Bidding War td-101

by Warren Murphy

  As he settled back onto his tatami mat, the Master of Sinanju gave his pupil a rare compliment. "You are learning."

  "I am hoping to remain in America. But I'll settle for Canada."

  "Just as long as you remain by my side, you need neither hope nor settle for anything less than perfection," said the Master of Sinanju in a tone that suggested his pupil was fortunate to bask in the glory of his awesome magnificence.

  Chapter Nineteen

  This time the report came from FBIS—the CIA's Foreign Broadcast Information Service—which always made duty officer Ray Foxworthy laugh when he read the title.

  The foreign-broadcast information service was a glorified term for a bunch of overpaid couch potatoes. They sat around in apartments and hotel rooms throughout the world watching local TV and taping foreign news broadcasts.

  The watch officer—even that title made Foxworthy smirk—was reporting that Iraqi TV was boasting of a new superweapon called Al Quaaquaa.

  Foxworthy got language and translation services on the line. "Arabic," he snapped.

  An Arabic-speaking translator came on.

  "Al Quaaquaa," Foxworthy said. "What's it mean?"

  "Spell it."

  Foxworthy did.

  The translator's voice was thick with doubt. "Hard to say with the transliteration problem. But the closest translation might be 'the Ghost.'"

  "The Ghost? You're sure?"

  "No. That's just the most likely. Could be an acronym. Is it an acronym?"

  "That's not how it's being reported to me," Fox-worthy said.

  "Then I'd go with 'the Ghost.'"

  "What kind of secret weapon could the Iraqis have that might be code-named the Ghost?"

  "That's out of my domain, but it sounds like a stealth-technology thing."

  "Good point. Except for one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "If the Iraqis grabbed off a stealth fighter, they still wouldn't know how to fly it. Their pilots are thumbless."

  Hanging up, Foxworthy decided to try NSA again.

  "It's called Al Quaaquuaa, the Ghost. Know anything about it?"

  "Not a thing," Woolhandler said. "Where'd you get it?"

  "Off our FBIS people."

  Foxworthy could almost hear the NSA duty officer wince. Their job was to vacuum foreign official and commercial transmissions for raw intelligence. They once reported the deposing of Kim Jong II based on nothing more sensitive than a single Hong Kong TV report, later retracted.

  "I wouldn't run with it," Woolhandler suggested.

  "I won't. So, what have you got?"

  "Macedonia."

  "I hate that name. Macedonia is my worst nightmare," Foxworthy said.

  "They're making belligerent noises against Greece and Bulgaria, too."

  "Are they crazy? They're a tiny little speck. Either country could overwhelm them with their meter maids."

  "Well, they're acting like they have an ace in the hole."

  "Big talk from a small mouse. You think this is something to run with?"

  "Not yet. You want to NOIWON the Iraqi matter?"

  "Not a chance in hell. I can't go to the Pentagon over loose talk about an Iraqi ghost," Foxworthy answered.

  "Glad you're being civilized."

  There was a pause on the line, and when the NSA duty officer spoke again his tough tone softened. "So whaddya hear about that imbroglio at the UN the other day?"

  "Scuttlebutt is old Double Anwar can't control his diplomats."

  "I hear that, too. Maybe we should have moles in the UN."

  "You mean you don't?" Foxworthy said.

  "You mean you do?"

  "Sorry. Can't talk about operational matters. Talk to you soonest."

  "I hope not," Woolhandler said sincerely.

  Chapter Twenty

  By early evening Remo was feeling as if the walls were closing in on him. And while the walls might have been constructed of purple-and-orange cardboard FedEx mailers, they were as threatening to his future as poisoned spikes.

  The Master of Sinanju had entered the weeding-out process in earnest. Now the seven unsuitable thrones had grown to a whopping eight unsuitable thrones, prompting Chiun to express great pleasure in their swift progress.

  "Now," he said happily, "we throw ourselves into the task of separating the rich thrones from the richer. After which we shall winnow out the lesser rich from the most rich, thereby isolating only the richest thrones."

  "How about we throw them up into the air and those landing facedown get tossed?" Remo suggested.

