Line of Succession td-73

by Warren Murphy

  "Smith told me about it," Remo said. "He said it reminded him of you and me."

  "How so?" asked Chiun.

  "It's about an Italian kid from Newark who meets this old Japanese guy. The old guy teaches him karate."

  Chiun spit on the floor. "Karate was stolen from us. It is not Sinanju."

  "I didn't say it was. But count the similarities. I'm from Newark."

  "Your mother's fault, whoever she was."

  "Remo is an Italian name. I might be Italian like the kid in the picture."

  "Your last name is Williams. That is not Italian."

  "No, but Remo is. I don't know who my parents were, but having an Italian first name must mean something."

  "It means that your parents could not think of an appropriate name for you," said Chiun.

  Remo frowned. "I wish you wouldn't insult my parents so much," he said. "They might be good people. We don't know."

  "Better not to know. The disappointment is less painful. "

  "Can I finish telling you the story? Now this kid moves to California, where he meets the old Japanese guy, who's a lot like you."

  "Show me this old man," demanded Chiun.

  Remo, seeing that the fly had returned to the window, came out of his immobile pose and lifted the remote control. He fast-forwarded the tape until a famous Oriental actor appeared on the screen.

  "See?" he said, pointing. "There he is. I told you he kinda looks like you."

  When Chiun looked at Remo disdainfully, Remo added, "A little. Around the eyes."

  "His eyes look Japanese," Chiun sniffed. "If my eyes resembled his eyes I would pluck them out of my head and crush them beneath my feet."

  Remo sighed. "Anyway, he teaches this kid karate and the kid goes on to win a big karate tournament."

  "How is that like us? We do not play games. We are assassins. I have trained you in the art of Sinanju, from which all the lesser fighting arts have been stolen, to be an assassin. I have turned your body into one of the finest instruments of human power imaginable. Normally I would have done as much for your mind, but you are white and my time on earth is not without limit."

  "Thanks a lot," said Remo.

  "You are quite welcome. I am glad now that I made the decision not to concentrate on your mind, for it is obviously confused. I ask you to explain your bizarre behavior and you have told me a lame story about this film. I am still waiting for a proper explanation."

  "I was getting there."

  "I am over eighty years along in life. Do not take too long."

  "One of the things he tried to teach the kid to do is catch a fly with chopsticks. It's supposed to be the mark of a great karate master. The Japanese guy can't do it, even though he's been trying all his life, but the kid does it after a few lessons."

  "Goody for him."

  "I thought I'd try it," said Remo.

  "It is as I thought," said the Master of Sinanju sadly.

  "What is?"

  "You are regressing."

  "I am not."

  "Denial is the first symptom of regression," Chiun pronounced seriously. "Let me explain this to you, Remo."

  "Whisper it," Remo said, suddenly lifting the chopsticks like antennae. "Here comes the fly again."

  "The thieves who stole karate from the House of Sinanju were Korean. From the lazy south, of course. They copied the movements, the little kicks and chopping blows of the hand. They were like children pretending to be adults. But because they copied magnificence, as inept as they were, they achieved a certain mediocrity. They could fight, break boards with their hands, and because they were all mediocre and knew it, they insisted on wearing belts of different colors so that some could pretend to be less mediocre than others of their ilk. In truth, they were all inferior to Sinanju. And they knew that, as well."

  "I know that story," Remo said, watching the fly. "Then you should know that catching flies with chopsticks goes back to the early days of karate."

  "That I didn't know."

  "Of course not. If you had, you would not now be shaming me by copying the mediocre karate dancers. "

  "I think it's a pretty fair test of skill. I just want to see if I can do it. What's your problem?"

  "The karate dancers tried to copy Sinanju in other ways too," Chiun went on as the stubborn fly lingered over the wooden bowl. "They, too, attempted to hire themselves out to kings and emperors as bodyguards. Many karate dancers found that breaking sticks was not the same thing as breaking bones. In their folly, the karate dancers almost became extinct."

  "Shhh!" said Remo.

