Warren Murphy - Bidding War

"I do not dispute this."

"If it is a question of money, I will see what I can do. But I cannot promise anything," Smith said.

"It is not money. The work of America requires two Masters to perform. This has never been the case in the past. Unless one counts the days of the night tigers. In the days before Wang, a Master did not work alone. He was accompanied by his night tigers. It has been my lot to work for a client state that required me to train its own assassin. Not a Sinanju heir. But an assassin who belonged to a foreign emperor. In this I had no choice, for my first pupil had gone bad. There was no one to take his place. No one worthy."

"Remo is free-lancing?"

"Remo is vegetating. He will perform no service. Not that I could stop him if he so chose."

"Where is Remo?" Smith asked.

"I cannot tell you."

"You fear the competition?"

"I am beyond fear. My feelings are like the pit of a peach—hard and bitter. Sorrow sits like a wingless and wet bustard in my belly, for I have trained a pupil who will do no work."

"Remo has retired, then?"

"Pah! It is I who should retire. I forswore retirement and the comforts of my village to guide him through his assignments. Assignments he should have fulfilled on his own. And what did this wastrel give me in return for my sacrifice? Abandonment."

"Again?"

Chiun dropped his frail shoulders. "I have been dumped."

"Dumped?"

"It is a despicable custom of this ingrate land, I am told. Granny dumping."

"That does not sound like Remo," Smith said slowly.

"I have been betrayed by my American pupil. This land holds no more joy for me. Therefore, I must depart these bitter shores."

"What will you do?"

"I am too old to train another. Even if I found a worthy pupil, I do not have forty years to work another miracle. I have trained two Masters, and both have turned on me like vipers."

"I am prepared to offer you the same contract as before."

"And I have told you the work of America is too strenuous for my aging bones. I must seek less demanding an emperor."

"I am prepared to offer you the same contract as before to take your services off the open market," Smith countered.

"Who has said that the services of Sinanju are on the open market?"

"There was an incident at the United Nations yesterday. I believe you know what I refer to."

"Perhaps," Chiun said thinly.

"The same contract as before to do nothing."

"Alas, I cannot."

"Why not?"

"I cannot, O Smith, because it would dishonor my ancestors to accept gold for no work. This is not done. First it will be no work, then as you see your treasure deplete without return service, you will ask me to perform light errands, possibly janitorial in nature. It is a slow slide into servitude, and I will not countenance this."

"I am prepared to pay partial gold if you will refuse all offers from a list of nations I will draw up."

Chiun's back stiffened. "You seek to bribe me?"

"I am concerned about the security of the United States, as always."

"It is my duty to my House to weigh all offers and accept the most rewarding, for I am the last Master of Sinanju and there is none to take my place. The money I will earn before my days dwindle to nothingness will have to sustain the village for untold centuries to come. I cannot go into the Void knowing that my inattention to duty may lead to suffering in times to come."

"Without you the organization will have to be shut down."

"That is not my concern."

"And I must go with it."

Chiun's eyes narrowed to crafty slits. "If you can locate Remo, perhaps you can strike a deal with him."

"Tell me where he is."

"Consult your oracles. They may tell you. I cannot."

Harold Smith frowned. He stood up, his legs stiff. "This is your final word?"

"I am sorry."

"I must go now."

"If the the House survives my reign," said the Master of Sinanju, "know, O Smith, that the scrolls of Sinanju will record that this Master looked with favor upon his service to America and will record no objection to your lawful sons treating with my descendants."

"I have no sons," said Harold Smith coldly, turning and leaving the room without another word.

The Master of Sinanju sat quietly, his ears tracking the footfalls on the steps, the opening and closing of the door and the empty silence that followed.

It was done. One door was closed. But others would open.

Tomorrow the bidding would begin.

Chapter Nine

Remo woke refreshed and went in search of Sunny Joe.

"Sunny Joe couldn't sleep, so he lit off for Mexico," an Indian told him. He wore faded jeans, a flannel shirt that was once red and a face like a sandstone rain-god mask.

"Mexico? Just like that?"

The Indian shrugged. "Sunny Joe likes to ride down Mexico way now and again. Maybe he's got a señorita down there."

"Did he leave a message for me?"

"Not with me."

"Any particular place in Mexico?" Remo asked.

The Indian spit on the ground. "Why look? Sunny Joe'll be back when he takes a mind to."

"Does a straight answer cost extra around here?" Remo demanded hotly.

"Try Cuervos. He always goes to Cuervos."

"Thanks,'" Remo said, not meaning it.

"Don't mention it," grunted the Indian in a matching tone of voice.

Remo headed for town on foot. Before the women started to die off, the Sun On Jos had lived in a small strip of brick-and-clapboard buildings resembling an old Wild West town with a poured-concrete boardwalk. Remo had left his rented Mazda Navajo there.

The place had the look of a ghost town now. An old Sun On Jo woman worked a squeaky well pump, her iron gray pigtails rattling with every exertion. She paid him no mind as Remo claimed his jeep.

Remo drove south, windshield wipers lazily scraping the accumulation of dust off the windshield. Why had Sunny Joe lit off like that? Without a word. It wasn't like him.

Stopping on the banks of the Colorado, Remo bathed and caught his breakfast. The river was full of rainbow trout this time of year, and he snared one as long as his forearm with bare hands, killed it with a finger tap and made a fire by rubbing dry brittle-bush together at high speed.

As the trout—one end of a stick jammed into its open mouth and the other end screwed into the sand-slowly roasted over a cactus-and-brittle-bush fire, Remo wondered if his father could have a girlfriend. It made him feel funny to think about it. He was just getting used to thinking of Sunny Joe as his father. He had every right to have a girlfriend, especially after all these years. But Remo couldn't help wondering what his mother would say.

Squatting thoughtfully, he picked the hot, flaky meat off the bones with his fingers, cleaned them in cool river water, then got back into the Navajo. He headed south.

Near the border a white border-patrol utility jeep scooted out of the shoulder of the road and, siren screaming, tried to pull him over.

Remo's foot hesitated over the accelerator. He couldn't remember if his rental had expired or not. He wasn't in the mood to be arrested—or create trouble to avoid it.

Then he spotted a roadblock two miles ahead, and the point became moot. He decided to go with the flow.

Remo braked to a stop, and as uniformed border-patrol agents came out of their vehicles, he dug into his wallet for useful identification.

"What's the problem?" Remo asked, holding out a laminated card that identified him as Remo Durock, FBI.

"A Mexican Federal Army unit is camped on the other side of the border."

"So?"

"Mexican army units are taking up defensive positions from San Diego clear to Brownsville like they mean business. It's not safe to cross the border at this time, sir. We're going to have to ask you to turn back and go home."