Father to Son td-129

by Warren Murphy

  The leader of Germany was irritated. Why wouldn't he be? He had every right to be upset. They were supposed to be prepared. Until yesterday he had been assured over and over that Germany was ready.

  He had flown by helicopter to this secret spot in the dark of night, secure in the knowledge that this bizarre business had been handled.

  The special throne was already in place. It had been carted from its government storage facility in Berlin. The ancient wooden throne had been carved from the trees of this very forest. Lovingly preserved, it had been handed down from one generation to the next for centuries.

  The throne weighed over a ton. It was part of the ceremony. The men who had been charged with hauling it to this lost castle had no idea what it was for.

  But it was here. In place. As everything else was supposed to be. All that was supposed to happen from this point forward were formalities.

  Only when the black night sky had begun to feed the ugly grays of dawn was the chancellor informed that his country might not be ready after all.

  Far below the castle walls, the twisted trees stirred in the morning breeze. Somewhere close a bird began to shriek. Its cry was answered from far away in the forest depths.

  As more birds took up the call, a muttered curse came from the corner of the big room. The chancellor turned from the window and the growing dawn. "Anything?"

  Phone still pressed to his ear, the defense ministry man shook his head. His sagging jowls wobbled worriedly. "It now says that the number has been discontinued."

  The chancellor's eyes opened wide with rage.

  The fat man understood why the German leader was upset. He had done research. He knew exactly what they were dealing with. For weeks leading up to this, he had been having nightmares about what might happen if things went wrong.

  The fat man held up a staying hand. "I know another number," he promised. "Give me a moment." As the ministry man dug through his pockets for the second number, the chancellor turned back to the window.

  He couldn't believe his bad luck. How many chancellors had there been since the last time? Any one of them should have had to deal with this. Mocking fate had dropped him in office at this time.

  At first the German leader thought he could dispense with all of this in a quick, efficient German manner. But his first chosen champion-the talented Swiss assassin, Olivier Hahn-had met an untimely end. After a scramble to find a replacement, they found the best money could buy. Better, perhaps, than the dead Swiss killer. And now this.

  Behind him, the defense ministry man had found the backup number. The chancellor heard the beeps of the cell phone. The German leader tried to tune out the sound.

  Across the forest the sky continued to brighten. The castle was a sacred spot. Ever since the time of Frederick Barbarossa this had been the traditional meeting place between the leaders of Germany and the mysterious assassins from the East. The castle had been maintained better in the earliest centuries. The outer walls and outbuildings had begun to crumble four centuries before. The modern age had brought the inner hall to partial ruin. But through many years, from the rule of the Hapsburgs through the reunification of East and West Germany at the end of the twentieth century, much of the castle still remained.

  In the modern age the upkeep expenses were part of a black budget. No one outside a tight circle within the government even knew of the castle's existence. The small stipend earmarked for the Barbarossa castle was barely enough to maintain the main structure. Still, in spite of the ravages of time, it remained one of the best preserved castles of its age in Europe. And one that no government bureaucrat, college professor or camera-carting tourist would ever see.

  For an instant as he looked out the window of the great hall, the current chancellor of Germany felt a tiny touch of the specialness of this place.

  And as quickly as it came, the bubble that was his brief connection to the history of his country popped. "Hey, Sergeant Schultz, is this Barbarella's castle?" asked an American voice.

  The German chancellor whirled.

  There was another man standing in the vast hall. The intruder had come up the east stairs. Silently, for neither the defense ministry man nor the chancellor had heard him approach. The stranger was addressing the fat man on the phone, a perturbed look on his cruel face.

  The fat man looked desperately from the stranger in the black T-shirt and matching chinos to the chancellor of Germany. The ministry man didn't know what to do. He had not expected to be interrupted in so clandestine an affair.

  "Yo, Pudding Pop, I'm talking to you," Remo said, waving a hand in front of the man's frightened face.

