Warren Murphy - Line of Succession

The President sighed. "The only thing I can say, Smith, is that you've found out more than all of the other intelligence services combined. On that score I have to go with you."

"Thank you, Mr. President," said Harold W. Smith, and hung up.

"I hate it when he does that," muttered the President as he replaced the receiver. "Sometimes that fellow acts like I work for him instead of the other way around."

Chapter 34

Remo Williams didn't like it.

He had been following the Vice-President for several hours. The Vice-President was on a final campaign swing through the South. He traveled by limousine motorcade, and because a trailing vehicle would have been an instant tipoff, Remo could not follow in a car.

He had sneaked into the Vice-President's trunk when no one was looking.

Each time they got to a campaign stop, Remo sneaked out and tried to be inconspicuous as he kept an eye on the Vice-President. But no one had attempted to harm the man. Remo didn't think that anyone was going to. Back in Rye, Chiun had insisted that they split up, because, as he had put it, "There is no predicting where the Dutchman will strike first. "

"Fine," said Remo. "I'll cover the Vice-President."

"No, I will cover the President of Vice," declared Chiun.

"If there's no predicting where he'll turn up, why do you want the Vice-President?"

"Because you do," said Chiun.

"He's mine," Remo had said firmly.

"Very well. I will not argue. You can have him." Looking back, Remo decided that Chiun had agreed too readily. But it was still a coin toss where the Dutchman would strike, assuming Chiun was right. But what if he wasn't? What if Chiun was bluffing? Remo wondered if he shouldn't skip the Vice-President and find Governor Princippi.

Then it came time for the motorcade to start again and Remo was too preoccupied trying to get back into the Vice-President's trunk without being seen to give the problem further thought.

***

The Master of Sinanju knew it was just a matter of time. He had figured out that Governor Princippi would be the Dutchman's next target. It was not an equal coin toss as Remo had thought. It was more of a two-in-three chance that the governor would be next. The Master of Sinanju recalled that the Dutchman had ordered two hits on the Vice-President. But only one on Governor Princippi. To the Sinanju-trained mind, symmetry was instinctual. The Dutchman was Sinanju. Mad or not, he would, without thinking, seek equilibrium.

Therefore the governor had to be next. And Chiun would deal with the Dutchman without risking Remo's life. Governor Princippi was in Los Angeles promising to institute free national earthquake insurance before a group of prominent businessmen. Chiun clung to a window of the high-rise office building where the meeting was taking place. The music told him that the Dutchman was coming. It was louder than before, more disoriented, as if a musician played from sheet music whose notes were frightened ants. Chiun hugged the window because he knew the Dutchman would come up the building's side and he did not wish to be seen first. The element of surprise was crucial for what Chiun intended to do.

Jeremiah Purcell paused at the twelfth floor to look in at the lighted windows. It was night and most of the building was dark. The newspaper had mentioned the late-evening meeting between the governor and the Los Angeles business community. One of the lighted windows would be the correct one. But not this one. And so he reached up for the next ledge and the next floor.

At the thirteenth floor he paused. None of the windows were lighted on this side. He made a complete circuit of the floor, walking confidently along on a ledge so narrow a pigeon would have scorned it.

He had just turned the last corner of the ledge when the flutter of settling cloth caused him to swivel suddenly. Too late. The blow caught him in the right shoulder. With a subcutaneous pop, the bone separated.

He grabbed his shoulder, setting his teeth against the sudden white-hot pain.

"You!" he cried. "Where is your pupil?"

"Look behind you," said the Master of Sinanju coolly. The Dutchman whirled again. But the kick came, not from the front, but from behind him. It struck behind his left knee, causing the leg to buckle. Too late, he realized the Master of Sinanju had tricked him. They were alone on the ledge.

The Dutchman clung to the ledge. He looked up at the cold face of the Master of Sinanju.

"The four blows?" asked Jeremiah Purcell through teeth that ground against each other.

"You know the tradition?" Chiun asked him.

"A Master of Sinanju shows his contempt for a foe by striking four blows and then walking away, to leave the vanquished one in death or mutilated humiliation. But I do not deserve such treatment. I could be a good pupil to you. Better than Remo. I could be the next Master of Sinanju. I could be the Shiva of the legends."

"The next Master of Sinanju would not harm one such as Mah-Li," spat Chiun. "You deserve my contempt." And he kicked the Dutchman on the right kneecap just hard enough to open a hairline fracture, but not to fragment the bone.

"I could be the Shiva of the legends, the dead night tiger who is white. How do you know it is Remo and not me?"

"Remo is Shiva," said Chiun, zeroing in to strike the fourth and final blow.

"No!" screamed Jeremiah Purcell. "I will not allow you to defeat me! I will throw myself off this ledge first!" His limbs like jelly, he allowed himself to slip off the ledge like an octopus sliding bonelessly over the side of a fishing boat.

The Master of Sinanju snapped him back by his long hair. Just in time. He deposited him on the ledge.

"I do not wish your death, only to see you helpless forever," Chiun said.

"I am never helpless," said the Dutchman. "You forget my mind."

Suddenly the Master of Sinanju stood, not on a ledge, but in the hand of a monster of steel and chrome. The building shook under his feet. The windows on either side of him turned into square eyes and focused cross-eyed upon him.

A hand made of concrete and reinforced steel and larger than an automobile reached up for him.

The Master of Sinanju knew it was an illusion. Buildings do not become monsters of metal. But he could not make his eyes see behind the illusion. He clutched the Dutchman's hair frantically. If Purcell fell, he would die. And so would Remo.

Then the burning began. Blue flame-real flame-erupted at the tips of Chiun's long-nailed fingers on one hand. Chiun windmilled his burning hand, putting out the fire. He jumped to avoid the huge concrete paw swiping at him, and clung to the building. He could feel that, at least. It was his rock of safety. He could still feel the Dutchman's hair in his other hand. It jerked suddenly. Chiun's fist clenched tighter.

When the illusions stopped, the discordant music died too. Chiun blinked. His hand still clutched the Dutchman's blond hair. But only the hair. It had been shorn off by sharp fingernails.

Chiun was alone on the ledge. He scurried to the next floor, where the governor was holding his meeting. Peering in through the window, Chiun saw that the meeting went on undisturbed.

Climbing down, he searched the street with frightened eyes. But there was no crumpled figure in purple lying in the street. The Dutchman had slunk off, alone, vanquished, to lick his wounds once again. Good. Perhaps this would truly be the end of it, Chiun hoped.

In Atlanta the Vice-President's motorcade pulled up at a Holiday Inn for the night.

Remo got out of the trunk as soon as the car was left alone. He called Smith from a pay phone.

"Remo, I'm glad you called in," Smith said. "Chiun reports that he thwarted an attempt by the Dutchman to kill Governor Princippi. But Purcell got away. Chiun believes he's going to try for the Vice-President next."