Warren Murphy - The Ultimate Death

The Taoist beckoned Chiun to join him.

Reluctantly, the Master of Sinanju gathered up his skirts and knelt before the taboret. Only then did the Taoist himself fall to his knees.

They faced one another across the taboret, smoking shadows worrying their grim features.

"You have heard in your travels, O wise Master of Sinanju, of the blight upon this land known as AIDS?"

Chiun merely nodded. The embalmer went on.

"There have been some who have accused the gyonshi of introducing this virus, but it is known to affect far too few in its current form. Perhaps, in years, it will swell into a pestilence, but the Leader no longer has years. The gyonshi Leader craves the Final Death, and would not settle for less."

"I know of their methods," Chiun responded stiffly.

"But it is not known to many that the vampirism which affects the Leader's minions is a virus much like this AIDS. It is transmitted from one gyonshi host to another, by means of their own blood seeping up from beneath their fingernails. Enough of the poison remains in their bloodstream that they may contaminate victims forever. It is in this manner that they recruit innocents to do their bidding. And there is only one sure method of purging the host to the gyonshi poison: liberating the bad air."

"The orange smoke," Chiun said, nodding. He was staring at a faraway point in his past.

The Taoist nodded as well. "Your thoughts are of..?"

Chiun's head snapped up. "My thoughts are my own, Taoist," he said with contempt. His eyes were angry slits.

"I meant no disrespect . . . ." the Chinese said quickly.

"I would know how to stop the Leader," Chiun demanded. He had had enough of this insolent embalmer. "Speak, Chinaman, or I will wrench your viper's tongue from your head, and with it flog your miserable carcass."

The Taoist with one eyebrow gave a jittery jump. Chiun was secretly pleased. Perhaps this loquacious creature would finally cease his meandering and come to the point.

The fear on the Taoist's face melded with resolve. He leaned toward Chiun across the small table, careful to keep his right hand out of view.

"Come closer, Master of Sinanju," he beckoned. "That I might whisper to you the secret of eradicating the gyonshi scourge forever . . . ."

The building was a hundred-year-old crumbling brick edifice that stood seven stories high. Inside, Remo found himself in a narrow hall made up of concrete bricks. They were painted a gaudy black, and over this was a painting of a long, coiling scarlet-and-jade dragon that led up a listing staircase.

There was no fast way to search the building. Remo vaulted up the creaking, rotted stairs to the second-floor hallway and began opening doors, locked and unlocked.

Curious Chinese faces craned out into the hallway. Those who had had their doors splintered open recoiled in fear. None belonged to the mysterious Chinese in black.

"Sorry, wrong number," Remo said by way of apology. He left the puzzled tenants in the second-floor hall and took the flight of stairs to the third floor in three steps.

He began splintering locks again. His face reflected great worry. Chinese vampires were dangerous. And the Master of Sinanju, although wonderfully recovered from his ordeal, was still not vet the Chiun of old-if he ever would be so again.

And even a Chinese vampire could get lucky, Remo knew.

If Chiun's tales could be believed, they had decimated Sinanju in times long ago.

Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju, had many things on his mind. Not least of which was the ignominy of having come to a mere Chinaman for help. But as long as Remo never learned of this, it would be between Chiun and his ancestors.

He hoped to return to the street before Remo could locate him. It would do the boy good to worry. From worry, comes appreciation.

"It is obvious that the Leader intends for the Final Death to sweep America," the Taoist was saying.

Chiun nodded. "He attempted to poison American cattle years ago, when this land gorged itself on beef."

"And in this slightly more enlightened age, he has visited his foulness upon fowl," added the Taoist.

"You know of the poisoned ducks?" Chiun demanded, surprised.

"Not ducks. Chicken. Word has traveled to Chinatown. The dead are many. I expected something of this sort. So many years . . . nothing. And then an outbreak of gyonshism more than a decade ago in Houston. Many Chinese call upon the family of Won to ensure that their ancestors rest easy and motionless. Much good blood and bad air was released. Then, quiet again. Until now. Gyonshi are abroad in Chinatown, and elsewhere. And elsewhere, men die from eating the flesh of chickens."

Chiun frowned, understanding that the Final Death could be achieved only through huge numbers. Chicken might accomplish this-but not duck.

Yes, the Leader wanted the Final Death, longed for it as he never had before, but he now desired something even greater. The destruction of Sinanju.

The Leader knew the special dietary requirements of a Master of Sinanju. There could be no other reason to baste ducks with one of his filthy gyonshi poisons. Americans, thinking they were eating healthier, were consuming more chicken-not duck.

"The duck was meant to flush Sinanju out into the open," Chiun murmured aloud. "It was intended that Sinanju should go to the Chicken King. The first trap lay there. The second at Three-G. A third at the stronghold of the Roman, Scubisci."

"Sinanju is not so easily bested," the Taoist said in a servile tone.

The Master of Sinanju waved aside the flattery. Chiun would protect Remo, but now that his pupil knew of the gyonshi threat he could be left alone for a moment. While Chiun conferred with the legendary vampire-killer.

"Speak, embalmer. How may I strike at these vermin without bringing risk to my own house?"

The Taoist leaned closer. His single eyebrow rose higher on his pale amber forehead. The candles that were spread around the darkened room cast weird shadows on his long, funereal face.

Chiun leaned closer.

The Taoist's lips pursed, as he prepared to impart the secret of the Leader's fatal weakness to the Master of Sinanju.

The Master of Sinanju looked into the candlelight reflections flickering deep in the Taoist's amber eyes.

The eyes!

But the hand was already up. Over the table. Across the space between them, like a viper.

Chiun felt a brush against his throat. Very light. No pain.

Too late . . . The Master of Sinanju had recognized the eyes too late.

A cloud of black descended over the room as the Taoist leaned back, eyes burning with a wild light. Then the cloud descended over the Taoist as well, blocking him from view. The cloud was everywhere in the room, but it was not in the room. It was in Chiun's mind, and his mind was accepting the darkness like a longawaited shroud-and that shroud was somehow comforting.

And then the blackness was everywhere, as the last light of consciousness flickered and died.

The Master of Sinanju slumped to the floor.

On the fifth floor a man and woman were having a knock-down, drag-out over something. From the smattering of Chinese Remo understood, he gathered that it had to do with the husband's interest in a very young female employee at his place of business. The woman cried and screamed alternately, the husband yelled and apologized. Glassware broke in punctuation.

The fight must have been going on for some time, because the fifth-floor neighbors were slow to respond to Remo's persistent knocking. When they did peer out, Remo didn't see the blackclad Chinese among them.

There was one door that failed to open. Remo cocked an ear and listened. There was someone inside. A man. Breathing oddly.

But he was alone.

Remo was about to spring up the next flight of stairs when he heard it. It was more shallow than usual, but the intake of air was unmistakable.