Remo noticed on a narrow step a few feet away were eight soldiers, all of them seeming rather old for the privates’ uniforms they were wearing. They had their guns trained on Remo and Chiun. Well, sweetheart, Remo thought, that’s the biz.
General Liu nodded with stiff politeness and walked to a glass case, containing a stone-encrusted sword. His leather shoes made clacking sounds on the marble floor and his holster slapped against his side as he walked. The room itself was chilly and badly lighted, blocking out the sunlight and its joy.
“Gentlemen,” said General Liu. “The sword of Sinanju.”
Remo looked at Chiun. His face had no expression, just an eternal calm that hid wells deeper than Remo’s reasoning. It must have been a ceremonial sword of some sort, Remo thought, because not even a Watusi could wield a sword seven feet long, and flaring out to become as wide as a face, before it came abruptly to a point. The handle was encrusted with red and green stones. It appeared as unwieldy as a wet sofa. If a man’s hands were tied to that weapon, you could spit him to death, Remo thought.
“Do you gentlemen know the legend of Sinanju?” General Liu asked. Remo could feel the Premier’s eyes upon them.
Remo shrugged. “It’s a poor village, I know that. Life is hard there. And you people never treated them very fairly.” Remo knew Chiun would love that.
“Truth,” said Chiun.
“But do you know the legend? Of the Master of Sinanju?”
“I know,” said Chiun, “that he was not paid.”
“This sword,” said General Liu, “is the sword of the Master of Sinanju. There was a time when China, weak under the monarchistic system, hired mercenaries.”
“And did not pay them,” said Chiun.
“There was one master of Sinanju who left this sword after slaughtering slaves and then a favorite concubine of the Emperor Chu Ti.”
Out of the side of his mouth, Remo whispered to Chiun: “You didn’t tell me about the nookie.”
“He was assigned the concubine and was not paid,” Chiun said aloud.
General Liu went on. “The emperor, realizing how foreign mercenaries were destructive to the Chinese people, banished the Master of Sinanju.”
“Without paying him,” said Chiun.
“Since then we have prided ourselves in never asking for the services of the Master of Sinanju or his night tigers. But imperialists will hire any scum. Even create the destroyer for their evil designs.”
Remo saw the smile disappear from the Premier’s face as he looked at General Liu with questioning.
“In a society where the newspapers function as an arm of the government, word of mouth becomes the believable truth,” said General Liu. “Many people believe that the Master of Sinanju is here, brought by the Imperialist Americans. Many believe he has brought Shiva, the Destroyer, with him. Many people believe that the American imperialists do not seek peace but war. That is why they have sent the Master of Sinanju and his creation to kill our beloved Premier.”
Remo noticed Chiun look to the Premier. There was a slight shake of Chiun’s head. The premier remained cool.
“But we will kill the paper tigers of Sinanju who have killed our Premier,” General Liu said, raising a hand. The riflemen on the balconies aimed their weapons. Remo looked for a display case to dive under.
Chiun said, looking at the Premier: “The last Master of Sinanju to stand in this palace of emperors was not paid. I will collect for him. Fifteen dollars American.”
The Premier nodded. General Liu, still holding one hand in the air, took his pistol from its holster with the other.
Chiun laughed then, a resounding, shrieking laugh.
“Rice farmers and wall builders, hear you now. The Master of Sinanju will teach you death.” The words echoed through the high ceilinged chamber, bouncing hollowly off the walls and corners and coming back, until it seemed as if the voice came from everywhere.
Suddenly, Chiun became a blurred line, his white robes swirling about him as he moved toward the Premier, then left across General Liu’s line of fire. And then the glass case was shattered and the sword seemed to fly into the air with Chiun attached.
The sword swished and blurred with Chiun, whose voice rose maniacally in ancient, high-pitched chants. Remo was about to dart up to the step to go after one of the riflemen and work from there, when he noticed the guns were no longer pointing at him or at the Premier or at Chiun.
Two men clung loosely to their weapons, one whose pants showed a dark wide blotch, growing wider. The other just trembled, his face whitening. Another was vomiting. Four had run. Only one still aimed his rifle but the butt was pressed firmly to a shoulder that had no neck, just a round, dark, gushing wound where a head had been. Remo spotted the head, one eye still squinting, rolling to the base of a cabinet where it stopped rolling and stopped squinting. And the sword, now dripping blood, spun faster and faster in Chiun’s hands.
