Dark Horse td-89

by Warren Murphy

  "Like Caligula, I suppose?"

  Chiun frowned, transforming his wizened face into a dried yellow apricot. "He has gotten bad press," he sniffed, watching the palm trees whip by. "It is no wonder the trees grow as they do here," he added.

  "How's that?"

  "The bad air. It makes the trees grow naked, except for their heads. Trees should not possess heads. It is unnatural. Like elections."

  "Look, Chiun. Since we're going to volunteer our services to the Esperanza campaign . . ."

  Chiun's head whipped around. His thin eyes went wide.

  "Volunteer? Sinanju-volunteer!"

  Remo nodded. "That's how it works. People who support a candidate volunteer their services."

  "Then they are fools and worse," Chiun said harshly. "I will dispatch no enemies for no gold."

  "Sounds like a cute campaign slogan," Remo remarked. "But volunteers are what Smith wants us to be. So we do it."

  "We do not!"

  "We who are loyal to our emperor do," Remo pointed out dryly.

  The Master of Sinanju absorbed this example of white logic without comment. His eyes narrowed. Perhaps, at the next contract negotiation, he would find a way to make Smith pay for any enemies of Esperanza he was forced to dispatch without pay. With interest, of course.

  They finally pulled up before a Wilshire Boulevard hotel, where Remo understood from The Los Angeles Times Enrique Espiritu Esperanza had taken the penthouse suite for his protection.

  Remo paid the cabby, after a brief argument over the tip. The driver insisted the tip was insufficient. Remo pointed out the undeniable fact that it was ten percent of the fare.

  "But it was a two-hour ride because of traffic," the cabby complained. "How can I make a living at these rates?"

  "Drive in another state," Remo said, turning away.

  They entered the lobby. Remo noticed a single dollar bill sliding up one of the Master of Sinanju's voluminous sleeves.

  "Don't tell me you were planning to chip in on the tip?" he asked incredulously.

  "No, I surreptitiously relieved the driver of one dollar."

  "Why?"

  "You provided him valuable career advice, therefore overtipping him. I merely balanced accounts."

  "Then you can catch the next tip."

  Chiun's tiny mouth expressed disapproval. "Perhaps," he said.

  There were three LAPD police officers standing guard at the elevator bank, and also being besieged by press. Microphone and micro-cassette recorders were pushed into their faces. Questions were snapped. Remo was reminded of a pack of hounds yapping at a cornered fox.

  "Has candidate Esperanza requested police protection?" one reporter asked.

  "No comment."

  "Who is behind this attempt, and what is his motive?" another demanded.

  "That is still under investigation."

  "I insist upon being allowed upstairs," a sharp-voiced woman said, in a screeching voice that could have sharpened razor blades at fifty feet.

  Remo, hearing that voice, said, "Uh-oh."

  The Master of Sinanju, hearing that same voice, squeaked, "Remo! It is Cheeta!"

  "It is not," Remo said quickly, taking Chiun by the arm and attempting to pull him out of the lobby.

  The Master of Sinanju looked no more sturdy than a sapling. Yet all of Remo's efforts couldn't budge him. In fact, when Chiun breezed toward the elevator, Remo found himself being dragged along. He let go, barely finding his feet in time.

  Horror on his face, Remo got in front of the Master of Sinanju, blocking him.

  "Look, you'll blow our cover!" he said urgently.

  "But it is Cheeta Ching!" Chiun squeaked. "In person."

  "I know who it is," Remo hissed. "And that barracuda represents one of the biggest TV networks in the country. You cozy up to her and our cover will be blown. And we know what that means, don't we? No more work. No more Emperor Smith. And no submarine full of gold offloading in Sinanju every November."

  The Master of Sinanju drew himself up proudly. "I am not a babbler of secrets. I will tell her nothing, of course."

  "That's good. That's good. Tell her nothing. Period. Because if she gives you the time of day, she will ask you a zillion questions, none of them her business."

  At that moment, Cheeta Ching's voice rose again. "I'm going to stay here until someone from the Esperanza campaign agrees to come down to talk to me!" she screeched.