  The fly suddenly veered from the bowl toward Remo.

  Remo's hand shot out. The chopsticks closed. This time they did not click.

  Remo looked. Between the tongs, the fly struggled, its tiny legs working.

  "Look," Remo said, grinning.

  "Go ahead," said Chiun blandly.

  "Go ahead and what?"

  "The next step. Surely the film revealed the next step."

  "They must have cut that part out," said Remo.

  "I will help you," said Chiun happily, edging closer to Remo. "Lift the fly to your face. Keep your eyes carefully upon it so that it does not get away."

  Remo did as he was told. The fly buzzed its wings just inches in front of his high-cheekboned face.

  "Are you ready?" asked Chiun.

  "Yes," said Remo.

  "Now open your mouth. Wide."

  Remo opened his mouth. His brows knit in perplexity. Chiun took Remo's hand in his and guided the chopsticks closer. As he did so, he continued his story. "The karate dancers who survived gave up trying to be assassins and repaired to their villages, where they searched for other methods of sustaining themselves. But alas, they were poor fishermen and indifferent farmers."

  "You mean . . . ?" Remo asked. Chiun nodded happily.

  Remo shut his mouth abruptly.

  Chiun grinned. "Why do you think they used chopsticks? It saved them so much time."

  A pained expression on his face, Remo released the fly and let the chopsticks clatter into his bowl. He pushed the bowl away in disgust.

  "You always do this to me," he complained.

  "Is this my thanks for being the bearer of messages?"

  "What does Smitty want now?"

  "Nothing that I know of," answered Chiun. "This message is from Sinanju."

  Remo leapt to his feet. His expression became one of surprised joy. "From Mah-LO."

  "Who else would waste ink on a fly-chaser such as you?" asked Chiun, producing an envelope from one voluminous sleeve.

  Remo snatched it like a hungry man offered bread. Chiun's parchment face wrinkled in disapproval. "Do not be so eager," he sniffed. "She merely asks the same tiresome question put forth in her last twenty letters. Honestly, Remo, how could you think of marrying such a nag?"

  "You read my mail?" Remo asked, shocked.

  The Master of Sinanju shrugged casually. "It was damaged in transit. The flap was loose and the contents fell out. "

  Remo examined the flap. "It's sealed now."

  "Of course. If I had not sealed it with my parched old tongue, the letter might have fallen out again and become lost."

  Remo ignored Chiun's answer and sliced one end of the envelope open with the sweep of a sharp fingernail. He read the letter eagerly.

  "She says everything is fine in Sinanju," Remo said.

  "Tell me something I do not know."

  "She wants to know when we're coming home."

  "Tell her you do not know."

  "Cut it out, Chiun. We've only got another few weeks before our contract with Smith is over. We're free after that. "

  "What is the rush to return?" said Chiun. "I have been thinking. How long has it been since we've had a vacation? Perhaps we could tour this wonderful land of America before we leave its shores forever. By train. The airplanes are no longer reliable."

  "Neither are the trains," said Remo. "And the rush to return is for my wedding. Mah-Li a
nd I should have been married three months ago. The engagement period was supposed to be only nine months. I've been stuck in America now for almost a year, thanks to you."

  "Stuck?" squeaked Chiun, shocked. "How can you say you have been stuck when your every waking hour has been spent in the awesome presence of Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju?"

  "I'm bored," said Remo. "Smith hasn't had any assignments for you lately. And I've been cooling my heels in this room so long I'm reduced to catching flies for entertainment. "

  "You could get a job," suggested Chiun. "It is not unheard-of for persons such as yourself to find honest work."

  "No way," said Remo. "We'll be out of here before I can read my way through the classified section."

  "Correction," said Chiun. "I will be out of here. When my year of service is completed-assuming Emperor Smith and I do not come to a new understanding-Smith will offer me return passage to Sinanju as a final payment for the service I have rendered him. Because you do not work for him in an official capacity, that boon will not be extended to yourself."

