Terror Squad

by Warren Murphy

“Chiun told me of the assault on the mountain,” Remo said.

  “Of course,” Nuihc responded. “Those peasants were given instant competence. But their inability to imagine being inside a castle was the surprise. And so they all died. And then I sent the warnings. First fat, then thin, then the dead animals. It was to let Chiun know who his opponent was.”

  “Why?” Remo asked.

  “So he would worry more about you and less about himself. He has…he had a strong instinct for survival, that one. It was necessary to disarm him by fragmenting his concentration.”

  “And then you had Joan here give me clues to get me here?” Remo asked.

  “Yes. And that was the riskiest part. I knew that Chiun would not tell you of me, because he knew that would force you to prove your manhood by coming after me. I had to make you think you discovered me. So the clues could not be too blatant, lest you fear a trap. Yet, if they were too subtle, you would not understand them. That is not to downgrade you. It is the way with your western mind. And so you figured out what I wished you to figure out, and so you came, leaving Chiun alone to meet his death. And now you must decide.”

  “Decide what?” Remo asked,

  “Will you join me? You have had experience working with the Master of Sinanju. Will you not now join the new Master as we move toward power over this globe?”

  “And who elected you the new Master?” Remo asked coldly.

  For a moment, Nuihc looked perplexed. Then he smiled and said, “There is no other.”

  “You’re wrong,” Remo said. “If Chiun is dead—which I doubt—if Chiun is dead, then I claim the seat of the House of Sinanju. I am the Master.”

  Nuihc laughed. “You forget yourself. You are only a white man, and I am not those cretins you have met with out in the hallways.”

  “No, you’re not,” Remo said. “They were just poor simpletons, like this dumb child here. But you? You’re something else, you are. You’re a mad dog.”

  “Then,” Nuihc said, “the lines are drawn. But tell me, do you not feel a tinge of fear in your stomach when you remember the beating I gave you when last we met. I told you then that in ten years you would be magnificent Ten years have not passed.”

  “And finally, dog meat, you’ve made a mistake,” Remo said. “It wasn’t to be ten years. Chiun told me. We were this much apart.” He held up his fingers, separating his thumb and index finger by only a quarter-inch. “Just this much. Chiun thought five years. And then he admitted he had been wrong. I came on faster than he thought; he told me I was better than you. How does it feel to be a perpetual also-ran, dog meat? All your life, Chiun was better than you. And now, when you say you’ve gotten rid of him, I’m better than you. It’s all over, Nuihc. And I’m not bound by a vow not to kill someone from the village.”

  Nuihc’s face moved, showing the tension underneath. Remo waited. He did not know if Chiun was dead or alive, but if he was dead, if Nuihc’s evil scheme had worked, then this moment of Remo’s life would be dedicated to the Master’s memory. He reached deep into the dark corners of his mind for words he had heard Chiun say, and intoned softly:

  “I am created Shiva, the Destroyer, death, the shatterer of worlds. The dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju. What is this dog meat that now challenges me?”

  Nuihc screamed, deep in his throat, the wail of a cruel, evil cat, and then leaped toward Remo.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  YES, THERE WAS DEFINITELY something wrong. The attack was wrong. Nuihc had planned it, but he had not planned it the way it should have been planned to be effective. And that gnawed at Chiun, as he fell in and disappeared among the small crowd of Army officers that moved imperiously through the police lines and toward the front entrance of the United Nations building.

  The idea of using Army uniforms as a shield was good, Chiun thought. Only a trained eye would have looked past the silver and gold and braid and ribbons to see that some of the faces were pale around the chin, where beards had only recently been shaved off, and the skin under had not yet had time to darken. Only a very trained eye might notice that there was among the group a little more swarthiness than one could expect in a group of twelve American army officers.

  But that is what was wrong. A trained eye would notice those things, and Nuihc should know that a trained eye would be looking for them. He would know that Remo and Chiun would be here, watching, and their eyes would not overlook the evidence of the recently-made-hairless faces and the swarthiness.

