Warren Murphy: Bidding War

Sunny Joe Roam was quiet for a long time. Somewhere a rattlesnake whirred in warning.

"This is the land of the Sun On Jo," Sunny Joe said quietly. "We belong here. The winds and the sun, the moon and all the stars know us. And we know them, We belong nowhere else."

"In my village there is no want."

"Unless there is no work. In which case you drown the female babies."

Chiun's hazel eyes flashed. "Who told you that—Remo?"

"Who else?"

"No Sinanju babies have been drowned since the Ming Dynasty," Chiun declared forcefully.

"And no Sun On Jo papoose has been drowned—ever."

"That is because you have no water," Chiun shrilled.

"Maybe that's another reason old Ko Jong Oh picked this place. Besides, we do have Laughing Brook."

"It is a dry riverbed unworthy of the name."

"Only in the dry season. The water always comes back. It's a tributary of the Colorado. The summer heat dries it up. We call it Crying River during the parched times."

"I know these things. I wish to know your answer."

"The answer is thanks but no thanks," Sunny Joe said.

"You are not the chief. You must put this to a vote."

"Sorry. Ko Jong Oh laid down an edict that if the chief passes on, the living Sunny Joe takes up his wisdom stick."

"This is your final decision?" Chiun persisted.

"Sorry. But this is our land."

Chiun jumped up on his feet. "No, this is your desert and you are welcome to it. Come the morrow, Remo and I are leaving. With or without you."

"You talk to him about this?"

"Of course. And do not think you can persuade my son in spirit to remain with you in your desert. For as long as I have known him, he has followed in my sandals."

"He's wearing moccasins now."

"I will break him of these redskin ways."

Sunny Joe stood up. "I'm not going to stop either of you."

"You would not prevail in any case."

"Remo's a grown man. I left him on a doorstep in my grief and sorrow after his mother died. In doing that, I renounced all right to run his life for him. He's of my blood, but you've made him yours. You have my admiration for that."

And Sunny Joe stuck out his big windburned hand.

The Master of Sinanju grasped his bony wrists, and the sleeves of his kimono came together, swallowing his long-nailed hands.

"Do not think honeyed words and false declarations will trick me," Chiun said thinly.

"I meant what I said sincerely."

"You are a mere trickster. You have demonstrated this. If I shake your hand, how do I know I will retain my fingers?"

Sunny Joe dropped his hand at his side. "I'm grateful you brought my son back to me. Always will be. But he's got his own life now. I won't interfere."

"Will you tell him this?" Chiun said eagerly.

"Don't have to. He knows it."

"You must tell him these things," Chiun hissed. "For sometimes he does not know his own mind. Tell him he must follow the path of his ancestors."

"Which ancestors?"

"His pure-of-blood ancestors," Chiun answered.

"Remo will do what's right."

"Yes, if we make him."

"You and I see things differently, I reckon. I won't tell Remo to go or to stay. It's not my place."

"You are as stubborn and intransigent as he. Now I know where he gets his pigheadedness."

"Walk softly along your trail, chief."

"I will walk as I wish," snapped Chiun, storming off.

In the morning the Master of Sinanju appeared to Remo in his hogan. Remo slept on a bed of colorful Sun On Jo blankets. He came awake the instant Chiun entered, and sat up.

"I am going now," Chiun announced.

"Happy trails," said Remo.

"You are not coming?"

"We've been through all that, Little Father."

Chiun lifted his bearded chin resolutely. "Then I must go."

"If it makes you happy."

"It does not make me happy! Why must you be so—so—"

"Understanding?"

"No!"

"Agreeable?" Remo suggested.

"No!"

" Accommodating?"

"Indian! You are just like your father. Stubbornly—"

"Easygoing?"

" Pah!" And with that the Master of Sinanju turned on his heel and swept out of the hogan.

From the door Remo called after him. "Chiun!"

The Master of Sinanju turned, hazel eyes expectant.

"What about your speech?" Remo asked.

"I will not squander it upon uncaring ears."

Shrugging, Remo reentered his personal hogan and went back to sleep. It was good to sleep late in the morning. It was equally good not to have any responsibilities to wake up to.

There was time enough to figure out where he was going to take his life yet.

As for Chiun, they had come to these crossroads before. It had always worked out. A little vacation from one another was probably a good thing, Remo figured.

And Chiun knew better than to cause trouble before Remo made up his mind about things.

Chapter Five

Anwar Anwar-Sadat checked his solid gold Rolex watch as the Lincoln Continental limousine slithered to a stop before a nondescript building across from the hollow monolith of the United Nations Buildings on Manhattan's Lower East Side.

His watch read 11:55. And around the case in Arabic letters was engraved: Diplomacy Is The Art Of Saying Nice Dog While You Reach For A Stick. Those who met Anwar Anwar-Sadat naturally assumed the engraving was some verse from the Koran. It wasn't. Although Egyptian by birth, Anwar Anwar-Sadat was only passingly acquainted with the Muslim holy book. Anwar Anwar-Sadat was a Coptic Christian. The Bible was his holy book.

No one knew who had authored the diplomatic truism engraved on Anwar Anwar-Sadat's watchcase. Just as no one who knew the stone-faced Copt would ever dream that he possessed anything remotely resembling a sense of humor.

His studious-looking glasses perched on a nose as stubborn as basalt, he exited the limo, buttoned his houndstooth jacket and entered the nondescript building. An elevator took him to an upper floor where he stepped through a black walnut door marked Situation Room and into a dim room where the green-mid-amber screens of a bank of monitors washed the bare white walls with contrasting colors.

A swarthy man at a terminal looked up, stood and said, "Mr. Secretary." He all but bowed.

"General."

The man did bow. "Mr. Secretary General."

"No. Just 'General,'" said Anwar Anwar-Sadat. "When I am outside this room, I am to be addressed as 'Secretary General.' In here it is 'Mr. General.' After all, do I not command the most far-flung army in human history?"

"Yes, Mr. General," said the functionary. Like Anwar Anwar-Sadat, he was Cairo born and a Copt. "Forgive me, I am new here."

"And how is my mighty army this morning?"

"Flung far," said the functionary.

"There have been no overnight incidents?"

"None."

"No kidnappings, no spittings or stonings of my blue helmets, no disrespect shown my great multinational legions?"

"They are out of fuel in Bosnia."

"Make a note to press the U.S. delegate to speed up dues payments so that we have sufficient fuel for our peacekeepers."

"The United States is several years and many millions in arrears on their dues."

"All the more reason to press them, my faithful Christos."

"I will make a note of this, my General."

"'Mr. General.' Decorum must be observed at all times."

Taking a seat at one of the glowing terminals, Anwar Anwar-Sadat, secretary general of the United Nations, surveyed the global map adorning one wall. The lines of longitude radiated out from its exact center—the uninhabited North Pole—intersecting the circles of latitude, to hold the seven continents fast in an orblike web.

That was how Anwar Anwar-Sadat saw the world-fixed in a mighty orb-web of political and economic ties. And in its center sat the Grand Spider—himself.