Return Engagement td-71

by Warren Murphy

  "No, sir."

  "I remember it distinctly," said Dr. Smith, still in that light tone.

  "That was a different clipping," said Mrs. Mikulka. "Those were two other Harold Smiths."

  Smith's voice sank. "Are you certain?"

  "Check your files."

  "One moment."

  Smith carried the clipping to his file cabinet. In it, news cuttings were filed by the week. Smith had told his secretary that he collected unusual human-interest stories, the more bizarre the better. It was his hobby, he had said. In reality, Mrs. Mikulka was just another unwitting information-source for CURE.

  Smith riffled through the files and pulled out a clipping headlined: "SEARCH FINDS RIGHT NAME, WRONG VICTIM."

  The clipping told of the bizarre murders of two men, both about the same age, living in different states. The two deaths were believed to he unrelated. The coincidence came to light when the wife of the first victim reported him missing and a nationwide search turned up the body of a man with the same name. The first man's body was also later discovered.

  The name the two dead men had shared was Harold Smith.

  Sniith returned to his desk with a stunned look on his lemony features. He sat down at the desk heavily, laying the two clippings side by side on the desktop as if they were alien bug specimens.

  Smith touched a button and a concealed computer terminal rose from the desktop and locked into place. Smith booted up the system and initiated a search of all data links.

  He keyed in the search code: SMITH HAROLD. Moments passed as the most powerful computer system in the world scanned its files, which were the combined files of every data link in America. Smith's computer plugged into every systems net accessible. "Dr. Smith?"

  It was Mrs. Mikulka. She was still on the intercom.

  "One moment," Smith said hoarsely.

  "Are you all right?"

  "I said one moment," Smith barked.

  The computer screen began scrolling names. SMITH, HAROLD A. SMITH, HAROLD G. SMITH, HAROLD T.

  Swiftly Smith scanned the reports. A Harold A. Smith, used-car salesman, had reported a car stolen from his lot. Smith keyed to the next file. A Harold T. Smith was murdered in Kentucky three weeks ago.

  Smith input commands to select only death reports. There were thirteen of them. Thirteen Harold Smiths had died in the last seven weeks.

  "Not unusual. There are a lot of Smiths," Harold W. Smith muttered, thinking of his relatives.

  And to prove his own point, Smith saved the data as a separate file and requested reports of the deaths of all Harold Joneses in the same time period. Jones was as common a name as Smith.

  There were two.

  Smith asked for Harold Brown.

  The computer informed him that three Harold Browns had died since November.

  Puzzled, Smith returned to the Harold Smith file. The newspaper clippings had given the ages of the deceased Harold Smiths. All four victims were in their sixties. Smith requested age readouts from the file.

  The first number was sixty-nine and it made Smith's heart leap in fear. But the next digit was only thirteen, and he relaxed.

  But the rest of the numbers caused a fine sheen of perspiration to break out on his ordinarily dry forehead. Every Harold Smith on the list but one had been over sixty. The oldest was seventy-two. The one exception-the thirteen-year-old-had died of leukemia, and Smith dismissed it from the file as a coincidental anomaly. All of the others were in Smith's own age group. All of them had Smith's name. All had been murdered.

  Smith reached for his intercom, and in his agitation, forgot it was already on. He turned it off and spoke into the mike. "Mrs. Mikulka. Mrs. Mikulka." He was shouting it the third time when Mrs. Mikulka burst into the room.

  "Dr. Smith! What is it? What's wrong?"

  "This intercom. It doesn't work!"

  Mrs. Mikulka examined it critically.

  "It's off."

  "Oh. Never mind. Call my wife. Tell her I'm too busy to see her today. And forget lunch. Have the cafeteria send up a cheese sandwich with no mayonnaise or salad dressing and a tall glass of prune juice. I don't wish to be disturbed for the rest of the day."

  Smith returned to his computer. his gray eyes fevered. Someone was killing Harold Smiths. Even if it was a random thing, it deserved investigation. If it wasn't, it could have serious implications for CURE. Either way, Harold W. Smith knew one thing was certain.

  He might be the next victim.

