Warren Murphy: Bidding War

"There's nothing wrong with Sun On Jo maize. It's grown naturally and tastes great."

"You cannot eat corn."

"Ko Jong Oh ate corn."

"Who told you that lie!"

"Sunny Joe. All the Sunny Joes descended from Ko Jong Oh ate corn. It was the sun food."

"He is called Kojong, and maize cannot sustain a Master of Sinanju. It lacks goodness."

"Maybe. But mixed in with rice it's great. I haven't had com in maybe twenty years."

"I forbid you to eat maize."

"Too late. I've developed a taste for it. I'm not going back to rice and only rice."

"Of course not. You must also have fish and duck."

Remo made a face. "I never liked duck. You know that. I only eat duck to wash the taste of fish from my mouth. Then I switch back to fish before duck grease coats my tongue permanently."

"If you eat only rice and maize and not duck or fish, you will sicken and die. And then where will the House be?"

"Where it's always been. Stuck in Clamflat, North Korea."

"Do not speak of the Pearl of the Orient that way."

"I have an idea," Remo said.

Chiun narrowed his hazel eyes dubiously. "What is your idea?"

"Why don't we bring all your people out here?"

"Here! They would sooner starve."

"Which is exactly what would happen if the House didn't support them. But I mean it, Chiun. The climate is great year-round. There's plenty of food. And it's in America."

"A country less than three centuries old. It is hardly broken in yet."

"You have a better idea?"

"I had been considering offering these poor Korean refugees sanctuary in my village of Sinanju."

"In North Korea? Where it's winter three seasons out of four and there's no food or freedom?"

"There is freedom in my village. No one would dare say otherwise. I have forbidden all derogatory speech."

"You talk to Sunny Joe about this?" Remo asked.

"Not yet. I wished to speak to you first."

"I doubt he would go for it."

"These poor relations of ours have fallen into low habits, Remo. They eat corn." His eyes narrowed. "And they drink it."

"No disagreement there. But now that Sunny Joe's back for good, he's going to straighten them out."

"Once Koreans fall into corn-eating habits, drinking spirits follows naturally. One cannot cure the symptom without eradicating the disease. They are obviously homesick."

"It's not going to go over, so forget it."

Face stiffening, the Master of Sinanju drew back the reins to put space between Remo and himself. "On the morrow," he announced, "I am leaving."

"Okay."

"With or without you."

"I haven't decided what I'm going to do with rest of my life yet," Remo said in a nonthreatening voice.

"You will do what you must."

"Count on it."

"And the path you must follow is the path you have followed. You are a Sinanju assassin."

"I don't want to be an assassin anymore. I've put in my time. And I've put killing behind me. I'm a man of peace now."

"Is that what you want me to tell Smith?"

"Definitely."

"And do you also want me to inform Emperor Smith of your recent good fortune?"

A flicker of a shadow crossed Remo's face. "You can leave that out."

"Because if I do, he may order me to do something I would rather not do."

"If you're driving someplace in particular, state your destination."

"Very well. Smith selected you above all other whites to be placed in my hands because you were a foundling. Now that you are no longer fatherless, he may see in this development a threat to his organization."

"You suggesting Smith would order a hit on Sunny Joe?"

"You must not call him that. It is too familiar. Call him Appa, which is Korean for 'father.'"

"I'm not comfortable calling him that. I've only known him a few weeks. I like 'Sunny Joe' better."

"It is un-Korean. And disrespectful."

"I'm more Sun On Jo than Korean. Remember? But back to Smith. If you're trying to blackmail me into going with you, forget it. I'm through being an assassin."

"Have I ever told you about the stonecutter?"

"If you had, I've long ago forgotten. And if you plan to, I'm not interested. Don't tell Smith about Sunny Joe. Because you know if he sends anyone here, it'll be you. And you also know if you come for Sunny Joe, you'll find me standing in the way."

The Master of Sinanju regarded his pupil with stony eyes for a long moment. "I do not appreciate you taking that tone with me, Remo Roam."

" 'Williams.' I'm keeping the name I've been used to all these years."

"But I would not respect you if you failed to stand up for the one who is truly your father," Chiun continued. "So I will let it pass."

"Good."

Chiun pointed his mount eastward. "Tomorrow I depart."

"Okay."

" With or without you."

"I'm staying here until I decide different."

"And if the one who sired you agrees to relocate his people to my village?"

"He won't."

"But if he does?"

"Ask me then."

"Very well. I go now to write my speech."

"It better be one heck of a speech if you hope to convince the Sun On Jos to leave their reservation."

"My speech does not have to convince them all. Only one person."

And with that, the Master of Sinanju turned his Appaloosa pony and sent it trotting back toward the heart of the Sun On Jo Reservation.

From his saddle Remo watched him go. He felt nothing. He didn't know what to feel, really. For most of his adult life he had been torn between two worlds—the East of Sinanju and the West of America. His love of his country and the deep devotion and respect for the Master of Sinanju who had given him so much.

Now he stood between the stranger who was his father in blood and the man who was his father in spirit, both tugging him in different directions.

If only all the pieces would fit, he thought grimly.

And then he forked his mount and made for Red Ghost Butte.

He felt like paying his respects to Ko Jong Oh, too.

It felt good to have family and ancestors and a place where he truly belonged.

No one was going to spoil it for him, Remo promised himself.

Not even the Master of Sinanju, whom he loved with his whole heart.

Chapter Three

Harold Smith didn't report the stripping of his station wagon until he was safely in the sanctum sanctorum of his office at Folcroft Sanitarium. He considered not reporting it at all, but that would be more suspicious than reporting it.

The Harlem police sergeant sounded bored. "We'll never find it."

"It was parked on Malcolm X Boulevard not two hours ago," Smith returned thinly.

"We'll never find it intact. You got insurance?"

"Of course."

"Some people don't. My advice is call your adjuster."

"I would like every effort undertaken to recover my vehicle."

"We'll do what we can," the police sergeant said with an appalling absence of conviction or enthusiasm.

Smith thanked him without warmth and returned the telephone receiver to its cradle.

This, he thought, was exactly the reality the President who had established CURE three decades ago had hoped to avoid. A lawlessness and anarchy where private property and human lives were not longer respected. Where even the police in major cities had given up enforcing every law to the fullest because they had neither the money, manpower nor will to hold back the tide of lawlessness.

Three decades of operating outside the Constitution, bending it, ignoring it and even subverting it, had preserved the security of the United States but had not restored domestic order. The America Harold Smith had grown up in wasn't the America he was growing old in. It had changed. Despite all efforts, all sacrifices, large sections of urban America had been ceded to anarchy and fear.

It was in reflective moments like this that Harold Smith wondered if it had all been worth it. He had been CURE'S first director back in the early sixties. A President soon to be martyred had placed the awesome responsibility in his hands. America was sliding into anarchy. CURE was the prescription. Only Smith, the incumbent President and his enforcement arm would know it existed. Officially there was no CURE. Officially Harold Smith was director of Folcroft, his CIA and OSS days firmly behind him.