Father to Son td-129

by Warren Murphy

Smith was trying to picture the Master of Sinanju in a North Korean army bunker, a group of soldiers cowering in the corner as he used their phone. He pinched his nose with his tired fingers.

  "Of course," the CURE director sighed. "But if there is something wrong there, I'm sure-"

  He never completed his thought. The line went dead.

  For a moment Smith puzzled over what this could mean. He hadn't even had a chance to mention his own problem with the Time of Succession.

  Chiun had sounded unlike he had ever sounded before. Like a condemned man waiting for the ax to drop.

  Frowning with his entire face, the CURE director gently replaced the receiver.

  Chapter 27

  "Is it Mr. Remo?" the woman asked. "Is that right?" The woman with the Midwestern twang sounded apologetic for not knowing. Her eyes smiled warmly. She wore a blue skirt with matching jacket and a starched white blouse. A mane of honey-blond hair was pulled into an efficient little ponytail. If this was an attempt on her part to make herself appear dowdy or tomboyish, it didn't work. With those lips and teeth and all the parts north and south, there was no doubt that she was one hundred percent woman.

  "Um, yeah," Remo said, clearing his throat. "That's good enough."

  The woman sighed great relief. As if this was just the happiest news she had ever received.

  "I didn't know for sure," she admitted, the little bit of tension in her voice draining away. Her smile retreated as she allowed herself a little apologetic pout. "I had your description, but you just can't tell sometimes."

  The woman scootched into the seat next to Remo and took a clipboard out from under her arm. With a little Bic disposable pen, she made an efficient little mark on a piece of paper. The way she held the pen in her slender fingers made Remo swallow hard. He had never before in his life so wanted to be a cheap disposable pen.

  "There," the woman said, her smile returning. She slipped her pen into the top of her clipboard. "I have to apologize for being late. We must just keep missing each other." She tapped her forehead absently. "There I go again. I'm just a scatterbrain these days. Too much on my mind. I'm Rebecca Dalton."

  She offered Remo her hand. Remo wasn't sure what to do. He shook it.

  "Are you here to kill me?" he asked.

  Rebecca laughed. This time it was better than angels singing. Angels would have cast themselves from the eternal bliss of Heaven to hear Rebecca Dalton's laugh.

  "Me?" she said, tipping her head with joking thoughtfulness. "Well, we'll just have to see. A girl's got to have some secrets. What would you think of someone who just blurted everything out right up front like that?"

  "What say we fly off and get married?" Remo blurted.

  "See?" Rebecca said. "It would be awkward." Her smile demonstrated that it was anything but awkward.

  "Okay, what say we fly off and have a really dirty weekend?" Remo suggested.

  "Maybe later," Rebecca promised, patting his knee.

  He thrilled at her touch. Just the thought of maybe latering with Rebecca Dalton was enough to tide him over.

  "Aren't there two of you?" she asked. "The Reigning Master should be here, too, shouldn't he?"

  She craned her swanlike neck to search the immediate area.

  "He's not here," Remo said.

  "Oh," she said. "Even better that I found you, then."

  "How do you know about us?"

  "You know that you're known in certain circles," she replied, her voice suddenly a conspiratorial whisper. "Your circle and my circle are all kind of, you know, encircled. But we're getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we?" Rebecca became all business. "I represent parties that are interested in-how shall I put it?-meeting you." She offered a sympathetic smile. "I understand you've been having trouble these past few days. I hate to admit that I'm probably partially to blame for that. I was supposed to meet up with you in London, but there was a delay taking off in Paris and by the time I got to London, well, gosh, there you were in Paris and-" she raised delicate hands in a helpless gesture "-you know what it's like."

  "I haven't got a clue," Remo said, not really caring that he didn't. He liked hearing Rebecca talk. He could have sold to Hugh Hefner the way her lips formed W's.

  "This thing you're doing now," Rebecca said. "This generational thing?" She checked her notes on her clipboard. "Now, my information on the House of Sinanju isn't detailed, but as I understand it this whole process we're involved in right now is a milestone for the man who goes through it. The introductions at court are his way of becoming Master-is that right?" She patted his knee again. "Just a big ol' congratulations to you, by the way."

