Warren Murphy: An Old Fashioned War

The little half-tinkle of the second-rate Russian phone rang above them on a table. Remo reached back to get it without disturbing anything.

"That was well done," laughed Anna.

It was Chiun, who had been told that Mr. Arieson was about to give back the treasure of Sinanju to Remo, if Remo would meet him at a special place, a place dear to his heart.

"All right. I'll make it there in a while."

"What could be more important than the treasure of Sinanju?"

"Litte Father, I'll get the treasure, but in a short while."

"I know what you're doing and your white lust for a white body has overcome the good judgment and training I have spent the best years of my life giving you."

"I am talking about less than a few minutes," said Remo.

"You are talking about uncontrollable, dirty lust for that white Russian hussy, instead of faithfulness to your precious wife, Poo."

"I'll get the treasure, Little Father," said Remo, hanging up.

The place Arieson had picked was a complex of miles and miles of underground concrete bunkers fronted by miles and miles of rotting concrete tank traps. It stretched along the border of France and Germany, a massive undertaking equal in its time to the pyramids.

It was, however, perhaps the greatest failure of all time.

It was the Maginot Line, too expensive now for France to even dismantle, but in its time it had loomed as the greatest defensive network ever assembled. It stared Germany in the face. France made foreign policy confidently behind its fortifications. When Germany attacked Poland, France stood by its poor ally. It also stood behind its Maginot Line.

Germany went around it.

No one in France had thought of that. France fell.

The Second World War was on, the Maginot Line was dead forever.

Inside its coffinlike interior, Mr. Arieson now waited, whistling joyfully. He glowed in the dark. He tossed in his hands a large vase emblazoned with pink flamingos. Each flamingo held a gold rod with a diamond on top, the archaic but distinct sign of a minor dynasty Remo recognized.

He had seen it sitting on velvet amid thirty or so other vases, all quite similar. He had never seen it anywhere else but in that one place, because that minor dynasty had been absorbed entirely by the country that would become China.

The place he had seen this vase before was in the treasure house of Sinanju. Arieson handed Remo the vase.

"You can have the rest, too. Just give me Chiun's deal," said Arieson.

Remo could see his outlines in the dark even if a faint glow did not emanate from him. Anna, however, had difficulty walking in the dark because she needed strong light to see. Remo held the precious vase in one hand and steadied Anna with the other.

Arieson waited, chuckling and whistling. Something was shaking the concrete underground bunker. It felt like there was traffic overhead. Lots of traffic. One truck after another, rolling along over their heads.

"Your choice, Remo. Just clear out and I'll tell you where the treasure was hidden a few years ago. Bring it back to Chiun, both of you enjoy the fruits of thousands of years of troublemaking, emperor-killing, conqueror-stopping, whatever you wish. Yours. Feel it."

Remo could feel the old glaze in his hand. Chiun appreciated this period perhaps more than any other. Did Arieson know that? There was some dirt at the base. There had never been dirt at the base.

The truck sounds were getting heavier. Arieson was getting happier.

"What's going on up there?"

"If you take the treasure, it won't matter. Feels good, doesn't it, son?"

"You mean I have to clear out of Europe?"

"Now especially."

"What's going on up there?"

"A golden oldie," sighed Arieson. "One of my favorites."

"A war?"

"Not a dance," sang Mr. Arieson. "Think about it. Here you will be returning to Sinanju as the Master who recovered the treasure. You'll be somebody. Think of Chiun. Think of his gratitude. Think of you having the upper hand."

Remo was thinking about getting out of the marriage to Poo, among other things. He was too experienced to know that returning the treasure would end Chiun's complaining. Chiun was only happy when complaining. The words "All right, a deal" were almost out of his mouth when he said:

"I think I'd better see what's going on upstairs."

"Don't bother to look. A group of valiant French officers has decided to regain the honor of France humiliated so many times by the dastardly Hun. The dastardly Hun is going to be up there also. You don't know how hard it's been for me. We're going on almost fifty years now without a Franco-German war. A generation without a Franco-German war is like a night without stars."

"Remo," said Anna, "you can't let another one of these disasters happen. You can't let millions die just for your treasure. Remo?"

"Hold on," said Remo, whose marriage to Poo was still valid in Sinanju if nowhere else on earth. "I'm thinking."

Chapter 12

It was not an easy choice, and the shortage of time didn't make it easier. On one hand were the assured deaths of thousands of civilized Europeans, who after years of regularly killing each other in warfare had finally learned to live together. On that side was death, the destruction of major cities, perhaps even this time an end to one of the nations, each of which when they were not warring had produced so much for the benefit of mankind and would continue to do so.

On the other was the treasure of Sinanju. Actually, when Remo thought about it, there really wasn't much choice. There were always going to be wars. If not the French and Germans, then certainly the Arabs and Iranians, the Arabs and the Israelis, the Arabs and the Africans, the Arabs and the Arabs. And that was just one ethnic group. Moving on from the Semites, you couldn't get out of the Asian subcontinent without another good twenty wars.

So what was he stopping, really?

"Remo, why are you taking so long?" asked Anna. "Are you going to let the French and Germans slaughter each other again?"

"Eh," said Remo.

"Is that your answer to warfare? A blase little 'eh'? That's it?"

Remo shrugged.

"Trust me, Remo. I think I have figured out what Mr. Arieson must be. I don't think he's invincible. Don't make the deal with him. I'll help you with the treasure. You've never had the combined might of both Russia and America working for you. I think Mr. Arieson has made a mistake by returning part of the treasure. Remo, stop this war."

Arieson, who had let Anna have her full say, finally interrupted. His voice resonated throughout the bunker like a hymn, like trumpets, like all the music men had ever used to raise their hearts to the battle. Anna was not unaware of this. She sensed Remo was. Moisture had collected on the concrete walls in the old Maginot Line and it was like breathing in a sewer. In a war, men would fight in bunkers like these and worse. All the martial music could not change that. She squeezed Remo's arm as Arieson spoke.

"Remo, have you ever really seen an old-fashioned war? I mean a good one. Not something where the cities are bombed, and drably dressed men crawl through the mud, and no one even knows where the enemy is half the time. I'm not talking about that shoddy new stuff. I'm talking good old-fashioned war, with banners and trumpets and men in glorious uniforms marching out to make history and glory."

"And to hack away at each other like butchers and then have their poets cover it up," said Remo. "I've read about those kinds."

"Once a Sinanju assassin, always a Sinanju assassin. What about the deal? You don't care about these armies. You've always considered warriors as some kind of cheap competition for your services."

"You don't mean to tell us you've been around for thousands of years," said Anna.