Father to Son td-129

by Warren Murphy

  "Why do you ask questions when the answers are known to you already?" the Korean replied.

  It was him. Dilkes could scarcely believe it. He felt his heartbeat quicken even more. He tried to will it to slow.

  "I beg indulgence for my persistent impudence, O unequaled one," he said, bowing, "but it was my understanding that you had disappeared many years ago. It was assumed by many in my profession-I do not call it 'our' profession, for it sullies your great and hallowed reputation to be likened to worthless bunglers such as myself-that you had died."

  The Korean's hooded eyes were flat. "Spare me that flowery foolishness," he droned. "You are not good at it, and I do not require songs of flattery to stroke my ego. I am not my uncle, decrepit and needy of validation. As for that other, I was asleep. That is all you need know."

  Dilkes could see he had given offense.

  "I beg forgiveness," he said. "It's just that you caught me by surprise."

  The Korean nodded quiet understanding. "That is a rare thing for you, Benson Dilkes. I have heard of you. You are too cautious to be surprised. That is a good thing. The price of failure is high, given the work you do, yet you have survived longer than most. I am impressed."

  "You honor me, sir."

  "The proper term is 'Master.'"

  "Forgive me, Master," Dilkes said.

  The American assassin's eyes strayed to door and window. The window was sealed and wired. The same for the door. They would take precious seconds to disarm. Not that it mattered. Even if he made a dash for it, he was certain there was no way he could hope to make it past the Korean.

  But even as the wild thoughts flew through the brain of Benson Dilkes, the Asian was shaking his head. It was as if the man in the business suit had read his mind.

  "Do not make me question my faith in you," the Korean said. "You know full well that if I wished it you would be dead already. Therefore, I must not want you dead."

  "But the contest..." Dilkes began, confused. His voice trailed off.

  He was suddenly distracted, a worried look on his tan face. Dilkes had finally noticed the other person who had somehow stolen into his bedroom unannounced.

  The other stranger had likely been standing near the Korean the whole time. It was easy enough to miss him, the way he loitered in the dark corner near the door. As it was, Dilkes had to squint to make him out.

  The man was obviously not Asian.

  He was white. Thin and pale. A mane of flowing blond hair like tousled corn husks hung down to narrow shoulders. His face was so sunken he looked like the hollow projection of a human. Even though he was younger than the Korean, he somehow looked older than his years. He didn't speak or move. Just clung to the dark. A subservient ghost.

  "Who is that?" Dilkes breathed.

  The man in the suit didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge the presence of the other man.

  "No one. A failure. A tool that broke. A shadow of what he was supposed to be. Pay him no mind."

  "As you wish, Master," Dilkes said.

  The word fit comfortably on his tongue.

  Many men, alive and dead, would have been surprised at the ease with which the great Benson Dilkes had accepted so subordinate a term. Even among those in his profession who knew of Sinanju, few fully understood what it was. Dilkes knew. For this reason the word Master came easily to him.

  The man who called himself Nuihc padded across the room. Dilkes backed against the bureau, allowing a wide path for the small man to pass. The Korean stopped before the line of corkboard maps. Face upturned, he studied the many red pins.

  The blond-haired man stayed back near the door. As still as death, the blond man studied the small Asian. For the first time Dilkes saw the Caucasian's eyes.

  If a Caribbean sea could catch fire, that was the color of the younger man's eyes. They were blue. Brilliantly so. As the young man studied his Master, his electric-blue eyes sparkled with a vitality far greater than the pale, emaciated face in which they were sunk.

  Dilkes found himself so entranced by the younger man's eyes that he missed something the Asian said. "Excuse me?" he asked.

  "I said this is not accurate," the Korean repeated. He waved a hand across the big maps, pointing, one, two, three. "There, you missed some in India and China. Several in Lobinia. Here, in San Francisco and New York."

  The reality hit Benson Dilkes. This was a Master of Sinanju. Of course he would know all the little pin marks in Dilkes's absurd maps. He had doubtless made many of them.

  "You were there," Dilkes said.