  Chapter 4

  When Chiun did not emerge from his house to join in the big communal dinner in the village square, Remo decided to pretend not to notice.

  Chiun was probably still angry with him, and pouting among his treasures was the surest tactic to get Remo to come to him, begging forgiveness. It wasn't going to work this time. Rem told himself. Let Chiun pout. Let him pout all night. Remo went on eating.

  No one else seemed to notice that Chiun wasn't there. Or if they did. they didn't remark on it.

  The villagers sat in the smoothed dirt of the square all around Remo and Mah-Li. Closest to them squatted old Pullyang, the village caretaker. During the period of Chiun's work-his exile, he had bitterly called it-in America- Pullvang ran the village. He was Chiun's closest adviser. But even he didn't seem concerned about Chiun's absence.

  Pullyang leaned over to Remo, a little cackle dribbling off his lips. Remo knew that cackle meant a joke was coming. Pullyang loved to tell jokes. Pullyang's jokes would shame a preschooler.

  "Why did the pig cross the road?" Pullyang whispered, giggling.

  Remo, not thinking, asked, "Why?"

  "To get to the other side," Pullyang howled, He repeated the joke to the crowd. The crowd howled. Even Mah-Li giggled.

  Remo smiled weakly. Humor was not a Korean national trait. He would have to get used to it.

  Remo decided that it might be better to introduce a more sophisticated brand of humor to the good people of Sinanju. He searched his mind for an appropriate joke. He remembered one Chiun had told him.

  "How many Pyongyangers does it take to change a light bulb?" Remo knew Sinanjuers considered the people of the North Korean capital particularly backward.

  "What is a light bulb?" asked Pullyang, deadpan. Remo, taken aback, tried to explain.

  "It is a glass bulb. You screw it into the ceiling of your house."

  "Won't the roof leak?" asked Pullyang.

  "No. The light bulb fills the hole."

  "Why make the light bulb hole then?"

  "The hole doesn't matter," Remo said. "The light bulb is used to make light. When you have light bulbs in your house, it is like having a little sun at your command."

  "Wouldn't it be easier to open a window?"

  "You don't use light bulbs in the daytime," Remo said patiently. "But at night. Imagine having light all night long."

  The crowd all wore puzzled faces. This was strange to them. Ever since Remo had agreed to live in Sinanju, he had promised them improvements. He had told them the treasures of Sinaniu had gathered dust for centuries and were going to waste. Remo promised to use some of the gold to improve the village. Remo had been saying that for weeks, but so far nothing had changed. Some wisely suspected that old Chiun was holding up these improvements.

  "Light all night long?" repeated Pullyang.

  "That's right," said Remo, grinning.

  But no one grinned back. Instead there was a long uncomfortable silence.

  At length Mah-Li whispered in Remo's ear. "But how will we sleep at night?"

  "You can shut the light bulbs off anytime you want."

  "Then why would we need them?"

  Remo thought hard. Why were these people so dense? Here he was doing his best to bring them civilization and a higher standard of living, and they made him sound so stupid.

  "Suppose you had to relieve yourself in the middle of the night," Remo suggested.

  The crowd shrugged in unison. "You do it," a little boy said.

  "But with a lig
ht bulb, you can see what you're doing," Remo pointed out.

  The little boy giggled. All the children of the village laughed with him, but the adults looked mortified.

  No one was going to say the obvious to Remo. Who would want to watch himself performing a bodily function? They all thought that, but to voice it to a Master of Sinanju, even if he was a white American with a big nose and unnaturally round eyes, would be disrespectful.

  Out of the corner of his eye Remo, saw the door to the treasure house of Sinanju open a crack. Remo's head swiveled, and Chiun's eyes locked with his. Satisfied that Remo's senses were focused on the dwelling of the Master of Sinanju, who was ignoring him, Chiun slammed the door.

  Remo muttered under his breath. He had looked. And Chiun saw him look. Had he not looked, everything would have been fine. But not now. Now Remo could no longer pretend that there wasn't a problem.

  Remo excused himself from dinner, squeezed Mah-Li's hand, and made for the treasure house.