  Chiun wrinkled up his nose. "You have no understanding of the joys of ritual."

  Meanwhile the mail kept straggling in. FedEx continued depositing pouches, and Chiun's interest waxed with each new arrival.

  "What word from Fondustan?" he asked as Remo laid down a stack.

  "I never heard of Fondustan." Remo consulted his list. "So far, we've heard from Afghanistan, Pakistan, Uzbekistan, Baluchistan, Tajikistan, Turkestan, Turkmenistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Trashcanistan, but no Fondustan."

  "Fondustan was once great. If we elect to stand beside the Cockatrice Throne, it will be great again." Chiun abruptly frowned. Looking around he said, "I do not see the seal of the mansa of Mali before me."

  "I don't think Mali has a mansa anymore, Little Father."

  "And the king of Cambodia?"

  "A lot of those old thrones closed up shop a century back."

  "And the White Chrysanthemum Throne?"

  "Which one is that?"

  "Pah! You know nothing of the ancestors you have shunned. No less than the emperor of Japan sits upon the White Chrysanthemum Throne. Once they employed us for an entire of your centuries."

  "Look, how about we break for lunch?"

  "Ah," breathed Chiun, selecting a red mailer from the latest stack. "Word from England."

  "We already heard from Great Britain," said Remo.

  "That was the queen. We have not yet heard from the Queen Mother, a sterling woman. Perhaps she has grown weary of dwelling in the shadows and seeks our assistance in restoring her to glory."

  Taking the cardboard letter container, the Master of Sinanju ignored the paper zipper and, employing a long fingernail, slit one end. Out slid a cream-colored letter. He glanced at it and his papery features constricted in disgust.

  "Pah!"

  "What is it?"

  "Merely a request from the wayward Prince of Wales. We do not treat with mere princes. They control no purse strings."

  "Think again. They discovered oil under both Windsor and Balmoral castles."

  "You may read the wretch's entreaty, Remo. I will not sully my eyes with the scribbling of unfaithful princes."

  The letter sailed in Remo's direction. He snatched it from the air and looked at it. Under a magnificent embossed letterhead declaring this to be a true communication from HRH the Prince of Wales was a short text full of flowery praise and oblique language.

  Remo frowned. "Unless I'm reading this wrong, this guy's looking for a one-shot hit."

  "We seek a long-term relationship. Who does he desire freed of the burden of life?"

  "I could be reading too much between the lines, but I think it's the Princess of Wales. We don't do princesses, do we?"

  "Not for filthy oil. Gold is our coin. You will pen a response offering regrets and earnest hopes for a mutually rewarding relationship at some future time."

  "You know my penmanship isn't that good."

  "You will improve. We will accept only one client. The other—"

  "One hundred thirty-two."

  "Yes, that number. You will pen sincere regrets to all, so as not to prejudice future employment."

  Remo groaned. "Look, Chiun. I'm starved."

  Chiun clapped his hands together. "Yes. Let us put off this wonderful task and eat."

  "Takeout okay?"

  "No. This is our first supper since you have returned groveling."

  "I did not—"

  "
So we will have fish and you will cook it."

  "What's in the fridge?"

  "Nothing. Thus, you have the double pleasure of shopping at the local fishmongers and preparing the meal that will fortify our bellies for the delightful task to come."

  "Carp okay with you?"

  "I would prefer sea bass. If sea bass is unavailable, carp will suffice. But take careful note of the fish's eyes. Do not purchase a fish with bad eyes. Bad eyes mean a fish with an evil mind. And evil-minded fish taste bitter."

  "I'll be back as soon as I can," said Remo.

  "And do not dare bring into this house dogfish or mackerel. Dogfish is suitable only for a dog, and mackerel have too many bones."

  "Count on it," said Remo, who thought dogfish tasted mealy and mackerel oily.

  At the local Stop & Shop, Remo had to settle for salmon.

  "It's fresh," the clerk told him, laying the largest salmon on the counter for inspection. "Caught just this morning."

  Remo frowned. "The eyes look a little strange."

