Warren Murphy - Engines of Destruction

Hefting the awkward box on his shoulder, Remo followed the Master of Sinanju from Harold Smith's office. On his way out the door, he gave the steamer trunk a surreptitious shake.

The sound made him think of uncooked rice grain, but the box was too light to be full of grains. Toothpicks maybe. Or Rice Krispies. He gave the box another shake. That was definitely a Rice Krispies sound. Therefore, it was not Rice Krispies. There was no reason Chiun would have him lug Rice Krispies all over the place. Rocks, yes. Not rice in any form.

Stepping on the waiting elevator, Remo figured he'd learn the truth soon enough.

AN HOUR LATER, Remo was grinning from ear to ear.

Under Chiun's tutelage, he had learned the Wheel Stroke, the Clearer Stroke, the Pear Splitter and other samurai sword techniques.

"Hey, I'm pretty good at this," Remo said as he deflected Chiun's blade for the third time.

"Too good," spat Chiun, withdrawing.

"How's it possible to be too good?"

They were in the spacious Folcroft gymnasium. It was here that Remo had first met Chiun and where he had received his earliest Sinanju training.

Chiun frowned as deeply as Remo grinned.

"You may have some Japanese blood polluting your veins," Chiun said.

"Not a chance."

"You are such a mongrel, how are we to know?"

Remo grinned. "I'm good. That's all there is to it."

"You had an excellent teacher."

Remo saw his opening and took it. "I did, didn't I."

And Chiun struggled so hard to hide his pleasure at the unexpected compliment that his wrinkled face twitched like a cobweb in a breeze.

"It may be we are ready to meet the ronin in combat," Chiun allowed, his voice stiffening to keep the unseemly warmth from it.

"I know I am. But what about you? En garde!"

And Remo lunged.

Chiun floated into the approaching stroke, katana gripped in two hands. It came up, clashed, parried and spanked both sides of the black blade four times before Remo could complete his thrust.

Fluttering out of the way, the Master of Sinanju said, "Remember who is Master and who is not."

Remo stared at his still-quivering sword blade. "Point taken," he said in a suddenly small voice.

They laid the blades aside.

"I wonder who this guy Batsuka is?" Remo asked after a while.

"A ronin. "

"If he works for Nishitsu, doesn't that make him a samurai? I mean, he's not really masterless if he works for a corporation, is he?"

Chiun frowned in thought. "He does not wear the crest of his clan on his shoulder. Therefore, he is ronin, not samurai."

"Of course he doesn't. He's a saboteur. What's he gonna do? Wear the corporate logo?"

Chiun caressed his wispy beard. "I do not understand."

"It's simple. If he wears the logo, that points directly to Nishitsu. He can't exactly do that, so he leaves it off. Still and all, he is a samurai."

"We do not know this," Chiun said stiffly.

"Every step of the way, he used Nishitsu products."

"He is Japanese. He is comfortable with things Japanese. It is very Japanese to be that way."

"I guess that makes sense," Remo admitted. "Still wonder who he is really. Samurai died out a long time ago."

Chiun's eyes suddenly narrowed. Reaching into one sleeve, he produced the metal bulldozer plate found at the crash site in Mystic, Connecticut. His eyes went to the company symbol, four disks in a circle.

"This is the crest of Shogun Nishi," he muttered.

"Are you going back to that?"

"The crest of Nishi is the sign of Hideo, which is a limb of Nishitsu. Do you not see the significance, Remo? The sons of Nishi must be the shoguns of Nishitsu!"

"I don't think modern corporations have shoguns, Little Father."

"There is more to this than meets the eye," Chiun said slowly. His fists began to clench and unclench. He looked at his broken nail, and his wispy beard trembled.

"It all makes sense now," he said in a low, bitter voice.

"To everyone except me," Remo muttered. "I'll bet when we nail this guy he turns out to be an unemployed chopsocky actor or something."

Chapter 24

For Furio Batsuka, the first step to becoming a samurai involved being beheaded.

The correct term was kubi kiri. In medieval times one's head was literally separated from his neck. But this was modern Japan. And Furio worked for a modern Japanese multinational corporation.

After the so-called Bubble Economy had collapsed, many things were different. Events formerly undreamed of became commonplace. There was crime and unemployment, bank failures and earthquakes. Some called it Japan's Blue Period.

In modern Japan to be laid off was the same as experiencing true kubi kiri. Especially if one were a batter for the Osaka Blowfish.

"I am beheaded?" he had blurted when the team manager broke the bad news to him over green tea, inadvertently using the ironic term.

"You play too aggressive. Too American."

"I play to win."

"It is not always necessary to win. Sometimes a draw is good."

Furio nodded, but not in agreement. Then the manager spoke the words that changed his life.

"The shogun is interested in you. See him tomorrow."

THE SHOGUN WAS Kozo Nishitsu, president of Nishitsu Industrial Electrical Corporation. Furio found himself bowing before him early the next morning behind closed doors.

The shogun spoke without pleasantries. "I would like you to go to America. To play with a farm team we own. Eventually with the Mariners."

Furio could not believe his good fortune. To play U.S. ball!

"Gladly," he said.

"But first you must be trained. For though you will work with the Mariner organization, you will remain in our employ."

"A spy?"

"A saboteur. I have watched your aggression. I like it. It is worthy of bushi. "

And Furio bowed before the deep compliment. The shogun's ancestor's were fierce warriors. The code of Bushido was their way.

"I agree," said Furio Batsuka.

IN THE RESEARCH-and-development wing, whitecoated Nishitsu technicians measured him and then showed him a faceless dummy dressed in classic black samurai armor. On one shoulder rode the four moons of the Nishitsu Corporation.

"I am honored," he told them.

The sharp voice of Kozo Nishitsu snapped, "You will be honored once you have earned the right to don this armor."

And so his training began. He was presented to an old man whose name he was never told. This man trained him in the ways of the warrior. He learned the katana and its sixteen strokes. Archery. Spear fighting. The war fan. jujitsu. But most of all, he learned the code of Bushido, which made Furio bushi-a warrior.

After nearly a year the old sensei brought him again before the armor he coveted. Tears were in his eyes as the shogun spoke.

"The samurai are thought dead. No more. You are the first in generations. I congratulate you, Batsukasan. "

"I am proud."

"But because this is the modern world, you will wear modern armor," the shogun continued.

Sober-faced technicians dressed him. The many layers fit him like gloves for the various parts of his body.

The shogun said, "Years ago our superconductor research enabled us to devise a flexible suit that would alter the molecular vibrations of the human body so that a man could walk silently and safely like a spirit, and like a spirit, pass through solids. We called this the Goblin Suit. That prototype was stolen from us by Russian agents. But we have created a new suit, which you see before you. We call it the Black Goblin."

When the helmet was placed upon his head, the tinted, face-concealing visor dropping into place, Furio Batsuka felt weighted down by generations of pride.

Then someone turned the rheostat at his shoulder. The heaviness vanished. He felt light, like a cherry blossom. And the second phase of his training began.