Warren Murphy: Bamboo Dragon

"What can you tell me about dragons?" Remo asked a moment later.

"Dragons?"

"You know, giant lizards breathing fire, that kind of thing."

"Sarcasm is a poor excuse for discourse," said the Master of Sinanju.

Remo rolled his eyes at that one. "You've been known to use your share."

"Nonsense. The Master of Sinanju does not bandy words with fools. I offer wise instruction and correct the faults of those who fail through negligence, stupidity and arrogance. If my instruction shames them, it is only through a private recognition of their own unworthiness."

"About those dragons… "

Chiun considered Remo's question for a time before he spoke. "In ancient days," he said at last, "before the Supreme Being attained his pinnacle of achievement by creating the first Korean, it amused him to place monsters on the earth. Their forms were varied and diverse, but most of them were stupid creatures. It is written that a few possessed low cunning and the sort of greed that plagues most non-Koreans to the present day. They killed for sport, as some men do, and hoarded skulls as if old lizard bones had some intrinsic value. Finally, when the creator tired of watching them, he slaughtered most of those he had created to make way for human beings."

"Slaughtered most?"

"It is my personal opinion—and most probably the truth—that the creator, driven by his need to see perfection in the flesh, neglected to exterminate the monsters thoroughly. A few survived and hid themselves away in caverns underneath the ground. They watched as men began to multiply and reap undreamed-of harvests from the earth. In time, they threatened man, collecting tribute in the form of gold and silver, precious stones and virgins."

"Virgins?"

"Even monsters have to eat," Chiun replied.

"Of course. I wasn't thinking."

"A lamentable consistency," the Master of Sinanju said.

"So, you believe in dragons?" Remo asked.

"Belief implies a matter of opinion," said Chiun. "A wise man is conversant with the facts of life, reserving his belief for matters of the heart."

"Excuse me, Little Father. What I meant to ask—"

"You meant to ask if there are dragons in the earth today," Chiun finished for him. "My experience as Master of Sinanju offers no solution to the question, but there is a story… "

"Yes?"

"Before the days of Tamerlane, when Master Kim embodied the perfection of Sinanju, it is written that a foolish dragon tried to victimize the people of my village. He was old, this scaly worm, and knew the ways of lesser men from feasting on their brains. Of course, he did not know Sinanju, any more than a gorilla in the zoo can speak Korean."

"So, what happened?"

"Master Kim prevailed with only minimal exertion," said Chiun. "Have you not learned that size means nothing in Sinanju?"

"Kim went out and killed the dragon?"

"Master Kim," Chiun corrected him. "If you peruse the early scrolls, you will discover an amusing recipe for lizard stew."

"I'll pass," said Remo.

"Such disdain from one who has been known to gorge himself on charred cow's flesh." Chiun scanned the stack of books in front of him. "Is there no information here on dragons?"

"The authors aren't Korean."

"And still, their scribblings are accepted as the final word? Incredible."

"I'm going on a dragon hunt," said Remo. "I'll be gone awhile."

"It will be difficult to find one in the modern world," said Chiun. "Perhaps impossible."

"It doesn't matter," Remo told him. "Dr. Smith is more concerned with ringers and uranium."

A total lunatic, Chiun thought. Aloud he said, "The emperor is always right."

"I don't suppose you'd want to come along?"

"Will we be stopping at Sinanju?"

"Not this time. I'm sorry, Little Father."

"Is there television?"

"Almost certainly."

Chiun thought about it for another moment, finally nodding. "I shall go. If there are dragons to be slain, the Master of Sinanju should be there."

"My thoughts exactly," Remo said.

"Of course," Chiun replied. "You recognize perfection, even when it stands beyond your grasp."

Chapter Four

It was a mile-long walk from the chaotic central market back to Remo's lodgings at the Hotel Merlin, on Jalan Sultan Ismail. He made the trek on foot, preferring crowds for cover. Also, he wanted to avoid taxis, because he didn't believe in coincidences. And in that case, he could expect other stalkers searching for him on the street. He wasn't followed from the marketplace, but that was little consolation in the present circumstances.

He was blown. Someone had tried to kill him, and even if the effort was clumsy it was proof positive that Remo's cover had been shot to hell. Logic called for him to scrub the mission, which had been compromised, take Chiun and fly back to the States as soon as possible, but Remo knew he couldn't run away.

His pride was part of it, a failing that Chiun and all the wisdom of Sinanju were unable to eradicate. And there was Remo's patriotic fervor, still a mystery to Chiun, who couldn't understand why any man—much less a trained assassin—would be anxious to surrender life for something so abstract as "God and country."

"What is it you love about America?" Chiun had asked his pupil in the early days of their association.

"I believe," Remo answered, "that this country has given so many people so many chances that it deserves to be protected."

"Why?" the Master of Sinanju prodded.

"Because I'm an American."

And that was that. Despite Chiun's admonitions that a man owed nothing to the country that had framed him for a murder he didn't commit, then staged his execution, drafting him into the service of a cause he didn't choose or fully understand, Remo wouldn't be shaken from the basic tenets of his faith in the United States.

America was threatened by the proliferation of nuclear arms in unreliable hands. If there was weapons-grade uranium available in the Malaysian jungle, it behooved America's defenders to ensure that none of it wound up in Baghdad, in Tehran, Beirut or any of a hundred other places where an A-bomb could ignite the fuse of global holocaust.

The job came down to Remo by coincidence, or maybe it was Fate. In either case, he viewed the execution of that duty as a privilege.

Chiun was watching television in their suite when Remo got there, seated on the floor, a perfect lotus, while he indulged his blossoming fascination for "Love's Secret Flame." This afternoon, it seemed that Whitney Calendar must finally decide between her husband, the philandering Arturo, and the handsome lawyer, Stetson Keating, who admired her none too subtly from a distance.

"How's it going with the Calendars?"

"Arturo is an idiot, enslaved by alcohol," said Chiun, "but he has possibilities. This Keating is not good for Whitney."

"Never trust a lawyer."

"You state the obvious."

Remo sat down on the nearest bed and waited for the next commercial break. "Somebody tried to kill me in the marketplace," he said when Chiun was momentarily distracted from the tube.

"A foolish bandit?" Chiun inquired.

"It was supposed to look that way," said Remo, "but they were assassins."

"Common thugs," Chiun replied. "If they had truly earned the designation of assassin, they would not be dead."

"How do you know I killed them?"

"You are not entirely foolish. Also, you are still alive. How many were there?"

"Six."

The Master's smile was tinged with pride, but he recovered in the twinkling of an eye. "So, they were clumsy thugs."

"I'd like to know who sent them," Remo said. "Right now, I'm flying blind."

"Trust no one," Chiun advised him, "and you won't be taken by surprise."

The douche commercial faded and resolved itself into a close-up of a frowning Whitney Calendar. The camera panned across to find Arturo staring at her, sipping from a whiskey glass.