  "For a few," the Korean admitted. "Not for most. But I, like you, kept track."

  Dilkes frowned. "But you're the pupil of the Master of Sinanju. And these-" he hesitated, searching for the right word "-events have spanned the past thirty years. Shouldn't you have been there for most of them?"

  The Korean still studied the maps. At Dilkes's question, there was a slight twitch at the corner of the Asian's mouth. A hint of buried emotion. When he spoke, his voice was so soft Dilkes had to strain to hear.

  "I was Master before any of these took place," the Korean said coldly. "I was Master when you first began your pitiful business of breaking necks and setting fires for money in barbarian African backwaters. These are all the result of an anomaly. The handiwork of an old man who stayed beyond his time. One who would betray everything he claims to hold dear. A pathetic shell of dust and bone who would take as a pupil a worthless white mongrel and present it to the world as something other than the unfit cur that it is." He shook his head. "This will end."

  With that the Asian raised his foot five inches off the floor. With a look of icy determination, he dropped the sole of his black leather shoe hard to the carpet.

  The thunder rattled the room. The vibrations seemed to find focus on the wooden easels that held up the world maps. One by one the tiny red tacks popped out, clattering to carpet like hard rain. The last tack to rattle loose was that of Jean-Pierre Sevigne. The plastic-capped pin that had become a grave marker for the French assassin fell to the floor and was lost in the scattering sea of red thumbtacks.

  "It is one thing to follow a trail," said the Asian. "Quite another thing to blaze one. We are going to tear down a house and build a new one on its foundation."

  As he spoke, the small man walked over and retrieved the plastic case from the nightstand.

  Dilkes shook his head. "I don't understand."

  The Asian turned. "You and the pins in this box are going to help me, Benson Dilkes. When I am done, not one stone will be left on another. Our task is a simple one. Builders do it all the time. The destruction of a house."

  The Korean took two fresh pins from the case. Rolling them in his palm, he brought them over to the map. One after the next, he flipped them to the tip of his thumb and flicked them with his index finger. With near simultaneous whirs they flew at a map, burying themselves deep in the corkboard.

  Dilkes saw that the tacks had embedded themselves near the Korean peninsula. Just at the edge of the curve of the West Korean Bay. When he turned back to the Asian, there was a look of excited wonder on his face.

  Dilkes had been dragged from Africa, from the comfort of retirement. Practically kicking and screaming. He had thought his new life of leisure suited him. He was wrong.

  Benson Dilkes-the man who lectured others about the power of the House of Sinanju, the man who twenty-five years before had run rather than encounter the most feared practitioner of that most ancient art-felt an old tingle in the pit of his fluttering stomach.

  He thought it was long gone. The excitement of youth. The thrill of the kill. Replaced by drudgery and mechanics and, finally, by retirement, by uselessness. But it was back. Blazing bright and newborn. In a flash, the certainty of death that had loomed above his head all these months was replaced by the exciting possibility of ultimate success.

  Benson Dilkes turned to the Korean, his tan face flushed with youthful energy.

  "I understand, Master," Dilkes drawled, his Virg
inia twang suddenly as thick as the day he had made his first kill. "Just tell me what you need. I am yours to command."

  The killer offered a deep, formal bow of submission.

  And, unseen by Dilkes, in the corner of the room the silent, blond-haired man flashed a demented smile.

  Chapter 17

  Remo was hoping that Chiun's gloomy mood would dissipate by the time they reached Charles de Gaulle International Airport. But the old Korean remained somber and silent from the cab to the curb to the terminal. His dour mood was infectious. Remo felt his own spirits sink with every cheerless step.

  "Where to next?" Remo asked glumly as they headed to the ticket windows.

  "Germany," the wizened Asian replied. He screwed his mouth up, refusing to say more.

  "Great," Remo grumbled. "Snails for schnitzel. At least we're trading up the food chain."

  He ordered the tickets at the counter, paying with his Remo Bednick American Express card. The two Masters of Sinanju had walked only a dozen feet away from the counter when a squat airport representative with a thick neck and a thicker French accent touched Remo on the elbow.

