Warren Murphy: The End of the Beginning

Chiun stood between the coffins. His eyes were slivers of haunting accusation. The Reigning Master of Sinanju made not a move to his former pupil.

For what seemed an eternity they faced each other, Master and student. Old and young.

Chiun's gaze never wavered. Nuihc tried to offer only malice to his former teacher. But for the younger Sinanju Master, there was suddenly something else.

Another, alien emotion buried beneath the arrogant surface.

Without a word Nuihc turned to go.

Chiun's mouth thinned. The aged Korean's entire being was a compressed fist of fury. As his traitorous pupil offered his back, Chiun raised one sandaled foot, dropping it hard to the marble floor. And when the thunder came, the very dome of the Capitol Building trembled with fear.

"Hold, wicked one!" the Master of Sinanju commanded.

Nuihc froze. When he turned, the emotion he had hidden a moment before had bubbled to the surface. A look of fear flashed through his hazel eyes.

"You are not supposed to be here," Nuihc said. Blood pounded in his ears. "The world has passed you by, old man. Why are you here and not in your precious Sinanju?"

"You dare ask?" Chiun demanded. "You? You would ask me why I am about my business of feeding and clothing my village? The village you abandoned in your arrogance?"

"Then you are about your business and I am about mine," Nuihc said. "Leave me to mine."

"And what business is that, traitor?" Chiun's tufts of white hair swirled angrily around his bald scalp. "Here, child of evil. Here is your handiwork." He waved a bony hand at the coffins. "I should embowel you and hurl your worthless carcass into these boxes, a feast for the bugs and worms."

Another flash of fear.

"You would not kill me," Nuihc challenged. "You are forbidden to harm one of the village."

"The village of Sinanju ceased being yours the day you turned your back on your obligations. And do not think I do not know all you are doing, pitiful, transparent creature that you are. You knew I had come to these shores. Did you think I did not know your lackeys brought you pictures of me from the hospital? Since Sinanju gravitates to greatness, you assumed I worked for the leader of this nation. You thought killing my charge would shame me into retreating to Sinanju. Once more you prove yourself the fool. The man you failed to kill this day is but a public face. I work for the power behind the throne. True Sinanju seeks out strength, not celebrity. How typical of you, worthless one. Pitiful student that you were, you followed only the dictates of your true masters. The masters of avarice, envy and pride. You never understood that there are forces driving this world that go far beyond what the eye sees or the ear hears."

And at Chiun's words, Nuihc did something that surprised even the Master of Sinanju. He smiled. "Yes," Nuihc said, his voice suddenly low and cold. "There are forces that were unknown to me in Sinanju."

There was a sudden confidence in his nephew's voice. As if he hid some powerful, terrible secret. Whatever it was suddenly brought quiet assuredness to the younger Oriental.

Chiun's leathery face was impassive.

"The time of my seclusion has passed," he intoned. "I am back in the world, duck droppings. Know you fear."

Their meeting was done. Nuihc nodded.

"I await the day, old man," the younger man spat. And with that he was gone. Out the doors through which the crowd had swarmed minutes before.

There were still the sounds of confusion outside. Sirens were approaching. The Capitol police would be back inside soon, along with the D.C. police.

Once he was certain Nuihc had left, the Master of Sinanju hurried over to the spot where Remo had landed.

He found his pupil where he'd thrown him in order to protect him from Nuihc. Remo was unconscious behind Senator O'Day's coffin. For an instant, Chiun feared his pupil was dead, but the heartbeat was there.

Chiun didn't know why he should care. But in spite of himself, his relief was great.

It was Nuihc's fault. Nuihc, who had been given everything and cast it all away. Here was this foreigner who was more of a pupil than Nuihc ever was. A white-worse, an American-who accepted the wisdom of Chiun's ancestors as if the blood of Wang coursed through his pale veins.

Nuihc. Nuihc was to blame. If he hadn't been such a bad pupil, Chiun never would have felt such relief when he found this Remo person with the nasty tongue was still alive.

Remo's eyes fluttered open. "What happened?"

"You did what you vowed you would do," Chiun replied gently. "You saved the day."

"Really?"

Chiun's face soured. "Of course not, idiot. I did." He kicked Remo to get him to his feet. "Now, let's get out of here before someone sees us and thinks I am with you."

Chapter 28

Don Carmine Viaselli was watching television when he first heard about the attempt on the life of the President of the United States. When he heard that Alphonso Ravello was the gunman, he coughed seltzer and lemon onto his carpet.

"What the hell?" he spluttered at the TV.

The answer to his question came not from the network news anchor, but from his own living room.

"It is an unfortunate cost of doing business," came the thin voice from beside his sofa.

Viaselli whipped around.

Nuihc stood at silent attention. His hooded eyes watched the TV. He didn't even look at Don Viaselli. "What was Ravello doing there?" Viaselli demanded. His face was caved in. He was finding it hard to breathe. "You were supposed to do it quiet, not use one of my guys."

"It was necessary," Nuihc said.

With shaking hands Don Viaselli put down his drink.

"Ravello was a loaner to you. He was one of mine. Everybody and his brother knows it. Goddamn it, you throw him out into the middle of all this, and everybody knows I'm connected."

"That is true," Nuihc said, nodding. "The man who hired me will be pleased with this outcome."

"The man who hired you?" Viaselli asked. "I'm the man who hired you! I've paid you a fortune this past year."

"As has he," Nuihc replied. "A tidy sum for which I should thank you both. Unfortunately, you could not be told about my other employer, since the arrangement I made with him involved your being directly tied to the assassination attempt on your President."

"What!" Viaselli exclaimed.

A few rooms away there came a pounding at the apartment door. The sound of shattering wood was followed by the panicked shout of a maid. Don Viaselli wheeled on the sound.

"The cost of doing business," Nuihc was saying. As the voices closed in, he was already fading back into the shadows.

"You son of a bitch!" Viaselli screamed.

The Mafia Don jumped for an end-table drawer. When the FBI agents burst into the living room ten seconds later they found a wide-eyed Carmine Viaselli screaming in Italian and shooting at shadows. They didn't bother to ask the New York Don what he thought he was shooting at. Instead, they returned fire.

And in the ensuing, brief gun battle, merry little bits of Don Carmine Viaselli splattered against the tidy walls of the apartment like hurled tomatoes.

THE VISITOR WAS politely ushered back to the private office on the first floor of the Neighborhood Improvement Association building in Little Italy.

The building was old and solid enough to withstand a mortar blast from the street. The wallpaper was purple and fuzzy. The crazy floral pattern was interwoven with vines that looked like coiling serpents. An aroma of tomato sauce clung to the old wood paneling.

In the office a thin man who looked older than his sixty years sat behind a broad desk. At his elbow a brown paper bag stained with grease sat on a newspaper. The grease had melted into the front page, bleeding across the banner headline announcing the attempt on the President's life.