Chinese Puzzle td-3

by Warren Murphy

  Chiun's face relaxed, and he smiled. "I think so, too. Heh, heh. But you almost lied there because you did not wish to offend me. Heh, heh. It is a beautiful story, no?"

  "It is beautiful."

  "Well, back to business. In the year 1421, the Emperor Chu Ti hired our master, the man the village lives on."

  "One man?" Remo asked.

  "That is all that is needed. If the man is good enough, that is all that is needed to support the weak and the poor and the aged of the village, all those who cannot fend for themselves. And our master brought with him into China the sword of Sinanju, seven feet long and of the finest metal. It was his task to execute the architects and the builders of the T'ai-ho Tien, the throne room, because they had installed and knew the secret passageways."

  Remo interrupted. "Why would he need a sword?"

  "The hand is for attack. But the sword is for execution."

  Remo nodded.

  "He fulfilled his duties to the letter. On the afternoon of the completion of the T'ai-ho Tien, the Emperor called all the architects and builders to the secret passageway, where he had said they would receive their reward.

  "But he was not there to reward them. Only the master. Whaa, the sword moved right. Whaa, the sword moved left. Whaa, the sword moved down, and scarcely a man there saw the blade or knew what was happening. Whaa."

  Chiun two-handed a large, imaginary sword. It had to be imaginary because no seven-foot sword could move that quickly with that little effort.

  "Whaa. And he left the sword there with the bodies, to return for it after he was paid. But before he was paid, the Emperor invited him to dinner. But the master said, 'I can not. My people are hungry. I must return with their sustenance.' This is the truth I speak, Remo.

  "And the Emperor gave the master a poisoned fruit. And the master was helpless."

  "Don't you people have a defence against poison?"

  "There is only one. Not eating. Know your food. That is your weakness too, my son. Although no one need try to poison you because you poison yourself daily. Pizza, hot dogs, roast beef, mashed potatoes, the skin of poultry. Pheewww. Anyway, the master awoke in a field, because of his great strength, only numbed. On foot, weak, and without his powers, he returned to Sinanju. By the time he arrived, they were again sending the newborn home."

  Chiun's head dropped. He stared at the floor.

  "For me to fail is to send the children home. I cannot do that, even if you were the assignment. For today, I am the master."

  "That's your tough shit, Chiun, not mine." Remo's voice was cold.

  "You are right. It is my tough shit."

  "What about the architects and builders? Why did they deserve death?"

  "That is the price one must expect to pay for working for the Chinese."

  "And Sinanju paid that price also," Remo said. He was beyond anger, in the whirlpool of frustration, unable to strike out at anything that would not hurt him more. He had always known that Chiun was professional and if need be Remo himself would be sacrificed. But he did not like to hear it.

  "One always pays the price. Nothing is free," Chiun said. "You are paying it now. You are exposed, known, your greatest weapon, that of surprise, gone. You have no children whose lives depend on your service, no mothers to tell themselves lies because you failed. Your skills can give you the good life. Go. Escape."

  The anguish Remo had felt left for a new pain, the hurt of telling a good friend something you did not tell even yourself. He leaned forward, hoping to avoid telling Chiun.

  "What's the matter, Chiun? Don't you have it to kill me?"

  "Do not be silly. Of course, I would kill you. Although death would be easier for me."

  "I cannot abandon this assignment," Remo said.

  "Why?"

  "Because," Remo said, "I have children too. And they are being sent home, by heroin, by war, by crime, by people who think it a good thing to blow up buildings and shoot policemen and stretch the laws of our country until they protect no one. The children who are harmed by this are my children. And if we have a chance, that someday, we will not have wars, and our streets will be safe, and children are not poisoned by drugs and men robbed by other men, then, that day will I escape. Then, that day, will I put down my nation's sword. And until that day, I will do my job."

  "You will do your job until you are killed."

  "That's the biz, sweetheart."

  "That's the biz," said Chiun.