  "Please excuse the intrusion," the man said, "but monsieur has a telephone call. If you would come this way."

  Remo shot a glance at the Master of Sinanju. Chiun seemed uninterested. It was apparent he was still worrying about the words of the Russian monk.

  "I'm warning you," Remo said to the Frenchman.

  "I'm on my way to Germany. If this isn't on the level, I'm gonna throw a bratwurst over the Rhine and holler 'fetch.'"

  The confused airport employee insisted he was telling the truth. With a sigh of surrender-the first ever uttered by a foreign national on French soil-Remo followed the man to a private lounge and a waiting telephone.

  Remo expected the phone would be wired to sizzle him with electricity or spit poison gas. When he heard the bile-fueled wheezing on the other end of the line, he realized it was even worse than an assassin's booby trap.

  "What is it, Smitty?" Remo sighed.

  "Remo, thank goodness," said the lemony voice of Harold Smith. "We have been searching for you for several hours. Until you used your credit card, we were unable to find you."

  "I'll have to remember to pay cash from now on. What do you want? And make it snappy, 'cause somewhere in Germany there's a killer waiting to zap me, and we all know how patient Germans are."

  "Actually I was not looking for you. I need to speak with Master Chiun. Is he with you?"

  Remo glanced at the Master of Sinanju. The old Korean was at the window of the lounge. Button nose upturned, he was staring out at the plane lights in the night sky, his face a mask of mummified concern.

  "He's here," Remo said warily. "But he's not exactly in a chipper mood. I don't know if he wants to talk."

  Twenty yards across the crowded lounge, the Master of Sinanju waved an angry, dismissive hand. His back remained to Remo as he studied the night.

  "He wants me to take a message," Remo said. Smith cleared his throat.

  "There has been an incident in Sinanju. I am afraid Master Chiun's caretaker is dead."

  If Remo had even for a moment thought he might have to repeat Smith's words to the Master of Sinanju, he knew for certain in the next instant that it would not be necessary.

  Across the room, the old man's head whipped around. Hazel eyes frowned in deep concern. The old Korean flounced across the lounge, snatching the phone from his pupil's hand.

  "Speak," he demanded.

  "Oh, Master Chiun." Smith did his best to mask his worried disappointment. Although he had called in search of the Master of Sinanju, he preferred to talk to Remo. "I was just telling Remo about your caretaker, Pullyang."

  "Yes, yes," Chiun hissed. "What happened?"

  "Well, his daughter called here a few hours ago," Smith said. "I believe her name is Hyunsil."

  In the French airport lounge, the Master of Sinanju rolled his impatient eyes heavenward. Of course he knew the name of his caretaker's daughter. Just as he knew the names of all the villagers who lived under his protection. What was it in the white mind that made them state the obvious?

  "How did my caretaker die?" Chiun pressed.

  He was prepared to hear that natural causes or an unfortunate accident had claimed the life of his elderly caretaker. The answer he received startled him to silence.

  "According to his daughter, he was murdered." Remo was still standing next to the phone. At Smith's words, he shot a concerned look at his teacher.

  The color had drained from Chiun's parchment face. His hand was a knot of petrified ivory as it clutched the black receiver. His wisps of hair shook with vibrations that emanated from the very core of his shocked being.

  For a long time he couldn't speak. All words he might have said shriveled and died within the compressing cage of his stunned chest. Hot breath slipped from between his lips.

  The phone squawked in his hand.

  "Hello? Master Chiun?" came the lemony voice from the line. "Hello?"

  Remo gently pressed his hand to the Master of Sinanju's bony shoulder. "Little Father?"

  At long last the old Korean found his voice.

  "The treasure," he breathed. "Is the treasure safe?"

  "I didn't think to ask," Smith said. "The translation program wouldn't have worked fast enough anyway. She hung up the phone too quickly. I could try calling back, although that really is not necessary now that you-"

  Whatever else Smith said, neither Master of Sinanju heard. Chiun had hung up the phone. Lost in thought, the old man turned slowly to his pupil.

  "I must return to Sinanju," he announced.

