Warren Murphy - Line of Succession

When he emerged, the Dutchman stood triumphantly, holding Remo by the scruff of the neck, shouting at the top of his voice.

"I am invincible. I am the Dutchman. There is no greater Master of Sinanju than Jeremiah Purcell. Do you hear me, Chiun? Can you see me, Nuihc, my father? I am supreme! Supreme! "

In his hands, Remo hung limp and unconscious. And the heart went out of the Master of Sinanju.

"You will not live to drink the nectar of your victory," declared Chiun, drawing himself up.

"Supreme!" cried the Dutchman as he dropped Remo scornfully. He flung his arms out as if to offer his glory to the universe. His uplifted face, almost beatific in its exultation, saw the taunting gleam of the morning star hanging in the purple sky.

"Supreme," he whispered, focusing all his energy on one point of tight millions of miles away.

Chiun bounded over fallen blocks, his feet leaping, his blazing hazel eyes focused on the Dutchman's imperious form. But he was too late. The music grew. And high in the sky Venus became a tiny flare of silver that swelled and swelled until it filled the mountaintop with unholy light.

The Dutchman lifted triumphant fists. "Supreme!"

And as the dissonant music grew unbearable, the ground opened up beneath the Dutchman's feet.

"No!" cried Chiun. But it was too late. The Dutchman fell into a widening crater, arms flailing as he screamed his final words. They echoed deep from the earth.

"Supreme! Supreme! Supreme!"

And with his agitated purple figure tumbled the limp body of Remo Williams.

When they were lost from sight, the ground closed up with a finality that silenced everything. Including the mind music of the Dutchman.

Chiun landed on the crack. He threw himself upon it, digging and clawing frantically.

"Remo! My son." His fingers excavated the edge of the crack. But he only succeeded in scratching it. The crack had closed fully.

Head bowed, the Master of Sinanju was silent for long moments. Finally he scratched a symbol in the dirt with a long fingernail. It was a bisected trapezoid, the sign of Sinanju. It would forever mark the resting place of the two white Masters, the last of the line.

Resignedly the Master of Sinanju got to his feet. He wiped the red earth from his kimono, muttering a prayer for the dead under his breath. He turned to walk away from Devil's Mountain, empty-handed, realizing that there was a worse thing than carrying a dead son down a mountain. And that was leaving him there.

A voice stopped him outside the ruins. "Leaving without me, Little Father?"

Chiun wheeled at the sound. His face widened in such surprise, his wrinkles smoothed out.

"Remo!" he breathed. Then, louder, "Remo, my son. You live?"

"More or less," Remo said nonchalantly. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat. Under one arm he carried a lifeless figure in purple whose wrists were bound by a yellow sash. Jeremiah Purcell.

"I saw you both swallowed by the earth."

"Not us," said Remo. He tried to crack a smile, but Chiun could see that it was an effort. The Master of Sinanju walked to Remo's side and touched first his arm, then his face. "You are real. Not a cruel illusion designed to prolong my grief."

"I'm real," said Remo.

"But I saw this carrion defeat you."

Remo shook his head. "You saw what the Dutchman imagined. What he wanted to believe. You were right, Chiun. He had gone around the bend. Remember when the colors got really bright?"

"Yes. "

"I had him then. And he knew it. I think his mind really snapped then. He knew he couldn't win. He couldn't bear to lose, so he created the illusion that he was winning. I saw it too. I had him on his knees. Suddenly he collapsed. Then there was another Dutchman and another one of me and they were fighting. When I realized what was happening, I stepped back and watched just as you did."

"But the pit?"

"An illusion. Maybe you could say the pit was real in a way. It was the pit of madness and the Dutchman finally fell in. All I know is that here I am and here he is."

"Not dead?" wondered Chiun.

"He might as well be," Remo said, laying the Dutchman across a block of broken stone. Jeremiah Purcell lay, breathing shallowly, only the faintest of lights in his eyes. His lips moved.

"He is trying to say something," Chiun said.

Remo placed his ear to the Dutchman's writhing lips. "I win. Even in defeat."

"Don't count on it," Remo told him. But just before the last light of intelligence fled from his eyes, the Dutchman reared up as if electrified. "You will never save the presidential candidates now!" Then he collapsed.

Chiun examined him carefully.

"He lives. But his eyes tell me that his mind has gone."

"He won't menace us again. I guess I did it, Chiun. I stopped the Dutchman without killing him or myself."

"Do not be so boastful. The Dutchman's last words indicate that he may have the final victory yet."

"If we hurry," Remo said, hefting the Dutchman into his arms, "we might be able to get back in time."

"No." Chiun stopped him. "I will carry him down. I have waited many years for this day of atonement. "

And together they descended Devil's Mountain, the clear light of the morning star hanging in an untroubled blue sky above them.

Chapter 36

Every major network and cable service carried Decision America, the election-eve presidential debate broadcast live from a Manhattan television studio. The candidates had been introduced and the Vice-President had given his opening statement, ending with a reaffirmation of his promise to put an end to all covert operations by American intelligence agencies.

Governor Michael Princippi led off his remarks with a solemn vow to expunge all black-budget projects from the federal books.

In the middle of his statement, television screens all over America went black.

The Secret Service had every entrance to the television studio covered. Heavy, bulletproof limousines were parked bumper to bumper all around the block instead of the usual clumsy concrete barriers. They were prepared for anything.

Except for a skinny white man and a frail Oriental who jumped out of a screeching taxi, bounded over the limousines, and passed the Secret Service without even stopping to say: May I?

The agents yelled, "Halt!" and fired warning shots.

"No time," said the white man as he and the Oriental ducked around a corner a flick ahead of a storm of bullets. At the door leading into the debate studio, two Secret Service agents reacted to the intrusion with lightning speed. They drew down on the pair and for their pains were put to sleep with chopping hands.

Remo Williams slammed into the studio, where three cameras were dollying back and forth before the presidential candidates. There was a small studio audience of selected media representatives.

"The cameras first," Remo yelled. "We don't want this on nationwide TV."

"Of course," said the Master of Sinanju.

Separating, they yanked out the heavy cables that fed the three television cameras. Consternation broke out in the control booth when the monitor screens all went black.

"You again!" screeched the Vice-President, jumping out of his chair.

"Later," said Remo, pulling him from his chair so fast that his lapel mike came loose.

"What do we look for?" asked Chiun, plucking Governor Princippi from his seat.

"I don't know. A bomb. Anything," snapped Remo, ripping the chair from its mooring. "Nothing under this one." he said throwing the chair away.

"Bomb?" said the director. The panic was immediate. People flooded out of the studio. They made a human wave that blocked the Secret Service from coming in.

"Anything?" Remo shouted.

"No!" said Chiun, tearing up the planks of the stage. They flew like toothpicks in a storm.