Warren Murphy: Unnatural Selection

"Whatever it is you want to be called," Chiun had said. "Numskull works for me."

The retention of title had been necessary for the old man who had been chosen to break with tradition. This should have been Chiun's time of retirement and ritual isolation.

Fate had chosen a different, new course for the last Master of the pure Korean bloodline. Chiun understood some, but the rest was still a mystery to be discovered.

In his mind's eye, Chiun had brought himself back to that moment in the wilderness many times. He had hoped to catch a glimpse of something unseen until now. But it was no use. He would have to wait for full understanding to come. He had journeyed to the memory of that day for the last time.

Eyes closed, Chiun had just come to his reluctant decision when he heard the elevator bell down the hall. His hypersensitive ears detected the familiar, confident glide approaching down the long hotel hallway.

When the door opened and the room lights came on a moment later, the Master of Sinanju was still motionless. Ancient eyelids were pressed tightly shut when the ill-mannered braying began.

"Pee-yew. What are you, burning cats again? And why is it so dark in here?"

Chiun's vellum lids fluttered open over youthful hazel eyes. Remo was kicking the door shut with his heel.

The ring of fire was forgotten. It would be understood in its own time and not before. The Master of Sinanju set it aside.

"Finally he returns," Chiun said, his voice a squeaky singsong. "I am starving. Or is that your plan? Did you want me to starve? Is that why you abandoned me all night?"

The Master of Sinanju leaned forward, drawing a sharp hand over the tops of the burning candles. The vacuum of his sweeping hand doused the five flames.

"I didn't abandon you. You were the one who said you didn't want to come with me this time. In fact, your exact words were-and I quote-'I have killed enough Arabs for that madman Smith in recent months to populate a New Baluchistan. I'm staying here. You do it.' End quote."

"That does not sound like me," Chiun said.

"You also said your robes reeked of camel's milk cheese and bread flaps and that you were sending Smith and Saudi Prince ibn bin al-Gaspot McSomething the cleaning bill."

"Perhaps it sounds a little like me," Chiun conceded.

"And you could've eaten without me," Remo said. With a frown, he noted the old man's clothes. "What's with the celebration outfit?"

"None of your business, O breaker of tradition."

"Fair enough. I've got to report back to Smith." Remo headed for the phone. "I'm going to be ordering trout for breakfast. Trout okay for you?"

"Of course, when I say it is none of your business, I am only being polite. It is entirely your business. Which is to say your fault."

"Well ring-a-ding-ding, it's my fault you're celebrating," Remo said. "Hey, when I'm done checking in with Upstairs, you want me to order brown rice or white? Won't matter. Kitchen will screw up both."

Chiun's face became a displeased pucker. He had put up with many things from his pupil over the years. Disrespect, clumsiness, stubbornness and that abusive tongue--oh, how Chiun had withstood that. But worse than anything was lack of interest. It was for the Master to not care what the pupil had to say, not the other way around. But, of course, Remo did care. How could he not care what Chiun had to say? This was just a trick, this feigned indifference.

"Stop pretending you don't care," Chiun accused Remo's back.

"I do care," Remo called over his shoulder. "Just not enough to do some verbal dance to beg you to tell me what you want to tell me and probably will tell me anyway."

"Stop talking about this," Chiun insisted.

"I've already stopped." Remo picked up the phone.

"Fine," the old man said, quickly throwing up his hands before his pupil could dial. "I was not going to tell you, but since you refuse to drop the subject..."

With a sigh, Remo replaced the phone in the cradle. "Okay, what's the story?" he asked, turning. Across the room, Chiun rose from the floor in a single, fluid motion. His hands were spread out to either side, extending ten daggerlike talons, the better to display his outfit.

The black robes were shorter than normal, hanging down to just above the ankle. A pair of black trousers-tight at the ankle-peeked out from below. The cloth was far more plain than the Master of Sinanju's usual brocade kimonos. Gone were the shimmering colors of embroidered peacocks and fire-breathing dragons. This was simple black cotton.

"If you must know, Nosy One, I wear the garments of celebration because a new day has dawned for the House of Sinanju. Thanks to your ascension to full Reigning Masterhood and my retention of title, we have entered a new, unprecedented age." He brushed imaginary wrinkles from the skirts of his simple black robes.

"That doesn't sound so bad to me. Where does 'it's all my fault' come in?"

"Since you stubbornly refuse to wear the proper attire of an assassin, I must do so for both of us during this ritual. Thanks to you, my time in these garments is doubled. I have been forced to pack away my robes for the duration of this time of celebration."

Remo looked the old Korean up and down. "I am not wearing an outfit like that one, Little Father," he warned.

"Of course you are not, Remo. Why would you? After all, I want you to. Why would you do anything I want? Why break a perfect thirty-year record now?"

"Chiun, they look like Broom Hilda's pajamas."

"And when I sleep in them, I will dream I have a son who treats me and the traditions of his village with respect."

Remo felt his resolve weaken for just a moment.

After all, he was the Master of Sinanju now. Maybe if it was just for a couple of days he could do it. Stay in the hotel. Order room service. Yeah, it was doable. And it would maybe be nice to give in to Chiun on the kimono thing this time. Maybe it would buy the old codger out of nagging him about his clothes for a few more years.

"How long would I have to dress like that?" Remo sighed.

Chiun's face brightened. "Six months."

"So you want trout, or what?" Remo said, turning away. He dropped his hand back on the phone.

No sooner had he touched the receiver than the phone rang. He quickly answered.

"Perfect timing, Smitty," he said.

"Remo?" the tart voice of Harold W. Smith asked. "Is everything all right? You were supposed to check in with Mark last night after your assignment."

"I walked back to the hotel," Remo said. "I've got a lot on my mind these days."

"Do not listen to his lies, Emperor Smith," the Master of Sinanju called. "His mind is as empty as his promises."

"I never promised anything," Remo said.

"See?" Chiun shouted triumphantly. "More lies." Robes swirling, he marched from the room. He slammed the door with such ferocity that balcony windows cracked four floors in either direction.

"Is something wrong?" asked Smith, who had heard the slamming door over the phone.

"The usual," Remo replied, exhaling. "Everything is my fault, even the stuff that isn't. Anyway, last night went fine, Smitty. I left one cockroach alive to carry the message back to his pals and squashed the rest."

"Good. The way they operate, it is difficult to track all these cells. Our best hope beyond simply eliminating the ones we find is to make the rest fear attack."

"In that case, consider it mission accomplished."

"Very well. You and Chiun may return home." Home for Remo these days was a town house in a new development in southern Connecticut. He had spent the past two weeks breaking up small al-Khobar cells. Remo was looking forward to getting back to his condominium.

"Okey-doke. Talk to you soon."

"One moment, Remo." There was the sound of fingers drumming as the CURE director accessed his computer. "Hmm. I know this is soon after last night's assignment, but when you land in New York there is something I'd like you to look into. There have been a few strange incidents in Manhattan this morning. They started about forty-five minutes ago."