  "What do you want? It's deader than a mackerel. If you'll excuse the expression."

  "How about this one?" asked Remo, pointing to another salmon in the glass case.

  "That one's not as fresh."

  "The eyes are clearer, so it won't matter."

  "You're the customer. But we don't recommend you eat the eyeballs."

  Remo decided to walk back home even though it was more than a mile. The thought of reading and sorting all those stacks of mail—never mind answering them—made him shrink inside.

  Night had fallen. It felt funny to be back in a city after so many months in the desert. Even the hard pavement was strange under his feet. Remo was more aware of the pollutants in the air, the rush and hum of traffic than ever before. Overhead, a descending jet screamed out its presence. Desert living had spoiled him. Not a helicopter had flown over the Sun On Jo Reservation in all his months in Arizona.

  On the rooflines grackles were visible in silhouette, perched on the chimneys, enjoying heat from furnaces that were only now kicking in after a long dormancy.

  Just before Remo turned onto East Squantum Street, he noticed the black sedan roll around the corner. He especially noticed the hunkered shadowy figures bringing up their weapons.

  Ditching the fish in the bushes, Remo broke into a run.

  "Don't tell me this is what I think it is," he muttered.

  It was. As the sedan drew near his house, it slowed. A battery of gun muzzles poked out on one side and began vomiting flame and noise. Windows broke with harsh jangling sounds. Dust puffed up from the field-stone facade. Wood squealed and splintered like rats having their bones broken.

  The car spun at the next intersection and came back around, trailing acrid rubber smoke. This time the gun muzzles protruded from the opposite side. They stuttered, breaking more windows and chewing up a doghouse dormer along the roofline.

  "Damn it," Remo said, stepping off the curb. The car was tearing toward him, the driver's eyes wide as saucers. Remo crouched, released his coiled leg muscles and spun up into the air.

  The car slithered under him. Remo reached out, snagged the chrome windshield trim with one hand and let his body become one with the machine's hurtling speed.

  Like a human suction cup, Remo lay flat against the roof when the sedan took the corner onto Hancock, tires complaining, straightening out for the dead run toward nearby Boston. And he wasn't unnoticed.

  Gun muzzles started angling up from the open windows to nail him. Remo stayed flat. Two wild shots passed over his dark hair. Through an ear pressed to the roof, he could hear the snap and snarl of excited voices. He didn't recognize the language, but it sure wasn't English.

  With casual kicks he thwarted the aiming guns. He didn't need to understand their language to know they were cursing him in their frustration.

  As the car whipped around the approach to the Neponset River Bridge, Remo decided everyone needed a bath except him.

  Pulling forward, he slapped the windshield with one palm. It starred, spiderwebbed and became as opaque as frost. The car began weaving. The passengers tried to nail him again. One opened the door and pulled himself half out of the interior. Someone held on to his waist to keep him from falling.

  Remo knocked him out with a snap-kick to the temple.

  The gunman's limp form was hauled in, but not before the impact of his wobbly-necked skull on the moving road painted a new dividing line with the greater portion of his brains.

  At that point the gunmen had had enough. They braked the car and all four doors opened. Remo batted back every head that popped out, dropped to the ground and cold-welded every door shut by a hard, sudden application of his bare hands to the locks.

  Then he went to work on the roof. It was hard metal, but under Remo's jackhammer hands it began to cave in and flatten. At that point the gunmen started feeling the roof bang the tops of their skulls and realized that getting the doors open was more important than they had thought.

  But it was too late. Remo had the roofline down to the level of their shoulders, and exiting the vehicle became a lost opportunity.

  There was a brief burst of gunfire. A few ugly holes appeared here and there, but mostly the bullets ricocheted, producing interior screams.

  Someone yelled what sounded like "Fang Tung!" And a distinct slap of reproach came.

  By then, Remo was feeling around the battered roof to home in on any sensation of warmth. When he sensed a head, he brought his fist down until the coconut-cracking sound told him he hadn't missed. He did this four times.

  When all was still inside, Remo bent and took hold of the chassis with both hands. He heaved upward.