  "You cannot be here," the chancellor called. Remo glanced up as Germany's leader approached. The chancellor got between Remo and the throne, as if partially blocking the massive piece of furniture in the ancient stone hall would somehow hide his purpose.

  "This is not a place for tourists," the chancellor said.

  "Tell me about it," Remo groused. "It's not on any maps. Next world war you guys should hide out here. It'd take us a hundred years to find you. You in charge?"

  The chancellor wasn't sure what to do. He had brought no security. His helicopter pilot was the man with the phone. The fat man was shrugging helplessly.

  The chancellor stood straight, stiffening his shoulders. "You are trespassing," he said. "I order you to leave this place at once."

  "Sorry, Fritz," Remo said. "Not German. I don't do that whole blindly-follow-orders thing. And it sounds like you're in charge. Here's the deal. I'm the first Master of Sinanju in a thousand years who's had to do this on his own, I've got some spooky prophecy dogging me and I'm in the kind of mood you people get in just before you annex, invade or write an opera at someone. So let's get this over with."

  The chancellor took a surprised step back. With one hand he steadied himself on the throne.

  "You are the Master of Sinanju?"

  "Transitional Master for the moment," Remo said. "And the faster I get through here the faster I can transition to Reigning Master. Not that that's going to be all peaches and cream, but it's time to move up and there's nothing I can do about it. So let's get this over with. Where's your guy?"

  "Ahh..." the German chancellor said. He glanced worriedly at the defense ministry man.

  "That him?" Remo asked. Frowning, he stabbed his thumb at the man with the cell phone.

  "No!" insisted the fat man. Panicked, he fell back against the wall, clutching his phone to his chest.

  "Calm down, pie haus," Remo said. He turned his attention to the chancellor. "So where is he?"

  "We, ah, had someone in mind," the chancellor began.

  "I bet. Must've been a real challenge finding a maniacal, bloodthirsty German killer. What did you have to do, look out the window?"

  "Actually we had two people," the chancellor said. Despite the cold, sweat broke out on his forehead. "The first was a Swiss. Very good with mechanical devices. He would have presented a real challenge for you."

  "Not much of one. That plug got pulled last year." The chancellor blinked dull understanding.

  "Oh," he said, his voice small. "We did manage to find another. His skills were different than the one you-than the other one."

  "And?" Remo asked, noting the man's fearful quaver.

  The chancellor gave a helpless shrug. "Our contestant has not arrived." In German, he barked a question at the ministry man on the other side of the hail. "He has vanished," the chancellor admitted to Remo in English, his voice sinking to low levels of despair. Remo could see the man was telling the truth.

  "Well, what am I supposed to do now?" Remo muttered at the cold stone walls of the ancient castle hall.

  "Show mercy on we lowly ones, O great and awesome Master of Sinanju," said the chancellor. "Be quick, bitte."

  The chancellor's voice sounded strange. Remo looked down.

  The German leader was down on his knees, his face pressed to the mossy floor. There was a grunt behind Remo. When he t
urned he saw the fat man had prostrated himself, too.

  "What are you nits doing?" Remo asked.

  "We have insulted Sinanju by not finding an assassin," said the chancellor. "Don't you want to kill us?"

  Remo frowned. "That what I'm supposed to do?"

  "I do not know. In a thousand years my country has never failed to field a champion. I assumed the future head of the House of Sinanju would take our failure as an insult and exact a blood debt from us."

  "Maybe," Remo said. "On the other hand, blood debts are a bitch to wash out of cotton fabric."

  Frowning contemplation, he turned silently on his heel.

  After a long moment, the German chancellor looked up from the ancient stones.

  The American was gone.

  The chancellor pulled himself to his feet. Nearby, the defense ministry man climbed up on wobbly legs. The fat man's face glistened with sweat. There seemed to be an odd pain shooting up his left arm. Not that it mattered. They were alive.

  "Thank God," the overweight man whispered.

  Remo stuck his head back around the corner. "Hey, can I hitch a ride back with you guys?" he asked.