  And then they smiled, Chiun first, then Remo, because they felt that first little tinge that tells you someone is zoning in on you, and it would be good now to use their bodies again.

  There was a knock on the door.

  "Come in," said Remo, rising from the floor. It felt good to stretch his legs. The door opened, admitting the woman whom he had pointedly not noticed noticing him in the lobby. She was dressed now as a maid.

  "Hello, sir," she said. "Your air conditioning is malfunctioning. We'll have to turn it off and open the window."

  "By all means," Remo said sweetly.

  The woman, giving more signals than the public address system at Grand Central Station, clopped into the room and pulled up the blinds. She did not look at either man, but was stiff and programmed and even perspiring.

  Chiun made a face, indicating almost shock at the incompetence of the setup. Remo squelched a laugh.

  The woman opened the window, and Chiun and Remo simultaneously spotted the sniper across the street, in a room one story higher than theirs. It was as easy as if the woman had shone a flashlight into the room across the street.

  Remo grabbed her hands in his.

  "Gee, I don't know how to thank you for this. I mean, it was getting stuffy in here."

  "That's all right," said the woman, attempting to break free. Remo applied slight pressure behind her thumbs and stared into her eyes. She had been avoiding his, but could avoid them no longer.

  "That's all right," she repeated. "I was glad to help." Her left foot began to tap nervously.

  "I'd like to phone the desk and thank them for your help," Remo said.

  "Oh, no. Don't do that. It's part of the service." The woman was so locked in her tension now that she had turned off her feelings, lest they explode. Remo let her go. She would not look back when she left the room, but would run where she must run.

  Remo wanted them both, together. He did not want any corpses in his own room, or cluttering his hallway. But if he got them in their room, neat, done, then perhaps a small bite to eat. He had not eaten since the previous day.

  She stumbled through the door, and it shut with a crack behind her and she was gone. Remo waited a moment, then said to Chiun:

  "You know, I could go for seafood tonight."

  "The sniper has been to Sinanju," said Chiun.

  "Yeah, I thought so. You know, I felt him zoning in through the blinds." Remo held the doorknob.

  "Incredibly effective," Chiun said, "except of course when it is incredibly ineffective. When the victim, not the shooter, is in control of the relationship. It was originally done with arrows, you know."

  "You haven't taught me the firing yet."

  "If you're alive in a few weeks, I will. I will keep him occupied," Chiun said, swaying slowly, as though dodging and teasing the end of a long, slow spear.

  "Thanks," said Remo, opening the door.

  "Wait," said Chiun.

  "Yes?" said Remo.

  "We had seafood yesterday."

  "You can have vegetables. I'll have lobster."

  "I'd like duck. Duck would be nice if cooked properly."

  "I hate duck," Remo said.

  "Learn to like it."

  "See you later," said Remo.

  "Think about duck," said Chiun.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Ricardo deEstrana y Montaldo y Ruiz Guerner was a dead man. He had placed his beloved weapon on the soft bed behind him, and sat in the chair by the window, September giving chill to his bones, Boston hooting noisily at him fro
m below.

  And he stared at the smiling Korean who now sat still in the lotus position in the room across the street. Guerner had seen blinds open, had felt the presence of his victims even before they were open, saw them, then began to create the link between the bullet and the skull of the target. At first, it seemed easier than easy, because the vibrations were there, that feeling between him and what he was shooting at, and it was stronger than ever before.

  The target was talking to Maria, and then Maria left, but a strong feeling from the Korean overpowered that from his primary victim and demanded that the Korean be killed first. And so, Guerner sighted, touching the imaginary spear which was his rifle to the yellow forehead, but just missing, and reaching again, and not quite able to keep the spear there, unable to get the correct shot, just moving the barrel back and forth. And then it was only a rifle in his hands, and for years, ever since Sinanju, he had not used a rifle merely as a rifle. He had been in North Korea as a consultant, and he had visited that village, and been outshot by a child, and they had apologized that the master was not there to show him some real shooting, and for a ridiculously small sum of money, they had taught him the technique.

