Warren Murphy: Cold Warrior

"Oh, I wouldn't call him 'elderly,' " said Remo, knowing that he would be overheard by the occupant of the next room, who was sensitive about his age. "And I think you shouldn't either. That's worse than nicking a trunk."

"Understood, sir." The tone changed again. This time, it was helpful. "Well, if this is the case, there may be something we can do. Perhaps I could ask the head chef to dig a little deeper into the freezer, as it were. Ah, I trust your roommate would not be offended by frozen duck?"

"Not unless it showed up on his plate that way."

"Splendid. Then duck in orange sauce it will be. I assume you would like the same?"

"Not me. I want the trout Almondine. A side of steamed white rice for both of us, and absolutely pure natural mineral water. Got that?"

"Your meals shall be delivered within the hour," the room service manager promised. "You have our eternal gratitude for your patience."

"And you get to keep your mobility," said Remo happily. He hung up. He looked into the mirror. The face that stared back at him was distinguished by two features: the deep set of his dark eyes, and the high cheekbones. It was a strong face. Too angular to be called handsome, yet too regular to be unpleasant. In certain lights, it looked skull-like. When he frowned, it looked cruel.

Remo wasn't frowning now. He was smiling. He adjusted his smile and put an innocent expression on his face. Then he walked out into the living room of the sumptuous hotel suite, hoping his expression held.

"I got you the duck," he said brightly.

The occupant of the other room sat cross-legged on a reed mat before the hotel television set. He didn't stir a hair. Not that there was much hair to be stirred. The back of his head resembled a seamless amber egg decorated by tiny ears, whose tops nudged twin puffs of cloudy white hair set directly above.

"The duck in this place is greasy," he announced.

"It is?"

"It was greasy last time."

"Want me to call back, have them do it right?" Remo said helpfully.

"It will do no good. They are incompetent. If we demand they leech out the grease, the duck will come dry."

"Better greasy duck than dry duck, huh?"

"Better properly prepared duck."

Okay, Remo thought, he didn't drag me back here for the duck. It must be something else. Remo decided to get to the point.

"Little Father, I am curious."

"So is a monkey."

"True," said Remo, trying not to be dragged into a fight. "But monkeys can't order room service for their jungle friends. And monkeys don't usually find themselves suddenly rushing off to Miami one morning. Especially since they've been there recently."

"On what channel does Cheeta Ching come on here?"

Remo picked up the local TV directory. "Channel 6."

The Master of Sinanju picked up the remote channel-selector and punched up 6. His face came into view then. It resembled the papyrus death mask of some impossibly ancient pharaoh that had been sucked dry of all moisture. A wisp of beard clung to the papery chin. His age was impossible to gauge. Even his wrinkles seemed wrinkled.

A low sound emerged from his wattled throat, curious and faintly pleased. "The black box says 6, and behold, Channel 6 appears on the glass screen."

"I think the cable box is dead."

"Perhaps we will abide here for a time."

"Suits me. I'd just like to know why."

"We are homeless, are we not?"

"Since Smith kicked us out of our home, yeah. I guess I prefer to think of us as footloose vagabonds."

"There are many homeless in this sad land."

"To hear Cheeta Ching tell it, yeah. But what does that have to do with camping out in Miami?"

"The homeless of this land, how do they come to such a sad state?"

"Let me see. They lose their jobs. They don't pay the rent."

"Exactly," said Chiun.

"Huh?"

"We are homeless, therefore we are unemployed."

"Don't tell me we've been laid off."

"I will not."

"Good."

"We have reached an impasse in our contract negotiations with Emperor Smith," explained Chiun.

"How big and how bad?"

"Enough that we are hiding from him, with all our worldly belongings, until he comes to his senses."

"So that's why we're back in Miami. We're hiding from Smith!"

"Exactly. He will never think to look for us here, knowing that we abided in this very place but short months ago."

"Good point. How long you expect to tough it out?"

"Not long."

"Really?"

Chiun nodded sagely. "Smith will cave in shortly."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because only this morning he ordered us to a certain place, there to await further instructions."

"He gave us an assignment?"

"Not exactly. He merely asked me to go to this place and await word."

"Holy Christ, Chiun!" said Remo, reaching for the telephone. "What if it's important?"

"Then the sooner Smith will capitulate," said the Master of Sinanju reasonably.

Remo picked up the receiver. He listened to the beeping and electronic chirping in his ear as he stabbed the 1 button repeatedly-the foolproof contact number he used when he had to reach Harold W. Smith.

Normally, after a dozen or so chirps, an electronic relay kicked in and Remo got a ringing bell.

This time, the chirping simply stopped and he was listening to dead silence.

Remo hung up and tried again. This time, he didn't get so much as a chirp.

"Something's wrong with this phone," he complained, turning.

And the severed plastic line to the wall plug clicked onto his Italian leather shoes.

Remo looked down, saw the neatly snipped end, and looked toward the Master of Sinanju, who sat on his reed mat like a wispy little Buddha, as if he had not moved. Remo hadn't seen or heard him move. Chiun was the only person on earth who could slip something past Remo. His long-nailed bird-claw hands rested open and loose on the bright lavender lap of his kimono. Those deadly nails, Remo knew, had severed the line.

"I gotta contact Smith," he said. "He'll be frantic."

"Exactly."

"He'll put his entire computer system to work tracking us down," Remo said.

"Let him."

"Look, if you won't let me call him, at least tell me where we're supposed to be."

"In a certain city."

"Does this certain city have a name?" Remo wondered.

"Yes."

"What's it called?"

"Miami."

Remo blinked.

"This Miami?"

"Do you know of any other Miami?"

"No," Remo admitted. "But that doesn't mean anything. I've been to three Daytons and five Quincys in the last five years. There might be another Miami tucked up there in Alaska. Smith happen to say Miami, Florida?"

"He said Miami. I took him to mean this very Miami."

Remo's dark eyes took on a puzzled gleam. "So we're hiding out in the place he told us to go?"

"Exactly."

"Any particular logic to that?"

"Yes."

"Care to enlighten a colleague?"

"If such a person existed, I would."

"Har de har har har. How about telling me?"

"Wisdom bestowed upon a monkey is wisdom squandered. But Cheeta Ching will soon be on, so I will tell you in return for silence."

"Deal."

Chiun hit the volume control, silencing the set. The local news was on.

He turned on his mat. Remo brought up his mat. He assumed a lotus position identical to Chiun's own. Their eyes-unalike except for a similar deep confidence-reflected one another. Otherwise they were as different as two people could be. Chiun was tiny, and looked frail in his garish kimono. Remo was tall, lean, and wore a white T-shirt and brown chinos. His hair and eyes were almost the same shade as his pants.

"I am the Master of Sinanju," said Chiun in a low voice.

"True," said Remo agreeably.

"You are a Master of Sinanju."

"Also true."