Warren Murphy: Return Engagement

It had worked, Chiun wrote on. He and Remo had returned to Sinanju, no longer bound to work for the client state of America. Remo had agreed to succeed Chiun and had fallen in love with a Korean maiden. And now they were to wed. In time, there would be grandchildren. And Chiun's lifework would be complete. Chiun, who had married unwisely and had no living heir to call his own. Chiun, who was forced to take a white pupil to continue the line of Sinanju, and although his misjudgment might have been catastrophic, had in fact produced the greatest Master of Sinanju, Remo the Fair.

Chiun stopped and crossed out the word "Fair," substituting "Ingrate." Then he crossed that word out and tried to think of a word that somehow meant both. He could think of none.

And in thinking, he was reminded of his sadness. All of his dreams for Remo-and for Sinanju-had come true. Yet he was unhappy. The treasure house of Sinanju was bursting with new gold and old treasure. Yet he was unhappy. He need never work in a foreign land again. Yet he was unhappy. Remo had promised to remain with hirn in Sinanju, taking no outside work without mutual agreement. And Chiun was unhappy.

But he dared not admit this. Remo had always complained about Chiun's constant carping, as he had called it. Chiun thought the choice of words unfortunate, even harsh, but understood that there was a grain of truth in them. Chiun had for years beseeched Remo to abandon America and work for more reasonable empires. Like Persia, now fallen into disgrace and called Iran. Chiun had hoped that working for another country would be the first step toward making Remo a Korean.

Now Remo had done better. He had come to Sinanju and had won over its inhabitants. Chiun had never thought it would happen, much less happen this easily. And still Chiun was unhappy.

He would have liked to complain openly, but he dared not. If Remo thought that Chiun was unhappy, as much as Remo loved Chiun, he might do something rash. Like insist that they return to America, where Chiun had been happier. Comparatively.

A peculiar look crossed the wrinkled features of the Master of Sinanju at that thought.

He set aside his scroll to dry, and from a low table took a square piece of parchment. It had been manufactured during the reign of Thutmosis II. By Western standards it was priceless. To the Master of Sinanju it was notepaper worthy of the greatest house of assassins in history.

Chiun addressed the note to Remo, suddenly thinking of a word that meant both "fair" and "ingrate," and began to write.

A green outline of the United States of America filled the right-hand side of the computer screen.

Dr. Harold W. Smith tapped a key and the borders of the forty-eight contiguous states appeared within the outline. On the left-hand side of the screen, separated by a dotted line, was a vertical list of Harold Smiths, along with the dates and places of their deaths. Smith had called up the list after a new man, a Dr. Harold K. Smith, had been found murdered in his Massachusetts office. His was the last name on the list, which was arranged chronologically by date of death.

Dr. Smith's fingers flurried across the board, tapping in a keying sequence.

One by one, a number was assigned to each name on the list. And one by one, a corresponding number appeared on the map. Each time a new number appeared on the outline, a solid green line ran from the previous number to its location, like a child's connect-the-dots game.

When the program ceased running, Dr. Smith had a zigzag line running from Alabama to Massachusetts. The line meandered in a winding but definite progression. That probably meant the murderer-if there was only one-traveled by road.

Smith tapped a key and all major U.S. highways appeared on the map.

The zigzag line seemed to correspond to the major highway systems in the states in which the murders had been committed. It was a confirmation; there was a pattern. And the line, which had headed in a northerly direction from Alabama up through the Great Lakes region and into New England, was now moving south. The next Harold Smith to die, Smith deduced would be in Massachusetts, Rhode Island, or Connecticut. And after that?

The traveling killer could not drive east into the Atlantic Ocean. Thus he could continue either south into New York, or west, into upstate New York. Either way, Smith realized with a queasy feeling, the killer's path would bring him, eventually, inexorably, to Rye, New York.

And to himself; Harold W. Smith.

Chapter 7

An accident of seating had made Ferris D'Orr one of the leading lights in his field.

Ferris D'Orr was in metals. Some who could make that claim speculated in gold or platinum, others in silver. Ferris D'Orr was in titanium. He didn't buy it, sell it, or trade it. He worked it. He was, at age twenty-four, one of the leading metallurgists in a field where practical application, not scarcity, created value.

As he tooled his silver-gray BMW into the parking lot of Titanic Titanium Technologies, in Falls Church, Virginia, Ferris D'Orr thought again of that portentous day when it had all begun.

D'Orr had been a high-school student, and not a very good one incidentally, dating Dorinda Dommichi, the daughter of a dentist who thought Ferris was a likable enough fellow, but not much more. That was because Ferris lacked ambition. Totally. He had no plans for college, no particular career direction, and a vague hope of winning the state lottery.

Ferris also had hopes of marrying Dorinda. If for no other reason than that her folks had money. Ferris liked money.

It had all come crashing down one night on the front seat of Ferris' gas-guzzling Chrysler. Ferris had decided that it was time that his relationship with Dorinda, in his words, "ascend to a new plateau of intimacy."

"Okay," said Dorinda, not exactly understanding, but liking the sound of the words.

"Excellent," said Ferris, pulling her sweater up over her head.

"What are you doing?" asked Darinda.

"We're ascending. Remember?"

"Then why are you pushing me down on the seat?"

"How do you unlock this thing?" Ferris asked, tugging on her bra strap.

"Try the front."

"That's where I'm headed. Your front."

"I mean it unlocks in front."

"Oh. Why didn't you say so?"

It had not been the exciting, pleasurable experience Ferris D'Orr had always dreamed of. The front seat was too cramped. After Ferris got one leg tangled in the steering wheel, they tried the back seat.

"That's better," Ferris grunted. He was sweating. It seemed like a lot more work than he expected.

"This is icky," said Dorinda, her brows knitting.

"Give it time. We're just getting started."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Ferris was done.

"That's it?" asked Dorinda in a disappointed voice.

"Wasn't it wonderful?" asked Ferris, dreamy-eyed.

"It was icky. Let's go see a movie and forget this ever happened."

"Dorinda, I love you," Ferris said, taking Dorinda in his arms. And in his passion, he spilled his greatest secret. "I want to marry you."

"Maybe," said Dorinda. "I'll have to ask my father first. "

"My mother might object too," said Ferris. "She's got some crazy idea of me marrying a nice Jewish girl."

"How come?" Dorinda asked, closing her jeans.

"My mother is Jewish. But I'm not."

"That's nice," said Dorinda.

"I'm only telling you this because I don't want any secrets between us now. Not after tonight. Promise that this will be our little secret?"

"I promise," said Dorinda, who at breakfast the next morning asked her father a simple question.

"What's Jewish?"

"A Person who is a Jew is Jewish. It's a religion. You've heard Father Malone mention them at Mass."

"Oh," said Dorinda, who skied in the winter, sailed in the summer, and rode horses the rest of the year, but otherwise didn't get around much. "I thought they only existed in the Bible. Like Pharisees."