  Unlike Nuihc to be so careless. But was it carelessness? Or was it something else?

  Chiun shook his head slightly. And there was Remo to worry about. The child was not always sensible, risking death when he was free to depart. Not that the danger was that terrible. If Nuihc should harm Remo, he would spend the rest of his days in hiding or in flight, because the Master of Sinanju would track him to earth and Chiun’s vengeance would be implacable and terrible to see. Surely, Nuihc would know this. So again, why would he use such childish means as hints and telephone calls, to entice Remo to come after him? Perhaps there was something else on Nuihc’s mind. There were many things Chiun could not understand.

  Chiun passed within inches of Dr. Smith who was marching back and forth, balefully staring at the crowd. He seemed to be trying to focus his eyes. Poor Dr. Smith. Chiun hoped that he would regain his senses before it was all too late.

  Chiun seemed to drift in and out among the Army officers, at first visible, then gone, visible, then gone, so that there was no steady vision of him that a guard or a policeman could have moved to intercept. Instead, he was here, in bright sunshine, in front of 20,000 people—like an apparition, an afterglow, which vanishes between one blink and the next.

  He was past the guards now and moving briskly with the Army contingent along the corridors of the United Nations building, toward the sections in the back where the main Assembly room was and which was bordered by conference rooms, small meeting rooms and offices.

  The group of Army officers was led by a tall, sandy-haired man in his mid-forties who wore the stars of a major general on a pale tan gabardine suit. He carried an attache case, as did all the men with him, and now the general turned to look over his men, and he saw Chiun’s face. Chiun met his eyes, but the general said nothing and made no acknowledgment. Instead, he led the way into a small room alongside the main Assembly hall. Chiun was in the middle of the group as they moved into the room.

  Why had not the general acknowledged Chum’s existence? It was almost as if he had expected the Master to be there.

  The last man into the room locked the door behind them, and now the men moved quickly. They began to peel off their Army uniforms. Underneath, they wore light blue shirts. From their attache cases, they took thin silk robes which they slipped on, and burnooses which they placed on their heads. And finally handguns.

  And all the while Chiun watched, as the men moved wordlessly. Handguns? Why? Why not explosives? Or gas? Why have gone this far to risk all on the poor marksmanship of one’s men? Handguns were for single targets in enclosed areas; not for broad masses of men in a big open assembly room. Only for single targets in enclosed areas.

  And then Chiun knew.

  The diplomats who were to meet outside in minutes were not the targets of these assassins.

  There was only one target, and he was in an enclosed area. The target was Chiun and he was now locked in the room with the twelve armed men who planned to kill him. And Remo would be at Nuihc’s mercy. Nuihc would not hesitate to kill, because he knew that his own men would have killed Chiun.

  The anger rose in his throat like a roar. The Master of Sinanju did not die like that. For the sin of arrogance, Nuihc would bleed longer than was necessary before Chiun took his full measure of justice.

  Chiun’s eyes met those of the man who had worn the general’s stars. He was wearing now a thin red silk robe with a silver moon on its chest, and a silver burnoose, and he held a .45 automatic pointed at Chum’s ches
t. With a smile, he touched his hand to his chest, his forehead, and then moved it toward Chiun in the traditional Arabic salaam, but his mistake was moving his hand toward Chiun.

  Chiun took the hand in flight and wheeled with it. The big man’s body followed and he went over Chiun into a pile of men, all of whom had faced Chiun with drawn weapons.

  And then Chiun was among them.

  “You dare?” his voice shrieked, as his hands and arms and feet wreaked destruction on the men in the room. Shots fired. Two. Three. Then a fusillade, but Chiun was among the men and he could not be hit. He grabbed burnooses and men whirled, by their headpieces—crashing into others, and downing them like bowling pins.

  “You dare?” Chiun screamed again, and while the men in the room paid the first installment of the price of his anger, the anger was at Nuihc first, but then also at himself, because he had let himself be fooled, and had allowed Remo to go, perhaps to his death. Because, in a battle of even strengths, the one who planned would win.

