Warren Murphy: Coin of the Realm

But what kind of fingernail could score a Kelvar-Teflon-titanium sandwich?

No kind, he decided. His final report would simply not mention those imponderable details. Some lines of inquiry were better off not pursued.

Chapter 3

Remo slammed the door behind him and announced, "I'm home."

A peculiar odor greeted his sensitive nostrils.

"You are just in time," a squeaky voice called from the kitchen. Remo followed the odor. It smelled vaguely familiar. It was a food odor, that much was certain, but for the twenty years that he had been a disciple of the art of Sinanju, he had learned to shut out what used to be tantalizing smells. His olfactory organs now only responded to the Sinanju version of the five basic food groups-rice, fish, duck, nuts, and berries.

"Sit," said Chiun over his shoulder as he hunched over the gas stove. The Master of Sinanju, who was barely as tall as the stove, stood on a footstool. He wore a thin white kimono with shortened sleeves appropriate for cooking with fire.

The table was set for two. Remo sat.

"What's cooking?" he asked, sniffing the hauntingly-familiar aroma.

"A celebration dinner."

"Great. But what is it'?"

"A surprise," squeaked Chiun.

"Close your eyes." Remo did as he was told. He even folded his hands. He waited. He sensed rather than heard Chiun's sandaled feet slither in his direction. Something hot was poured into the great celadon bowl that dominated the center of the table. Remo sniffed harder. He felt his stomach juices stir as they had not in many years.

The opposite chair scraped back and the Master of Sinanju spoke up.

"You may open your eyes, my son."

Remo did. The wise eyes of the Master of Sinanju looked at him with crinkled amusernent. Merriment lay in their hazel depths. They dominated a face that was the color of aged ivory, making the myriad of wrinkles look somehow akin to youth and not age. Twin puffs of wispy white hair decorated the hollows over his small ears. A fragile beard was stirred by the steam coming from the great bowl. Such was the countenance of Chiun, latest Master of Sinanju, heir to the longest and most celebrated line of assassins in history, and Rerno's trainer and adopted father.

"This is a great day for us," he said softly.

"Amen," said Remo. "But what's this? Duck soup?"

"No duck today. Nor fish. And rice we will do without. For this is a day of celebration. I have waited long for this golden hour. "

"Great. But what is it? It smells great."

"Patience," intoned Chiun, raising a long-nailed finger. The nail was pointed and slightly curved. "Perfection is fleeting. Do not hurry the moment."

"Tell my mouth. I'm practically drooling. What is this stuff?"

"Egg-lemon soup," whispered Chiun. His voice was reverent.

"Egg-lemon?" Remo said, staring at the steaming bowl.

"Reserved for full Masters only. Oh, this is a glorious day. "

"Egg-lemon soup." Remo looked into the steam as if the *..s,cies were parting to reveal their innermost secrets for his eyes alone.

"Savor this moment, Remo."

"I'm savoring. I'm savoring," Rerno said. It had been over twenty years since he had come to Sinanju, the sun source of the martial arts. Twenty years since he had learned the skills that made its practitioners the most feared warriors in history. Twenty years since he had eaten his last steak. Twenty years since sugar, coffee, processed foods, and alcohol were forbidden to him. Twenty years since his body had been made one with the universe, until his diet had shrunk to rice, duck, and fish, with the occasional organically grown vegetable thrown in for vitamin content. And twenty years since his tongue had touched an unfamiliar food.

"Ah," said Chiun. "I see it in your eyes."

"Steam?"

"No, a twinkle. Egg-lemon soup always brings a twinkle to the eye."

Remo did not reply. He only stared. A new food. A new taste sensation. He had to keep swallowing because his mouth juices were erupting like a liquid volcano. His hands reached for a spoon, but something inside him made him hesitate. A new food. Maybe after this there would be no more new foods. Chiun was right. This was a moment to savor.

"Have you-nothing to say?" Chiun inquired at length.

"I'm speechless," Remo said sincerely. "Really, Chiun, this is wonderful. Egg-lemon soup."

"From an ancient Korean recipe."

"This is great. How very thoughtful, Little Father. And only last week you were harping on me to let my fingernails grow long like yours."

"Speak not of trivial quarrels on this auspicious morning," Chiun said magnanimously.

"Sorry," Remo said sheepishly. His eyes were not on Chiun, but on the bowl. It still steamed. But he could see the broth now. It was yellowish-white. And in it tiny dark specks floated. The sight filled his eyes to brimming as the aroma filled his nostrils. Remo felt almost as if he were going to cry with the sheer joy of discovery.

"Egg-lemon soup," he said under his breath. And it was a prayer.

"I will let you pour," Chiun said suddenly, clapping his hands.

"Gladly," Remo said, bolting from his seat. He scooped up the large bowl and ladled out the heated broth, filling first Chiun's bowl and then his own. He replaced the bowl and sat again. He stared into his own bowl. His hands, holding the ladle and a spoon, almost trembled.

"You may go first."

Remo hesitated. Then, dropping the ladle, he dug in. He brought the first hot spoonful to his mouth. He hesitated again. Chiun's eyes were eager as they watched him, his wise old face beaming with pride. This was a sacred moment.

Remo blew on the spoon to cool the broth. He took his first spoonful. It seared his tongue like acid.

"Hooo!" he said, swallowing.

"Good?"

"Strong."

"It has been a long time since your tongue has tasted such nectar. I recommend small sips."

"Okay," said Reano. The second spoonful was pungent. It slid down his throat with all the fire of a shot of good Kentucky bourbon. The third taste was merely sharp. Remo found himself able to take larger doses. He drank up the bowl greedily, not even noticing that Chiun had not even tasted his own.

"More?" asked Chiun. Remo nodded.

"I am glad you like it," Chiun remarked as he refilled Remo's bowl. Only then did he sample his own bowl. He sipped from the spoon lightly, showing none of the strong reaction that had come with Remo's first flavorful sips.

Remo was on his third bowl when a thought occurred to him.

"This is really excellent, Little Father, but if you were able to eat this stuff all these years, why didn't you?"

"Egg-lemon soup is reserved for full Masters, which I have been for all the years that you have known me, but which you have achieved only recently."

"So, why'd you abstain?"

"Could the father eat so well and let his only child go without?"

"All these years," Remo said, looking up from the nearly empty bowl. "All these years you sacrificed. For me."

"A father's duty," said Chiun, who was not really Remo's father, but in many ways was more, much more than that.

"I am honored by your sacrifice," Remo said quietly. "And only yesterday you were telling me that it was time for me to grow a beard like your own. And I told you to go stuff it."

"A harsh memory, but on this night we transcend such petty arguments," Chiun said loftily. "More?"

"Yes," said Remo, holding out his bowl.

After consuming every last drop, Remo spoke up. "I feel ashamed, Little Father," he said quietly.

"On such a night?" Chiun squeaked. He brushed Remo's admission aside as if it were inconsequential. "It is of no moment."

"But I should explain."

"It is nothing."

"But I'd really like to," Remo repeated. "I cut you off, about the beard and the fingernails, because we've had these discussions many times before. But I don't want you to think I don't honor you. I do. It's just that this is America. Customs are different. I could grow a beard, but it's just not me. As for my fingernails, as I've explained to you before, in America only women go about with their fingernails long."