The Premier’s face was impassive as he stood, his hands folded in front of him. General Liu squeezed off two shots which chipped into the marble floor then bounced into walls with dull thumps, sounding through the museum. Then he stopped squeezing shots, because where his trigger finger had been, there was only a red stump.
And then the hand itself and the pistol were gone as the sword continued to whistle through the air with Chiun seeming to dance under it.
And then, with a shriek, Chiun was without the giant sword. He stood motionless, his arms at his sides, and Remo heard the sword whirring above him, toward the ceiling. Remo looked up. The sword seemed hung in history just a breath from the ceiling, and then it descended, the giant blade turning slowly, until in one last graceful turn, it came down into Liu’s looking up face.
With a whunk, it split the face and drove straight down through the body, stopping only a foot from the hilt. The clean tip of the blade nicked marble, and then began to gather blood from above. It looked as if General Liu had swallowed too completely the seven foot sword of Sinanju.
In awesome silence, he tottered, then backward fell, skewered on a sword, creating small flowing lakes of blood around him on the gray marble floors. The hilt seemed to grow from his face.
“Fifteen dollars American,” said the Master of Sinanju to the Premier of the latest China. “And no checks.”
The Premier nodded. So he was not part of the plot. He was one of the peacemakers. In blood was peace sometimes baptized.
“Sometimes, according to Mao,” said the Premier, “it is necessary to pick up the gun to put down the gun.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said Remo.
“About us?” asked the Premier.
“About anyone,” Remo said.
They escorted the Premier to a car outside and Chiun anxiously whispered to Remo:
“Was my wrist straight?”
Remo, who had barely seen Chiun, let alone his wrist, answered, “Sloppy as hell, little father. You embarrassed me to no end, especially in front of the Premier of China.”
And Remo felt good.
About the Authors
WARREN MURPHY was born in Jersey City, where he worked in journalism and politics until launching the Destroyer series with Richard Sapir in 1971. A screenwriter (Lethal Weapon II, The Eiger Sanction) as well as a novelist, Murphy’s work has won a dozen national awards, including multiple Edgars and Shamuses. He has lectured at many colleges and universities, and is currently offering writing lessons at his website, warrenmurphy.com. A Korean War veteran, some of Murphy’s hobbies include golf, mathematics, opera, and investing. He has served on the board of the Mystery Writers of America, and has been a member of the Screenwriters Guild, the Private Eye Writers of America, the International Association of Crime Writers, and the American Crime Writers League. He has five children: Deirdre, Megan, Brian, Ardath, and Devin.
RICHARD BEN SAPIR was a New York native who worked as an editor and in public relations before creating the Destroyer series with Warren Murphy. Before his untimely dea
th in 1987, Sapir had also penned a number of thriller and historical mainstream novels, best known of which were The Far Arena, Quest and The Body, the last of which was made into a film. The book review section of the New York Times called him “a brilliant professional.”
Also by Warren Murphy
The Destroyer Series (#1-25)
Created, The Destroyer
Death Check
Chinese Puzzle
Mafia Fix
Dr. Quake
Death Therapy
Union Bust
Summit Chase
Murder's Shield
Terror Squad
Kill or Cure
Slave Safari
Acid Rock
Judgment Day
Murder Ward
Oil Slick
Last War Dance
Funny Money
Holy Terror
Assassin’s Playoff
Deadly Seeds
Brain Drain
Child’s Play
King’s Curse
Sweet Dreams
The Trace Series
Trace
And 47 Miles of Rope
When Elephants Forget
Pigs Get Fat
Once a Mutt
Too Old a Cat
Getting up with Fleas
Copyright
This digital edition of Chinese Puzzle (v1.1) was published in 2012 by Gere Donovan Press.
If you downloaded this book from a filesharing network, either individually or as part of a larger torrent, the author has received no compensation. Please consider purchasing a legitimate copy—they are reasonably priced, and available from all major outlets. And if you enjoy it, leave a positive review. Your author thanks you.
Copyright © 2012 by Warren Murphy
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Errata
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