Warren Murphy: Cold Warrior

Still, Remo was torn. Maybe there was a way to finagle things so Smith could locate them.

The arrival of room service brought Remo out of his worried state. Whatever he ended up doing, it could wait until after dinner.

He let the waiter in. The man wheeled in a gleaming stainless-steel cart that was busy with silver and linen napkins.

"Looks great," Remo said, handing the man a twenty. It was Smith's money, so he felt free to squander it.

"Complimentary bottle of champagne from the room service manager," the waiter said. "Shall I open it for you?"

"No. Why don't you take it?"

"I couldn't, sir."

"Okay," said Remo, pulling the six-hundred-dollar bottle from its ice bucket and tossing it over his shoulder.

The waiter watched as the bottle, as if in slow motion, tumbled like a sweaty candlepin across the room, caromed off a wall, and mimicking a billiard ball, landed in the kitchenette sink with a resounding crash and splash.

"That was the best champagne we have!" the waiter gulped.

"Next time, consider taking it," Remo said, gesturing toward the open door.

"Next time I will."

After the front door had closed, Remo knocked on Chiun's.

"Soup's on!" he called.

The door flew open and there stood the Master of Sinanju, his eyes steely.

"Uh-oh," said Remo, noticing the color of the old Korean's kimono. It was black. Black silk. And cut high at the sleeve and hem. The better for combat.

It was the traditional night-fighting garment of the Master of Sinanju. Designed for optimum stealth. Remo had a Western-style version, which consisted of a black silk blouse and flowing beltless pants.

"Your Duck in Orange Sauce is here," he said, hiding his surprise.

"I have no time for duck," said the Master of Sinanju, sweeping past Remo like a black patch of darkness. "I must avenge this insult to my viewing pleasure."

Remo followed him anxiously. "Are you going somewhere?"

Chiun shook a tiny fist in the air. "I am going to pluck every hair from the ruffian's ugly beard."

"Not Castro?"

"That is who he will be by the rising of the morning sun," Chiun spat.

"Huh?"

"Not Castro. Not anyone."

Remo snapped his fingers. "I got an idea."

"What?" asked Chiun, hesitating by the wheeled cart, where the heavy smell of Duck in Orange Sauce fought with the more 'delicate aroma of trout Almondine for command of the suite.

"Let's call Smith."

"I do not call emperors," Chiun sniffed. "Emperors call me. To do otherwise would be unseemly."

"I have a hunch Smith sent us here to deal with the Castro thing," Remo added hopefully.

"Then he sent us too late. The damage has been done. I have been deprived of the sight of my beloved Cheeta."

"And so you're going to sally off and box his ears."

Chiun paused, his expression intrigued. "I had not thought of the ears. Perhaps I will save them in a box. Should Smith come to his senses, they will make a suitable present."

"That's not what I meant by 'box,' but never mind. What I'm saying is that you're about to perform a service for Smith."

"I am doing nothing of the sort!"

"But if you do it, and wasting Castro is what Smith wanted done," Remo pointed out, "you'll be doing it for nothing. Thereby violating Sinanju Rule Number Two. No free lunches."

"But I cannot contact him. It would be wrong."

"But you can't go after Castro, either. You'd be giving away the store. The job done, Smith wouldn't have to come to the table on the negotiation."

The Master of Sinanju listened to the words of his pupil. His eyes narrowed. And narrowed some more. The conflicting thoughts racing through his brain were mirrored on his wrinkled parchment face. He stroked his trembling beard thoughtfully, then with agitation.

"I must do this," he said harshly.

"No, you mustn't," countered Remo, sensing victory.

Now the puffs of hair over each delicate yellow ear were trembling too. The Master of Sinanju was at an impasse.

He exploded. "Why are you doing this! Why are you telling me these things? You are up to some mischief!"

"I pulled a you. Okay? Smith sent us here for a reason, and you're playing games. Something big is brewing. We gotta deal with it directly."

Chiun stamped a sandaled foot. "I cannot call Smith!"

"Fine. Just let me do it."

"And bring shame down upon the house?"

"Well, there's gotta be a way. And the duck is getting cold."

Angrily, the Master of Sinanju went to the covered tray. He lifted the cover and sniffed dubiously, his tiny button nose wrinkling like a dried apricot.

"It smells greasy."

"Then go to Cuba and squander the negotiational high ground, if that's what you want," Remo said hotly.

The Master of Sinanju frowned.

Thinking I've got him now, Remo closed in for the kill.

"Tell you what," he said. "I'll go down to the lobby and call someone on my phone card."

"What good will that do?" Chiun wanted to know.

"The card number will appear on the AT net and Smith will see it," Remo explained. "He'll reach out to touch us. And bingo: problem solved."

"I will accept that." He raised a cautionary finger and added, "But be certain not to call Smith."

"Trust me," said Remo, going to the door. "And don't let my trout get cold."

Remo took the elevator to the cavernous lobby and used his phone card to call the local Dial-a-Joke.

The joke was: How do you get a one-armed man out of a tree? Remo hung up before the punchline.

By the time he got back to his room, the bedroom phone was ringing.

He scooped it up and said, "Wave to him."

Smith's voice was high and anxious. "Remo! I've been trying to reach you all day!"

"Well, we've been here," Remo said innocently, "Chiun and I, patiently waiting."

"I told Master Chiun to register at the Biltmore."

"He brought me here, Smitty."

"According to the front desk, you are registered under the names Frodo Jones and Mr. C. Lee."

Remo rolled his eyes. "I think I'm Frodo," he growled. "Chiun checked us in. You'll be happy to know he's been very security-conscious lately."

"I am pleased to hear this, but I think he's gone too far. I have no record of any of your credit cards being used to check in."

"Chiun must have picked up the tab. Amazing as it seems."

Smith's voice sank to a lower register. "Has this anything to do with the current contract dispute?" he asked.

Before Remo could answer, the Master of Sinanju's voice came loudly: "Remo, your meal is becoming cold. Please inform the illustrious Emperor Smith that you will be happy to converse once we have dined."

"No, Remo, don't hang up! We have a crisis. An unknown military force has landed at the Bay of Pigs, and in retaliation Castro has attempted to take out the nuclear power plant at Turkey Point."

"He did!"

"Yes. Fortunately, the MIG was shot down before it could inflict any damage. But we expect another attempt."

"So what do you want Chiun and me to do?" Remo asked sourly. "Patrol all of southern Florida with our slingshots poised?"

"No. I have conferred with the President. Castro is convinced this is a CIA-U.S. operation, but it is no such thing. It is critical that we locate the true provocateurs and expose them."

"Wait a minute! Hold the phone! Are you saying we're supposed to go after the guys who are attacking Castro?"

"Yes. And it is imperative."

Remo lowered his voice. "Uh, Smitty, I hate to break this to you, but Old Bushyface has been jamming the TV channels down here."

"I am aware of that."

"Are you aware that he cut in on Cheeta Ching's evening screed?" Remo added.

"Why is that important?" Smith asked, testy-voiced.

"Oh, I don't know," Remo said airily. "Maybe because Chiun was watching and got pissed."