  Remo nodded thanks.

  "Well, as the man in the middle of all this, I'm sure you know this has gone on for, well, ever and ever," Rebecca explained. "And in a given generation, it's sometimes been known to go on for years. Governments all over the world have tied up manpower and resources that they'd much prefer to have directed elsewhere. Well, this time there are certain governments that are interested in streamlining the process. Making it run more efficiently so that they can put it quickly behind them. Modern age and all that. I'm sure you'd be happy to get this unpleasantness over with quickly, as well. Unfortunately there was a mix-up. Mix-ups happen all the time, as you know. I told you, Paris. And, well, anyway, here I am." She smiled once more. "Shall we?"

  Remo hadn't really been listening. As she yammered, he'd been watching her chest.

  "Yes," he replied with utter certainty.

  He realized that she wasn't talking about the same thing he was talking about. She was gesturing with her clipboard.

  "Oh," Remo said.

  Disappointed, he allowed Rebecca to lead him through the terminal. Special passes and strategically flashed smiles opened locked doors and special off-limits corridors. In a matter of minutes they were outside and climbing aboard a fully fueled Gulfstream jet. The plane was taxiing even as they were settling in their seats.

  "That's more like it," Rebecca purred contentedly as the jet lifted off, leaving Moscow in a trailing cloud of jet fumes and twinkling lights. She stretched her arms over her head. "Would you like something to eat?"

  "Water," Remo said as he watched her stretch. "Undrugged, if you have it."

  Her laugh came easily. She called out an order in a language Remo didn't understand. A moment later a woman with ebony skin, high cheekbones and teeth like pearls appeared from the galley carrying a frosted glass of water.

  After handing Remo his water, the stewardess and Rebecca Dalton exchanged a few words, after which the flight attendant disappeared back in the galley.

  "Are you sure you don't want anything to eat?" Rebecca asked.

  Remo leered over his water glass.

  Rebecca waved an admonishing finger as she pulled out her clipboard once more. "I can see I'm going to have to keep my eye on you, mister."

  "That's not the body part I'd vote for."

  Rebecca pretended she didn't hear. She cast an eye across her clipboard. "Turkey," she announced all at once.

  "Still not hungry," Remo said.

  "Not the food, the country. We have an appointment-" she checked her watch "-sooner than soon, I'm afraid. If you want to rest before we meet the Turkish prime minister, you have a couple of hours."

  Remo didn't know what to make of all this. An hour ago he'd been ready to abandon the whole Time of Succession and head for home. But this beautiful woman who had appeared out of the blue seemed to know what she was doing. And Chiun wasn't exactly here to offer guidance.

  "What the hell," said Remo. "You want to run the show, be my guest. Lord knows I've done a craptacular job at it. Wake me when you've lined up someone for me to kill."

  Closing his eyes, he leaned back in his seat. He was asleep in a matter of seconds.

  Rebecca Dalton watched him sleep. She watched - as the flight attendant brought her a good oldfashioned American steak-and-potato dinner. Rebecca ate every last morsel, just as her mother had taught her. When sh
e was done eating, she dropped her napkin on her plate and got up from her seat.

  Remo was still sound asleep.

  Rebecca went down the aisle and locked herself in the small bathroom. She pulled a cell phone from her pocket and dialed the special number that only a handful of people in all the world knew. She knew she had reached the right party when she heard that familiar Virginia twang.

  "Hello," said Benson Dilkes.

  The older man's voice was gruff. She could hear wind blowing over the line. Wherever he was, Dilkes was outside.

  "I have him," Rebecca Dalton whispered.

  "Good," Dilkes said. "Double-check the arrangements in the Middle East. I've been out of the game for a while. I want to make certain everything is perfect."

  "Now, now, Benson," Rebecca chided. "You didn't teach me to trust someone else's work. Even yours. I already checked. It looks fine now, but I'll double-check along the way just to make sure. You know how cautious I like to be." She thought of Remo, slumbering gently in his seat. He was kind of cute. Still, a job was a job. "When this is over, someone will be dead," she said, "and I can dang well assure you it won't be me."

