Warren Murphy: The Last Monarch

"Oh, I understand," Remo nodded. "They thought Master was Mister."

"And this offense?" Chiun demanded, dropping his hands. His long, tapered index fingernail quivered as he indicated the name Chin.

"A simple typo," Remo suggested.

"Rest assured, simple type O will flood the streets of Hollywood when I lay hands on he who is responsible for this egregious insult," the Master of Sinanju warned.

"Before it gets that far, maybe we should check the movie itself."

"Why?" Chiun snapped. "What use is it to burrow inside a garbage heap?" He flung the box away in disgust.

"Because," Remo said reasonably, snatching up the video before it hit the floor, "it might not be wrong on the tape. I was going to check after you went to bed."

He popped open the box, removing the videotape. Chiun dogged him into the living room. Remo stopped in front of the VCR. After more than twenty years and a succession of replacements, he still wasn't sure how to use the device.

"You are saying that the mistake might only be on the case?" Chiun pressed from his elbow.

"I don't know," Remo said, frowning as he studied the VCR. "Does that top-hat-looking symbol mean on?"

Clucking, Chiun tugged the cassette from Remo's hand. With a slap, he fed the tape into the VCR. Whirring, the machine loaded the tape and began to play automatically.

As it ran through the first of several commercials, Remo picked up the universal remote and switched on the big-screen TV. In the meantime, Chiun settled to a lotus position on the floor before the television.

"Can't we fast-forward this?" Remo complained as the tape ran through an ad for the second Die Down film.

"Shh!"

Remo sank to the floor, as well, careful to stay out of hand or foot range. He braced his chin on one hand. In addition to commercials for the first three Die Down movies, there were ads for a soft drink, a candy bar, a minivan, two competing software companies and an upcoming animated feature from the Walt Disney company.

"I thought people rented movies to get away from ads," Remo griped as the commercials passed the twenty-minute mark.

"Leave the room if you cannot be quiet," Chiun ordered.

He had barely spoken before the movie finally started.

The opening credits were superimposed over a scene depicting some sort of terrorist training camp. Apparently, it was supposed to be in Ireland if the pathetic accents the actors were attempting were any indication. To Remo, they all sounded like bad versions of the leprechaun from the Lucky Charms ads.

When the screen terrorists began to slaughter a group of drug-dealing Catholic church officials, Remo sat straighter. The scene appeared to be coming to an end, which meant the credits had to be almost over.

As a blood-smeared bishop carrying an Uzi he'd had hidden in his miter dropped in slow motion into an open grave, the thing they had both been waiting for finally appeared: "Story by Quintly Tortilli "

"Aiiee!"

The scream rose up from the wounded depths of Chiun's very soul. So quickly did the old man spring from the floor, not even Remo's highly trained eyes could follow. The Master of Sinanju materialized next to the VCR in an instant. He slammed his hand to the machine's face.

As Chiun ejected the tape, Remo jumped to his feet.

"Chiun, wait-!" Too late.

The tape popped out into Chiun's bony hand. The other hand swung around, kimono sleeve billowing like an angry black cloud. When the hands met, the tape between them was pulverized to tiny black shards. Spools of black tape exploded out either side.

Chiun dusted the plastic fragments to the floor. "Heads will roll!" he exploded.

Remo ignored the tirade. He knelt beside the smashed remains of the videotape.

"Dammit, Chiun, I rented that with my card," he complained. "Now I'm gonna have to pay for it."

"Oh, someone will pay," Chiun intoned seriously, his face a menacing mask. "But it will not be you."

With that, the old Korean spun on his heel and stormed from the room. When he slammed his bedroom door a moment later, the entire house shook with the vibrations. Remo felt the rattling dissipate beneath the soles of his loafers.

"At least for a change it's not me," he muttered. Rising to his feet, he went off in search of a dustpan and brush.

Chapter 6

The nine o'clock sun the next morning was shining warmly through the kitchen window the next morning and Remo was trying to decide what to make for breakfast when he noticed the broken telephone.

The phone sat on the counter. The plastic tab that plugged into the wall jack had been crushed. Only when he was looking at this phone did Remo notice that the one that ordinarily hung from the wall was missing entirely. A bare spot stared back at him from where it had been.

He found the phone stuffed in the trash.

Since the previous night's outburst, the Master of Sinanju had yet to emerge from his room. Remo went to the bottom of the stairs.

"Chiun! Did somebody call while I was in New York?"

"Go away!" Chiun's disembodied voice shouted back.

Remo didn't press the issue. Walking into the living room, he noted that a few black plastic videotape chips had been ground into the rug. He'd vacuum them up later. For now, he looked for the phone that was ordinarily on the lamp table.

He found it. Or what remained of it.

The phone was little more than a pile of stringy multicolored wires and broken tan plastic. Chiun had stuffed the remnants underneath a corner of the rug.

"Smith," Remo muttered with a certain nod. He pushed the phone debris back under the carpet. Leaving breakfast for later, he stepped outside into the morning sunlight. Enjoying the warming rays on his face, he walked down the street to a pay phone.

Humming, Remo stabbed the 1 button repeatedly. The familiar connections sounded in his ear as the call was routed to the Folcroft office of Harold Smith. The CURE director answered on the first ring.

"Hello?" Smith's tart voice asked sharply.

"Hiya, Smitty."

"Remo?" There was a cautious edge to his tone.

"Of course it's me," Remo said. "Hey, did you call me last night?"

Any relief the CURE director might have felt was overwhelmed by annoyance.

"Where the devil have you been?" Smith demanded.

The older man's aggravation was contagious. "You're on the rag a little early this month, aren't you?" Remo asked.

"I tried calling a number of times," Smith insisted. Some of the tension drained from his voice. He seemed relieved to finally be talking to Remo. "There is something wrong with your phone line."

"Yeah," Remo dodged. "Gotta have Ma Bell look into that. What's up?"

"An unusual assignment that requires a certain level of both delicacy and discretion has presented itself," Smith said. "It involves the Sinanju amnesia technique. It would seem that a former United States President has regained knowledge of us."

Remo was instantly concerned. "Not Peanut Boy?" he asked.

The President to which he referred now worked on the Hovels for Humans program, building shanties and lean-tos for indigents. Remo had a sudden mental image of a crack-addicted, pregnant teen runaway roofer with a mouthful of nails accidentally dropping a hammer on the retired President's head.

"No," Smith replied, setting Remo's mind at ease. "His successor. The former chief executive was bucked by a horse and knocked unconscious. The accident triggered his memory."

Remo was stunned. "Smitty, he's got to be a million by now. What the hell's a guy his age doing on a horse?"

"It was supposed to be a photo opportunity," Smith answered thinly. "A foolish stunt, given his condition."

"You got that right," Remo agreed. A thought occurred to him. "Plus, doesn't he have Alzheimer's? How do you even know he remembers?"