Warren Murphy: Skull Duggery

But when the order came, Chiun had refused to execute it. His logic was Byzantine-something about Remo not being the same Remo he had started with-but Remo knew that their relationship had reached a turning point: Chiun would never kill him, no matter who gave the order or what the provocation.

For Remo had progressed beyond simply being a human instrument of US political policy. He had joined the ranks of the House of Sinanju. In truth, he had become one with Sinanju many years before, but it was not until that day that Remo understood he had been fully accepted by Chiun.

But that acceptance hadn't meant getting along. If anything, they fought more frequently, and about less important things. But after that, the edge had been blunted.

Remo thought he knew and understood Chiun.

He had thought the same about Smith until recent events had reminded him that Harold W. Smith-despite his professional demeanor-could be as ruthless and cold-blooded as the Master of Sinanju himself.

Remo decided he could live with Smith.

But still it was a shock to think, as he did now, lying awake on the too-comfortable mattress pad with the pale winter sun peeping through the chinks in the motel curtains, that as long as he had known Chiun, he had not known him fully.

In two decades, he had never thought to ask the Master of Sinanju about his history prior to coming to America. Certainly, Chiun had often spoken of the grim days of World War II, when Sinanju had no clients, and the decades after that, when clients stopped coming to the rocky shore of his ancestral village. North Korea had become inaccessible to outsiders, thanks to the Communist regime. The last potent monarchy had long since fallen. The emerging nations had resorted to guerrilla warfare or mercenaries. Assassins could be gotten anywhere, Chiun had said bitterly, even at open-air markets and Western malls, like so many melons.

Remo had never thought beyond the lesson-and there was always a lesson in Chiun's tales of Sinanju Masters-that this latest Master of Sinanju suffered to train a white only because he had no better offers. But Chiun had had an early career, one that went back to the dying monarchies of Europe and the pre-Communist days of China and the Orient. He must have had clients in those days.

Remo wondered if Chiun had in fact assassinated Amelia Earhart. It was certainly not the worst blot on the Sinanju house, which had liquidated popes and rulers down through history. As long as the gold took teeth marks, the work was worthy. It wasn't for nothing that the motto of the House was "Death Feeds Life."

But those were the previous Masters. It bothered Remo that Chiun had personally done Amelia Earhart. It made him wonder who else he had eliminated.

Remo sat up. He wasn't going to get any sleep anyway, so he padded over to the curtain and drew it open.

The sun was making tiny diamonds on the previous day's snowfall. The snow had been blown into drifts and rills like a desert sandscape of powdered sugar.

Remo noticed a young woman walking through the parking lot toward a red car, jingling her car keys. She noticed Remo standing there and smiled up at him.

Remo smiled back.

She gave him a friendly little wave.

Remo waved back. To his chagrin, she broke into uncontrollable laughter. And at that moment he realized he was standing in the big window stark naked.

Remo lost his smile and ducked into the bathroom, where he showered furiously.

Twenty minutes later he was behind the wheel, navigating through the snow-clogged streets, contemplating that he was a Master of Sinanju now. One day, the village might depend on Remo's ability to terminate a target without regard to the victim's deserving of death.

As long as he and Chiun were technically American agents, that was not a problem. But CURE was only thirty years old. The House of Sinanju had nearly five thousand years' head start. It would outlast CURE. It would probably outlast America. Remo's ultimate duty lay with the man who made him whole, not the nation which had wrenched him out of his comfortable existence and turned him into an expendable element in a global conflict that might mean nothing in a mere thousand years.

Remo grunted as he swerved to avoid an oncoming snowplow.

He was starting to think like Chiun-in the very long term.

The snow-draped hills of the Folcroft golf course hove into view, signaling that Remo was approaching his neighborhood. His house had been built, like Smith's, on the edge of the fairway.

Remo decided it was time he learned more about Chiun's past. He hoped it wouldn't be too painful.

Who knew, if he showed enough interest, the Master of Sinanju might teach Remo how to enjoy sex again.

It was a tempting possibility and it made Remo press the accelerator harder. He leaned into the turns, the big blue Buick literally skiing at times. In other hands, it was a recipe for disaster. In Remo's trained hands, he and the car were one.

The Buick went into a controlled skid at the bottom of Remo's street, came out of it as if pulled by an invisible cord, and Remo suddenly noticed the distinctive rattlesnake tread on the mushy snow before his bouncing hood ornament.

Remo slowed down. He was not surprised to see the predatory black limousine parked in front of his house. He couldn't explain it, but it didn't surprise him.

He braked and popped out from behind the wheel grinning with fierce anticipation.

"Rematch time!" he sang. He strode up to the limo. Unhappily, the driver's seat was vacant.

Remo shifted direction without even pausing and bounded to his front door. He noted two pairs of footprints. One entering the house and the other coming away. The Asian chauffeur had gone in. The other prints matched the inexplicable tracks back at the safe house.

"Good," Remo muttered. "It'll be just him and me."

Grinning, Remo rang the front doorbell so the chauffeur wouldn't know it was him. He could hardly wait to take another crack at that arrogant little guy.

There was no answer after the first ring, so Remo leaned into the buzzer, holding it down.

A voice called through the door.

"Who is there?"

"Avon lady," Remo called back, smiling in recognition of the chauffeur's distinctive clipped accent.

"You lie!"

"Try saying that to my face," Remo called.

The door flew open. The black-masked chauffeur stood there. He looked exactly the same as he had the previous day, down to the red button over his heart. Remo saw it clearly this time.

In black pseudo-Oriental slash letters it said: BRUCE LEE LIVES.

Remo's grin almost burst into laughter.

A fist started for his face. But Remo was ready for it. He ducked to one side and let the force of the blow carry the chauffeur past him.

Just to be sure, Remo kicked at one of the man's moving ankles.

The chauffeur couldn't stop himself. He went right into the mushy snow.

Remo slammed the door after him, locking it. He caught a flash of purple silk from the half-open spare-room door.

"Okay, Chiun," he called, "what the hell is going on here?"

The figure in purple was bent over an open lacquered trunk, ignoring Remo's challenge. Remo had no time to think about what that meant because an unfamiliar voice hissed, "Sagwa! Au ming!"

Remo started to whirl, his surprise on his face. He hadn't detected another person in the house-no heartbeat, no respiration.

Before he could complete his turn, the locked front door exploded off its hinges and came toward him like a flying wall.

Remo stopped it with a hand, braced by a stiff arm. The impact forced him back a half-step, and while the energy was pushing at his stiffened arm bones, he redirected it back toward its source.

To an observer, it looked as if the door had attached itself to Remo's palm as if by static electricity: It hung on his hand for measurable seconds, then rebounded with no apparent force applied. In fact, Remo's hand had suddenly pushed it back.