Warren Murphy: Dangerous Games

Josie ran out onto one of the mats in the center of the floor and waved to the crowd, turning a slow circle, smiling honestly and brightly at the audience,

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and then she ran back over to join Remo on a bench near the spectators' seats.

"When do you compete?" she asked him.

He had not even thought about it. His first run was today too. In fact, they might even be looking for him. Missing the race now and disappointing Chiun would mean he would never hear the end of it.

Then he looked up and saw Chiun walking toward them, a grim look on his wizened face.

"Today," he said. "But don't come and watch. You'll only make me nervous."

She hugged him again and said, "Good luck, even though you don't need it. I have to go talk to somebody."

As she walked away, Remo rose to meet Chiun.

"It's okay, Chiun. It's okay. I won't miss the race."

"Did you find the bombers?" Chiun asked.

"Yeah. It's the Baruban team," Remo said.

"And you told the security chief of these games?"

"Not exactly."

"What not exactly?" asked Chiun.

"I told the guy who was tailing us. I told him to tell his boss."

"And then you came here so that you could watch that woman perform?"

"You've known about her," Remo said.

"How could I not know about her?" Chiun demanded. "The turmoil in your heart and head has made such a racket that I have not slept a wink since you met that woman. But she does not matter now."

"What does?"

"The security chiefs have been killed. I have just heard," Chiun said. "I guess your message about the terrorists was not delivered."

"Damn," snapped Remo. He felt responsible and he felt bad. He had been responsible for the death of

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many men, but this was from negligence, not by design.

He looked up at Chiun. "Let's go get those damned terrorists and put them out of action for good."

Chiun raised his hand. "No. I will go and find them. You will do what you came here to do. Get over to the sports field and win your race. Put all else out of your mind until you win."

"Chiun-"

"Shhh. This is important. You go win. This is not for the gold medal yet. It is just a preliminary. But you win it. And set a new world's record while you're doing it. Not a big world's record, but just a little one. Save the good stuff for later. But remember. Don't go on television until I get back. That is important, because you will probably say all the wrong things. Do what I tell you."

"Yes, Chiun," Remo said, and the two men walked off in separate directions, Chiun to hunt, and Remo to run.

The event was the 800-meter run.

Remo arrived barely in time to avoid being disqualified and was glared at malevolently by three other American runners.

Remo debated whether or not he should wave at Dr. Harold W. Smith, who was probably watching at home, but decided against it. Smith probably already had apoplexy from seeing Josie Littlefeather run over after her balance beam performance and hug Remo.

Remo was still wearing chinos and loafers. One of the field judges said to him, "Where is your uniform?"

"This is it," Remo said. "I'm representing the Tool and Die Makers Athletic Club of Secaucus, New Jersey."

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The judge shook his head in disbelief and stepped away from the starting line.

Remo was in lane four, next to the east German runner, Hans Schlichter, who had seen Remo in the gymnasium showing Josie how to master the balance beam. The East German leaned over to him and said, "It is nothing personal, you understand."

"Of course," said Remo. "Just in the spirit of Olympic competition."

"That is right," said Schlichter.

The runners took their place in the starting blocks, except for Remo who chose to stand at the start line.

When the gun sounded, Schlichter, instead of exploding from the blocks, swerved out to the right. This made room for another East German runner to move inside, past Schlichter and alongside Remo, pinching the American between himself and another East German runner on Remo's left.

Remo started slowly down the track, and the two East German runners kept swerving in and out of their lines, bumping him, pinching him between them. One tried on a forward stride to dig his running spikes into Remo's right calf, but Remo dodged.

Up ahead, he saw Hans Schlichter racing into a large lead, and as Schlichter cut over toward the rail, he glanced back at Remo and the look on his face said clearly, "Sorry, pal, but that's the way it is."

And Remo got angry.

He started running in an exaggerated motion, swinging his arms up and forward, and then he brought his left elbow back into the midsection of one East German runner who gasped out his air. Remo's right fist slapped downward and hit into the left thigh of the runner on Ms right, and the runner shouted his pain, slowed up, and then tried to run off the pain. But it was too late. Remo was past them, chasing Schlichter and the three Americans who held

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second, third and fourth places behind the East German star.

As he ran, Remo shook his head. What ever happened to sportsmanship? he asked himself, and he put out of his mind the necessity of winning the race and gave himself just one goal: get rid of that East German sucker.

Running easily now, Remo came up behind the three American runners halfway through the second and last lap of the race.

The crowd began to roar as Remo moved past the three Americans. Schlichter thought it was for him, until he saw Remo pull up alongside him. His eyes widened and he tried to turn on some extra energy to leave Remo behind him, but Remo stayed right with him effortlessly.

"Communists suck," Remo said.

Schlichter kept running.

"You look like Hitler. You related?" Remo said.

Schlichter glanced angrily to his right, his face beaming hatred at Remo.

They were near the backstretch now and the smooth stride of Schlichter started to get choppy. Remo felt the three American runners closing behind them.

"Your mother still turning tricks at the Berlin Wall?" Remo asked Schlichter as he matched him, easy stride for tortured stride.

Schlichter turned to Remo and hissed, "You are a Yankee bastard."

"Crap," Remo said. "Ich bin ein Berliner. You're a schmuck."

Schlichter tried to concentrate on his running, but the three Americans now were running alongside them.

"A running dog of the Communist butchers," Remo said. "Remember Hungary. Remember Czechoslovakia. Free Poland."

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And incredibly, Schlichter stopped running and jumped toward Remo, flailing punches at him. Remo ducked and trotted off from the East German, watching the three Americans cross the finish line ahead of him almost shoulder to shoulder, and it was only when the roar from the crowd signalled that the race was over that he realized he had blown it and would have to face Chiun.

Behind him, Schlichter did not even bother to finish the race. He stopped and walked off the track, joined by the other two East Germans, all eliminated in the competition's first heat. They looked toward Remo and he tossed them a salute.

He congratulated the three successful Americans, and one of them threw his arms around Remo.

"You cooked him good, pal. You could have won this thing, don't think we don't know that. But why?"

"Ah, you guys deserve it." Remo said. "Besides, you're getting old. This is your last shot. I'll be back in four years and maybe I'll even buy a pair of sneakers and blow everybody out." The three runners, all fifteen years younger than Remo, laughed.

"Yeah, but we'll get medals this year. What'll you get?"

"Satisfaction," Remo said. "That's all I wanted."

He turned and saw Josie Littlefeather standing in the crowd of people who had spilled onto the track. He could see hurt in her eyes, and he was sad that he had disappointed her by losing, but even that could not make him regret what he had done.