  "You wouldn't leave me stranded in America, would you, Little Father?" Remo asked quietly.

  "Of course not. I would allow you to accompany me."

  "Then it's settled. I'll write Mah-Li to expect us on the first of the month."

  "Be sure to leave the year blank," said Chiun blandly. "For we are not returning directly to Sinanju."

  Remo's expression became stony.

  "I am considering going on a world tour," Chiun said loftily.

  "You've seen more of the world than a spy satellite. So have I, for that matter. Screw the world. And the tour of it."

  "Oh, this is not a mere tour of the world," said Chiun. "This is a world tour, like the ones famous people do."

  "World tour, tour of the world," Remo said, throwing up his hands. "What's the difference?"

  "The difference is that I will be treated like a star in every capital. I will stay in the finest hotels. I will be feted by heads of state as befits my exalted position in the affairs of the world. And of course I will give a benefit concert in every major city. I am thinking of calling it the Sinanju World Tour."

  "You can't sing," Remo pointed out.

  "Nor will I."

  "You don't do stand-up comedy either."

  "I was hoping you would perform that function," said Chiun. "I will require a warmed-over act."

  "That's warm-up. Warm-up act."

  "A distinction without a difference."

  "Then what, pray tell, will you do at these concerts?"

  "Why, what I do best."

  "Heckle me?"

  "No, insolent one. I will show the world the wonders of Sinanju. For a price, of course."

  "I thought you said these would be benefit concerts."

  "They will be," said Chiun. "They are for the benefit of the starving villagers of Sinanju, who are so poor that sometimes they have to drown their infants in the cold bay because they have no food. Did you ever hear of an Ethiopian doing that? No, yet people give them millions." Remo folded his bare arms.

  "The picture is becoming clear. But wouldn't performing feats of Sinanju onstage bring us down to the level of the karate dancers?"

  "Remo! I am shocked. I do not propose to waste Sinanju doing stupid magic tricks. No, I will first contact the local governments and offer to eliminate their most dangerous criminals and political enemies-at a reduced rate. They will bring these wretches to the exhibition halls, where I will dispose of them before a live audience, who will naturally pay for the privilege of watching perfection at work."

  "I'm not sure many people would be interested in watching you kill people onstage."

  "Nonsense. Executing criminals was a highly popular entertainment in Roman times. In fact, that is where I will launch the Sinanju World Tour. In Rome."

  "You could clean up, at that," Remo said thoughtfully.

  "Oh, the live audience is nothing. They will be there merely to provide applause. The real money is in the TV rights. I will sell rights to the concerts to the networks of countries on the formal tour, which will naturally create interest in further tours."

  "This could go on for years," Remo said with a sigh.

  "By the time we return to Sinanju, we will be wealthy men and will have created new markets for our illustrious descendants. Think of their gratitude, Remo."

  "You think of their gratitude. I'm thinking that if I don't return to Sinanju soon, I won't have any descendants."

  "Just like you to think of sex when your mind should be on matters of lasting importance," Chiun scolded.

  "I'm not thinking of sex. I'm thinking of Mah-Li. You just don't want me to settle down. You think if we go back to Sinanju, the villagers will fall all over me like they did last time and ignore you because I promised to support the village after you retire."

  "You lie. My villagers love me. They worship the very path I walk upon."

  "As long as the path is paved with gold, yes."

  The Master of Sinanju stamped an angry sandal, but said nothing. His cheeks puffed out in repressed fury.

  "And I'm not playing second banana to you in any freaking world tour," Remo added. "That's final."

  "I will let you be my personal manager, then," Chiun said testily. "But it is my final offer."

  "Pass," said Remo.

  Chiun opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  "Enter," said the Master of Sinanju grandly.

  "This is my room, remember?" Remo pointed out.

  Dr. Harold W. Smith entered the room looking as pale as the gray three-piece suit hanging off his spare frame. He was a symphony in pallor. His sparse hair nearly matched his white shirt, and behind rimless glasses his frantic eyes were color coordinated with his suit. He tightened his Dartmouth tie until the knot threatened to strangle him.

