Return Engagement td-71

by Warren Murphy

  "I'll do just that," breathed Mrs. Mikulka, wondering if this man was not a candidate for a Folcroft rubber room.

  "That man is here, Dr. Smith."

  "Send him in. And take an early lunch."

  The Master of Sinanju, resplendent in his blue-and-gold greeting kimono, entered the room with dignified ceremony.

  "Hail, Emperor Smith," he called, bowing slightly. "The House of Sinanju brings you greetings and felicitations. Great is my pleasure in beholding your wise, your magnificent, your robust countenance once more."

  "Thank you," said Smith, whose eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, and whose ashen face looked like a dead man's. "I am surprised to see you."

  "Your joy is returned a thousandfold," said the Master of Sinanju.

  "Er, you're not working for anyone at the moment, are you? I mean, this is a social call-isn't it?"

  "I am between employers at present," admitted Chiun. Smith relaxed slightly. The loyalty of a Master of Sinanju, he knew, stopped at the termination of each contract. There was no telling what Chiun wanted. He might even be here to assassinate Smith himself.

  "You're not here about that unresolved matter in Sinanju?" asked Smith cautiously.

  "And what unresolved matter is that?" asked Chiun innocently.

  "When the Russian business was concluded, I asked you to terminate my life, and you refused."

  "Ah." Chiun nodded. "I recall I refused because you had not enough coin to pay. Oh, I am ashamed, Emperor Smith, ashamed to the very core of my being. I should not have refused so minor a boon. In truth, I am here to atone for my error."

  "I no longer require your services," Smith said hastily.

  "No?" The Master of Sinanju looked disappointed, nearly stricken. "Are you certain?"

  "Quite certain. The President has authorized CURE to continue. This releases me from my duty to commit suicide."

  Chinn lifted a long-nailed finger.

  "This is good," he said. "For the atonement I wish to make has nothing to do with killing you-although I would gladly do so if this were your command. I would do anything the Emperor Smith, in his inexorable wisdom, commands."

  "You would?" said Smith, dumbfounded. "Anything?"

  "Anything," Chiun said placidly.

  "But our contract has been voided. You told me so yourself."

  "Clause Fifty-six, Paragraph Four." Chiun nodded. "Which stipulates that contracts between emperors and the House of Sinanju may not be transferred to third parties. You did this, committing the Master of Sinanju to service to Russia. You did this under threat of blackmail by the Russians. Remo has explained these details to me. I bear you no ill for your oversight, for that is surely all that it was. Emperors, of course, cannot be expected to remember all the niceties and details, especially the fine paint."

  "I'm glad you feel that way, Master Chiun, but I still don't quite understand what you're doing in America."

  "Clause Fifty-six, Paragraph Ten." Chinn smiled. "Under the rubric 'Refunds.' "

  "As I recall, a shipment of gold accompanied you on your last submarine crossing to Sinanju. Under the circumstances, I didn't assume we were due a refund. Are you here then to return the gold prepayment?" asked Smith.

  "Would that it were in my power," said the Master of Sinanja sadly.

  "Then what?"

  From the folds of his robe the Master of Sinanju extracted a gold-edged scroll tied with a blue ribbon. Chiun delicately untied the ribbon, causing the scroll to roll open.

  "Allow me to read. 'In the event of termination of services, the House of Sinanju is obligated to refund all prepayments, prorated to the term of unfulfilled service.'

  "Alas," continued the Master of Sinanju, "Remo, my adopted son, is to wed a Sinanju maiden, and because that maiden was an orphan bereft of family and dowry, and because Sinanju law forbids the House of Sinanju to retain gold that it has not truly earned, I was thrown into a dilemma. I did not know what to do," said Chiun, because emperors sometimes did not know simple words like "dilemma."

  "I could not keep the gold. And you had already returned to America when I discovered my lapse. Poor Remo, my son, could not marry his chosen bride because she had no dowry. It was a difficult time. But in my wisdom, I saw a solution to all our problems."

  "You gave the gold to Mah-Li," Smith said wearily.

