Father to Son td-129

by Warren Murphy

  At the shore Chiun walked to the very edge where the cold, clear water lapped slippery stone. Gale-force winds whipped wildly the thin strands of yellowing hair that clung to his parchment scalp.

  The Master of Sinanju opened his senses.

  Despite the strong wind a familiar scent carried to the old man's sensitive nose.

  He stepped away from the water, hiking a little way up the rocks to the farthest point wind-propelled waves might reach at high tide.

  Crouching, Chiun turned over a rock. The underside was red.

  Blood. As fresh as if it had been newly spilled, although it would have to be a week old by this time. Chiun touched it with his finger. It was still warm. A troubled shadow passed across the old man's face.

  He turned over a few more stones. They were all soaked under with blood. At high tide the blood had stained the undersides of many rocks all around the bay.

  The West Korean Bay had seen much death over the years. So much so that it had apparently grown full. The bay had finally rejected one of its dead.

  Chiun turned from the water.

  Walking briskly up the shore path, he headed through the village. All the windows were shuttered and the doors remained bolted tight.

  Instructing the people to lock themselves inside was a pointless exercise. When death finally showed itself, a locked door would do little good to stop it.

  He climbed the stone steps of the bluff and crossed the front walk to the Master's House.

  Inside, he went to the library. Cabinets and cubbyholes were filled with rolled scrolls and items of importance brought back by past Masters. On a desk in the rear of the room was the village telephone. It was the old-fashioned kind not seen for years. A separate earpiece was attached to a cord and the mouthpiece was connected to the upright base.

  Chiun lifted the earpiece from the cradle and picked up the base to speak.

  Smith would know how to locate Remo. Remo needed to know of the danger. The Time of Succession would have to be suspended so that Remo could return to Sinanju. Together, Master and pupil would face whatever evil had come to the small fishing village.

  The phone was dead.

  With a slender finger, Chiun tapped the cradle. There was no dial tone.

  Chiun carefully hung up the phone. With leaden movements he set it back to the table.

  Sinanju was isolated. No one in the village had the skills to repair a damaged telephone. There were no radios. Whoever had killed Pullyang had cut the village off from the rest of the world. And yet they had waited to do so until the Master had returned to Sinanju. The phone had worked well enough for Hyunsil to summon the Master home.

  For a long moment the Master of Sinanju stood alone in the library of the House of Many Woods, thinking.

  Only Pullyang was dead. Only one man in the entire village of Sinanju. There were days before Chiun returned when the treasure could have been stolen. Or the scrolls. But nothing was taken. Only one man dead.

  Perhaps the village was not the target. Perhaps Pullyang's murder was a ploy to lure Chiun back. To separate him from Remo at this important time.

  Two Masters of Sinanju will die.

  Together they would pose a far greater challenge. Separate they would be easier for an enemy to defeat. Chiun felt the worry blossom full.

  "Remo," he hissed.

  The name had not passed his lips before the old man was flying for the entrance to the library. He exploded out the entrance to the Master's House. On flying feet the Master of Sinanju tore through the village and ran to the highway.

  Frantic thoughts uncaring of the villagers he had sworn to protect, the wizened Asian raced away from the defenseless village of his ancestors.

  ONLY ONCE the Reigning Master of Sinanju had become a speck on the distant road did the dark figure finally emerge from its hiding place.

  Standing on the hill above the village, the Lost Master of Sinanju watched as Chiun vanished from sight over the horizon.

  Behind the figure was the cave of the ancients. The place of spiritual purification where retiring Masters of Sinanju had been coming to reflect on their lives since the time of Wang. It was the perfect place to hide. This would be the last place any Master of Sinanju of the line of Wang would search.

  Blaspheming such a holy place with his presence brought joy to the black heart of the Forgotten One. Sinanju was spread out before him.

  "And now begins the end."

  With a wicked smile, the Lost Master folded his legs and sat on the mountaintop. To await the slaughter.

  Chapter 24

  Remo spent the entire flight from Madrid trying to sort out just exactly how he was going to explain to the Master of Sinanju his failures in Spain and Germany.

