Warren Murphy: Engines of Destruction

Shying from the horrible sight, Chiun threw a teal sleeve across his eyes. "No, I cannot bear to look upon those maimed things. Look away, O Emperor. Remo, hide them, lest you offend Smith the Tolerant for all time."

"Where do I hide my hands?" Remo asked, lifting his arms to show off his white T-shirt and tight tan chinos.

"You have pockets."

"There's nothing wrong with my hands."

"You have the nails of a sloth, and you say that!" Chiun whirled. "Smith, a boon. Surgeons have changed Remo's face in the past. Can anything be done for his retarded fingernails?"

"I have never heard of cuticle implants," Smith said with no humor whatsoever.

Chiun's spare shoulders sagged. "Then it is hopeless. When I pass into the Void, I will be the last of my line with nails of the correct length."

With that, the Master of Sinanju lifted his hands and stared at them, his parchment features a mask of regret. His nails curved out a good inch beyond his bony fingertips. They looked like ivory daggers and could slice a human throat open with a casual flick.

"He's still trying to get me to grow Fu Manchu fingernails," Remo undertoned to Smith.

"Resist," Smith whispered back.

"Yes!" Chiun cried. "Resist these Western urges, Remo. Do as Smith commands. Let your fingers flower and grow. Unleash the deadliness that lurks within. There is nothing to fear. I will teach you proper nail cultivation. Do this one thing, and your training will be complete. I will ask nothing more of you."

Remo shook his head firmly. "No soap, Chiun. Once I cave in on the nails, you'll be fitting me for a fighting kimono."

"You should be on bended knee begging for a respectable kimono. You look like a scarecrow in those hideous pantaloons."

"Trousers," said Remo.

"Remo needs to blend in with our society," Smith said firmly.

"Let your society know him for a Sinanju assassin! What is this mania for secrecy?"

Remo and Smith exchanged glances. Neither man spoke, but their weary expressions all but said, You explain it to him this time.

"I must go," Smith said in his lemoniest tone of voice.

"Need a lift to the airport?" asked Remo.

"No. I came by train."

"Train?"

"Yes, it was the most economical option. Also I wished to observe the Amtrak system firsthand."

"Why's that?"

Smith lowered his voice. "That is an operational matter."

"Checking out Amtrak involves national security?"

Chiun piped up, his wrinkled face suddenly stern, "Remo! Do you not read your newspapers? The insurgent Amtraks are at the forefront of the rebellions in the far western provinces. Even as we stand here, unsuspecting, they are sowing sedition and advocating the overthrow of the Eagle Throne, which we are pledged to protect."

Smith adjusted his Dartmouth tie uncomfortably. "If you do not mind, I must be going," he muttered.

Chiun inclined his head in a stiff semibow. "Though you take the very sun with you, we will press on, unbowed, living for the day that you call upon us to do your bidding, O generous one," he cried.

"Er, yes," Smith said. He hurried up the street to the subway station as if being hectored by bullies.

"Do you always have to do that?" Remo asked Chiun.

"It is better than suffering that man's tiresome company all evening," Chiun sniffed.

"Smitty's not so bad."

"He eats his rice with a fork," Chiun spat, and then promptly kicked all four oversize tires on the Dragoon.

"Why are you doing that?" Remo asked.

"Because you neglected to."

Remo patted the hull. "So how do you like it?"

Chiun regarded the gleaming monster of steel plate critically and asked, "Why is it scarlet?"

"So the maniacs will see me coming and get the hell out of my way," Remo explained. "And you haven't answered my question."

Chiun wrinkled up his tiny nose. "It lacks dragons."

"I like it the way it is. Without dragons."

"It is half mine. There will be a dragon painted upon my half. See that it is finished by morning."

"If it's your half, why do I have to paint it?"

"Because if you do not, I will insist upon dual matching dragons, not to mention front and rear phoenixes."

Remo sighed. "What color dragon?"

"Gold and green are good dragon colors. But I leave this to you."

"You know, I haven't painted anything since kindergarten."

Chiun shrugged. "You are still young and have all night to learn your craft."

With that, the Master of Sinanju bustled back into the fieldstone building they shared. In past times it had been a church, a Sikh temple and possibly had seen other, more secular incarnations. Now it was a nondenominational condominium. Converted back in the eighties, it had never been offered to the public. Instead, Harold Smith had bought it at auction, turning it over to the Master of Sinanju as part of a previous contract settlement. Chiun had promptly dubbed it Castle Sinanju, and they had moved in. Remo occupied one wing and Chiun the other. They shared the low, crenellated bell tower. It was to this tower Chiun had repaired, Remo knew. Ostensibly to meditate but in reality to watch as Remo once again did his bidding.

There were times in the past when Remo would have fought Chiun's dragon. But theirs was now a long association, and Remo had learned to get along. So what if he had to paint a dragon? It was a small thing to do for the man who had transformed Remo Williams from a still-breathing dead man to the sole heir to the House of Sinanju.

It had been so long ago Remo had forgotten the year. He no longer thought in years anyway. That was Western. Remo wasn't completely Eastern, but a subtle blend of East and West.

In the days when he had been Remo Williams, Newark beat cop, all Remo knew about the East was soaked up during a tour in Vietnam. Turning in his Marine fatigues for city-cop blues, Remo had settled down to the perfectly ordinary life of a police officer.

The day the stony-faced detectives arrested him changed all that. He was charged with the beating death of a pusher-another name he had forgotten. Faster than he could absorb events, Remo was tried, convicted and given the seat of dishonor in the Death House.

He woke up, not dead but in a place called Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York. He was soon to discover it was the cover for CURE, the organization that had framed him. Just as he was slowly realizing the electric chair had been rigged to deliver a nonlethal charge.

They put him in the hands of Chiun, the last Master of Sinanju. He wasn't given a choice. Since he was already dead and buried in the eyes of the world, finishing the job was just a matter of plunging a charged needle in his arm and dumping him into the still-fresh grave with his name on it.

Remo had never heard of Sinanju before that day so long ago. He learned that Sinanju was the name of a tiny fishing village in North Korea, which in turn became the seat of the House of Sinanju, a line of assassins that stretched back some five thousand years. But most of all, Sinanju was the name of the martial-arts discipline practiced by the Masters of Sinanju-village and house.

Remo had been selected to be the first Westerner to be taught the secrets of Sinanju. It sounded cool when Remo had first had it explained to him.

"Is this like kung fu?" Remo asked Chiun.

"What do you know of kung fu?" Chiun snapped.

"Bruce Lee does it in movies. Five guys jump him, and he sends them flying in all directions."

Chiun's bright hazel eyes had narrowed in a look Remo would learn to fear. "You enjoy seeing men fly in all directions?"

"Sure."

And getting up from his lotus position on the Folcroft gym floor, Chiun had obliged Remo. By throwing him in all directions.

A half hour of being bounced off assorted walls taught Remo a very valuable lesson.