Warren Murphy: High Priestess

"What magic number?"

"1-800-SINANJU"

"Chiun has a toll-free number!"

"Does not everyone these days?"

"You, too?"

Kula nodded. "1-800-PILLAGE. What is your magic number?"

"I don't have one."

"Ah, you have not earned the right. I see." Kula tried to give Remo a reassuring clap on the back, but ended up smacking himself in the face. Remo wasn't there when the hand reached his back. He was suddenly to Kula's right. "Do not worry, White Tiger, you will receive your magic number when you are deemed worthy. I was given mine by Boldbator Khan himself. His magic number is 1-800-GENGHIS. "

"Look, in America call me Remo. Okay?"

Kula the Mongol looked injured. "You have forgotten the days when you and I harried Chinese soldiers-you the White Tiger and I your strong right arm?"

"I haven't forgotten it. I just put that stuff behind me."

"There is a statue celebrating your glory in the lobby of the Hotel Genghis Khan in Ulan Bator."

"There is?" said Remo, brightening.

"Truly. It commemorates your mighty deeds. Of course, we gave you Mongolian eyes so as not to frighten our children with your fearsome round eyes."

"Good move," said Remo. "Now, where's Chiun?"

"He is below, communing with the Bunji Lama."

"Who's the Bunji Lama?"

"A great man, alas."

"Why is that 'alas'?"

"You will know why when you come face-to-face with the Bunji Lama!'

Remo cocked a thumb at the open door where the shaved-headed man sat serenely. "Then who's that rude guy in there?"

"He is the Most Holy Lobsang Drom Rinpoche, who is destined to find the lost Bunji Lama."

"How can the Bunji Lama be lost if he's downstairs with Chiun?"

"You will see with your own eyes."

"Why don't I do that?" said Remo. "Wait here."

Kula folded his burly arms. "I have waited all my life for the Bunji Lama. I can wait a little longer."

"Right," said Remo, starting down the stairs. His happy mood had evaporated. He had met Kula years ago in a Mongolian tavern.

Back then Kula had been a bandit chief, and Remo had hired him to help track down the Master of Sinanju, who had disappeared into the wild steppes of Outer Mongolia in search of the lost treasure of Genghis Khan. The treasure had been found and divided between the Master of Sinanju and Boldbator Khan, who had mustered an army of Mongols to fight off an attempt by Chinese troops to claim the booty for Beijing.

It had been a very difficult trek for Remo, who in addition to everything else had received none of the treasure.

Remo found the Master of Sinanju in the first-floor kitchen.

Remo noticed that Chiun wore one of his heavy brocaded kimonos usually reserved for meeting with heads of state. This one was a deep blue. It sat on his frail-looking shoulders like a lap rug supported by a clutch of sticks.

The Master of Sinanju didn't look like the deadliest assassin on earth. He stood approximately five feet tall. He weighed about as much as a hollow tree. There was no hair on his head other than the tufts of wispy white floating over the tips of his tiny ears. As he moved about the stove, his wrinkled features came into view. A tendril of stiff hair that barely passed for a beard stood out against the dark ivory of his parchment face.

He looked, not old, but ancient. But he moved with a quick, birdlike grace that put Remo's lean economy of movement to shame. The old Korean pretended not to be aware of Remo's presence. But his quick hazel eyes stole appraising glances as he moved about the kitchen.

Chiun was puttering over the stove, Remo saw, brewing tea. But the smell of tea was overpowered by a musty stench that reminded Remo of a tomb.

"What're you cooking, Little Father?" he asked. "Yak?"

"I am brewing tea for our illustrious guests," replied Chiun in a voice that was distinctly squeaky.

Remo frowned. "Smells like yak. What's going on?"

"We have guests."

"So my nose tells me," said Remo, looking around. The smell wasn't coming from the stove. It seemed to be emanating from a large black steamer trunk that sat on one end in a corner of the kitchen.

"What's that?"

"The Bunji Lama's trunk."

"It must be really old to smell like that," said Remo, going to the trunk.

"Remo! Do not disturb it."

"Okay, I won't."

"If you promise to do so carefully, you may have the honor of carrying the Bunji Lama's trunk up to the meditation room."

"Not until you explain what this is all about."

"What is anything of importance about?" Chiun asked carelessly.

Remo gave that a second's thought, reminded himself that it was Chiun asking the question and said, "Gold?"

Chiun nodded. "Gold. Good. You are learning."

"So help me, Chiun, if you've taken to renting out the other units to your friends for pocket money, I'm moving out."

"This is agreeable. Your room will fetch a good price."

"Get stuffed."

"I will carry the tea if you will carry the trunk of the Bunji Lama."

"Will carrying the trunk get me straight answers faster?"

"It will."

"Deal."

Remo used both hands to lift the trunk. As a result, it almost went crashing into the ceiling. It looked heavy but weighed next to nothing. Remo had been caught off guard. He got the awkward container under control.

"Remo! You will anger the Bunji Lama."

"Sorry." Remo started up the stairs, Chiun following and wearing a silver tray laden with celadon teacups and hot water in a brass kettle. "Where is the Bunji Lama anyway? Kula said he was with you."

"He was. Now he is with you."

"Huh?"

"He is in the trunk that you carry, and take care not to drop him or his wrath will be upon you like black hailstones."

"The Bunji Lama is inside this trunk?" Remo demanded.

"The old Bunji Lama, yes."

"He must be really old to smell this bad," said Remo, reaching the top of the stairs.

Remo set the trunk down in the center of the meditation room. The shaved-headed man continued to sit on the floor with the serenity of a contented bullfrog. Kula was laying tatami mats in a circle around the trunk as Chiun set down the tea, crossed his legs at the ankles and scissored onto his personal mat. He began pouring at once.

Remo pointed to the trunk and asked, "Is the Bunji Lama really in this thing?"

"The old Bunji Lama," Kula corrected.

"Guess he flew economy class," said Remo, knocking on the trunk. "Time to stretch your legs, pal."

"It is not time," said the Master of Sinanju. "We must bargain first."

The tea was passed around. Remo took his place, sitting as far from the colorful personal odors of Chiun's guests as possible.

Kula took his cup and swallowed it all in one greedy gulp and offered the empty cup for more. Chiun obligingly poured.

The shaved-headed Asian accepted his tea, looked deep into the cup and spoke up. "No yak butter?"

The Master of Sinanju bestowed his pupil with a reproving glare. "Remo, did you forget to churn the yak butter this morning?"

"I must've. Silly me."

Chiun addressed the shaved-headed man. "I apologize for the inefficient white help, Most Holy, but you will have to drink your tea without yak butter."

"It is good tea," boomed Kula, offering his drained cup for the third time.

When all the cups were refilled, Remo whispered to Chiun, "Yak butter?"

"The Most Holy Lobsang Drom is a Tibetan. They put yak butter in their tea," Chiun confided.

"Is that why he smells so bad?"

"Tibetans have many beliefs you would find strange. Bathing regularly is not among them."

"I don't know what smells worse, him or that trunk. Smells like it was stored in a musty cellar."

"It was. Since before you were born."

Remo settled down as tea was imbibed in silence for some time.