  Chiun's eyes narrowed. For a horrifying moment, Remo thought he was going to rush in and announce, prematurely, that he was the official assassin of the Esperanza campaign.

  Instead, the Master of Sinanju turned in place and hurried out into the street. Hands disappearing into his kimono sleeves, he floated around to the back of the building and gazed upward.

  The hotel was California modern. Not much in the way of gingerbread, ledges, or handholds.

  The Master of Sinanju stepped up to one corner and laid hands on each joining wall, then began rubbing them in small circles, as if drying his palms. Abruptly, his sandals left the pavement.

  It was one of the most difficult of Sinanju ascent techniques: the employment of converging pressure to gain purchase. His spindly legs working, the Master of Sinanju pulled himself up like a poisonous blue spider.

  Remo let him get a few floors ahead and followed, thinking that Chiun was obviously showing off on the rare chance that Cheeta Ching might spot him. Remo knew that the Master of Sinanju had been infatuated with the Korean anchorwoman eyer since he had discovered her when she was a mere local anchor back in New York.

  Once she had gone national, she had become Chiun's obsession. No amount of common sense, such as their undeniable age difference and Cheeta's subsequent marriage to the cadaverous middle-aged gynecologist Chiun had dubbed "that callow youth," could dissuade the old Korean from his delusion that Cheeta was fated to be his one true love.

  "I'm glad you see things my way!" Remo called up, as he drew under the Master of Sinanju's scuttling form,

  "It is better this way," Chiun answered.

  "Absolutely."

  "Once I have gained the confidence of this 'Esperanza,' I will convince him to grant Cheeta a special audience."

  "Maybe," Remo said cautiously.

  "And she will be eternally grateful to me," Chiun added.

  "Not likely," Remo muttered.

  "And so will consent to have my child," Chiun finished. "Which is her great destiny."

  "What!"

  Chiun halted at the twelfth floor. His stern face peered down and his voice was cold.

  "It is her destiny, Remo. I warn you not to interfere."

  "Little Father," Remo said sincerely. "I would not get between you and Cheeta Ching for any amount of money."

  "Good."

  "Especially," Remo murmured, "when she's in heat."

  Chiun resumed climbing. Remo followed, his face worried:

  They expected the penthouse to be guarded, and they were right.

  The wide patio promenade surrounding the penthouse itself was patrolled by security guards. They could hear their feet crushing the gravel. The sound was specific enough to tell Remo what kind of weapons they carried. Most had sidearms. From the sound of his swaggering, wide-legged walk, one toted a rifle openly. Since it was designed for long-range use, that weapon represented the least threat to them.

  "We will take the rifle first," said Chiun.

  "You got it," Remo said.

  They got to a narrow strip of ornamental metal and, using it for a tightrope, worked their way to the north side of the building, where the rifle-toter was walking back and forth and sounding anxious.

  Carlos Lugan was muy anxious. He had joined the Esperanza campaign only two days ago, walking off his security guard job without even bothering to turn in his uniform. The march of migrant workers shouting "Esperanza! Esperanza!" had been like the summons of some smiling siren. Carlos was from El Salvador. His mother still lived in San Salvador-and only because Carlos Lugan sent her
a check every month. Without it, she would starve like her friends, whose family could not get to America.

  So when Carlos followed the chanting migrants to a Rally for Hope, and heard that the Esperanza campaign was paying seven dollars an hour for help, he did not hesitate. That was two dollars more than his job paid. He became a loyal Esperanza supporter.

  Carlos was not disappointed to find himself, in the wake of the failed assassination attempt, performing much the same menial tasks as he had in his previous situation. He was proud to be a servant of Esperanza. In truth, he hoped someone would make another attempt on his life. That way, Carlos Lugan would gladly throw himself in the path of the bullet. He fantasized about the moment. About martyring himself for the man who had offered him such hope, and provided him with the wherewithal to increase his monthly check to his mother by an incredible twenty dollars.

  Unfortunately for Carlos Lugan, it was not a bullet he had to face in the defense of his candidate. It was something older, more accurate-and virtually indefensible.