  The sedan rolled onto its side and landed on the walkway of the bridge. A simple push set it to leaning against the concrete buttress.

  It was a simple matter after that to work it up on the buttress until it was poised precariously, and the exertion of Remo's pinky finger tipped it into the water, where everyone could enjoy a final bath. Except Remo.

  The police were pulling up as Remo walked away, trying to look casual and hoping no one had grabbed his fish.

  Chiun met Remo at the door, whose glass now lay broken on the walk. But Chiun was dancing.

  "This is terrible," Remo said, surveying the damage.

  "It is wonderful," Chiun squeaked, clapping joyous hands together.

  "What's so wonderful about a drive-by shooting?"

  "It means we are feared."

  Remo blinked. "You think those guys were out to nail us?"

  "No. They obviously sought the life of the Master of Sinanju. They do not know or care about you."

  "Thanks a bunch. What I meant was, what the heck was that all about?"

  "The word has gone out to every keep and castle, Casbah and redoubt. Sinanju seeks a new emperor. Many are the nations that covet my services, few are they who can afford these services. Those who cannot bid know they will not sleep safely in their bedchambers should their enemies succeed in securing Sinanju for their own. We are feared, Remo. Just as in the old days." The old Korean grabbed Remo's thick wrist eagerly. "Quickly! Did you see their faces?"

  "No. But they won't be coming back."

  "Why not?"

  "I turned them into sardines."

  Chiun looked aghast. His hands clapped together in concern. "The fish! My bass was not injured?"

  Remo lifted the white-wrapped packet. "Not a scratch. And it's not bass. I got salmon."

  "I will accept salmon if the eyes are not evil."

  "Check it out. Meanwhile, we gotta do something about those windows. Half our glass is shot out."

  "A small price to pay for the compliment rendered."

  "At least they won't be back."

  "Never fear," Chiun said happily. "There will be more just like those. This is a joyous day, for Sinanju has not been forgotten. We are feared, therefore we are coveted. More, we are needed."

  An hour later repairmen were finishing t
acking the temporary plastic covers over the windows, and Remo was explaining for the millionth time to the Quincy police that it was a random drive-by shooting and not targeted at them specifically.

  "We don't have drive-by shootings in this city," an officer said. "Random or not."

  "Look, there's just the two of us living here. Only my—" Remo groped for a plausible word.

  "Master," Chiun called from the other room.

  "Master?" said the cop.

  "He's a martial-arts instructor. He's teaching me stuff."

  "Can you break a board with your hand?"

  "He has not progressed that far," Chiun called out. "Only in breaking windows with his thick head." And the Master of Sinanju cackled loudly at his own jest.

  "So it had nothing to do with us," Remo finished. "Okay?"

  The cop put away his notebook. "Until the bodies are identified, that'll have to be it. But we'll be in touch."

  "Thanks," said Remo, showing the officer out.

  When he returned to the kitchen, Chiun was patting his papery lips with a linen cloth.

  "How was the salmon?" asked Remo.

  "Acceptable."

  Remo looked at the low taboret that served as a table. The entire salmon skeleton lay on a silver platter, picked clean.

  "Where's mine?"

  "Consumed."

  "You ate my fish!"

  "You were otherwise occupied. I knew you would not wish to eat it cold. Rather than see it go to waste, I finished the unfortunate salmon."

  "What about me?"

  Chiun's eyes twinkled. "There is rice aplenty. Eat your fill."

  "Cold rice."

  "Steamed rice can be steamed back to life. You will suffer no hunger pangs this night, for you are fed by the bounty that is Sinanju."

  As he dumped the rice back into the steamer and added water, Remo said, "What happens if more killers blow into town?"

  "They will fail, of course, striking fear into their masters. It will be excellent advertising."

  "I don't mean that. How many times can this place be hit before the police figure out we're not just ordinary citizens?"

  "It does not matter, for tonight we depart."

  "For where?" Remo asked.

  "Rome."

  "Rome?"

  "Rome was the America of its time. We have had an intriguing communication from Rome."

  "Italy has had something like fifty governments since World War II. They're broke, unstable and I don't speak the language."