Warren Murphy: The End of the Beginning

Chiun stood in the corner of the room. He had turned his indifferent back to the two babbling whites. A wall-mounted black-and-white television set murmured softly at the room. Chiun's button nose was turned upward, his hazel eyes directed at the action on the screen.

Stepping over, Smith reached up and shut off the TV. The afternoon soap opera that had been playing collapsed to an incandescent blotch before fading from sight.

"Excuse me, Master Chiun-" Smith paused. "Forgive me, but is that the appropriate title?" Eyes flitting from the darkened TV set, Chiun's parchment face was flat.

"You do not speak Korean?" he asked.

"No, I don't," Smith admitted.

Chiun allowed a small nod. "Then in English that will suffice. Either that or Gracious Master of Sinanju."

"I, er, prefer Master Chiun if it's all the same to you."

"As you wish, President Smith," the old Korean said.

"That, on the other hand, is a title that is not appropriate," Smith said rapidly. "I am not certain what Mr. MacCleary has told you-"

"Hey, he didn't get it from me," Conn interjected.

"-but you may call me Dr. Smith," the CURE director finished.

Chiun's weathered face brightened. "Ah, you are a physician."

"Not in the sense with which you might be familiar. I have a doctorate in clinical psychology, among others."

"President Smith is a head doctor," MacCleary explained with a knowing wink.

"Stop it, Conn," Smith snapped.

"You cure ailments of the brain?" Chiun suggested.

"Not as such. Not physical ailments, anyway. And I have never practiced psychology. Do you see?"

Chiun nodded. "But of course," he said, his tone perfectly even. "You are a physician who is not a physician who does not practice the healing arts. How very wise."

This man is a lunatic, the Master of Sinanju thought to himself. He smiled and nodded at Smith. "I don't think he understands," Smith said to MacCleary.

"But of course I do, Your Highness," Chiun told Smith.

"Chiun understands enough," Conn promised Smith.

"I am not a highness, either," Smith insisted, ignoring MacCleary. "Master Chiun, this is a delicate situation. I cannot give you the details of our mission here. I can only say that it will attract unwanted attention if you address me as Highness. And since I was not duly elected by the voters of this nation, nor do I have any desire to become president, it is wholly inappropriate for you to address me by that title, as well."

"Elected?" Chiun asked, arching a suspicious brow.

"Yes," Smith said. "America votes for its president-our king, if you will. It is the people here who choose the man who leads the country."

"So it is true," Chiun said, stroking his thread of beard wisely. "One hears rumors, of course. They tried a thing like that in Rome once. It didn't take."

"Yes," Smith said cautiously. "In any event, I would appreciate it if you call me Doctor."

But the Master of Sinanju shook his head firmly. "Would that I could obey, but I can see that title is neither appropriate nor adequate, for any quacksalver with a jar of leeches considers himself a doctor. And your regal bearing, handsome visage and piercing eyes tell me you are much more than a common bloodletter." Before Smith could argue more, the old man held up a staying hand. "However, since I am but a humble servant, I will honor your request, though it drives a dagger deep in my crude heart to do so."

Smith allowed a slip of relief to pass his bloodless gray lips. "Thank you, Master Chiun."

"No, no," Chiun said. "The thanks are mine. Thanks that you would honor one so lowly and unworthy as I to bask in the radiant glow of your reflected majesty."

Smith decided to quit while he was ahead. Offering an uncomfortable "you're welcome" to the Master of Sinanju, he turned his full attention to MacCleary.

"Set up some exercises," Smith ordered. "I would like to see what it is we're buying."

Conn's face cracked into a wicked smile. "I think you'll be pleasantly surprised," he promised.

He headed out the door. Smith began to follow but felt a bony hand clamp his elbow. When he looked down, the upturned face of the old Korean was filled with cunning.

"I understand completely, Your Royal Presidential Highness," Chiun whispered slyly. "You do not want to make your intentions known before the commander of your palace guard. That is wise, for a king has welcomed betrayal into his court who fully trusts his closest knight." He patted Smith's forearm. "We'll talk later."

With a broad wink Chiun ducked past Smith and headed out into the hallway to check on his trunks. Alone, Smith gripped the door frame until his knuckles turned white. His sick eyes strayed to the fuzzy wallpaper.

With renewed worries of hidden microphones, the CURE director left the small waiting room.

THE NEXT DAY was Saturday.

There was normally only a skeleton work crew at Folcroft on weekends. Smith made certain that there was less staff than usual. It was early in the afternoon, after lunch but before visiting hours, when the three men met once more in Folcroft's basement gymnasium.

The gym was on the far side of the big building, beyond the already closed cafeteria. At MacCleary's insistence, Smith had informed the duty staff that any strange noises they might hear this day would be caused by plumbers working on the sanitarium's ancient boiler-fed heating system.

"Good afternoon, Emperor Smith," Chiun said as he padded into the big room in the company of Conrad MacCleary.

This was the title the old Korean had decided on the previous night.

Smith reluctantly accepted it for the time being. On consideration, he realized that it wouldn't cause too many raised eyebrows given the mental state of many of Folcroft's patients. And there would be plenty of time to convince the Master of Sinanju to drop the honorific, assuming things worked out the way MacCleary seemed to think they would.

Ever punctual, Smith was standing alone in the gym reading the day's newspaper. He fully expected MacCleary to be late. After all, he usually was. Assuming it was the Master of Sinanju who had held Conn MacCleary to the preordained time, Smith folded his paper and tucked it neatly up under his arm as the men stopped before him.

MacCleary had been drinking. Smith could smell the stale booze on the big man. Not enough to be drunk. Just an eye-opener to steady the nerves for what lay ahead.

"You're going to be amazed, Smitty," Conn assured him.

Smith reserved judgment. He calmly placed his newspaper on a small shelf near a wall-mounted black phone. Crossing his arms, he waited near the door for MacCleary to set up for the demonstration.

He was surprised when MacCleary eschewed the floor mats that were rolled in the corner of the gym. Smith assumed that this Sinanju martial art was like all the others. Given the reputation of the House of Sinanju, he thought Chiun might be faster than other martial artists, but he assumed a demonstration would still involve a lot of tumbling, shouting and breaking of boards.

The CURE director knew he was in for something different when the old Oriental padded to the far side of the gym.

A few yards away from Smith, MacCleary waited at the faded foul line of the basketball court.

When Chiun was in position across the hall, MacCleary reached under his rumpled jacket.

Smith was looking from one man to the next, confused at what sort of demonstration this might be. Only when he glanced back at MacCleary did he see the gun.

MacCleary had pulled out a .38 Police Special. Smith felt his stomach freeze. He was running at a full sprint over to MacCleary even as the big man was taking a careful bead on the wizened Korean who stood, calmly awaiting doom, on the other side of the gym.

Even before he reached MacCleary, Smith knew he'd be too late. When it came, the single shot was like thunder in the gymnasium. The fat slug screamed across the gym.