Warren Murphy: The Last Monarch

"I agree. Where are you?"

"Weizmann-Teacher's Hospital in Los Angeles."

"You are not in any immediate danger?"

"Only if they try serving me the cafeteria's blueplate special."

Smith considered. "I will contact CURE's enforcement arm at once and dispatch him and his trainer to California. Expect them sometime tomorrow."

"That'll be fine," the former President said warmly. "Maybe this time, they'll get it right."

It was said jokingly. In fact, there was no rancor in the old man's voice. He didn't seem angry in the least that he'd been robbed of a good part of the waning years of his life.

"If all goes well, we should not speak again," Smith said. He was already swiveling toward the blue phone.

"Too bad. I've missed our little talks. I suppose it's necessary, though, isn't it?"

"Yes, Mr. President. If there isn't anything else ... ?"

It was a very obvious hint.

"No." The former President hesitated a beat. "Smith?"

The CURE director had been about to hang up the phone. He brought the receiver back to his ear. "Yes, Mr. President?"

"It's nice to hear your voice."

Smith paused a heartbeat. In the darkness of his Folcroft office, he thought once more of how much times had changed. He took a deep breath as he thought of an earlier time, a better time.

"Yours, too, sir," he said, then hung up the phone.

Chapter 4

As soon as Remo steered his leased car into the parking lot of the local All-Nite Bombshell Video Store, he felt his jaw drop.

A Die Down IV poster was taped to the interior window just beside the automatic In door.

That was Chiun's movie.

It was impossible, but there it was. On the flattened one-sheet poster was the familiar lopsided grimace of Lance Wallace, the star of all the Die Down films.

The sweating actor was proudly stripped to the waist, his ample belly hanging over his belt. Apparently, no one in Hollywood was willing to tell the star that he was in dreadful physical shape. Streaks of Karo blood had been applied to his slick skin. Pictured behind him were at least five separate explosions.

Remo fought waves of dread as he pocketed his keys. Head spinning, he walked into the store. Inside, he made a beeline for the action-adventure rack. After much searching, he found a copy of the film. There were only two others behind it.

Remo went up to the counter, dropping his membership card and the plastic case containing the video before the young clerk.

"Good flick," the young man commented as he scanned the bar code on Remo's card. He slid the piece of thin plastic back across the counter.

"You've seen it?" Remo asked worriedly.

The kid nodded. "Just came in last night. A bunch of us stay and watch the movies sometimes. This is a good one."

"I heard it wasn't supposed to be released for a while."

The clerk talked as he slipped the movie into a yellow-and-blue Bombshell bag. "Lawyers worked out some deal between the estate of Quintly Tortilli and Taurus Studios. It was all done kind of quiet. Usually a movie that cost that much to produce gets at least a limited theatrical release. This one went straight to video for some reason."

He slid the bag down the counter, skirting the upright electronic sensor so that the film box didn't activate the store alarm.

"You don't have very many copies," Remo said, trying not to sound hopeful.

"Bombshell didn't order many. The demand isn't supposed to be that great. You're the first person to rent one. Too bad. Tortilli was a genius. He's like a hero to me. But we get a bunch of promotional stuff from the studios. I'm trying to get something started with the poster in the window. You know, to honor his memory."

"Yeah, I know," Remo said thinly.

He had met Tortilli. The man was responsible for a great many deaths and two situations that nearly resulted in the assassination of the President of the United States. Hardly a man who should be posthumously deified.

Remo collected his movie at the end of the counter and slipped out the door.

After he was gone, the clerk pulled out a battered movie rating guide. As he was scanning a bored eye over some of the more infuriatingly wrong reviews, he heard the In door hum open once more.

Only after a moment did he realize that no one had come into the store.

He looked up, puzzled.

It had been a slow night since the start of his shift. There was no sign of anyone near the automatic eye of the entrance.

As he looked at the door, something didn't look quite right. Whatever it was, he couldn't put his finger on it.

Oh, well. Shrugging, he returned to his book.

IN THE PARKING LOT outside, Remo used a repetitive slashing motion to reduce the twenty-seven-by-forty-inch Die Down IV poster to confetti. The shiny strips of paper that gathered at his feet looked as if they'd been run through a shredder. A faint breeze snagged them, blowing the long curling strands toward the street.

Gathering up the Bombshell bag from the hood of his car, Remo climbed in behind the wheel. There was something he hadn't dared to look at on either poster or videotape. Screwing up his courage, he pulled the plastic case from the bag. Lance Wallace's name was displayed prominently above the movie title. Remo looked below the title, at the other names listed in the fine print. He was interested in only one.

When he found the screenwriting credit, he stifled a laugh of relief.

"All I can say is, they're lucky they're all dead." He chuckled, shaking his head. "And I still wouldn't want to be in any of their shoes."

Grinning, he tossed the box onto the passenger's seat. Turning the key, he followed the wind-tossed poster shreds out onto the main drag.

Chapter 5

Chiun, Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju, was absolutely, positively not in a snotty mood. Far from it.

Oh, considering all he had been forced to endure at the hands of idiots in the past few months, no one was more entitled than him to lapse into such a state. But it was a testament to his superior ability to cope with buffoons that he was able to rise above his snot-provoking id.

Snot. A disgustingly vile term.

It was Remo's, of course. At various times over the days and weeks since Chiun's unhappy return from Hollywood, Remo had described him as being "on the snot" or "in a snotty mood." Everything came up effluvium to that boy.

Chiun dismissed not only the term, but the accusation.

He was as happy and devil-may-care as ever. A carefree soul unaffected by the vicissitudes of life. This was what he insisted to himself as he stomped through the empty condominium he shared with his pupil. As he slithered from room to room an ominous wraith in a black kimono-he slammed door after door. The echoes reached the street with the report of rifle cracks.

Who cared that he had been lied to by Hollywood producers? Such was life.

What did it matter that an untrustworthy director had ruined Chiun's first foray into motion pictures? There would be other opportunities.

Why should it matter that the film was being held from release by endless litigation? It was no skin off his nose.

Even though the world dealt him misery and abuse at every turn in his hundred-plus years of life, Chiun was happy. Happy, happy, happy.

The old Korean's tour of the house brought him back to the kitchen. He had completed this circuit a hundred times since Remo's departure that morning.

One bony hand snaked out from the concealment of a kimono sleeve. Popping the door open, he slipped inside the room, flinging the door shut behind him.

It struck the frame with a house-rattling crack. He moved through the kitchen to the door on the opposite side of the room.

Chiun had opened this door and was about to slam it shut when he heard a familiar rhythmic heartbeat move into his sphere of detection. It came from out front.