  The first thing he decided was that in no way would he call them failures. After all, he hadn't even been given the chance to fail. You couldn't say someone struck out if they hadn't even gotten a chance at bat, right? And in a way Remo had succeeded. The guys had turned tail and run rather than stand and fight. A forfeit counted as a victory.

  No good. There was no way Chiun would let him get away with claiming success.

  Failure. Barring complete and utter success, that's what Chiun would call it. Remo's only hope was for Smith's assistant to track down the two AWOL killers before the Master of Sinanju found out what had happened.

  For the time being Remo was relieved that Chiun was off in Sinanju. Despite the circumstances of the old man's trip, going home always put the Korean in a better mood. And if his caretaker had indeed been murdered, Chiun would enjoy meting out justice to the perpetrator. He might even enjoy himself so much that he'd let slide Remo's not-entirely-complete success in Germany and Spain.

  "Fat chance the way that old skunk keeps score," Remo grumbled to himself as he deplaned in Rome. Near the cabstand outside the airport, Remo was relieved when a man with a gun assaulted him. Maybe his luck had turned and these sissy-boy assassins were finally going to start earning their keep. Then he realized it was just Italy, it was just a mugger and practically everybody else on his late-night flight was currently being assaulted at various spots up and down the sidewalk.

  "Well, hell," Remo groused as the man jabbed the gun deep into his ribs and demanded all his money. As the rest of the tourists dutifully handed over watches and wallets to their muggers in a charming Italian tradition that was as old as recycling Christians into cat food, Remo was stuffing his own mugger face first in an airport mailbox.

  "Couldn't work for the government," Remo yelled at the man's kicking shoes. "Couldn't give a guy a break."

  After seeing what Remo had done to the mugger, the driver whose cab Remo got into decided to break with another great Italian tradition of driving American tourists around in circles until they got nauseous and then mugging them for whatever the muggers hadn't mugged them for.

  He drove Remo straight to his secret midnight rendezvous with the Italian prime minister.

  The meeting took all of two minutes. Practically as soon as he'd left the cab, Remo returned to the back seat with a deeply angry expression on his face. "Take me to a phone," he demanded.

  The driver didn't argue. He took the fare directly to an outdoor pay phone.

  "It happened again," Remo complained when Smith picked up on the first ring.

  "Another assassin has disappeared?" Smith asked. "No, I lost the freaking evening-gown competition because I had visible panty lines."

  "Oh," said Smith. "Did you get the man's name?"

  "No," Remo said angrily. "And what's the point? Chiun's going to kill me whether or not we make a list of all the no-shows."

  "I doubt Master Chiun can blame you for this."

  "Hello, McFly," Remo said sarcastically. "I don't think we're talking about the same Chiun. Mine's the one who still somehow blames me for the networks preempting his soap operas so they could air the Watergate hearings thirty years ago. This is going to be my fault. Case closed."

  "I am not so sure," Smith said
. "It seems almost certain at this point that there is something larger going on here. One or two men turning up missing is a coincidence. Four is more than likely a conspiracy."

  "Three," Remo corrected.

  "Hmm?"

  "Don't jump the gun on me, Smitty. So far it's only Germany, Spain and Italy that's pulled a disappearing act."

  "Yes," Smith said, clearing his throat. "That's what I meant. But with the three missing men, we have established a pattern. There must be a connection."

  "Okay, so we've got a conspiracy. What has the Little Prince found out about the missing guys?"

  "Mark has, er, not been successful in uncovering any information on the men in question. For all intents and purposes they have vanished without a trace."

  There was an odd ring to the CURE director's voice.

  Remo had recently come to find out about Mark Howard's sixth sense. It was after the affair with Jeremiah Purcell, when Howard had become an unwitting dupe, aiding the Dutchman in his escape from imprisonment at Folcroft. Smith and the Master of Sinanju seemed to think there was something to Howard's alleged ability. Remo was more skeptical.

