Warren Murphy: The End of the Game

"The same for the American missiles?" she asked.

He nodded. "Just insert the target's longitude and latitude and that'll do it. They self-correct for direction once they've been launched. I already worked out the coordinates."

"You're brilliant, Abner. Just brilliant."

"You're right," Buell said.

"You said you need the code number for firing. What's that?"

"It's in my head somewhere," he said. "I'll remember it when I need it."

"And the coordinates?" Marcia asked.

Buell flapped his arm toward the top of the computer console where piles of papers were stacked precariously. "I've got them written down somewhere. Up there. I told you, we didn't need them."

"No. Of course not," Marcia said. She stood back from Buell and as she did, she knocked over a stack of papers with her elbow.

"Clumsy," Buell muttered.

"I'm sorry." She stooped to gather the papers. When she found one with the names of cities with two simple rows of figures on it, she slipped it inside the sleeve of her blouse, then replaced the stack where it had been.

Buell had not noticed; he was calling up other numbers on the computer screen. Finally, he restored the split screen with the two Ready signals on either side. "Everything's all set for the big bang," he said.

"Good," Marcia said.

"But first we've got our entertainment outside. Let's go up," Buell said.

"I'll be up in a minute," she said. "I just want to put on a little makeup first."

"Suit yourself. Wear something nice when you come up," he said. "Maybe your cavegirl costume."

"I will," Marcia said.

When she heard the upstairs door that led outside click shut, Marcia pulled the list of coordinates from her sleeve and sat at the computer. Working swiftly and efficiently, she reprogrammed all the missiles of the United States to strike, not at Moscow and Russia, but at New York, Washington, Los Angeles, and Chicago. She did not change the trajectories of the Russian missiles. They were still aimed at the United States.

* * *

Harold Smith was ready. Flattened behind a small rock, he waited, his binoculars focused on the plateau above the site where the battle was to take place.

Almost at noon, a solitary figure appeared on the plateau, walked to the edge and seemed, like a military conqueror, to survey all the ground around him. Smith pressed himself close to the ground, then peered up and saw the man was sitting now in a folding lawn chair on the edge of the rock shelf. It was Abner Buell. Smith crawled silently through the grass toward the back of the hill.

When he reached the bottom of the hill, he felt for the Barsgod in his pocket. Its weight gave him a perverse satisfaction. On this day Remo would die, and Chiun would prepare to return to Korea, and Harold Smith would go back to Folcroft Sanitarium, probably never to emerge from it alive, and CURE would probably be finished. But because of the Barsgod, Buell would also die.

And the rest of the world would live.

So be it, Smith thought.

The sun was high and bright when Remo strode out into the open field to meet the diminutive figure dressed in white robes and standing as still as a statue. When he approached, Chiun bowed to him.

Remo did not return the bow. Instead, he stood like a man who had walked a thousand miles with a pack of stones upon his back. His shoulders were stooped and a deep furrow ran between his red-rimmed eyes.

"I didn't think it would ever come to this," Remo said quietly.

Chiun's face was impassive. "And what is 'this'?"

"Don't play word games with me, Little Fa--" Remo stopped himself. His mouth twisted with bitterness. "Little Father," he finished and spat on the ground.

Chiun's eyelids fluttered but he said nothing.

"You've come to kill me," Remo said. There was no accusation in his voice, only the sorrowful sound of resignation.

"I have been so commanded," Chiun said.

"Ah, the contract," Remo said. "That's right. Money for Sinanju. Don't forget the money, Chiun. I hope you got paid in advance. Your ancestors will never forgive you if you get stiffed on this job. The great Sinanju god. Money."

"You are cruel," the old Oriental said softly.

Remo laughed, a harsh sound in the thin noon air. "Right, Chiun. You go on telling yourself that. While you're killing me, just keep thinking how cruel I am."

"I might not be able to kill you," Chiun said.

"Oh, yes, you will. But I'm not going to make it easy for you," Remo said. "I'm not fighting back."

"Like a sheep, you will stand there?" asked Chiun.

"Sheep if you want. But that's the way I want it. You're going to have to kill me where I stand."

"You are permitted to fight," Chiun said.

"And I'm also permitted not to fight. Sorry, Chiun. I'm the one who's dying. I'll pick the way."

"It is not the way of an assassin," Chiun said.

"You're the assassin, remember? Chiun, the great assassin." Remo's eyes welled with tears. "Well, I'm going to give you something to remember me by. A parting gift from your son. When you kill me, Chiun, you won't be any assassin. You'll be a butcher. That's my gift. Take it to the grave with you."

He ripped open the collar of his shirt and lifted his chin, baring his throat. "Go ahead," he said, his moist eyes fixed on the old man. "Do it now and get it over with."

"You could have lain in wait for me here," Chiun said. "You could have killed me when I arrived."

"Well, I didn't," Remo said.

"Why will you not fight me?"

"Because," Remo said.

"A typical stupid answer from a pale piece of pig's ear," Chiun snapped. "What does that mean, that 'because'?"

"Just because," Remo said stubbornly.

"Because you could not stand the thought of perhaps hurting me," the old man said.

"Not that at all," Remo said.

"It is true. You knew my mission. You could have attacked first."

Remo only looked away.

"My son," Chiun said brokenly. "Can you see there is no other way?"

"I love you, Little Father," Remo said.

"Yes," said Chiun. "And that is why you will fight me. We must not disappoint our audience."

He pulled himself up to his full height, then bowed once more to his opponent.

This time, Remo bowed back.

They were talking and Abner Buell was growing annoyed. Stop talking and fight, he mentally commanded them. He tossed his lawn chair away and sat on the edge of the cliff, his legs dangling over the side.

The old Oriental, he thought, certainly looked nothing like a Dr. Smith. But Remo, that was the Remo he had seen on his television monitors, haunting him day after day. Until today. When Remo died.

Buell saw the old Oriental bow and the bow was returned by Remo. Buell wondered if Remo knew what was going to happen to him. Probably not. Remo was just too cocky and Buell was going to enjoy seeing him go down.

The Oriental struck first. He was small, but as fast as a squirrel. He seemed to levitate from the ground, hesitate in midair for a moment, and then slash down with enough ferocity to lop off a horse's head.

The first blow missed as Remo spun away, moving so fast himself that he was almost a blur. Then he catapulted upward in a double spiral and came down with both legs drawn in. They shot out at the last moment, hitting the old man square in the stomach. A spray of bright blood shot from the Oriental's mouth. Dr. Smith staggered backward a few steps and while he was trying to get his footing, Remo came after him.

"Come on, Dr. Smith," Buell said softly. But for a moment, it looked at as if Remo had won. The old man staggered backward, ready to fall. But at the last moment, instead of going down, he sprang suddenly upward, his arms moving in front of him like blades. Remo's head snapped backward. He was trying to get away but the Oriental's hand snaked out again and before Remo could so much as turn his head, the old man had him by the throat and then yanked back hard. There was a sound like the beginning of a cry but it was choked off suddenly. Then Remo sank to his knees. At the same moment, the old man raised his arm high. In his hand was the bubbly, bloody interior of Remo's throat.