Warren Murphy - Last Rites

"Got another coin," he said. "A drachma."

Remo stood up. This time he cleared the dirt of the coin by tapping each side once with a fingertip. The dirt flew off as if vacuumed away.

One side had the profile of a man with a winged helmet.

"Hey. This looks kinda like one of those old Mercury-head dimes I used to see when I was a kid."

Chiun raised an eyebrow. "You recognize Mercury?"

"Sure. He was the Greek god of-wait a minute. Wasn't he Roman?"

"The Romans took their gods from the Greeks."

"Oh, right. Who did the Greeks get their gods from?"

"Hither and yon. The Egyptians and the Koreans mainly."

"I don't remember any Korean gods except that bear that was supposed to be the first man."

"As usual, you have gotten everything confused. The face on that coin is Hermes, whom the Romans called Mercury."

"It's coming back to me. Zeus was Jupiter. Ares was Mars. Hercules was.... What was Hercules?"

"A drunken wastrel."

"No, I meant what was his Greek name?"

"Heracles."

"I never liked that name," Remo said thoughtfully. "He was always Hercules to me."

"The vestal virgins who raised you filled your mind with useless junk. You know no Korean tales but those I taught you."

"Is there a point to all this carping and criticizing?"

"If there is, you are too dense to see it," snapped Chiun, who started down off the mountain.

Remo followed him down. "That's it? We climb this mountain, dig up an old coin and we're on our way again?"

"Yes."

"How about we check into a hotel for a few hours? I'm beat."

"You have had six entire hours of sleep. And a nap. You cannot be tired."

"I must be getting old."

"You are getting lazy, and there will be no hotel. We are going to Giza."

"Isn't that in Japan?"

"You are thinking of the Ginza. Giza is in Khemet."

"Never heard of Khemet, either," grumbled Remo, taking a last look back at the crumbling Parthenon and thinking how much it reminded him of Washington, D.C.

" 'Khemet' means 'Black Land,'" said Chiun.

"Still never heard of it."

"That is because the rulers of Khemet threw away their brains."

Remo looked his question, but the Master of Sinanju said nothing.

Chapter 8

On the plane Remo fell asleep.

A darkness filled his mind and, after a time, it churned and boiled and out of this darkness stepped a man wearing the robes of ancient Egypt and the face of a sad pharaoh. Despite his pharaonic attire, he was unmistakably Korean.

His mouth parted and the words coming out were doleful and hollow. "History has forgotten me."

"Who are you?" Remo asked.

"Wo-Ti was my name."

"Was?"

"I served Pharaoh Pepi II all of his days."

"Good for you," said Remo.

"His days numbered ninety-six years. And because I was pledged to guard his body, I did not see the village of my birth for the remainder of my days. The world still remembers Pepi II, but not Wo-Ti who ensured his long life."

"Where is this place?" asked Remo, seeing all around him only a blackness so intense it seemed to vibrate. "This is the Void."

"Yeah. I thought so. Pleasant. Do all Masters of Sinanju end up here after they go?"

"The Void is not a place of bitterness, unless one brings bitterness into the Void with him. Remember that. When you drop your body, leave all bitterness behind you to lie moldering with your bones."

"I'll try to keep that in mind," Remo said dryly. Wo-Ti lifted gnarled hands and flexed them with a warning crackling of cartilage. "Now we must fight."

"Why?"

"Because you have failed to recognize me."

"What kind of cockamamy reason is that?" said Remo. "I never met you before."

"That is no excuse." And Wo-Ti lashed out with a stabbing finger Remo checked with one thick wrist. The opposite hand flashed out. Remo caught it with his other wrist and stepped back.

"This is ridiculous. I gotta be three times younger."

"And I possess three times your experience. Defend your life."

Wo-Ti made two fists like mallets of bone, and Remo copied his posture, stance and blocking moves.

Their fists orbited each other, feinting, circling, withdrawing just on the verge of connecting. No blow was struck. This was not a contest of strikes or blows. Each man knew from the way the other reacted that his blow would fail if launched, and, knowing this, wasted no effort.

It was the purest form of Sinanju fighting, a training exercise that could only be undertaken by two full Masters. Any lesser human being would not survive the first three seconds. It was called Lodestones, because the closed fists acted like magnets, attracting and repelling by turns, but never touching. To either land or receive a blow brought disgrace to both combatants equally. For contact signified that both teacher and pupil had failed in their duties to the House of Sinanju.

It took Remo back to his earliest days of training, when Chiun would land many blows and become enraged at Remo for allowing it.

"How long does this go on?" he asked Master Wo-Ti.

"When you can tell me the lesson of my Masterhood."

"What if I don't remember?"

"It will be as much of a disgrace to you and your teacher as if your fist struck my body or my fist struck yours," said Wo-Ti, probing for an opening.

Remo thought hard. Trouble was, it was nearly impossible to do Lodestones and concentrate on anything else.

Wo-Ti. Wo-Ti. Why was Wo-Ti important? Remo thought.

It hit him in a blaze of insight.

Yeah. I remember now. Pharaoh Pepi II had the longest reign of any emperor in history, thanks to Wo-Ti. And all because Wo-Ti promised Pepi I he'd watch over his son for the rest of his life.

"A Master should never serve a succeeding emperor!" Remo said quickly.

And without another word, Master Wo-Ti dropped his guard and bowed out of existence.

WHEN REMO AWOKE there was an AirEgypt stewardess sitting in his lap staring searchingly into his eyes.

"I have a question," Remo said.

"Ask, O alabaster-skinned one."

"Where in Egypt is Khemet?"

"Egypt is Khemet. It is the ancient name for Egypt. You are obviously very interested in Egypt."

"Since we're about to land in Cairo, yeah."

She smiled duskily. "Then you must be interested in Egyptians."

"Vaguely."

Her fingers toyed with a lock of his dark hair. "And Egyptian women."

"In the abstract," admitted Remo.

"Have you never heard of the Mile High Club?"

"I'm a eunuch. I don't normally like to admit it but I notice you're fingering my zipper even though we just met, so I think you should know in advance."

"Perhaps if I tickle it, it will grow back."

Remo made his face sad. "Many have tried. But it doesn't work."

"You still have lips for kissing and a tongue for deeper kissing."

"Wrong again. The people who chopped it off snatched my tongue away."

"Then how do you speak?"

"Prosthetic tongue. It's plastic. Tastes like a squirt gun. You wouldn't like it."

And while the stewardess was staring with a befuddled expression lapping at her kohl-rimmed eyes, Remo reached up and touched a nerve in her neck that froze her in place. Then he gently picked her up and carried her across the aisle, still frozen in a seated position, dropping her into an empty seat. There were a lot of empty seats. These days Muslim fundamentalists were murdering tourists in Cairo with wild abandon in an effort to call down the sympathy of the world community upon their latest cause. Which, since the Israeli-Palestinian accords, seemed focused on blowing up secular poets, godless pop singers and protesting family planning.

When the jet rolled up to the gate, the remaining stewardesses were waiting to see Remo off the plane. So Remo and Chiun sat patiently in their seats until the entire plane had emptied out.