  "Might as well get this over with," he said to himself. The door was locked, forcing Remo to knock.

  "Who knocks?" demanded Chiun in a querulous voice.

  "You know damn well who knocks," Remo snapped back. "You didn't hear me come up the path?"

  "I heard an elephant. Is there an elephant with you?"

  "No, there's no goddamn elephant with me."

  The door shot open.

  Chiun's beaming face stared back at Remo's.

  "I thought not. An elephant makes less noise than you."

  "Can I come in?" Remo asked, controlling himself with an effort.

  "Why not? It is your house too." And Chiun moved back into the taper-lit interior.

  Remo looked around. The heaps of treasure which occupied every room had been moved about. There were Grecian busts, Chinese statues, jars of precious gems, and gold in all its forms, from ingot to urn. "Redecorating?" asked Remo as Chiun settled into the low throne which sat in the center of the main room.

  "I was taking count."

  "I never noticed these before," Remo said, walking to a group of ornate panels stacked against one wall.

  "They are nothing," said Chiun disdainfully. "Too recent."

  "I read about these," Remo went on. "These panels are known as the Room of Gold. They're some kind of European treasure. I remember reading an article about them once. They're a national treasure of Czechoslovakia or Hungary or some place like that. They've been missing since the war."

  "They have not," Chiun corrected. "They have been here."

  "The Europeans don't know that. They think the Nazis took them."

  "They did."

  "Then what are you doing with them?"

  "The Nazis were good at taking things that were not theirs. They were not good at keeping them. Ask any European."

  "I will, if any drop in for tea."

  "Do you miss America, Remo?" Chiun asked suddenly.

  "America is where I was born. Sure, sometimes I miss it. But I'm happy here. Really, Little Father." Chiun nodded, his hazel eyes bright.

  "Our ways are strange to you, even though now you, too, are a Master of Sinanju."

  "You will always be the Master in my eyes, Little Father."

  "A good answer," said Chiun. "And well spoken."

  "Thank you," said Remo, hoping it would head off another one of Chiun's endless complaints about the frail state of his health in these, the ending days of his life.

  "But I, being frail and in my ending days, will not always be the Master of this village," said Chiun. "You are the next Master. This we have agreed to."

  "I hope that day is far off," said Remo sincerely.

  "Not long ago it seemed that you would take my place much sooner."

  Remo nodded, surprised that Chiun would bring up that subject himself. Remo was convinced Chiun's recent illness had been an elaborate con game designed to get them out of America. His miraculous recovery was suspicious, but Remo had not pressed the issue. He was too happy now that he had found Mah-Li. If it was one of Chiun's guilt trips that had brought that about, Remo reasoned, well, why not? Some people met through classified ads.

  "We are both still young, you and I," said Chiun. "But I have suffered much in America, working for Mad Harold, the non-emperor. Too long have I breathed the foul, dirty air of your birthplace. It has robbed me of some of my years, but I have a good many years left. Decades. Many decades."

  "I am glad," said Remo, wondering where this was leading.

  "Even though you are soon to wed, which is the next important step toward assuming responsibility for my village, we must observe succession."

  "Of course."

  "You must learn to live as a Korean."

  "I'm trying. I think the villagers like me now."

  "Do not rush them, Remo," Chiun said suddenly.

  "Little Father?"

  "Do not force yourself upon them. In their eyes, you are strange, different."

  "I'm just trying to get along," Remo said.

  "You are to be commended for that. But if you truly wish to get along, you must do so according to rank."

  "Rank?" asked Remo. "What rank? Everybody's a peasant. Except you, of course."

  Chiun raised a long-nailed finger. It caught the mellow candlelight like a polished blade of bone. It looked delicate, but Remo had seen it slice through sheet metal.

  "Exactly," said Chiun.

  "I don't get it."

  "If you desire to get along, your first priority should be to get along with me."

  "Meaning?"

  "Throw off the last of your American whiteness. In your former life, you were a caterpillar, a lowly green caterpillar."

  "I thought you said I was white."

  "You are."

  "Which is it, white or green?"