  With soft hands she clicked her phone shut. Before leaving the bathroom, she checked her makeup in the mirror. Perfect. She wouldn't have it any other way.

  With a satisfied little smile, Rebecca Dalton left the bathroom. There was still plenty of time to catch a quick nap before all the big crazy ol' excitement began.

  Chapter 28

  At first there was an argument among the North Korean soldiers about who would be best able to fix a broken telephone line. No one wanted to be trapped in a truck with the terrifying old man who had appeared out of nowhere like a raging typhoon and taken over their isolated little garrison.

  The whispered arguing ended when the captain in command ordered a group of soldiers to accompany the old man. The rest remained behind to help the captain locate his missing teeth, which were scattered around the frozen compound.

  The men were surprised as they sped down the highway in the middle of nowhere. Most hadn't known it even existed.

  A few miles from. Finally Chiun ordered the truck to stop.

  A row of telephone poles trudged alongside the highway-along with the road, the only signs of the civilization of the past thousand years. The telephone cable had been cut.

  Chiun pointed to the wire. "Fix it," he commanded.

  As the men went to work, Chiun headed down the road on foot. There was great conflict on his leathery face.

  He had to protect Remo, to warn him of the danger. Two Masters of Sinanju will die.

  The Russian monk's words echoed in his brain. Rasputin had warned them to beware the hand that reached from the grave. "Darkness comes from the cold sea," the monk had said. Chiun had seen the blood at the shore. An evil had been reborn from the cold waters of the West Korean Bay.

  Another is dead already.

  Chiun knew now that this was Pullyang. The condition of the body was a sign, delivered in death. Another lives who was dead.

  Chiun had recognized the blow used to kill Pullyang. It was a variation of old Sinanju, before the time of the Great Wang. The tearing of the flesh near the point of exit was like something Chiun had seen before.

  Chiun's own pupil used to make that mistake. Not Remo. The young man's movements had been perfection from the start. Oh, they were raw. And he had the habit of not keeping his elbow straight some of the time. But the poetry of movement was there even in those first days.

  Nor was it Chiun's first pupil. That child had been even more gifted than Remo. Sadly, Chiun's son, Song, had died before he had a chance to fulfill his early promise.

  Not Remo. Not Song. There had been another. Nuihc. Chiun's nephew. The Great Betrayer, who had taken the gifts bestowed on him and used them for selfish means. The wicked child who had turned his back on the village and gone out into the world to seek power and wealth. The Unmentionable One who had squandered years with his selfish wandering, finally returning to the village to fulfill his evil destiny by murdering Remo and Chiun and claiming the title of Reigning Master as his own.

  In Sinanju he had met his end.

  Nuihc was dead. Although it had betrayed one of the most sacred edicts of the Masters of Sinanju, the traitor had died by Chiun's own hand. Afterward the body was cast into the bay to feed the crabs.

  Long vanished. Long dead. Years of silence. And then the cries in the night.

  The blood on the shore.

  The blow used to murder Pullyang.

  Impossible as it might seem, Chiun was forced to accept what had happened. Somehow Nuihc lived. It was that accursed family. Although Nuihc's father was brother to Chiun, the boy's mother was from a less than worthy family. Their line could be traced back to before the time of the Great Wang. They were mystics and shamans. In past ages, when there was not one Master of Sinanju but many, members of this family coveted the title of Reigning Master. It was thought that their seething envy had died centuries before. It had not.

  The seeds of ancient hate had taken root in Nuihc. When Nuihc's aunt, the old crone Sonmi, disappeared months before, Pullyang wrote to inform the Master. At the time Chiun tore up the letter and spit on the ground, satisfied that the evil spawned by that wicked family was finally no more. But the hatred in that family now seemed stronger even than the pull of the grave.

  It was she. The last of her line, Sonmi had used the final magic of her wicked clan and somehow revived the most dangerous foe Remo and Chiun had ever encountered.