  "I gave the gold to Mah-Li," said Chiun triumphantly, in almost the same breath. And he smiled. "Truly, you are a mind reader, as well as generous and understanding."

  "You came all the way to Sinanju to tell me that you can't return the gold?"

  "No, I have come all the way to the wonderful land of America to atone for my error, as I have said."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning my new dilemma," said Chiun. "I cannot return the gold, for I have given it away."

  "You have a great deal of gold, Master of Sinanju," reminded Smith.

  "True," said the Master of Sinanju. "But I do not have a submarine. Only a submarine is capable of transporting such generous quantities of gold from Sinanju to these happy shores."

  It was true, thought Smith. Annually, he had shipped enough gold ingots to Sinanju to pay off the debts of many small nations. And Chiun never spent that gold, according to Remo.

  "I can make arrangements for one of our nuclear subs to pick up the repayment," Smith said.

  "I cannot allow that," said Chiun. "Why not?"

  "It would be unfair. The expense you would incur in sending that vessel would detract from the value of the repayment." Chiun shook his aged head. "No, I would not do that to you."

  "We can work something out." said Smith.

  "No," said Chiun hastily. "For Sinanju law dictates that all repayments be made in the same coin. No substitutes."

  "I would not mind," said Smith.

  "But my ancestors would," returned Chiun.

  "Then what?"

  Chiun paced the office. "I cannot repay in the same coin. It is regrettable, but I am stuck. Therefore, as difficult as it will be, as much as I desire to remain in Sinanju with my adopted son and my people who wept bitterly when I left them, I must fulfill my contract with you."

  "I'm sure we can come up with an alternate solution," Smith said.

  "I have thought long on this," Chiun said firmly. "This is the only way."

  "Things have changed, Master Chiun. CURE is no longer set up for operations."

  Chiun waved a dismissive hand. "A mere detail. A trifling of no moment in the magnitude of this event. Lo, my descendants will sing in praise of this hour for generations to come," Chiun said loudly. "After too long a time, the House of Sinanju has been reunited with the most kind, most generous, most able client it has ever known, Smith the Wise."

  "It has been only three months," reminded. Smith.

  "Three long months," Chiun corrected. "Each day a year, each month an eternity. But at last it is over."

  "What about Remo?"

  Chiun's pleased expression fled. "Remo is happy in Sinanju. We do not need him. Or he, us."

  "I see,"

  "You see all," Chiun smiled.

  "This could work out," said Smith slowly. His mind was racing. Only days ago, the thought of having to deal with the mercurial Chiun would have sent him reaching for his Maalox, but now, with this Smith-killer matter, Chiun's reappearance might be the best thing that could happen.

  "Do I understand that our last contract is now in force once more?"

  "Not quite," said the Master of Sinanju, settling on the floor in front of Smith's heavy desk.

  And Smith-who knew that when Chiun sat on the floor like that it meant that it was time to renegotiate-grabbed two extra-sharp pencils and a yellow legal pad and joined him on the worn hardwood floor.

  "Remo will not be considered a part of this negotiation," began Chiun.

  Smith nodded. "That would mean a reduction, retroactive, on the prepayment due to the loss of his services."

  "Not quite," said the Master of Sinanju.

 
"What then?"

  "It requires an additional payment above the prepayment."

  Smith snapped the pencil in his hand. "How do you figure that?" he said angrily.

  "Without Remo, I will have to work twice as hard as before; And I am an old man, frail and in my declining years."

  "How much more?" Smith asked tightly.

  "Half. Half would be fair."

  Smith, who was facing death from an unknown assassin, balanced the cost of Chiun's demands against the probable expense of finding a new CURE director and decided they were roughly equal.

  "Done," he said, writing it down.

  "And I further require other amenities-lodging and clothes."

  "Clothes?"

  "Because I came by air; I was unable to carry my possessions with me. I have only a kimono or two, nothing more."

  Smith, suddenly remembering the news report of the Air Force transport that had the mysterious stowaway the day before, understood completely.

  "I don't know where we're going to find a clothier who specializes in kimonos, but I'll see what I can do."

