Union Bust

by Warren Murphy

  “Siggy, before you go, help me with this,” said Jethro. His voice was cold and smooth like an ice pond.

  “No,” said Negronski.

  “Just to the room and then you’re through,” Jethro smiled the old smile again, the smile that washed away worries and used to make the business fun.

  “Okay. Just to the room.”

  When Gene Jethro left the special room an hour later, there were two giant green Garby Bags sitting by the door with a note to the janitor to dump them in the building’s furnace. Jethro left the room alone.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “I HAVE FAILED, LITTLE FATHER.”

  Remo said this mournfully, daring to interrupt Chiun who sat before the hotel television set, entranced by the problems of a housewife telling all to her psychiatrist. Remo knew Chiun had heard him enter. He was on his way to change his clothes when Chiun did something Remo had never seen him do before. He turned off the picture on the television. Voluntarily—by himself.

  He beckoned Remo to him, turning in his seated position to an empty space on the floor. It was a gesture used by countless Korean teachers of previous generations to students who were to listen to something of great import. It was a gesture of a priest to a neophyte.

  Remo sat down on the carpeting facing Chiun, his legs crossed beneath him in the position taught him many years before when just a few minutes of sitting like this would bring excruciating back pains. Now Remo could sleep with his legs tucked under him, his back straight, and awake refreshed.

  He looked into the wise, untelling eyes of the man he had first hated, then feared, then respected and finally loved, a father for a man who had known no father, a father for the creation of a new man.

  “You know the story of Sinanju, the village of my birth, the village of my father and my father’s father and his father before him; of our poverty, of our babies for whom there was naught to eat and who during times of famine would be sent home in the cold waters to return to the larger womb of the sea.

  “This then, Remo, you know. You know how the sons must support the village through their knowledge of the martial arts. You know that my monies are shipped to my village. You know how poor the land is there, and that our only resource is the strength of our sons.”

  Remo nodded respectfully.

  “This you know. But you do not know all. You know I am the Master of Sinanju, but if I am the master, then who is the student?”

  “I, little father, am the student,” said Remo.

  “I was the Master of Sinanju before you were born.”

  “Then there is someone else.”

  “Yes, Remo. When I approached that building, the building you could not penetrate, I suspected that you could not penetrate it because it was designed to stop approaches with which you are familiar. When I saw the name of the road leading to the building, I knew who had ordered the construction of that building. I knew there was great danger in there.”

  “For me, little father?”

  “Especially for you. Why do I of such age have such ease in taking you when we practice, despite your death lunges?”

  “Because you are the greatest, little father.”

  “Besides that obvious fact.”

  “I’m not sure. I guess you know me.”

  “Correct. I have taught you all the moves you know. I know what you will do. It is like fighting myself as a young man. I know what you will do before you know what you will do. There is someone else who knows what you will do, and he knows this because I taught him. He has trained since birth, and I have not seen his name until I read a sign leading to that building. Then I needed to know no more. The man you face betrayed his calling and his village. The man who can destroy you is named Nuihc, as the road is named.”

  “I’ve heard that name from one of the sources I used.”

  “True. If you reverse the letters you will see that his name and mine are the same.”

  “He reversed his name?”

  “No. I did. This man, the son of my brother, left his village and plied the craft we taught him, and did not return the sustenance to the people who needed him. In shame before my villagers, I, a teacher, reversed my family name, and left my teaching for service abroad. After me, there is no master of Sinanju. After me, there is no one to support the village. After me, starvation.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, little father.”

  “Do not be. I have found a student. I have found the new Master of Sinanju to take my place on the day I return home to the womb waters separating China from Korea upon which Sinanju sits like a blessed pearl.”

  “That is a great honor, little father.”

  “You will be worthy if you do not allow your arrogance and laziness and impure habits to destroy the magnificence of the progress I have initiated and nurtured.”

  “Your success but my failure, little father,” said Remo smiling. “Don’t I get a chance to do anything right?”

  “When you will have a pupil you will do everything right,” said Chiun with ever so slight a smile, giving himself full approval for a witticism he was sure deserved it.

  “This Nuihc. How do I rate next to him?”

  Chiun lifted his fingers and closed them to a hair’s breadth.

  “You are that far away,” he said.

  “Good,” said Remo. “Then I’m in the ball game.”

  Chiun shook his head. “A close second is not a desirable place to finish in a battle to the death.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a second. I could work something.”

  “My son, in five years, you will be this much,” said Chiun, holding his hands a half-foot apart, “better than he. You must be an aberration of your white race. But this is truth. In five years Nuihc, the ingrate and deserter, will be second place. In five years, I unleash you against the son of my brother and we will bring his kimono back to Sinanju in triumph. In five years there will be no parallel to you. In five years you will surpass even my greatest ancestors. Thus it is written. Thus it is becoming.”

  Chiun’s voice echoed with pride. Lest his pupil indulge in the vanities to which he was so addicted, Chiun added another thought.

  “Thus have I made greatness from nothing.”

