Warren Murphy: Next Of Kin

Chiun leaped up and switched off the Betamax, which was airing a 1965 episode of "As the Planet Revolves."

"Out," he shouted to the world at large. "Leave my presence immediately, noisy lout, or..."

Two weary eyes beneath a twenty-year-old straw fedora peered at him over the windowsill.

"Emperor Smith," Chiun said, suddenly bowing obsequiously to the man who sent the yearly tribute of gold via submarine to Chiun's village. "My heart thrills with this honor." His hazel eyes darted back for a longing moment to the blank TV screen. "As the Planet Revolves" was infinitely more interesting than Harold W. Smith, even during the commercials.

"Can I— can I come in?" Smith said with utter solemnity as his head, framed by the open window, craned suspiciously in all directions.

"At your service, o esteemed Emperor," Chiun said, groaning inwardly. Smith's careworn, withered lemon face had "meeting" stamped all over it. The blank eye of the Betamax stared mockingly. Chiun extended a hand to Smith, who was trying to crawl through the window, his face contorted in agony as he sought a toehold with the tips of his Florsheims. With a light flick of the Oriental's wrist, Smith sailed over the Betamax and came to rest on a plump cushion in the corner.

With a smile and a bow, Chiun began to wheel the television toward the door. "One moment, most worthy Emperor, and I will command Remo to your presence here—"

"No," Smith whispered urgently. He rose from his sprawled position on the cushion, reassuming his habitual air of bland dignity. "Remo is in the kitchen talking to the housekeeper. That's why I came this way instead of to the door. I have to speak with you alone."

Chiun's eyes brightened. "I see, o magnificence," he said conspiratorially. "A private mission... an assignment for another government perhaps?" He winked.

"Chiun," Smith said, flustered, "we work for the United States."

"Governments come and depart in the night. But an assassin is a treasure forever. Yet I will do as you bid, Emperor..."

"Good. I was counting on that..."

"As soon as we arrive at a mutually comfortable and honorable fee for my duties. Perhaps twenty thousand in gold..."

"This is part of our original contract, Chiun."

"Oh." The old Oriental's eyes wandered back to the blank Betamax.

Smith nervously rolled his hat in his hands. "Let me explain as quickly as I can, before Remo happens along."

"By all means," Chiun said, stifling a yawn.

"You've probably been wondering why I sent the two of you to Sint Maarten for your vacation."

"Not at all," Chiun said, feigning disinterest. "If you in your wisdom did not see fit to grant an old man his only wish of seeing his village of Sinanju..." He closed his eyes and shrugged expressively.

"I was planning to, but something came up." From inside his coat pocket he extracted a large envelope containing a dozen or more photographs. He leafed through the pictures and handed one to Chiun. It showed a large ship with a crane on its deck hoisting a long rectangular metal box out of the ocean. "A U.S. salvage ship dredged up this truck body nearby, off the coast of the island."

"Ah, most fascinating," Chiun said. "Have you by any chance been privileged to observe the beautiful daytime dramas on the television?" He scurried over to the Betamax. "Perhaps, if we are fortunate, Dr. Rad Rex will appear in 'As the Planet Revolves.' "

"Chiun— really—"

Smith was too late. Chiun had already pushed the magic switch that brought Dr. Rad Rex and the suffering Mrs. Wintersheim back into the room just as Mrs. Wintersheim was revealing her guilty secret involving her daughter's marriage to Carl Aberdeen's podiatrist, Skip. The old man was settled in front of the television, smiling raptly, his lips mouthing the words he had heard thousands of times before.

Brushing a hand over his eyes, Smith knelt beside him. "Chiun, the sunken truck container in that photo I just showed you contained more than a hundred dead bodies of unidentifiable men."

"Tsk, tsk," Chiun conceded.

"The point is, someone murdered them."

"Here today, gone tomorrow," Chiun murmured.

Smith squeezed his eyes shut. Briskly he took out another photograph. "I think Remo killed them," he said.

Chiun nodded. "Perhaps they offended him."

"Will you please look at these?" Smith asked, thrusting the sheaf of photographs in front of Chiun.

With a sigh, the old man turned first his head, then his eyes in the direction of the pictures. Then slowly his hand reached out and depressed the "Off" button on the Betamax. "Remarkable," he said.

"I thought you'd recognize the style."

"These attacks were nearly perfect," he said beaming. "Oh, a little sloppy with this third vertebra, slow inside line here-details, details. Overall, this is most excellent work. I congratulate you, o Emperor."

"On what?"

"On your most astute perception of my pupil's progress. Will you give him a medal?" Chiun nodded expectantly.

Smith cleared his throat. "That's not exactly what I had in mind."

"Oh!" Chiun slapped his forehead. "Of course. You are a man of great wisdom, Emperor Smith. Many thanks, o illustrious one. I shall display it with great pride and humility."

"Display what?"

"My medal, of course. Only one of truly keen acumen such as yourself would seek to reward the student by honoring the teacher. I am deeply touched by this tribute."

"Chiun, you don't understand. I've never assigned Remo to these islands before."

"So? An assassin with skill such as I have taught Remo can kill here as well as anywhere."

"I was afraid of that," Smith said. His face was drawn and haggard. "Please listen to me, Chiun. I haven't got much time, and I have to explain something to you. If Remo didn't kill those men in the truck on assignment, that means he's been killing them on his own. You know I can't permit that. It was part of our initial deal."

Chiun's smile faded as Smith's meaning became clear. "Perhaps he was only practicing?" Chiun offered.

"It doesn't matter what the reason was. If Remo has gone off on a killing spree, he must be stopped."

"Yes," Chiun said softly. "It was our agreement."

"And you must stop him."

The old man slowly nodded assent.

"It should be done at an appropriate time, and with no witnesses. That's why I rented the villa for you. You'll have to dispose of the— uh—"

Chiun held up a hand for silence. After a moment, Smith stood up awkwardly beside the frail old teacher who sat with his back bent and his head bowed.

"This is the end for all of us," Smith whispered, his voice cracking. "After you report back to me at Folcroft, you'll be sent back to Sinanju, and..." There was no need to explain that Remo's death would mean the end of CURE, since Chiun had never known who his employer was beyond Harold W. Smith. And there was no need to point out that Smith's own life would end with Remo's, in the basement of Folcroft Sanitarium. There was, in fact, no need to say anything more. Quietly, Smith walked back to the window. As he removed his hat in preparation for his exit, Remo walked into the room.

"Smitty," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"Uh— vacationing. With Mrs. Smith. On Saba, uh, nearby island." Smith had never been a good liar. He nodded tersely and strode toward the door.

"Hey, wait a minute. You two look like senior projects at undertakers' school. What's going on?"

Smith shook his head, cleared his throat again, and said, "Good day," without looking at either of the men in the room. Chiun sat motionless, his head bowed. "Oh, I nearly forgot," Smith said. He took a parchment-colored envelope from his breast pocket and slid it on the floor beside Chiun. "It was on your doorstep, but I saw the wind blow it into the bushes. Thought I'd better hand it to you myself before it got lost." He touched his fingers to his hat and was gone.