Warren Murphy: Cold Warrior

"Together we are the only true living Masters of Sinanju, the greatest house of assassins in the history of this planet."

"No argument there," agreed Remo.

"We are the best. I am the very best. You are somewhat less than the best, but good nonetheless."

Remo brightened at the rare compliment. Chiun, seeing that he had overpraised his pupil, instantly amended his rash judgment.

"At least adequate," he said. "Better than most monkeys."

"Cut to the chase," grumbled Remo.

"Smith has hired us because he wished the best. Without us his silly organization, which he continually harps does not exist-"

"Officially exist," Remo corrected.

"Without us, his organization would be toothless. For over twenty winters we have served him. In harsh times and glad times. Yet now he argues over tiny matters. Insignificant details in our new contract."

"Like what insignificant details?" Remo wanted to know.

"Such as gold."

"Since when is that insignificant?"

"Since he refuses to acknowledge its importance."

Remo suddenly looked doubtful. "Come again?"

"Gold is not important in and of itself," said Chiun.

"Am I hearing right? Is this you talking?"

"What matters," Chiun went on, as if not hearing the rude outburst, "is loyalty, understanding, and proper respect. Gold is merely the symbol of these things."

"Horse crap."

Chiun slapped the hardwood floor with a yellow palm.

"Silence! I am speaking."

And because he respected the Master of Sinanju above all others, Remo Williams fell respectfully silent.

"You asked for logic and I give you wisdom," Chiun snapped. "Wisdom takes time. You will listen."

Remo listened. He did not look happy about it.

"Smith has done the house disrespect," Chiun continued. "He claims he cannot shower us with the tribute of before, meager as it was. He claims it is because of this Procession."

"Recession," Remo corrected.

"I countered that more tribute is not at issue," Chiun said, ignoring the trivial outburst. "I will forgo additional gold and take instead certain considerations, I told Smith."

"Such as?" Remo prompted.

"A new home."

"We've been trying to get him to fix that for over a year now," Remo pointed out.

"And I have asked him for a place he once before declined," Chiun countered.

"Yeah? What place?"

Chiun waved a dismissive hand. "It is of no moment. We are not speaking of such trifles now. We are speaking of respect and understanding between a head of state and his royal assassin. There is decorum to such a delicate arrangement. Smith has seen fit to defile this arrangement, so I have spirited us to a place of concealment."

"Which just happens to be the place we're supposed to be."

At that, the Master of Sinanju's sere face softened. He smiled thinly, his wrinkled face becoming a happy cobweb in which his hazel eyes, like playful spiders, danced.

"When Emperor Smith realizes we are not to be found, he will be beside himself," Chiun confided. "He will mourn our absence, and be forced to reflect upon the ruinous state of his empire without us. Then he will redouble the efforts to locate us, sparing no expense, leaving no stone unturned."

"Running up one humungous phone bill."

"And when he at last succeeds," Chiun went on, "we will feign ignorance, and swear to vanquish his enemies with all the awesome skill at our command."

"Once the fine print is settled," Remo added pointedly.

"No time will be lost in travel. Only negotiations."

"Okay," Remo admitted. "It's smart. Maybe it'll work. But what if the world is about to come crashing down around our heads? What if it's a big one?"

The Master of Sinanju shrugged. "Then it will all be the stubborn Smith's fault, and so it will be recorded in the histories of the House of Sinanju."

"What if it's a really, really big one?" Remo pressed.

"There is nothing big enough to compel the Master of Sinanju to retreat from principle," Chiun said firmly.

"Listen," Remo began, but the Master of Sinanju lifted a frail arm for silence. He had been looking neither at the television nor the clock radio dial, but as if a chime had rung he announced, "It is now time for Cheeta."

Remo looked to the screen. As the Master of Sinanju repositioned himself so that he was facing the screen, the sound came up.

"Good evening," said a female voice like steel nails caught in a trash compactor. "This is the BCN Evening News with Don Cooder. Don is off tonight."

"Don is off every night," Remo growled.

"Hush!" Chiun admonished. Remo folded his arms at the sight of the Korean network anchorwoman called Cheeta Ching.

Her face was a flat mask of some jaundiced ivory, expressionless except for a perpetual frown on her viper-slim eyebrows. Her mouth-the only part of her that seemed to move-made shapes that reminded Remo of some bloodsucking flower.

"She is more beautiful than ever," Chiun said happily.

"Looks fatter," Remo pointed out.

"Philistine! That is the bloom of motherhood you see."

Which only reminded Remo of the unpleasant series of events that had brought him and Chiun into contact with the anchorwoman who had become a heroine to career women everywhere, but who was known-and feared-as "the Korean Shark" to her network colleagues.

For years, the Master of Sinanju had nurtured a secret crush on Cheeta Ching. Recent events had brought the three of them into contact, first during the bloody special governor's election in California, and more recently in Manhattan, where they had been called in to deal with a bizarre, seemingly haunted Fifth Avenue skyscraper.

During the first contact, Cheeta had been rescued by Remo and Chiun-after which, she and the Master of Sinanju had disappeared together. Only days later, Cheeta had announced that her heroic struggle to become a forty-something mother had resulted in an ovulatory breakthrough. Chiun had declined any comment, but was looking forward to the birth. It had been his stated goal to ensure a male child by Cheeta for the express purpose of creating the next heir to the Sinanju line.

No matter how much Remo had tried, he could not get Chiun to either confirm or deny paternity. As the due day approached, Remo grew more and more worried.

"Tonight," a puffy-faced Cheeta was saying, "tensions between the United States and Cuba are increasing, in the aftermath of what some are calling 'Bay of Pigs Two.' "

The graphic behind Cheeta's head expanded to fill the screen. It showed a battle-torn beach, where the Maximum Leader of Cuba was storming about like some hulking, olive-drab Moses.

"Pah!" Chiun said, as the face of Cheeta Ching vanished from sight.

"Relax, Little Father. You know Cheeta's got her face time written into her contract. She'll be back in thirty seconds."

The footage rolled on as Cheeta screeched on.

"What Havana is calling 'a cowardly imperialist attack on the heroic Cuban Revolution' began in the early-evening hours when a team of unidentified mercenaries infiltrated the Bay of Pigs area, site of the cowardly botched 1961 invasion launched by the quasilegal CIA."

"Since when is tyranny heroic?" Remo grumbled.

"Remo! Be still."

The footage showed a line of shackled prisoners being herded into a Soviet-made BMP armored vehicle.

"U.S. officials deny culpability," Cheeta screeched on. "But reliable sources abroad, as well as the historical significance of the landing site, clearly suggest U.S.A. fingerprints."

"How about giving the American side for once?" Remo complained.

Chiun glowered. Remo subsided. When Chiun merely shouted, he was blowing off steam. When he glowered, it meant a volcano was rumbling in warning. Remo decided he could do without a lava-and-pumice shower.

Cheeta's flat face returned to the screen. "In a furious, three-hour-long speech given this afternoon, Cuban President Fidel Castro promised swift and-"