  Chiun needed to protect Remo. Had to warn him of the danger. But he was torn. As Reigning Master he had an obligation to the village. Yet he couldn't explain to Smith, an outsider, what had happened. Couldn't tell him why Remo needed to be warned away. Chiun's American employer understood little beyond the so-called facts presented to him in Western books and on his computing devices.

  Two Masters of Sinanju will die. Master and student.

  He had trained both men. Did it mean Chiun and Remo or Chiun and Nuihc?

  And there was another. Jeremiah Purcell was at large in the world. If Nuihc had returned, so, too, might have his wicked protege.

  Two will die. But which two?

  He would sort it out in Sinanju. There he could protect the village. With his telephone restored, he would speak to Remo. They would devise a strategy.

  Remo was protected. The young man was a full Master in his own right. Prepared to take the final step to Reigning Masterhood. Chiun had given him the skills he needed to keep himself safe. Remo would survive. He had to.

  Two miles from the village, Chiun caught the scent of the early-morning stove fires. Night had long since fed the dawn. The village of Sinanju was stirring awake.

  As he came closer, Chiun expected to see threads of black smoke rising into the pale sky.

  The smoke grew thicker. Clogging daylight.

  Feeling a sudden strain of fresh worry in his narrow chest, Chiun began to run.

  A mile from the village, the daylight vanished. The black smoke swallowed the sky, turning day to night. Chiun raced from the highway. The weeds along the path to his ancestral village whipped his kimono hems.

  He crested the hill. Sinanju spread out below.

  The buildings had been burned to the ground. The air was thick with smoke. It swirled around the old man.

  Training kept him from breathing it in. Not that it was necessary. The terrible sight that befell him robbed the aged Korean of breath.

  There were bodies all around the streets. Scattered like seeds amid the charred and ruined houses. Chiun ran. Down the hill and into the main square of his doomed little village.

  The first body he came upon was that of the carpenter's granddaughter. The fat-faced woman and her family had kept the old ways even in hard times. They were of the few in Sinanju who remained faithful to the Master.

  Her body was cold in death.

  She had been killed with a simple force blow. It had shattered
her chest and collapsed her organs to jelly.

  The dead woman's lavender dress was mocking bright. Brighter than a color should be. Fabric paid for by the labors of the Master of Sinanju.

  Chiun ran to the next.

  They were fishermen. Old men who sometimes dragged their nets through the cold water of the bay. There was the butcher. Near him was his wife.

  Over there was the seamstress, who had been teaching her little daughters her craft. The girls, as well as their father, lay dead near the mother.

  Chiun found Hyunsil. In final repose his caretaker's daughter looked like her dead father.

  There were more bodies. Lying in the dirt. All around. Everywhere his gaze settled.

  He ran from house to burned house, looking amid the ruins for a single living soul.

  There was none. He counted as he went. There were none missing. They were gone. All of them. All the souls he was sworn to protect. All dead.

  As the fires smoldered, the Master of Sinanju returned to the center of the desolate village.

  He turned around and around, soaking in the devastation. When his twirling brain could take no more, Chiun fell to his knees in the main square and wept cold tears. The bitter wind racked his frail frame as he cried out to his ancestors in pain. A questioning howl of animal agony.

  No answer came.

  His ancestors were gone. As were their descendants.

  Dead. All dead. Sinanju, now dead.

  Tears burning his hazel eyes, the last Master of Sinanju of the pure bloodline looked up at the sun. Otherworldly smoke blotted out the heavens.

  He had followed his heart and in so doing had allowed death and destruction to rain down upon his village.

  Tearing his garments, the Master of Sinanju got to his feet. Howling in rage and anguish, he fled the devastated village and stumbled off into the wilderness.

  Behind him, a discordant song of triumph seemed to rise from amid the smoldering ruins and ashen-faced corpses.

  Chapter 29

  At six o'clock on the dot, Dr. Harold Smith shut off his desk computer. The buried monitor winked to darkness. His briefcase was where it always was, in the foot well of his desk. Gathering it up by the worn handle, he stepped over to the coat rack next to the door and threw his scarf and coat over his forearm. Shutting off the lights, he left his Spartan office.