  “Little father,” said Remo. “I don’t have five years. My country does not have five years. It has until this afternoon.”

  “It is a big country. So today one group robs it instead of another. It will be here tomorrow, rich and fat. What is your country to you? Your country executed you. Your country forced you into a life you did not seek. Your country unjustly accused you of a crime.”

  “America is my Sinanju, little father.”

  Chiun bowed gravely. “This I understand. But if my village had wronged me as you have been wronged, I would not be its master.”

  “A mother cannot wrong a son…”

  “That is untrue, Remo.”

  “I did not finish. A mother cannot wrong a son to such a degree that he will not save her in time of danger. If you are the father I never had, then this nation is the mother I never had.”

  “Then in five years give your mother a present of Nuihc’s kimono.”

  “She must have it now. Come with me. The two of us can surely overcome this Nuihc.”

  “Ah, unfortunately at this stage we would only endanger ourselves. We would have to cross lines of attack only for a fraction of a moment, and we would both be dead. I have trained you as no other man has been trained. Greatness lies on the morrow. You are not some tin soldier to go marching off to his death because bugles call. You are what you are, and what you are does not march foolishly to his death. No training, no skill, no energy or force can overcome the mind of a fool. Do not be a fool. This I command.”

  “I cannot obey that command, little father.” Chiun spun to face his television set, and turning it on, he remained silent.

  Remo changed to a loose-fitting suit. The wound had caked and was becoming itchy. He ignored it. At the door to the suite, R
emo said goodbye to the Master of Sinanju.

  “Thank you, little father, for what you have given me.”

  Without turning to set his eyes upon Remo, Chiun spoke.

  “You have a chance. He may not conceive that a white man can do what you do.”

  “Then I do have a chance. Why are you so glum?”

  “Chances are for cards and dice. Not for us. My teaching is like the rose fragrance in a north wind.”

  “Will you wish me luck?”

  “You have learned naught,” said Chiun, and was silent again.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE TRAFFIC JAM INTO NUIHC STREET stretched for miles. Remo got out of the taxi and trotted past the cars with angry frustrated drivers, men who had been told in the wee hours of the morning that the final day of the convention was to be in a new building, the new headquarters of the International Brotherhood of Drivers.

  When a few had complained that they already had a headquarters in Washington, they were told that Washington would be only the drivers’ headquarters. Confusing. There were lots of confusing things about their new president. This was one more.

  Remo pushed his way through a long line of men at the entrance, weaving and dodging complaints of “Hey, don’t you know how to get in line?”

  A few recognized him as the new recording secretary. The guard at the gate was wearing a bandage. Oh, that was the man who had held his fish last night, at the beginning of the long night in which every effort to avoid the extreme plan had failed—and ultimately the extreme plan itself had failed.

  The guard did not recognize him in daylight. He looked at Remo’s delegate card.

  “Oh yeah,” said the guard. “Jethro wants to see you. He’s right inside.”

  Remo saw Jethro in the large entrance hallway. Drapes hid what was obviously a sign. Perhaps those drapes would unveil the driver’s emblem, or worse, the emblem of the new superunion.

  Jethro greeted people as they arrived with the usual “howarya” and “goodtoseeya.” Remo walked up to within a spit. He saw Jethro notice him, saw the faint flicker of fear in the blue eyes, then the phony smile.

  “Howarya fella, good to see ya,” said the president of the International Brotherhood of Drivers.

  “Glad to be here, Gene. A great day. A great day,” said the recording secretary. They embraced warmly, the drivers lined up watching union solidarity at work.

  “Let’s go downstairs. I want to talk to you. Union business.”

  “Good idea,” said Remo.

  Friendly, the two union leaders made their way to the elevator. Friendly, they got into the elevator. Friendly, they spoke until the doors closed and Jethro had pressed the combination button.

  “You lying sonuvabitch,” said Jethro. “You said you had joined us.”

  “You’re hurt that I lied,” laughed Remo. “When were you born?”

  “Who do you work for?” said Jethro.

  “I don’t work for Nuihc,” said Remo. “Where is he?”

  “None of your business,” said Jethro.

  “Am I going to meet him?”

  “Sure,” said Jethro, a cold smile crossing his face.

  Remo hummed. He hummed as they entered the large basement. He hummed as he saw the auto-length sign for the union that would destroy a nation and the union movement with it. He hummed as Jethro worked the combination lock on a door to a room that seemed the center of a whole waterpipe network.

  He hummed when the door shut behind him.

  Jethro went behind a barren iron desk. Remo spotted the nozzles on the ceiling, shower nozzles.

  Jethro reached under the desk.

  “I have a switch here that will unleash something that will kill you painfully. Now I can make it hard on you, or I can kill you with my hands.”

  Remo shouldn’t have done it. It was highly unprofessional. But the laugh was out before he thought of controlling it.

  “Sorry,” said Remo. “I just thought of a joke.”

  “All right. Have it your way,” said Jethro. “I can stop this process when it becomes very painful and then you’ll beg me to let you talk.”