  "He's using a computer to search, right?" Remo asked slowly. "He's not wearing a swami hat and rubbing a crystal ball while picking his toes through soggy tea leaves?"

  "Of course not," Smith insisted. He quickly changed the subject from his assistant. "Now, since you have been unsuccessful in Italy-"

  "Not my fault," Remo interjected.

  "-you should continue on to your next appointment."

  "Aw, c'mon, Smitty. Can't I just call it quits?"

  "This is not up to me. If it were, you would not have started on this ritual. Chiun, however, made it clear that it is a critical rite of passage."

  Remo sighed loudly. "Where to next?"

  Smith gave him the directions to his next meeting, a late-night rendezvous in the Kremlin.

  "Try to be politic when you meet their president," the CURE director pleaded when he was finished. "U.S.-Russian relations are at a pivotal stage. There is opportunity for a long-term shift for the better in our relationship."

  "You got it," Remo vowed. "I won't mention his submarine asphyxiation program. I'll just limit myself to talking about their booze-and-whores-based economy."

  He slammed the phone so hard it shattered like glass.

  SMITH WINCED at the crackle over the line. Frowning, he folded up his cell phone and replaced it in his battered leather briefcase. Setting the briefcase between his ankles, he sat back in the unfamiliar chair.

  The chair had an ugly green vinyl seat and cheap wood. On the arm someone named Judy had used a set of keys to inscribe her eternal love for a gentleman suitor named Len.

  Smith was annoyed with himself for mentioning a fourth missing assassin to Remo. But he was tired. This had been a long day.

  At the moment Smith didn't know how to handle the Benson Dilkes matter. He had attempted to call Master Chiun in Sinanju for guidance, but for some reason the phone there wasn't working.

  For the twentieth time in the past half hour, Smith checked his watch. As he did so, the door finally opened.

  The doctor was middle-aged and balding with a too dark tan. It seemed as if no one on staff at the hospital appreciated the dangers of ultraviolet radiation. Smith assumed the climate made it too tempting to stay indoors.

  At the doctor's appearance, Smith got to his feet, picking up his briefcase. The two men met at the foot of the hospital bed where Mark Howard lay in gentle slumber. Near the bedside an EKG monitor beeped relentlessly.

  The doctor cast a concerned eye over the sleeping patient before addressing Smith.

  "You've been briefed by Dr. Carlson. Just so you know, we're not sure what's wrong. Physically there doesn't seem to be a problem. We did a scan and can't find any problem with his brain. It looks like it's some sort of shock."

  "I know all this, Doctor," Smith said impatiently.

  The doctor nodded. "He seems to be giving signs of coming around. Dr. Carlson and I both think it would be safer to keep him here in Florida rather than move him."

  "Is he in any immediate danger?"

  "Not that we can tell. But in cases like this it's always better to-"

  "The facility where I'm taking him will give him the best of care," Smith interrupted.

  The doctor bristled at the gray old man's frosty tone.

  "It's your decision," the physician said. "We just wanted you to be certain you knew the risks. I'll send someone in with the forms."

  Without another word the doctor stepped from the room, leaving Smith at the bedside.

  It was another few minutes before a plump nurse entered, a clipboard tucked under her meaty arm. Smith had seen her come in and out of the room a few times in the past hour.

  She smiled as she passed Smith the clipboard. "I'm going to need you to sign a few forms, Mr. Marx."

  The cover name had been Howard's. Smith had appropriated it for himself. It was the easiest way to get Mark back to Folcroft without arousing suspicion.

  She saw the look of concern on Smith's lemony face as he began signing the necessary documents. "Don't worry," she whispered confidently. "I'm sure your son will be fine."

  Smith glanced at the sleeping form of Mark Howard. The instant he saw the young man, the worry lines on his forehead deepened once more. He couldn't shake the image of another hospital bed at another time. Another CURE agent-one Smith had not been able to help.

  "Thank you," Smith grunted in reply.

  Feeling an uncomfortable shudder, he turned his attention back to the forms.

  Chapter 25

  Premier Kim Jong Il was in his underground bunker beneath the People's Palace when he heard the noise. The bunker was generally a noiseless place.