  "Do not trouble yourself. Introduce me to a worthy tailor, and he and I will work out the details."

  "Done. Anything else?"

  "One last item. Traveling expenses."

  "How much?" Smith asked, bracing himself.

  "Seven dollars and thirty-nine cents."

  "You traveled from Sinanju to America and spent only seven-thirty-nine?"

  "It was the strangest thing. No one asked me for money. But the American flight did not serve meals for some reason and I was forced to dine in a restaurant before sojourning here to Fortress Folcroft."

  And the Master of Sinanju smiled innocently.

  "I imagine you'll require living expenses until I requisition the gold," Smith said wryly.

  "I was not going to mention it, but yes," said Chiun.

  "I'll get you an American Express card."

  "American . . . ?" said Chiun, puzzled.

  "Gold card, of course."

  "Of course." Chiun beamed. He had no idea what Smith was babbling about, but was willing to agree to anything that involved gold.

  When they had finished amending the old contract and initialing the changes, the Master of Sinanju signed with a flourish.

  "And now you," he said happily, turning the contract over to Smith.

  Smith scrawled his signature, wondering why Chiun seemed so delighted. Usually upon signing even the most generous contract, he acted like he had been victimized by Smith's sharp trading. And why had Chiun willingly left Remo back in Sinanju? Could there be a problem between the two of them? As soon as the thought entered his head, Smith dismissed it. Remo and Chiun were inseparable. But then, why were they separated?

  When Smith finished, Chiun rose to his feet like smoke arising from an incense burner.

  "I am at your service, O just one. Merely point and I will cut down your enemies like the wheat in the field."

  "As a matter offact, I do have a problem."

  "Name it," said Chiun.

  "It's difficult. It involves another assassin."

  "There is no other assassin," retorted the Master of Sinanju. "Speak the wretch's name and I will place his head at your feet by the setting sun."

  Just then the phone rang. Smith looked up. It was the direct line to Washington the dialless phone which connected the President of the United States with CURE. Smith reached up stiffly and pulled the red receiver to his ear.

  "Yes, Mr. President?"

  "We have a problem, Smith. I don't know what you can do without operatives, but maybe you can advise me."

  "Excuse me, Mr. President, but we do have an operative. "

  "We do?"

  "Yes, the old one."

  "Older one," Chiun whispered, tugging on Smith's sleeve. "I am older than you and Remo, but I am not old."

  Smith coughed noisily. "Yes, Mr. President. You heard me correctly. We have just finished negotiating for another year of service."

  "I thought he had retired," said the President, "and that he was upset with us over the matter with the Soviets. After all, his pupil did die during that one."

  "He's sitting before me even as we speak," said Smith uncomfortably.

  "Younger than ever," Chiun said loudly.

  Smith clapped a hand over the receiver. "Hush. The President still thinks Remo is dead.

  "Stricken by grief at the loss of my only adopted son, I will nevertheless bear up under my burdens and deal with the enemies of America," Chiun added.

  "That's enough. Don't overplay it." Having lied to the President about Remo's supposed death, there was no way Smith could admit to the truth-that he had fudged the facts to cover for Remo. As long as this President served in the Oval Office, he must never learn that Remo still lived. That discovery would expose Smith as unreliable and could pull the CURE operation down around Smith's head.

  "All right," said the President. "I won't ask questions. Here's our problem. A fellow named Ferris D'Orr has just escaped a kidnapping attempt. D'Orr is important to America. He's discovered a remarkable way of cold-forging titanium. I think you know how important that is to our Defense Department. Why, this process could cut so much from next year's defense budget that we could fund a lot of the programs that Congress is now trying to stifle."

  "Who is responsible?"

  "That's just it. We don't know. The Soviets, the Chinese, hell, it might even be the French. They've got a pretty fair space program going now. Who is behind this doesn't matter so much. We've just got to protect D'Orr."

  "I'll put our special person right on it."

  "Good man, Smith. D'Orr is being transported to a safe house in Baltimore. It's the penthouse of the Lafayette Building. Keep me informed."

  "Yes, Mr. President," said Dr. Harold W. Smith, hanging up the phone. To Chiun, Smith said, "That was the President."