  “Right,” said Remo fighting back an instant guffaw. “Beg. Right. Beg you.” But it was no use. He laughed, and then let the laughter roar out full and pleasing.

  He stopped laughing when a fine spray began forming from the nozzles. Jethro donned a mask. Obviously the substance was to be breathed in. Let your blood stream carry the poison, and perhaps, if it followed an old, simple mechanism of Sinanju discarded in the twelfth century, perhaps Remo would begin to dissolve.

  The masters of Sinanju discarded this mechanism because someone accidentally discovered a simple defense to it. Don’t breathe. Practically any swimmer could overcome it, and everyone who had body discipline thought it a joke. Besides, the whole machinery was cumbersome and the children liked to play with it, so, as Chiun had said, it went the way of the bow and arrow.

  Remo watched Jethro stare at him sardonically through the eyes of the oxygen mask. Remo suddenly noticed one danger. Laughter. He turned his eyes away from Jethro and tried to think of something sad. He couldn’t. So he thought of Dr. Smith and all the discomforting things of his life. In a few moments, the fog began to disappear into an exhaust system. Jethro ripped off his oxygen mask. A look of triumphant hate was on his face.

  “Die,” he said. “Die painfully because you now cannot move your hands or your mouth or your eyes. You can barely hear me now. So let me tell you before the hearing goes, you are going to dissolve into a puddle. A puddle like people step into. A puddle that will flush along with the rest of the scum into the sewer system.”

  Too much. Dr. Smith and every sad thing in his life could not overcome this.

  “Yahhhh,” said Remo curling over and grabbing his sides in hysterical laughter. The roaring, guffawing laughter made him stagger to a wall for balance. He looked back at Jethro. There was shock. The shocked face of Jethro. It was hysterical. Why didn’t Jethro stop doing those hysterical things? Perhaps Jethro thought it was the mist that was affecting him. Remo regained control.

  “Sorry,” said Remo. “Sorry to laugh at you. Where’s Nuihc?”

  “Uh,” said Jethro.

  “Nuihc,” said Remo.

  “First door to your right. Knock three times.”

  Jethro’s mouth hung open. Beads of sweat formed on his head. He rubbed his hands on his bell bottom suit. Then anger. He assumed his stance. Remo peered around the desk at the toes. They were pressed too far in. A beginner’s mistake.

  “The toes,” said Remo. “Too far in.”

  “Come and get it,” said Jethro.

  Remo reached a hand around the desk and felt for the socket, Jethro tried to crack the hand with a downstroke. Remo merely removed Jethro’s hand. At the wrist.

  When he saw the mist coming from the nozzle, Remo ripped the mask and the tubing from its desk connection.

  Jethro’s one hand gripped the bloody stump of his other hand. Remo took a large green Garby Bag from a shelf. Obviously the mist did not affect plastic. He slipped the bag under Jethro and sat him down on the desk. Like putting pants on a baby, Remo slipped the bag up to Jehhro’s armpits. Jethro’s eyes widened in terror. His face reddened from trying not to breathe. Remo got a little metal twister that came with the Garby’s and poked it into Jethro’s solar plexus to help him breathe. He did. Exhale, then, full inhale.

  “Don’t lose the twist,” said Remo. “Some of these bags can open by themselves if you don’t have the twist.”

  Then, he walked out, shutting the door behind him and breathing clean full basement air. Which was not the best of air in the world, but it would not kill him.

  The first door on the right. Remo saw it immediately. He had one edge. Having been trained in Sinanju, Nuihc would be vulnerable to this edge. Chiun had grown to expect certain levels of performance from Remo. But Nuihc would not expect white hands to move that fast. Not expect a white body to respond that well. N
ot expect Remo to be what he was. Nuihc would be vulnerable to the constant danger to which every student and master of Sinanju was vulnerable. The constant danger they were taught to avoid from birth. Overconfidence. They were taught this constantly precisely because they were vulnerable.

  Remo knocked three times.

  “Come in, Remo,” sounded a thin voice.

  Remo opened the door into a room that was a garden. There, sitting beside a pool, was Nuihc, his face that of a young Chiun, smooth and alive, and just a mite deadlier than Chiun.

  Remo pretended not to see the body in its surroundings, pretended he did not have the eyes that could see things meant to be hidden.

  “Over here. By the pool,” said Nuihc.

  “I don’t see you. Oh, yeah. There you are,” said Remo.

  “Yes. Over here. Where you saw me the first time, Remo. Anyone who can work the Scarlet Ribbon can see a man sitting peacefully.”

  Remo closed the door behind him.

  “Come. Sit by me.”

  Remo stood still. He would have more room to analyze the attack with some distance between them.

  Nuihc smiled. “Very bright. Good. I like that. Did you kill Jethro? Of course you did. You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t. You probably think me foolish in giving you the knowledge that I knew you saw me. As our mutual teacher has often taught, we should give nothing. But I give you something because I want something in return. Chiun has obviously done a remarkable job.” Remo picked up a note of condescension in the voice. Nuihc had just given too much.