  "Honestly, Remo," Chum said. "You are so literal-minded. I was speaking in images. You are white, but you are like the green caterpillar. And I am asking you to emerge from the cocoon of your whiteness. In the fullness of time, you will emerge as a butterfly."

  "What color?" Remo asked.

  "Why, yellow, of course. Like me."

  "You?"

  "Yes, me."

  "I never thought of you as a butterfly before."

  "How could you? Caterpillars do not think. Heh-heh. They do not think, but instead squirm in the mud wishing to be butterflies. Heh-heh."

  "You're unhappy that the villagers are paying so much attention to me, is that it?" Remo asked.

  "Of course not," said Chiun. "I merely ask that you do not fraternize with them excessively. You are a Master of Sinanju. They are the villagers. They must look up to you. They cannot look up to you if you are squatting in the dirt with them every night, eating the same food, sharing in their peasant jokes."

  "The communal meals were your idea, Little Father. Don't you remember? You wanted the village to be one happy family."

  "It has gone on too long. You are too happy. It is not good to be too happy."

  "I could be a lot happier," said Remo.

  "Name the thing that will increase your happiness, Remo, for your happiness is mine."

  "Let's cut this engagement period down to something reasonable."

  "Such as?"

  "One week."

  "It is too late for that," said Chiun sternly.

  "Why?"

  "You have already been engaged for eight weeks. Even a Master of Sinanju cannot roll back time."

  "I meant one more week. I don't see why I can't marry Mah-Li sooner."

  "Tradition forbids it," said Chiun. "A Master of Sinanju marries for life. He must marry wisely. You must get to know Mah-Li better."

  "A nine-month engagement is too much. I respect your wishes, but it is too much."

  "As a matter of fact. Remo, I have been reconsidering the formal engagement period."

  "Oh?"

  "I have been thinking that five years is more appropriate. "

  "Five-!"

  Chiun waved Remo's outburst aside.
"I said reconsidering. I have not made up my mind. I will keep your request in mind as I give this matter more thought."

  Remo relaxed. "When will you let me know?" he asked.

  "Two, perhaps three years."

  "Chiun!"

  "Hush, Remo. Do not shout. It is unseemly. What if the villagers hear us quarreling?"

  "No chance. Not even an air-raid siren could pierce through these tapestries and stacks of gold."

  "You cannot marry too soon. It would be wrong."

  "I've been asking around. The normal engagement period is only three months."

  "That is for Koreans," reminded Chiun. "You are not a true Korean."

  "I will never be a Korean. You know that."

  "We will work on that. Put yourself in my hands, Remo."

  "And another thing, what about the village?"

  "What about it?"

  "I have some ideas that will make it better," said Remo, taking a piece of paper from his trouser pocket. Remo looked it over.

  "Better than what?" asked Chiun, genuinely puzzled. "This is Sinanju. It is the center of the universe. What could make it better?"

  "Running water, for one thing."

  "We are by the ocean. We have all the water we need. "

  "Not to drink," said Remo.

  "Sinanju is blessed with the sweetest rain," Chiun said, making fluttering motions with his fingernails. "You have only to set out your pots to collect your fill."

  "I was thinking about putting in toilets."

  Chiun made a disgusted face. "Toilets are a European confidence trick. They promote sloth and laziness."

  "How so?"

  "They are too comfortable. They are indoors, where it is warm. This encourages people to sit on them too long, reading mindless magazines, ruining their minds and posture."

  "There isn't even a decent outhouse in the entire village. Everybody uses chamber pots or goes behind a rock. After a big feast, the air is unbreathable."

  "It is the natural way. Fertilizer. It helps the crops."

  "The only crops in Sinanju are mud and rocks," Remo said flatly. "The people are so lazy even the rice has to be trucked in."

  "Do not insult my people, Remo," Chiun warned.

  "What's insulting about good hygiene? I know you have a toilet in this house," Remo pointed out.

  "This house was built by the finest Egyptian architects," Chiun said loftily, "back when Egyptians were good for something more than losing wars and dusting the ruins of their ancestors. It contains many curiosities. Somewhere in it there is a European water closet, I am sure. An antique."