  Carlos was standing at the edge of the parapet, which was waist-high. There had been a time he was afraid of heights. But working for Esperanza, he was afraid of nothing.

  He failed to see the hand that reached up for his rifle muzzle.

  In fact, he did not notice the absence of the rifle, even though he had been holding it firmly in both hands. Carlos was staring out at the Los Angeles skyline-what he could see of it in the smog-and his chest burned with intense pride.

  A creeping numbness came over his hands. He looked down at them. And blinked. Blinked several times rapidly.

  There was no understanding it, at first. He had been holding his rifle. Now it was no longer there. Had he, in his passionate fantasizing, dropped it? He turned around to look . . .

  . . . and the gnarled yellow hand that had casually relieved him of his weapon reached up and seized the exposed back of his neck. The hand-Carlos did not know it was a hand-exerted such force that Carlos had the weird impression of a vise seizing his neck. This, of course, was impossible. He decided he had been shot. That was the only explanation. A bullet had struck his magnificent body, forcing him to drop the rifle. Now a second bullet had entered his neck from the back, severing his spinal cord and paralyzing him with cruel finality.

  The anti-Esperanza devils were attacking!

  Carlos fell face-first into the gravel. The fact that it did not hurt convinced him his spinal cord had been severed. Not that there was any doubt.

  Out of one eye, he saw a pair of white sandals pad past. They were followed by a pair of feet encased in ordinary shoes. There were only two of them-two assassins.

  Carlos tried to shout a warning, to alert his patron of danger, but no words came. Only tears coursing down the humiliated face of Carlos Lugan, the loyal.

  He saw, as if dreaming, his compadres succumb to the pair, an Anglo and an Asian. The Asian meant his worst fears were true. There was bad blood between Hispanics and Asians in Los Angeles.

  The Asians were out to stop Esperanza, fearing him.

  They carried no weapons. They simply deployed, slipping up stealthily behind the other guards and bringing them to the same humiliation that had visited Carlos Lugan, by taking them by the backs of their necks and lowering their faces into the gravel.

  Then, like ghosts, they slipped up to the sliding glass doors of the penthouse suite, where Esperanza was plotting strategy with his campaign manager.

  Certain he was dying, Carlos Lugan said a silent prayer. Not for himself, but for Enrique Espiritu Esperanza.

  Remo paused at the sliding glass door. He turned to the Master of Sinanju, whispering.

  "Okay, Little Father. Here comes the tricky part."

  "I will handle this," Chiun said, girding his blue kimono skirts.

  "Remember," Remo cautioned. "We are just good citizens out to help a candidate."

  Chiun gave the sliding door a firm tug. It shot along its track and shattered into a thousand pieces.

  Seated around a coffee table on which a map of L.A. County was laid out, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza and Harmon Cashman looked up. Their mouths dropped open at the sight of a tiny wisp of an Asian man followed by a lean, unhappy Caucasian, stepping through the suddenly open door.

  Harmon Cashman bolted from his chair and flung himself across the body of Esperanza.

  "Assassins! Stop them!" he shouted to the guards.

  From an inner room, two hulking Mexicans came charging out. They resembled a pair of Lou Ferrignos, with extra coats of tan. They brought up Uzi machine pistols while vaulting over the furniture.

  The Asian and the Caucasian separated. The pair didn't appear to move. Yet suddenly they were five feet apart, utterly unconcerned and outwardly not seeming to hurry. Their movements appeared casual, even slow. Except they were unexpectedly in places far from their earlier positions, without, apparently, having crossed the intervening space.

  The phenomenon befuddled the two bodyguards. They continually repositioned the muzzles of their weapons. Each time they were about to fire, the targets floated out of their sights.

  One man beheaded a lamp, because his brain had been too slow in translating the image his retina had picked up: the image of empty space where a skinny white guy had been an instant before.

  The two Mexicans quickly became so used to the utter confoundedness of their targets that they were too surprised to be surprised when the pair, synchronizing their actions to the nanosecond, simply swept in from their blind sides and rendered the weapons useless.

  They used their hands. They floated up and around the Uzis unseen, and the two ringing claps came as one.

