Warren Murphy: Return Engagement

Remo decided the roof could wait.

When Remo stepped out from among the sheltering rocks that protected the village of Sinanju from the sea winds, he spotted Mah-Li, his wife-to-he, below. He slid onto a boulder and watched unnoticed.

In the village square, the other women had gathered around her. Mah-Li was a young girl, several years younger than Remo, but the older women of the village paid court to her as if she were the village grandmother.

Remo felt a swelling joy in his heart. Only weeks before, Mah-Li had been an outcast, living in a neat hovel beyond the rocks, far from the mainstream of the tiny village.

Weeks earlier, during the terrible days when it appeared that Chiun was on his deathbed, Remo was surrounded by the villagers of Sinanju, who despised him because he was not Korean. He had felt a greater loneliness than he could ever remember knowing.

It was then that he had met Mah-Li, herself an orphan, shunned by the other villagers and called by them Mah-Li the Beast. Remo had first found her living in her small hut, wearing a veil. He had thought she was deformed and felt pity for her. But her gentle ways had soothed the confusion in his soul, and he grew to love her.

When, in an impulsive moment, Remo lifted the veil from her face, he had expected to find horror. Instead, he had found beauty. Mah-Li was a doll. Mah-Li was called a beast because, by the standards of the flat-faced Sinanju women, she was ugly. By Western standards, she made the obligatory female newscaster on most TV stations look like hags.

Remo had not thought twice about proposing. And Mah-Li had accepted. Remo, whose life had lurched from one out-of-his-control situation to another, now felt complete.

Mah-Li's laugh tinkled up from the square. Remo smiled.

As the bride of the next Master, she was respected. There was a certain hypocrisy about it. Until he had agreed to shoulder the burdens of the village, they had spat whenever Remo had walked by too. But that was the way of Sinanju villagers. For thousands of years they were the moths that circled the flame of the sun source. They were not encouraged to work, nor to think. Only to be led and fed by the Master of Sinanju, who plied the art of the assassin for the rulers of the world.

The first Masters of Sinanju had taken to their work to support the villagers, who, in times of need, were forced to drown the youngest children in the bay waters. Perhaps it had been that way once, Remo thought, but instead of the motivation for Sinanju, the villagers had became more of a convenient excuse.

Either way, they were not to blame.

Mah-Li happened to look up then, and Remo felt a shock in the pit of his stomach. Her liquid eyes never failed to do that to him. She was so gorgeous, with a face that was perfection.

Remo started down off the rocks. But Mah-Li was already on her feet, her delicate hands lifting her long traditional skirts, and met him halfway.

They kissed once, lightly, because they were in public. Over Mah-Li's shoulder Remo saw the faces of the village women looking up at them with a rapt softness in their dark eyes that took the curse off the harsh planes of their square jaws and flat cheekbones.

"Where have you been, Remo?" Mah-Li asked lightly.

"It's a secret," Remo teased.

"You cannot tell me now?" She pouted.

"After we're married."

"Oh, but that is so long a time."

"I'm planning to talk to Chiun about that. I don't know why we can't get married right now," Remo complained. "Today."

"The Master of Sinanju has set an engagement period. We must obey him."

"Yeah, but nine months-"

"The Master of Sinanju knows best. It is his wish that you learn our ways before we are wed. It is not so difficult. "

"It is for me. I love you, Mah-Li."

"And I love you, Remo."

"Nine months. Sometimes I think he was put on earth to bust my chops."

"What are 'chops' ?" asked Mah-Li, who had learned enough English to talk to Remo in his own lanaguage, but was confused by slang.

"Never mind. Have you seen Chiun lately?"

"Earlier. He looked unhappy."

"I think he's upset with me. Again."

Mah-Li's face tightened. The Master of Sinanju was like a god to her.

"You had words?"

"I think he's going to have trouble adjusting to our being married."

"The people of this village never argue with the Master. It is not done."

"Chiun and I have been arguing for as long as we've known each other. We've argued all over America, across Europe, from Peoria to Peking. When I think of the places I've visited, I don't remember the people or the sights. I remember the arguments. If we're fighting about my refusal to grow my fingernails long, this must be Baltimore. "

"It is strange. In America, you show your love by arguing. After we are wed, do you expect me to argue with you as a token of my love?"

Remo laughed. Mah-Li's face was puzzled and serious, like a child confronting some great, complex truth. "No, I don't expect ever to argue with you at all." Remo kissed her again.

He took her hand and they walked down to the village square. The villagers made way for them, all smiles and crinkling eyes. The village was full of contentment and life. As it should be, thought Remo.

Except for the House of the Masters, in the center of the village. It was a great carven box of teak and lacquers set on a low hillock. Built for the Master Wi by the pharaoh Tutankhamen, it was the largest edifice in the village. Back in America, it wouldn't have impressed a newlywed couple as a suitable starter home. In fact, it was more of a warehouse than it was a dwelling. The earnings of centuries of past Masters of Sinaiju lay piled in elegant profusion inside its walls. It was there that Chiun lived. Now the great door was closed and the windows curtained.

Remo wondered if he should go to Chiun and try to explain things to him again. But then he remembered that every time he had explained himself in the past, Chiun had always gotten his way. Even when Chiun was wrong. Especially when Chiun was wrong.

"He'll keep," said Remo half-aloud, thinking how hungry the smell of boiling rice was making him.

"Who will keep what?" asked Mah-Li.

Remo just smiled at her. With Mah-Li around, there was no one else in the universe.

Chapter 3

Dr. Harold W. Smith was never happier.

Strolling into his Spartan office in the morning was a pleasure. The sun beamed in through the one-way picture window, filling the room with light. Smith deposited his worn briefcase on the desk and, ignoring the waiting paperwork, sauntered to the window.

Smith was a spare, pinch-faced man in his mid-sixties, but today a thin smile tugged at his compressed lips. He noticed the faint reflection of the smile in the big picture window and forced his lips to part slightly. Good, he thought. The flash of white teeth made the smile warmer. He would have to practice smiling with his mouth open until he got used to it. Smith adjusted the red carnation in the buttonhole of his impeccable three-piece suit. He liked the way the flower lent color to his otherwise drab apparel. Perhaps one day he would buy a suit that wasn't gray. But not just yet. Too much change too rapidly could be overwhelming. Smith believed in moderation.

Dr. Harold Smith had worked in this very office since the early 1960's, ostensibly as the director of Folcroft Sanitarium, on the shoreline of Rye, New York. In reality Smith, an ex-CIA agent and before that with the OSS during the war, was the head of the countercrime agency called CURE. Set up by a President who was later assassinated, CURE was an ultrasecret enforcement organization that operated outside of constitutional restrictions, protecting America from a rising tide of lawlessness.

CURE's one agent, Remo Williams, and his equally difficult mentor. Chiun, were safely back in Sinanju. Smith expected he would never see them again. He hoped so. The present President had been led to believe Remo was dead-killed during the crisis with the Soviets-and that Chiun had gone into mourning.