  There were more shots, scattered, and than a final desperate salvo, and then there were no more shots because there were no more men left alive to fire the guns. And when the door opened and security men poured through, Chiun moved silently through them, out into the corridor, and one of the men asked, “Did you see an old guy?” and the other said, “For Christ sake, how could anybody get past us?”

  There might still be time. Nuihc, secure in the knowledge of Chiun’s death, might dally with Remo; he might try pain; he might keep Remo alive for minutes, for even hours, to savor his triumph. There might still be time.

  In the hall, Chiun saw a familiar figure running toward him. It was Dr. Smith.

  “Chiun,” he said. “I just realized. The Army officers. What happened?”

  “They will kill no one, Dr. Smith.”

  “The diplomats are safe?”

  “The diplomats were always safe. The assassins came for me, and they found me. Now, quickly. Where in this city are there dinosaurs to be found?”

  “Dinosaurs?”

  “Yes. Ancient reptiles who no longer walk the earth.”

  Smith hesitated and Chiun snapped, “Quickly. Unless you want yet another death on your hands.”

  “The only dinosaurs I ever saw are in the Museum of Natural History.”

  “And that is near here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. Remo will be glad you are again well.”

  Chiun was gone. Out in front, the mob still surged and swelled against the police lines as rumor and word began to filter out that there had been deaths inside. But Chiun was through the lines and then the crowd, without ever touching a shoulder to another’s body. A half-block away, a taxicab was stopped in traffic. It was empty. Chiun opened the front door and slipped into the front seat.

  The driver turned to look at him and Chiun impaled him with his eyes. Then, glancing at the driver’s registration over the windshield, he said: “P. Worthington Rosenbaum, you will take me to the Museum of Natural History. You will ride on the sidewalk if necessary to get me there rapidly. You will make no conversation if you wish to live. If you do all these things well, you will be rewarded. Now go.”

  P. Worthington Rosenbaum decided at that moment that he was leaving the taxi business, and going into partnership in a yarn shop with his sister. But first, he would get rid of this last half-a-deck at the Museum of Natural History.

  As he tromped on the gas pedal, Chiun sat back in the seat. The ancient legend said that one typhoon was still when another passed. Well, Chiun still moved and if Nuihc began to roar, he would find the truth of the old legend that said one typhoon must die. In the place of dead animals.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  IT WAS VERY STRANGE, what they were talking about. She was sure it was very significant. But the cocaine had made it so hard to concentrate. It was nice and dreamy. The whole world was nice and dreamy. It was wonderful being a revolutionary heroine.

  But there were so many things she did not understand.

  Nuihc—it was funny that he had never told her his name before—had said that Remo and the old gook were targets. But he must have been fooling, because the whole filthy exploitive capitalist system was the target. Of that, she was sure. Nuihc was as dedicated to the cause of the righteous revolution of the oppressed as she was. Without any doubt.

  But then Remo had shown up and had said that he was the Master of Sinanju, whatever that was. And they had talked about the old man as if he had died.

  And why did they want to watch things on television? Television. It would be nice to see what was happening to those imperialist running dogs up at the United Nations.

  All this chitter-chatter between Remo and Nuihc wasn’t very interesting anyway. Typhoons. Barking dogs. Tricks. Guns in wheelchairs.

  Silly, all of it. All that counted was a new order for the Third World. She had been willing to step aside, once the revolution was accomplished, but now she wondered if she should. She might just be the kind of leader that they would need. After all, what did they know of government, the poor, naked, ignorant savages?

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Nuihc leap at Remo, just as she turned the television back on. The announcer’s voice was a backdrop for the sound of their scuffle.

  She watched, suddenly realizing this was a battle to the death. Goodie. She felt like Queen Guinevere. Was that her name? Yes. Arthur’s wife.

  Nuihc was very good. He threw a punch which seemed to be in slow motion, but it hit Remo and it spun him around. Remo was bigger and stronger, but maybe he was slower. He threw a blow that missed, and he slid past Nuihc toward the marble balcony railing that overlooked the first floor and the huge suspended whale.

