get Chiun.
Chapter Fifteen
He did not see Chiun and the crowd was already surging up the hill toward the mansion. A young tweedy man stepped up next to Remo and nudged him with an elbow.
"The entertainment's about to start."
"I bet," Remo said.
He caught a glimpse of shimmering green and gold that must have come from Chiun's robes and pushed his way through the crowd until he found the aged Korean.
"They don't have Barbra Streisand," Chiun said. "But they're going to have a circus." He sounded happy.
Remo leaned over to whisper so that no one else could hear. "Chiun, these are Prince Wo's descendants. They're our enemies."
Chiun hissed back. "I know that."
"Then what are we staying here for? Let's book."
"That means leave?" Chiun asked.
"That means leave," Remo said.
"So we leave and what then?" Chiun asked. "Another day, another year and these people who would not pay their proper bill to Master Pak come to us again? It is better that we resolve all this now."
"If you say so," Remo said.
"I say so," Chiun said. "You go stand on the other side and keep your eyes open."
"Is there a leader? Why not just splatter him now?" Remo said.
"Because we do not know what will happen then. To act without information is to court disaster. The other side."
"All right," Remo said, and moved around onto the other side of the rectangular clearing which was marked at each corner by the large columns he had noticed earlier. The black cloths that covered the tops of the columns were still in place.
The young man whom Chiun had been talking to earlier was now standing in the center of the clearing.
He raised a hand for silence, got it, and announced in a clear voice: "I am Reginald Woburn the Third. I welcome you to the Wo family reunion. Let the fun begin."
As he stepped out of the clearing a brass gong somewhere was struck, sounding a deep-throated reverberation. A trio of high-pitched wood flutes lay down a sweet chord of melody. Cymbals crashed and the gong boomed again as a troupe of brightly clad Oriental acrobats came tumbling through the crowd and into the ring.
"The Amazing Wofans," the young man next to Remo said.
"If you're going to be my tour director, what's your name?" Remo asked.
"Rutherford Wobley," the man said.
"I thought so," Remo said.
He looked away in disgust and saw the Wofans spinning around the ring, doing handsprings and cartwheels, back flips and rolls. Their bodies flew through the air like bright blurs of color as they passed over and under each other like whirling tops in constant motion. While the area they had to work in was not large, they managed to sail through a series of interweaving patterns as complex as a spider's web made from pure energy and motion.
The pajama-clad performers grouped in the center of the ring and flipped themselves upward to form a human pyramid. They were good, Remo thought disgustedly, but he'd seen it all before. He wondered when they were going to start spinning plates on long bamboo poles.
The athletes dismantled the pyramid, rolling to the ground, to the applause of the spectators. Remo glanced across the clearing, looking for Chiun, but he could not see him.
The high-pitched piping of the flutes filled the air with a sound like a mournful wail. The cymbals crashed and then the gong again with its deep lingering echo.
The acrobats responded to the music. They flew across the ring, two, three, four at once, speeding smudges of color that seemed to defy the laws of gravity, tumbling over each other, seeming to pause in the air at the top of their leaps, working their way across the clearing. And then a blue-clad acrobat overshot the rest of the performers and came hurtling at Remo like a dive bomber.
It had started. Remo stepped to the side a halfpace and raised a hand. It looked as if he hadn't really done anything, maybe just waved to someone in the crowd on the other side of the arena. But the acrobat's feetfirst dive missed Remo completely, except where the Oriental's shoulder brushed the tip of Remo's outstretched hand. The contact was punctuated by the snapping sound of breaking bone, a whoosh of exhaled air and then a prolonged scream as the acrobat hit the ground. This time he did not bounce up.
Two more came lunging toward Remo. Red and green this time. Remo turned slightly, catching one with his shoulder blade and the second with his knee. He hoped that Chiun was watching because he felt that his technique was really good on the two moves. The acrobats' bellows of pained surprise drowned out the frantic warbling of the flutes. The red-and-green-clad men popped skyward like bubbles in a breeze. Like bubbles, they were broken when they hit the ground. From the corner of his eye as he turned, Remo saw Reginald Woburn yank the cord that dangled from one of the rectangleclustered poles. There was a blinding flash of light as a mirror on the pole picked up and reflected the brilliant intensity of the sun's glare directly into Remo's eyes. Remo blinked in surprise. As he opened his eyes again, he had to ignore the mirror because the remaining Oriental acrobats were coming toward him, with knives they had drawn from inside their clothing. Remo ducked out of their way and as he did there was another flash of blinding light. Then another. And another.