  The Anglo and the Asian stepped back, joined up once more. The white man folded his arms defiantly, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. The Asian simply tucked his hands into his wide blue sleeves. He looked unafraid.

  And the two bodyguards lifted flattened and useless weapons to firing position and depressed the triggers. The triggers refused to pull. They looked down.

  It was then and only then that they comprehended the intriguing fact that their weapons were much, much thinner than they had been. In fact, they resembled gray palm leaves studded with rivets.

  "Let me give you a hand," the Caucasian told Harmon Cashman, reaching out with his hands.

  Before Harmon could respond, he was lifted to his feet. The other hand pulled Enrique Espiritu Esperanza to his feet.

  "To what do I owe this intrusion?" Enrique asked blankly, his liquid eyes taking in the bizarre sight of his guards attempting to brain the tiny Asian.

  The old man-all five feet of him-turned to bow in Esperanza's direction. The bow coincided with a strenuous attempt to brain him, with strangely wide and flat Uzis, on the part of the two Mexican bodyguards.

  "I am Chiun, Master of Sinanju," said the old man in a low voice.

  When he straightened, the weapons were coming down again.

  Esperanza raised broad palms to quell the violence. He might have saved the energy. His towering guards had missed again. One fell on his face. The other, rearing back for a third attempt, suddenly dropped his useless weapon and grabbed his left foot, howling. He hopped on his right foot, as if the left had been hit by a jackhammer.

  He hopped right out of the room and never hopped back.

  "I have heard of Sinanju," said Esperanza quietly.

  Remo, standing beside the white-coated man, blinked.

  "I have been sent by a person I cannot name to safeguard your life," Chiun said placidly.

  "I see."

  "I have vanquished your guards to show the superiority of our services."

  "I accept," said Enrique Esperanza. "Name your price."

  "Grant the gorgeous creature named Cheeta an audience, and no further payment will be necessary."

  "Done."

  As Remo watched, his mouth dropping with each syllable spoken, the Master of Sinanju bowed gravely. Enrique Esperanza returned the gesture with the elegance of an Aztec lord
.

  Harmon Cashman sidled up to Remo.

  "You with him?"

  "Yeah," Remo said unhappily.

  "Can you explain anything of what I just heard?"

  "No."

  "I didn't think so," Harmon said glumly.

  Enrique Espiritu Esperanza turned to Harmon Cashman.

  "Harmon, these men will form the nucleus of our security force from now on."

  "Are you sure about this, Ricky?"

  "As certain as I am of my ultimate safety," replied Enrique Esperanza.

  Frowning, Harmon Cashman walked up to the Master of Sinanju. He offered his hand, saying, "I'm Ricky's campaign manager."

  Chiun nodded. "I will allow you to remain in his presence then," he sniffed, ignoring the hand.

  "You . . . you . . ." Harmon sputtered.

  The Master of Sinanju turned to the dark-horse candidate for governor.

  "Is it this man's function to assist you in your work?"

  Esperanza nodded. "It is."

  "Then he should be about the business of escorting the wondrous Cheeta to our presence, should he not?"

  Esperanza gestured. "Harmon. Have Miss Ching brought up here."

  "You're giving her a statement?"

  "No, I am granting her an interview. On our terms."

  Harmon Cashman looked at the Master of Sinanju. "What are you?"

  "Korean. "

  "Okay, you might be able to help us in Koreatown."

  He turned to Remo. "You. What's your name?"

  "Remo."

  Harmon nodded. "The Italians aren't much, demographically speaking, but we can use all the help we can get with the minority crowd."

  "Since when are Italians in the minority?" Remo asked.

  "Since this is California at the end of the twentieth century," replied Harmon Cashman in a smug voice, as he went to the elevator.

  Chapter 9

  Cheeta Ching was furious.

  There were those who claimed that Cheeta Ching had been born furious. Certainly she had been born ambitious. In newsrooms from Los Angeles to New York, she was known as "the Korean Shark." Other reporters had hung this nickname on her. It was hardly an affectionate coinage.

  Nobody, but nobody, got between Cheeta Ching and a story.