  It had been designed and built by his dead father, former Korean Premier Kim Il Sung. A maze of poured-concrete tunnels had been constructed in hollowed-out bedrock. The main chamber was buried so deep in the earth that a nuclear blast at ground level powerful enough to level Pyongyang might just might-rattle the liquor bottles in the premier's mahogany bar. The living room of the bunker was wonderful for its silence. That is, until the scratching at the door started.

  The premier was watching an American television program starring a bleached-blond woman with plastic lips and plastic boobs who solved crimes while wearing sexy clothes. The same woman used to save people from drowning while wearing sexy clothes. While the woman couldn't act wet in water, her skintight red bathing suit deserved an Emmy.

  The premier hated to miss a minute of the action, especially for some annoying scratching sound that sounded as if someone had set a kitten loose in the hall outside his bunker's eight-inch-think steel door.

  "What the hell's that noise?" Kim Jong Il demanded.

  No one responded. That was odd, for his security detail should have been right outside the door.

  The scratching persisted.

  For personal safety's sake, only a handful of people knew how to get this far into his inner sanctum. There was only one outsider who had ever penetrated the defenses. But the American Master of Sinanju was less the scratching and more the kick-in-the-door type. And besides, according to the old one, the young one wasn't due in town for weeks.

  "Whoever that is, knock it off or else," the premier shouted from where he sat in his favorite recliner. The scratching didn't stop.

  Luckily the program went to a commercial. "Dammit," Kim Jong Il growled, hopping to his feet. "If I miss one second of jiggle, heads will roll." He marched across the bunker and threw open the door.

  The premier was right. Heads did indeed roll. In fact, one rolled right inside the room.

  "Sweet mother of crap!" the premier yelled, jumping back from the decapitated head.

  He saw the body that the head belonged to. At least he thought he did. There were so many bodies and body parts piled up in the hall he wasn't sure what belonged with what. All of the dead men wore the uniform of the People's
Army.

  There was one soldier still clinging to life. It looked to Kim Jong Il as if he'd been force-fed through a piece of farm equipment. Not North Korean farm equipment, of course, which, thanks to decades of glorious Communist struggle, had not invented its way past the ox and lash. The other kind of farm equipment. The kind that was made from metal and moving parts and could make a man look as if he'd been fed through the jaws of John Deere Hell and spit out in strips of pulpy red meat from the far end.

  The soldier who had been sliced into ribbons yet still somehow clung impossibly to life looked up at the premier. There was pleading in his eyes. His fingernails were broken and bloodied where he had been scratching at the door.

  "Help me," the man begged. The premier's mind reeled.

  Someone had breached his security. They had gotten all the way downstairs from the People's Palace without being detected. They had slaughtered his personal guard without so much as a whimper and left one man alive on the premier's doorstep as a gruesome calling card.

  He looked down at the pleading man on the floor. "You're on your own," Kim Jong Il said to the dying soldier. "I'm not helping anyone but me." Grabbing for the doorknob, he started to slam the huge door shut. It wouldn't budge.

  And then he noticed the hand. It was pressed to the door, holding it open. The hand was attached to the man who was suddenly standing before the premier. The man wore a black business suit and had a dead look in his hazel eyes.

  "Forgive me, my premier, I have been away from my homeland for many years," the man in the suit said. "Has Pyongyang now made it a crime to help others?"

  And with that he put his foot through the dying soldier's skull. The soldier collapsed with a sigh.

  The premier saw that his visitor's shoe came back clean. It should have been a mess. And if this man was responsible for the rest of the carnage in the hallway, he should have been covered with blood. He had walked through the slaughter without so much as a speck of blood on his neat suit.

  The premier felt a tingle in his belly.

  The way the man stood was familiar. So calm, so centered. Hands pressed together, fingertips tucked into the sleeves of his white dress shirt. But the eyes clinched it. He had seen those eyes before. On a little old man who, with a twist of pinching fingers, could bring the mighty premier of North Korea to his knees.