  "So I gathered," said the Master of Sinanju, who, now that he was under contract, felt no pressing need to gush over Smith. "Something was said about work."

  "What I began to tell you can wait," said Smith, knowing that the threat to his own life was a personal matter, but that national security was CURE's prime directive. "I'm sending you to Maryland."

  "A lovely province," said Chiun.

  "Yes. Someone has attempted to kidnap Ferris D'Orr, a metallurgist."

  "The fiends," cried Chiuua, "kidnapping a sick man like that."

  "Sick?"

  "He is a metallurgist, correct? He is allergic to metals. The poor wretch. Imagine never being able to touch gold, or hold coins in his hand. He must be beside himself."

  "A metallurgist is someone who works with metals," said Smith, getting to his feet.

  "Ah, an artisan."

  "Not quite. He's invented a process for melting titanium, an important metal."

  Chiun shook his head slowly. "There is only one important metal, and that is yellow."

  "Titanium is important to America.'

  "Is it yellow?"

  "No. I believe it is bluish, like lead."

  Chiun made a face. "Lead is not a good metal. Lead killed the Roman Empire. They used it for their plumbing. Romans drank water from their lead pipes and lost first their wits, and later their empire. No doubt they had lead toilets too. Toilets will bring down a civilization faster than pestilence. Even the mighty Greeks would not have been able to survive the onslaught of toilets."

  "Titanium is important to America," Smith repeated, ignoring Chiun's outburst.

  "Oh? It is valuable?"

  "Very," said Smith. "It is used for jet-engine parts and in space-age technologies."

  "If it is valuable, why waste it on machines?" Chiun asked. "Why not make beautiful urns of titanium instead? Or statues of worthy persons? I am certain I would look wonderful in titanium."

  "Protect D'Orr, and if anyone comes after him," Smith said wearily. "eliminate them."

  "Of course." said the Master of Sinanju. "I understand perfectly."r />
  Chapter 13

  Remo Williams had walked most of the way to Pyongyang, capital of the People's Republic of Korea, before he saw his first automobile.

  It was an imported Volvo. Remo stepped out into the middle of the highway and waved his arms for the car to stop.

  The car slowed. The driver took a long look at Remo and drove around him.

  Remo ran after the Volvo. The Volvo picked up speed. The driver of the Volvo looked at his speedometer. It read seventy. But the white man in the black T-shirt was still in his rearview mirror.

  When the running white man drew up alongside the Volvo, there were tears in the driver's eyes. There was no way this could be happening. The white man must not be a western spy, as he had first thought. He had to be an evil spirit.

  "I need a ride into Pyongyang," Remo yelled at the driver.

  It was then that the driver knew of a certainty that the white being must be an evil apparition. Not only was he keeping pace with a seventy-mile-an-hour automobile, but he spoke Korean. Western spies did not speak Korean. Korean ghosts spoke Korean, however. Among other things they did, like pass their intangible hands through solid objects and pluck out the hearts from the chest cavities of the living.

  "I said I need a ride into Pyongyang," Remo repeated. When the Korean did not reply, Remo tapped the window on the driver's side until the glass spiderwebbed and fell out.

  The Korean had the gas pedal to the floorboards by that time. The white ghost was still running even with the car. There was no escape.

  The white ghost had said something about needing a ride. Why a ghost who could run in excess of seventy miles an hour would need an earthly vehicle did not matter. Nor did the fact that the Volvo had cost eight years' salary. The ghost was demanding the car, and there was no escaping him. Therefore there was only one thing to do.

  The driver braked the Volvo, plunged out through the passenger's side, and stumbled into the tall grass. The white ghost did not pursue him.

  "I only wanted a ride," Remo Williams said to himself. He shrugged as he got behind the wheel of the Volvo. The keys were still in the ignition. He got the car going.

  Remo drove slowly, his eyes on the road. The faint images of sandaled feet showed from time to time. A mile down the highway, the trail of footprints abruptly stopped. It was replaced by a string of barley beans that seemed to stretch, single file, all the way to the capital city.