  Nuihc clasped both his hands together over his head, like a prizefighter in victory, and jumped toward Remo who lay sprawled across the railing. But Remo rolled away, just as Nuihc’s hands crashed down and hit the railing with a crack like a pistol shot. The marble chipped and fell to the floor.

  Then Remo was standing on the railing, and then Nuihc hopped onto the railing too. Back and forth they moved, each throwing blows, each missing. Remo did something fancy with a kick that missed, and his momentum took him off the railing and he plunged toward the floor thirty feet below, but he caught onto one of the overhead cables that supported the fiberglass replica of the ninety-foot whale, and, turning his body in the air, did a double flip and landed on his feet on the whale’s back, twenty-five feet above the floor.

  Nuihc dove for the cable, also spun in the air, and landed softly on the back of the whale five feet from Remo.

  And then they fought back and forth along the back of the whale. Strange, they had fought and fought and fought, and yet she found it hard to remember either of them landing a hard blow. Perhaps they weren’t really very good after all.

  She ignored the buzz of the television as she watched. She squealed. Fight on, men. My heart to the winner.

  Then somehow Remo had Nuihc’s two wrists in his hands and was squeezing. Nuihc pulled back and then lunged forward. His body twisted in the air, and his feet went up and over Remo’s head.

  How wonderful. They were fighting over her. She felt like throwing a kerchief so they could fight for it and the winner could pin it over his heart. But she didn’t have a kerchief. She had a Kleenex. It was wet. She threw that. It didn’t go very far.

  Nuihc landed behind Remo, his back to Remo, and his hands were free, his body carefully balanced, but before he could turn, the wet Kleenex fluffed through the air, hit his shoulder, and Joan giggled as it plopped on the whale’s back. The small touch of the crumpled paper destroyed Nuihc’s balance and he slid to the back of the whale. Before he could regain his feet, Remo was on him with an elbow.

  And then Remo lifted Nuihc by the scruff of the neck and carried him like a suitcase toward the head of the whale.

  The winner and champion. He had fought for Guinevere and won. Too bad. She had hoped Nuihc would be her savior. Oh, well. At
least, she and Remo were sexually compatible. “Hey, toots,” Remo called. “Turn up the sound on that television, will you?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  REMO TIED NUIHC’S HANDS behind his back with Nuihc’s own leather belt, then hung him from the whale’s mouth, his hands and arms pulled up painfully behind him.

  Then he almost skipped the distance down to the floor, landing softly on his feet, not even pausing to brace himself, but hitting—click—and stepping off in a fast trot.

  He came up the stairs and stood alongside Joan Hacker, who was amusing herself by stuffing a little cocaine inside her upper lip.

  “Want a snort?” she giggled.

  “No thanks,” he said. “I prefer rice myself.”

  “Oh, rice must be nice, but I’ve never sniffed it. Anyway, you’ve won. My body is yours.”

  “Stuff your body into your mouth and silence it, will you? I’m trying to hear the television.”

  The announcer was talking.

  “There is still only confusion here. The crowd outside remains more or less under control, but we have definitely confirmed that shots were fired inside the U.N. building. However, we are advised that no diplomats…we repeat, no diplomats…have been shot. The victims of the shooting appear to have been a group of Army officers, but there is some question as to their identity. We are awaiting further details.”

  Remo snarled at the television. Maybe this and maybe that. Confusion and further details. He wanted to shout: Is Chiun all right?

  There was a groan from the direction of the whale. Remo turned and his eyes met Nuihc’s, as the small Oriental was hung out, like a side of beef from the jaw of the huge whale replica.

  His eyes screamed hatred for Remo.

  “If it had not been for her, I would have won,” he hissed.

  “Just a theory on your part,” Remo said. “Now for a fact. I don’t know yet whether Chiun is all right or not. But if he is not, I’m going to come back and peel your skin off in strips. You better hope your men missed.”