  He noted the fat man flopping to the stone floor clutching his chest.

  "I hope Tubby the Tuba's not driving," Remo said.

  HAROLD W. SMITH WAS at his computer in his Folcroft office when the phone rang.

  It was still the dead of night on the East Coast. Through the picture window at his back, silver starlight sparkled across the inky black water of Long Island Sound.

  Smith had sent Mark Howard home hours ago. It would be several hours before the younger man came back in to work.

  Pursing his lips in displeasure, Smith picked up the ringing phone. "Yes," he said with mild annoyance. "I need some help, Smitty."

  Smith had almost been hoping that the caller would be the frantic woman from Chiun's village. The Master of Sinanju would not be home yet. When he heard Remo's voice, the CURE director exhaled disapproval.

  "I do not like being involved in this," Smith said unhappily, straightening with fussy annoyance in his chair.

  "Join the club," Remo grumbled. "I've got a problem, Smitty. The guy Germany was supposed to use as cannon fodder has taken off. No one knows where he is."

  Smith breathed hotly through pinched nostrils. Once it was decided that Chiun would return to Sinanju to check into the matter of his caretaker, Remo had hastily called Smith back, turning the phone back over to his teacher. Chiun had given the CURE director an encyclopedic list of people, places and tradition to help guide Remo through the Time of Succession. At first Smith objected, but threats from Remo to quit CURE if he didn't help finally brought him around, albeit reluctantly.

  "I do not appreciate being blackmailed," Smith said, restating his earlier objection.

  "No kidding," Remo replied. "I missed that the first hundred times you said so."

  Smith spun in his chair, staring out at the night. "It is not as if this is a CURE matter," he said, more to himself than to Remo. "If the two of you wish to go off like this, it should be your business, not mine."

  "Earth to Smitty," Remo snapped. "I need help." Smith exhaled loudly.

  "You say the German assassin has rejected Sinanju's challenge?"

  "I'd say chickened out, but your way works, too."

  "Chiun informed me that this happens from time to time during this ritual."

  "So what do I do?"

  "Traditionally you would go in search of the individual who has fled to avoid confrontation. I understand there was a Master- Wait." Smith turned back to his keyboard, pulling up the relevant files. "Yes, Master Hwyack. Apparently he spent eighteen years searching for a Vandal champion who ran away from the contest."

  "Pass," Remo said.

  "Chiun was quite clear on this, Remo," Smith insisted. "The chosen champion must be defeated."

  "Smitty, do you really want me to waste the next six months knocking on the door of every gingerbread house in the Black Forest to see if Germany's best assassin is hiding under the bed?"

  Humming thoughtfully, Smith tapped a finger on his desk. "That would not be an effective use of time," he agreed.

  "Fine. It's settled. I'm all finished here. Put a check on the chart next to Germany."

  "I doubt Chiun will be satisfied with this outcome," the CURE director pointed out. "But you are right. I would prefer to limit the amount of time you waste on this matter. Perhaps we can approach this more efficiently. I will see if Mark can track him down. You continue to your next destination. Do you have the German assassin's name?"

  "Wilhelm von Murderstrasse, or something like that. Wait a sec. They told me on the chopper. Let me find it."

  "What helicopter? Who were you with?"

  "Couple of Germans," Remo said absently as he searched for the name. "I think one of them was chancellor or something. Didn't have a little mustache, though. It was all I could do to keep the other guy alive till we got back to Berlin. Germans have heart attacks real easy. Found it."

  In the dark of his Folcroft office, Smith had been pinching the bridge of his nose. He pulled his hand away, readjusting his glasses.

  "What is it?" he sighed.

  "Hermann Heyse," Remo said, obviously reading the name.

  Smith typed the name into the computer along with the rest of the data he had compiled on the Time of Succession.

  "Very well. I will have Mark track him down. In the meantime you may continue to your next destination. "

  The CURE director read a quick summary of the where and who of Remo's next appointment. With instructions to call if there were any questions, he broke the connection.

