Warren Murphy: The Ultimate Death

In every TBC from Lubec, Maine, to Miami, Florida, the scene was playing out exactly the same. The contagion spread as far west as Dayton, Ohio.

On Wall Street, Tennessee Barbecued Chicken dropped two hundred points, suffering its worst financial setback since the outbreak of the jogging epidemic in the late 1970s.

Harold W. Smith, head of the super-secret government agency CURE, was faced with one of the minor annoyances that plagued what he had tried to make a well-ordered life.

"The cafeteria was out of prune whip yogurt, Dr. Smith."

Eileen Mikulka stood nervously before the broad oaken desk of her employer. She held a steaming styrofoam cup in her slightly plump hands.

As Smith's secretary, Mrs. Mikulka handled the day-to-day operations of Folcroft Sanitarium, freeing up Smith's time so that he could better monitor national and international situations via the massive computers in the basement of the institution. Smith did this by staring almost unblinkingly at the scrolling computer screen, which was now hidden in a secret compartment below the surface of his desk.

Of course, Mrs. Mikulka didn't know this. She believed that Folcroft was just a sanitarium catering to special medical cases.

She only took on the additional responsibility to help out the poor, beleaguered Smith. She took great pride in the way she relieved some of the difficulties in the work life of her perennially harried employer. Dr. Smith always looked as if he were about to collapse under some great personal burden, although for the life of her she didn't know where all that stress could come from. Actually, Folcroft was a rather sleepy place.

"It was all my fault," she confessed. "I should have double-checked with Mrs. Redlund in the cafeteria. But she's usually very efficient. She told me the truck driver didn't deliver it with the rest of today's order."

Smith waved a dismissive hand. "Quite all right," he said absently, his patrician face registering disapproval. His head was bowed over a sheaf of papers, and an exquisitely sharpened pencil hovered in one hand. He wore a three-piece suit, whose gray fabric nearly matched his hair and skin tones. He adjusted the rimless glasses that were beginning their long slide down and off the bridge of his nose.

"I did get you some soup," she added hopefully. She held the styrofoam container aloft. "Chicken. I thought you might like it instead."

"That will be fine, Mrs. Mikulka."

Carefully, so as not to further disturb her employer, she placed the container on his desk and turned to leave the room.

Smith looked up. "Mrs. Mikulka?"

"Yes, Dr. Smith?" she asked, her hand resting on the doorknob.

"Did you make certain that the sanitarium wasn't billed for the yogurt that did not come in?"

"Of course, Dr. Smith."

"Very good. Carry on."

The moment the door had closed, Harold W. Smith set aside the discharge papers he had been feigning interest in and touched a concealed stud under the rim of his scarred oak desk.

A concealed computer terminal hummed up into view. Smith attacked the unfolding keyboard like a mad concert pianist.

He was once more the director of CURE.

Chapter 4

The Master of Sinanju was fixated on the big-screen television when Remo entered their condominium apartment.

"I'm home," said Remo, feeling the emptiness of his words echo hollowly. This was not home. This would never be home.

Chiun did not look up from the TV, and its toiling VCR. The Master of Sinanju was enraptured by the slow talkiness of a British soap opera. These were his latest passion. And he was still catching up on the episodes he had missed during his extended coma sleep.

"I said, 'I'm home,'" Remo repeated, light-voiced.

Abruptly, the Master of Sinanju cupped his hands over his delicate ears. Not so tightly that they blocked out the dialogue rolling from the TV speaker. Just enough to deflect other annoying sound waves. Such as Remo's voice.

Remo could tell this by the loose way Chiun's long-nailed bird-claw hands were held.

He shrugged, sighed, and carried his bundle into the kitchen, saying, "We're having duck tonight."

This actually elicited a response from the wispy figure in the silver-and-blue kimono.

"We had duck last night," said Chiun, his voice managing to be squeaky and querulous at once. The overhead light made his head-bald except for two white puffs over each ear-shine like an amber egg.

"Cape Sheldrake," Remo countered.

"I am in no mood for Cape Sheldrake," said Chiun.

"Good. Because that's not the kind of duck we're having."

Out of the corner of his eye, Remo could see the wispy beard that clung to his mentor's tiny chin quiver like a smoky antenna. Remo stopped. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Aren't you going to ask?"

Chiun's tiny, wrinkled face puckered. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I know it is not ruddy duck. And ruddy duck is the only species of duck that would interest me."

"How do you know it's not ruddy duck?"

The tiny mouth opened, as if to speak.

"I said," Remo repeated, "how do you know it's not ruddy duck, served with that Japonica rice you like so much?"

"Because ruddy duck is not to be found in this barbarian land."

"Could be imported."

"Unlikely," Chiun sniffed, his hands returning to his ears.

"Suit yourself," Remo said casually. He let his grin go wide as he disappeared into the kitchen and got down to cooking.

He had Chiun's interest now. The worst was over. The ice had been cracked. It was just a matter of time now before the silent treatment would be a thing of the past.

Remo boiled water in the stainless-steel pot. The duck went into the oven.

It began smoking almost at once. The tangy scent of the smoke was unmistakable, and would surely catch Chiun's interest.

Remo kept his eye on the half-open kitchen door as he pulled the succulent duck from the oven and blew the exuding fat from its darkening skin. He half expected to see Chiun poke his inquisitive bald head in at any moment.

But the Master of Sinanju did not.

Remo kept at it. Just a matter of time now. Chiun would have his kohi. It would be the best kohi he ever could have imagined.

And best of all, Remo wouldn't have to listen to the carping complaints of how he, a mere white, had allowed Chiun to languish under the sands outside Palm Springs, immersed in cold, brackish water, beseeching the gods for release, while Remo wasted his time mourning for one who was not even dead: No longer would Remo have to endure the complaints that he had only pretended ignorance of Chiun's true fate so that he could assume mastership of the House of Sinanju, the finest house of assassins in human history, the house Chiun headed. The house Remo, his adopted son, was destined to assume one dark day when the Master of Sinanju was no more.

Remo set a simple but elegant table, with cherry-wood chopsticks placed carefully beside bamboo plates and bowls. The water was pure spring water, entirely free of chemicals or carbonation.

All that was missing was a birthday cake. Remo had considered doing something with a rice cake, but decided that Chiun's age was still too sensitive an issue to raise just yet. Not while he was stubbornly insisting he was still only eighty.

When the rice was nice and sticky, Remo drained off the water through a bamboo colander and spooned two nearly perfect steaming balls into the proper eating bowls.

Only then did he remove the duck from the oven and place it on a platter in the center of the table. It smelled like . . . duck. But it was the kind that Chiun always seemed to crave most, when Remo had returned from food shopping and invariably failed to bring home the coveted species.

Remo removed his chef's apron and stuck his head into the living room.