  "Hail, Emperor Smith, Keeper of the Constitution and defender of the secret organization called CURE, about which we are in blissful ignorance," Chiun said in a loud voice.

  "Shhh!" hissed Smith, his pinched face paling even more. "Not so loud. And what are you two doing together? "

  "Singing your praises," said Chiun.

  "Having a family argument," said Remo.

  "You're not supposed to be seen together while you are residing here at Folcroft Sanitarium. I deliberately gave you separate quarters for that reason. Master of Sinanju, I will have to ask you to return to your room. It is critical that the Folcroft personnel continue to believe you to be a patient here."

  "It will be done," said Chiun, bowing. But he did not move from his place in the middle of the room.

  Smith turned to Remo Williams.

  "Remo, we have a problem. A grave problem," he blurted.

  "Don't talk to me. Talk to him," protested Remo, pointing to the Master of Sinanju. "He works for you. I don't."

  "This has nothing to do with CURE operations," said Smith, wiping his shiny upper lip with a gray handkerchief. "The grass needs cutting and the hedges are extremely ragged."

  "Why talk to me? You have a gardening staff."

  "Our agreement was that I provide this room for your use and you would be on the Folcroft employee records as the head gardener. Surely you remember."

  "Oh, right. It's just that this is the first time you've asked me to do anything."

  "You will have to forgive my son," said Chiun gravely. "He is frightened by work. Just before you entered, he turned down an excellent job opportunity involving fame, travel, and a modest salary. "

  "Modest, huh?" Remo shot back.

  "I pay according to worth. In your case, I was willing to pay more because we may be distantly related, but you have turned me down, so it is of no use to discuss it further. But Emperor Smith has always been generous to you. Perhaps you should listen to his fine offer."

  "This is an emergency, Remo."

  "Oh? Has the crabgrass gotten into the computers again?"

  "I've just received notice that
the Vice-President is coming here tomorrow. Somehow, Folcroft has been selected as a stop in his campaign for the presidency. He's slated to make an important speech at nine a.m. All the networks will be here."

  "Can't you wave him off?" asked Remo. "Call the President?"

  "I tried. The President thinks that if he pulls any strings, it will just draw attention to Folcroft. I have to agree with him. If we just batten down the hatches and ride out the storm, we should be all right. The Vice-President has no inkling that Folcroft Sanitarium is the cover for CURE."

  "So what's the problem?"

  "I told you. The grass and the shrubbery. They're a mess. The regular gardening crew has gone home for the day and there won't be enough time for them to spruce up the grounds. They want them fixed up."

  "I was never good with gardening tools," Remo said. "I have a brown thumb or something."

  "Never mind the tools. After dark, when the advance men are gone and we're on skeleton staff, can't you do something, um ... special?"

  Remo looked at his fingernails. They were clipped short, but through years of diet and special exercises they had hardened until they were as sharp as the finest surgical scalpels.

  "Oh, I suppose," Remo said airily. "For a price."

  "What?" Smith asked cautiously.

  "When Chiun's year is up, I get to accompany him on the submarine ride back to Sinanju. "

  "Consider it a wedding present," said Smith, who had planned all along to make sure that Remo returned to North Korea with the Master of Sinanju. Twenty years of his life spent dealing with the two of them was more than his share.

  "You were right, Little Father," Remo said, grinning at Chiun. "Smith is a generous guy."

  "Too generous," said Chiun, turning to leave.

  "Just a minute, please, Master of Sinanju," Smith called.

  "Yes?"

  "I'm afraid I will have to ask you to surrender your American Express Gold Card."

  The Master of Sinanju's aged hand flashed to a pocket of his suit. "My wonder card? The one you gave me when I reentered your service? The card which I show to merchants whenever I purchase their wares, which so impresses them that they do not ask me for payment?"

  "It's not my doing," said Smith. "The company is recalling it. As cosignatory, they've asked me to make good on all unpaid bills and tender the card to them."