  Once the blue phone was safely back in its cradle, Smith sank tiredly back into his leather chair.

  Remo had been on a helicopter with the chancellor of Germany. Another name to add to the growing list of world leaders CURE's Destroyer had met.

  The only thing that was keeping Smith's sanity intact was the knowledge that no one in any of these foreign lands could allow word of what they were involved in to get out. Despite the requirements of this particular ritual, from Master to Master, Sinanju had remained successfully hidden from the eyes of the world for millennia. Smith trusted that the secret would remain hidden. It had to.

  Smith sat back up in his chair. It squeaked. It hadn't done that for some time.

  Taking odd comfort in the noise, the CURE director stretched his hands to his keyboard.

  Chapter 19

  Kim Jong Il, Leader for Life of North Korea, was in his office in the concrete bowels of the People's Palace in the capital city of Pyongyang when he got the terrible news.

  "How soon?" the premier demanded.

  "The plane will be arriving in approximately thirty minutes," replied his secretary, an army colonel.

  A flush came to the premier's cheeks.

  The colonel who stood before his desk looked worried. The officer had just learned that a commercial jet had been "borrowed" in South Korea. That was the term the South had used. In this age of heightened awareness over hijackings, it was a very odd choice of words.

  The highest leadership in the South had called the highest leadership in the North to tell them about the plane. In that urgent call they had mentioned one word the significance of which the colonel didn't understand. That word was Sinanju. The colonel was told that it didn't matter that he didn't understand. He had been informed that the premier would know what it meant.

  It seemed as if the caller from the South had been correct, for at the mention of the word the North Korean premier's face visibly paled.

  Sitting behind his desk, the premier had to grab on to his seat to steady himself. "Half an hour," he lamented.

  "Less than that by now, my premier."

  The premier had a clump of knotted hair that, left to its own devices, stood at bizarre attention on his head. With the news from his secretary, the premier's face had begun to match the impression of cartoon shock given off by his pl
ume of sticking-up hair.

  "They're early," Kim complained. "He swore to me they wouldn't work their way to Asia for another couple weeks."

  "Sir?" questioned the confused secretary.

  The premier didn't even hear the question. "Quick," he snapped. "Get on the phone to General Kye Pun of the People's Bureau of Revolutionary Struggle. Tell him the Sinanju schedule's been moved up. Tell him I need his special boy at the airport ASAP."

  "Yes, sir. Now, about this rogue plane. Do you want to give the order to shoot it down?"

  The premier's panic was so great it looked as if his spikes of hair might start launching at the ceiling. "Hell no," he snapped. "He's mad enough when I don't fire missiles at him. I don't even want to think about how pissed off he'd be if I shot a plane out from under him. Now, hurry up and make that call to Pun."

  As his secretary hurried from the office to place the call to the head of North Korea's intelligence service, the Leader for Life was rummaging in the bottom drawer of his desk. He pulled out a bottle and a crystal tumbler. With shaking hands he poured himself a good stiff belt.

  "Why do bad things happen to good dictators?" he moaned to his office walls.

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, when the plane appeared as a little black dot in the pale white sky, Kim Jong Il was shivering at the Pyongyang airport.

  He wore a big furry hat that covered his wild hair. A heavy coat didn't block the wind that whipped the tarmac.

  The booze hadn't helped. The dulling effects were mostly burned away by the bitter cold. The rest evaporated the instant he saw the plane.

  North Korea's Leader for Life was not alone. He had a small entourage with him, which included several soldiers. General Pun, the head of North Korean intelligence, was there. Pun's special man stood beside the security officer.

  In a land for which famine was common, the man to General Pun's left was a healthy aberration. Shan Duk had been born and bred in the slums outside of Pyongyang. A hulking brute of a man, Duk stood six feet four inches tall and was nearly as wide. His broad face was as flat as a frying pan. Angry flesh bunched above his eyes, lending the brute a perpetual squint.