The harsh white light seared his eyes. Remo ducked away from the acrobats, into the crowd of people standing around the performance arena, his eyes screwed shut tightly. He opened them again, but he still could not see. The brightness had shocked his vision for a moment, and behind him, he could hear the yelling of the Oriental acrobats as they tried to get to him.
Remo fled, then stopped as a thin high voice rose above the sounds of a hundred different noises. It was Chiun's voice rising above the crowd. It sounded metallic and strained.
"Remo," Chiun wailed. "Help me. Attack now. Free me. Help."
His blind eyes burning, Remo lunged toward the voice. Eight steps he knew would bring him to it. But when he was there, all he felt was stillness. There were people there, poised and waiting. Remo could feel them, hear their breathing, sense the coiled tension in their bodies, feel the small movements they made even when they thought they were standing perfectly still.
But there was nothing in the spot where Chiun's voice had come from.
Behind him, Remo heard the voices of the acrobats moving toward him. And he caught the scent of perfume, a painfully familiar fragrance that stirred up far too many memories. It was Kim Kiley's perfume, rich and exotic, as individual as a fingerprint when it intermingled with the scent of her own body.
She was there and then there was another scent.
It was the smell of the tiny particles of residue that linger in a gun barrel after it has been fired. No matter how many times the gun was cleaned, the smell always remained for those with the ability to sense it.
Remo felt the air change again, heard the whisper of motion as a slender finger pulled backward slowly on a trigger. He wanted to yell "No" but there was no time, and instead his unspoken word turned into a thunderous roar of despair that shattered the stillness as Remo, sightless but unerring, reached out for the sound and brought his hand down on the white fragrant neck. He heard the dry-stick sound of snapping bone. Behind him, the acrobats were leaping toward him. He could feel the pressure of their bodies moving through the air.
But they never reached him. There was the sound of thump-thump-thump
like three heavy stones dropped into a mud puddle. He knew their three bodies had ceased moving.
Suddenly, the air was clamorous with the sound of screams, shrieking and pounding feet as the crowd panicked and ran in all directions.
The searing pain of blindness still burned Remo's eyes. He groped for a moment in a world of white night, until he sensed the tall metal structure nearby. He had to turn off the lights; he had to see again; he had to find Chiun.
On the ground near the pole, Remo found a stone-cut glass tumbler dropped by one of the fleeing guests. He sensed its weight and then tossed it upward in a spiraling are.
He heard the shattering sound as the glass connected with its target. The mirror atop the pole smashed into a million crystalline fragments that rained down from the sky in a magnificent light show.
The other three lights still blinded him, but then he heard the glass of the lights breakpop, pop, pop-and a sudden darkness descended over the lawn. He blinked once and his vision began to return.
The first thing he saw was Chiun, turning away from having blasted out the three other lights with stones.
"You're all right?" Remo asked.
"All in all, I would have preferred Barbra Streisand," Chiun said.
Remo turned around and saw Kim. She lay next to Reginald Woburn III, the two of them stretched out amid a sea of glittering crystals from the broken light reflectors. To their left were the three last Oriental acrobats, their bodies twisted ungracefully in death.
Kim Kiley's perfect face stared skyward, her eyes masked by a pair of dark glasses. A pistol rested on the curled fingers of her right hand. Remo turned away.
"How did you know to kill her?" asked Chiun.
"I knew," Remo said quietly. "How did you know to kill him?"
"He was the leader; if we are ever to have any peace, he must go."
"You waited long enough," Remo said. "I was stumbling around there, not able to see, and you weren't anywhere."
"I found you though," Chiun said. "I just followed the sound of an ox stomping around and, naturally, it was you."
"I don't understand what they were doing," Remo said.
"They tried to make each of us think that the other was hurt," Chiun said. "We were their 'two plums.' "
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