  Remo nodded. "I understand," he said. "I'll get us two tickets to South Korea. We'll postpone this Time of Succession stuff for later."

  "No," Chiun insisted. "You will continue alone. I will deal with whatever has happened in my village."

  Remo's face clouded. "That's nuts," he said. "You have to go with me for this."

  "You are a full Master of Sinanju, not an infant needing me to hold your hand," Chiun spit. "You will go alone."

  Remo felt the world spinning away from him. He shook his head. "Is that even allowed?"

  Chiun nodded. "There have been times in the past. Extreme circumstances where the pupil went alone. Usually they involved the death of the Reigning Master before the time of the pupil's introduction to the courts of the world. It is rare, but not without precedent."

  Remo shook his head. "I can't do this by myself. I know two languages, English and Korean. I know govnyuk is 'shithead' in Russian, but we've already done the czar, so even that won't come in handy unless we're going to Moscow."

  "No, we are not," Chiun said.

  "All right, then."

  "You are."

  The tiny Asian's voice was firm. Remo could see that there would be no arguing. His shoulders slumped.

  "Why don't you at least call home first before you waste a trip?" he said with a sigh. "Get a heads-up on what's going on. He was pretty old, Chiun. Maybe Smitty got it wrong. He said he was using some translation something-or-other. Maybe Pullyang died in his sleep."

  "To call first might alert the dastards who did this wicked thing," Chiun insisted, "for the village telephone is in the Master's House and if they killed my trusted caretaker for my treasure, they are surely there plundering it now. If it is as you suggest and he met a natural end, I must still go, for he has been a good and faithful servant to me for many years. I must pay my last respects."

  The words were spoken in a clear and reasonable tone. But they were a lie.

  Another is dead already.

  That was what the monk had said. At the time, the words had confused Chiun. Now he understood. The monk knew.

  Another is dead already. Pullyang. Two Masters of Sinanju will die.

  Whatever was coming for them had its beginnings in Sinanju. Perhaps it would be possible to cheat fate. But first Chiun had to learn exactly what the danger was.

&nb
sp; "I don't even know where in Germany I'm supposed to go," Remo said. He seemed lost.

  The old Korean looked up into his pupil's face. It was leaner now than it had been when they'd first met so many years ago. The baby fat had long since burned away. But it was still a young, innocent face. Guileless and unlined. Despite the buffeting hardships of a sometimes vicious and heartless world, it remained open and honest.

  "I will tell you where to go," Chiun said softly.

  "Super," Remo grumbled. "While you're at it, tell me what to do when I get there."

  "I do not have to," the old man said. "For you will do as you always do. You will make me proud." And this time, unlike back at their Connecticut duplex, Remo Williams knew to worry. For this time the old man did not erase his words of praise with an insult.

  Chapter 18

  The chancellor of the Federal Republic of Germany paced back and forth on the stone floor. The soles of his black dress shoes clicked sharply with each step.

  "You said we were ready," the chancellor snapped. His breath formed puffs of gray steam in the chill morning air.

  Wind blew cold through the open window in the old castle, cutting to the bone. The chancellor hugged his crossed arms tight to himself as he glared at the portly man in the heavy woolen overcoat.

  "We were ready," the defense ministry man insisted. "Up until yesterday. But he has not arrived this morning. He was supposed to meet with me over an hour ago."

  "Call him," the chancellor commanded.

  "I have already tried calling a dozen times."

  The leader of Germany strained to dull the furious edge in his voice, "Try again," he snapped. Nodding, the red-faced man waddled off to a dank corner, cell phone in hand. As the man pressed out a number on the disposable phone he intended to throw away later that morning, the chancellor stepped to the window.

  The land he looked out on was primeval forest. The acres of wilderness were as untamed as they had been a thousand years before when this castle was a stronghold of the Hohenstaufen Emperor Frederick Barbarossa.

  The history of ancient Germany was stretched out before the chancellor's eyes. The German leader didn't seem to appreciate the view. That Frederick I had stood at the same window and looked out on the same forests was the last thing on the chancellor's mind this morning.