Warren Murphy: Air Raid

The wizened Asian seemed as old as stars or sea. At the roof of the house Remo had lived in for ten years, there had been a glass-enclosed cupola that the Master of Sinanju often used as a meditation room. The house and its tower sun room were now gone.

Lately, the Folcroft attic had been a poor substitute for his teacher's beloved retreat.

Dried flesh speckled with age was pulled tight over a skull of fragile bone. Twin tufts of yellowing white hair jutted from above shell-like ears. On the back of the old Korean's flaming orange kimono, coiling green dragons framed a bamboo pagoda. The body that moved beneath the shimmering silk kimono was reed-thin and frail.

The old Asian was writing again. He'd been doing a lot of that lately.

Over the past few months the Master of Sinanju had been carting a stack of ornate gold envelopes around wherever he went. He had been writing letter after letter. He didn't have to worry about secrecy, since most times he was writing in languages Remo didn't understand. But at one point when he was peeking, Remo swore one of the envelopes was addressed to the queen of England. The envelope had been quickly pulled away and hidden from his prying eyes.

From what he had managed to see, it almost looked to Remo like the Sinanju version of a resume.

There was a stack of the envelopes on the floor now. A pile of smaller silver envelopes sat beside it. The Master of Sinanju had been including one of the silver envelopes with each of his carefully inscribed letters.

This evening it was not the mysterious letters that held the old man's attention.

The Master of Sinanju seemed oblivious to Remo's approach. Yet when the younger man was nearly upon him, he shook his aged head. His soft hair quivered at the motion.

"You are white," said Chiun, Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju. He spoke the words with sadness, not malice. He did not turn to face his pupil.

"Guilty as charged," Remo replied.

He saw his teacher's face now. A thread of beard quivered at the tip of Chiun's pointed chin. Hazel eyes that still appeared young, despite the Korean's advanced age, stared solemnly out the dirty windowpanes.

Chiun offered a forlorn sigh. "Long have I danced around the subject of your rampaging whiteness."

"What dance?" Remo asked. "You've been griping about me being white for as long as I've known you. You called me an albino at breakfast this morning and a snowman on my way out the door. I should have known something was up. Even for you, that seemed a bit much for one day." He nodded to a parchment on the floor. "This has something to do with my place in the Sinanju Scrolls, I assume." Chiun was no longer writing letters. A sheet of plain rice paper was rolled open at the Master of Sinanju's crossed knees. Near it was an open bottle of ink. The old man held a quill in one bony hand. Although he'd dipped pen to ink hours ago, he'd yet to make a single mark on the paper. The ink had long dried to the quill's tip.

"White," Chiun lamented. "You are not 'fair' or 'pale' or any of the others things I have said you are to avoid stating the absolute truth. You are white."

"White as Michael Jackson," Remo agreed. "And I thought we were over this. Once we found out my family had a Master of Sinanju in the woodpile, I thought you'd finally given all that junk a rest."

"A drop of good in an ocean of you can only offer small comfort. It cannot dissipate the rest of the youness which--it pains me to admit is white. Yes, white, Remo. There, I have said it. You are white. White, white, white."

"Big whoop, I'm white," Remo said. His face was slowly drooping into a scowl. "Why are you so worked up about this all of a sudden?"

"Because I have reached a turning point in my recording of Sinanju history," Chiun replied. "I must finally address your sad condition in the Sacred Scrolls."

"What's so different about today?" Remo asked. "You've been lying in those scrolls for years. Who'd know the difference if you just pulled one of your usual cover-ups?"

Chiun's face and tone grew cold. "I do not lie," he said. "Yes, on occasion I have left a fact unrepresented. But that is not the same as lying. Avoiding the absolute, unvarnished truth is sometimes necessary, Remo, and is not automatically or necessarily a lie."

"All depends on what your meaning of it is, I suppose," Remo said dryly.

"Precisely. And I can no longer not tell the full truth. I must record for future Masters of Sinanju the truth of the is that is you, lest some blabbermouth tell it after me and cast a shadow on my entire Masterhood. For the scandal of deceit could taint my reputation posthumously. Therefore, I must divulge your secret now. Woe is me." Releasing another long sigh, his shoulders sank pitifully.

Remo's eyes narrowed. "Wait a second," he said. "I'm the guy who takes over the scrolls next. You're afraid I might spill the beans, aren't you?"

Chiun gave him a baleful look. "Wouldn't you?" Remo considered.

"Maybe," he admitted. "Since I'm not the Korean version of Al Sharpton like you are, I doubt the subject of race will come up for me as much as it did for you, but if it's relevant I'd say so. I don't have any reason to be ashamed of who and what I am."

"A distinctly white thing to say," Chiun said, crinkling his nose in displeasure. "I knew this would be your feeling because you have never seen your white skin as the social disease that it is. And so I am left with my great dilemma."

"The truth will set you free, Little Father."

The lightness had returned to his tone. The Master of Sinanju glanced up in suspicion at his pupil. "Where were you all day?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"Drove into the city," Remo replied. "It's a real zoo this time of year." He squatted, picking up one of the gold envelopes. The scrawl of a foreign language looked familiar. "Is that Russian?" he asked.

Chiun snatched the envelope from his hands. On the back Remo saw briefly the symbol of Sinanju. A trapezoid bisected by a vertical line. It had been formed in a single drop of melted wax that sealed the envelope.

"None of your business," Chiun snapped, sweeping a hand across the pile of envelopes. The entire stack vanished up the broad sleeve of his kimono.

Remo didn't seem very bothered by the old man's harsh tone. He was thinking of the benefit concert he'd just left. Without knowing it, a smile stretched across his face.

Chiun's eyes narrowed. "You seem very pleased with yourself," he said slowly. "Have you fulfilled the tradition of Master Nik?"

"Nah," Remo said. "I just did something nice for me and I'm happy."

The Master of Sinanju's eyes grew flat. "I am glad that you are happy, Remo," he said.

"Me, too."

"It is important that you are happy."

"Here it comes," said Remo.

"Whether or not I am happy is unimportant." Remo was relieved at that moment to hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs leading to the attic.

"Saved by the bell," he muttered.

Across the cluttered attic, the ancient door opened. While it had opened silently for Remo, it creaked now on its rusty old hinges. A familiar face peered into the attic.

"There you are. I saw your car in the parking lot, but you weren't in your quarters."

Remo wasn't a big fan of Mark Howard, the new assistant director of CURE, but at the moment the young man was a welcome sight.

"Just got in," Remo said. "What's up?"

"Dr. Smith said you might be up here," Howard said. "He'd like to see you both in his office as soon as possible." Still at the door, he was looking around the dingy attic. "I thought I'd taken a complete tour of the building, but I somehow missed up here. Some of the corridors in the older wing are like mazes."

Remo wasn't interested in the assistant CURE director's architectural observations. From what he'd seen of the young man in action, he wouldn't be surprised if Howard got lost every time he tried to pull on a sweater.