  He had thought then that they were foolish. But now staring down the sights of his gun, he knew why the price was cheap. They had given him nothing, only a false confidence which would now be his death, now that he had met the master who had been missing that day years ago.

  He tried to sight, like a normal shot, but the gun shook. He had not used it like that for years.

  He concentrated on his bullet, the trajectory, blocking out the sight of the weaving Korean, and when all was set again, he put the imaginary spear to the victim's head, but the head was not there and Guerner's fingers trembled.

  Shaking, he put the cold rifle on the bed. The elderly Korean, still in his lotus position, bowed, and smiled.

  Guerner bowed his respects and folded his arms. His main target had disappeared from the room and would undoubtedly be at his door momentarily.

  It had not been a bad life, although if he could have begun life with the vines, instead of entering this business, then perhaps it might have been better.

  That was a lie, of course, he realized. He felt that he should pray now, but somehow it would not be right, and what did he really have to ask for. He had taken everything he wanted. He was satisfied with his life, he had planted his vines and harvested his grapes, so what more could he ask for.

  So, Guerner silently addressed whatever deity might be out there and thanked the deity for the good things he had enjoyed. He crossed his legs, and then a request came to his mind.

  "Lord, if you are there, grant me this. That there be no heaven and there be no hell. Just that it be all over."

  The door opened and Maria entered puffing. Guerner did not turn around.

  "You get him?" she asked.

  "No," said Guerner.

  "Why not?" asked Maria.

  "Because he's going to get us. That's one of the risks of the business."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "We lose, Maria."

  "But it's only 50 yards."

  "It could be the moon, my dear. The rifle's on the bed. Feel free to use it."

  Guerner heard the door shut. "No need to shut the door, my dear. Doors won't stop these people."

  Maria said, "I didn't shut the ..." and then Guerner heard the crack of bone and a body bouncing onto the bed, then clumping into the wall near him. He looked to his left. Maria, her hair still scraggly, now was soaked with dark blood oozing from her broken skull. She could not have felt a thing, probably had not even seen the hands that performed the execution. Even in death, she looked so incredibly unkempt.

  Guerner had another request of God, and asked that Maria be judged by her intentions, not her deeds.

  "Hi there, fella, how's the sniper business?" came the voice from behind.

  "Fine until you messed it up."

  "That's the biz, sweetheart."

  "If you don't mind, would you stop the small talk and get it over with?"

  "Well, you don't have to be snotty about it."

  "It's not that. It's just that I'm tired of dealing with peasants. Now, please, do what you must do."

  "If you don't like dealing with peasants, why didn't you become a court chamberlain, shmuck?"

  "I believe the job market was depressed at the time," Guerner said, still not turning toward the voice.

  "First a couple of questions. Who hired you?"

  "She did. The corpse."

  "Who'd she work for?"

  "Some Communist group or other. I'm not sure which,"

  "You can do better."

  "Not really."

  "Try."

  "I did."

  "Try harder."

  Guerner felt a hand on his shoulder and then a vise, crushing nerve and bone, and incredible pain where his right side was and he groaned.

  "Try harder."

  "Aaaah. That's all I know. There's $70,000 in her purse."

  "Okay. I believe you. Say, how's the roast duck in this town?"

  "What?" said Guerner, starting to turn, but never finishing. Just a flash. Then nothing.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Remo drove off the New York Thruway on the same route General Liu's car had taken. It was a typical modern American highway junction with a confusion of signs stretched like meaningless miniature billboards 25 feet above the highway, so that to find a particular sign, one had to read them all.

  It was a tribute to the thoughtlessness of highway planners that if Remo had not been the recipient of extensive training in mind and body control, he would have missed the turnoff.

  The noon traffic seemed alive on the sunny fall day, perhaps a pre-lunch rush or just the normal clogging of an artery feeding a major city of the world.

  Chiun had been making small, gasping sounds since the New York City air, a fume-laden, lung-corroding poison, had first seeped into the car's air conditioning.

  "Slow death," Chiun said.

  "Because of the insensitivity of the exploitative ruling class to the people's welfare. In China, we would not allow air like this."

  "In China," Chiun said, "people do not have cars. They eat excrement."

  "You allow your slave much freedom," Mei Soong said to Remo. The trio sat in the front seat, Mei Soong between the two men, and Chiun pressed as far against the passenger's door as he could get. Remo had not bothered to switch cars, and frankly hoped he was being followed. Time was getting short in the search for General Liu and he wanted contact made as soon as possible.

  Remo did not like Chiun sitting near the window in his present mood, although for most of the trip Remo had been careful to avoid cars with peace emblems. Remo had been concentrating on Liu's disappearance, hoping for a flash of inspiration.

  Then he had heard Chum humming happily, and snapped to full consciousness, looking around carefully. Nothing wrong. Then he saw what unleashed the joy in Chiun's heart. A small foreign car with a peace emblem was passing on their right.

  As the car moved by, Chiun, staring straight ahead, shot an arm through the open window, flicking at something. Remo caught sight of it in the rear-view mirror. A clinketing side-view mirror going back up the road, shattering in shards of glass, bouncing as it disappeared out of sight.

  It had happened so fast, of course, the driver of the other car never saw Chiun's wraithlike hand snap out, picking off the mirror. Up ahead, Remo had seen the driver look around in a little confusion and shake his head. Chiun hummed even louder, in joyous contentment.

  So Remo had watched for the peace banner cars all the way back to New York. Once, he had tried to foil Chiun. He came close while passing a car with a peace sign, then turned away at the last moment, seeing how close he could come to fooling Chiun.

  Remo wound up with a side-view mirror in his lap. Chiun loved that, especially when it bounced off Remo and landed on Mei Soong's hands.

  "Heh
, heh," Chiun had said, his victory complete.

  "Bet you feel proud of yourself," Remo had said.

  "Only feel proud when you defeat worthy opponent. Not proud at all. Heh, heh. Not proud at all."

  This putdown had lasted Chiun all the way to the turnoff in New York City, with only an occasional "heh, heh, not proud at all."

  Remo followed the route he knew General Liu had taken. Under the Jerome Avenue elevated train he drove, past the Mosholu Golf Course, to a crowded business district, shaded in the sunlight of day by the black grimy elevated train tracks, darkening the whole street. Hardware shops, delicatessens, supermarkets, more restaurants, two dry cleaners, laundries, candy and toy stores. Then Remo turned off the avenue two blocks beyond where General Liu had disappeared and prowled the neighbourhood with the car. They were clean neat buildings, six stories high at the most, all brick, and all surprisingly quiet for New York City.

  Yet Remo knew that New York City was not really one city but a geographical conglomeration of thousands of provincial neighbourhoods, each as far away spiritually from the glamour of New York City as Sante Fe, New Mexico.

  These neighbourhoods-and sometimes just one apartment building constituted a neighbourhood-enjoyed their own ethnic composition, Italian, Irish, Jewish, Polish; proof that the melting pot didn't really melt anything, but instead allowed the unmixed particles to go floating around happily in a common stew.

  The houses on both sides of Jerome Avenue, between the Grand Concourse, the main thoroughfare of the Bronx, and the beginning of the elevated train, were the same. Neat, none more than six stories. All brick. Yet there were small differences.

  "Chiun," Remo said, "do you know what I'm looking for?"

  "Not sure."

  "Do you see what I see?" Remo asked. "No."

  "What do you think?" "This is an outskirt of a larger city." "Notice anything different from one block to another?" "No. This is one place all over the place. Heh, heh." Chiun knew when he created a phrase in English and would punctuate it with a laugh that was not a laugh. "We'll see," Remo said.

  Mei Soong piped up. "It is obvious that the middle level of your rulers lives here. Your secret police and army. Your nuclear bomber pilots."