Warren Murphy: Dangerous Games

"Look, it's true. Some people are making this shortage worse." That was good, he thought. It was the truth. He had read somewhere that you shouldn't lie to a crazy man. Maybe if he told him the truth that he wanted to hear, then, maybe this nut would believe everything he told him. Remo rewarded this theory with a smile.

"These people buy up oil on the spot market but

22

then they hold it, waiting for prices to go higher before they sell it in this country. They asked me to join them, but when I heard about it, I walked out. I wouldn't have anything to do with that. I said their plan was un-American."

Remo nodded. "Good for you," he said. "And you wouldn't have anything to do with it."

"That's right."

"Because it was un-American."

"Right. Right."

"And you are a loyal American."

"I am."

"And you don't care one bit about making a few extra million dollars."

"Right. I don't."

"Come on, Hefferling," Remo said reproachfully.

"It's the truth."

"That's your defense? That's supposed to stop me from killing you?"

Hefferling stared at him. Slowly his face relaxed into a smile.

"I get it. This is a joke, isn't it? You were paid to do this, right? Kind of like a pie in the face. Paid for it, right?"

Remo shrugged. "Actually, I was. But, see, that's the work I do."

"What is? Pies? Threats?"

"No," Remo said, and because it no longer made any difference, he told Hefferling the truth. How a young Newark policeman named Remo Williams had been framed for a murder he didn't commit, was sent to an electric chair that didn't work, and was revived and recruited to work for a secret crime-fighting organization named CURE. And he told him, too, how Remo Williams had learned the secrets of Sinanju, an ancient Korean house of assassins, and hi learning them had become something more than just a man. Something special.

23

When Remo was done, he looked at Hefferling's face but saw only confusion there. Nobody ever understood.

"Anyway, Hefferling, upstairs tells me what is what here. I don't even use gas. But they tell me you have five tankers of oil tied up in Puerto Rico somewhere and you're waiting for prices to go up and then you're going to sell the oil in America. Meanwhile, people are waiting in gas lines. This is what upstairs tells me and they tell me I should do something about it."

"Like what?" asked Hefferling.

"Like kill you."

"Wait now," Hefferling pleaded in panic. "I've got more to tell you. A lot more. Wait."

"Tell it to the angels, Hubert." Remo leaned forward, tapped once with his knuckles and Hefferling sat back in his chair. Remo picked up the man's right hand, and dropped it onto the table with a thud. A dead thud.

"That's the oil biz, sweetheart," Remo told the body.

He walked around the desk, pulled a blank sheet of paper from the top left corner of Hefferling's desk, and found a Flair marker in the dead man's inside jacket pocket. In black, he wrote across the sheet of paper. With a piece of Scotch tape, he attached the paper to Hefferling's forehead, first wiping away the perspiration with a piece of the man's desk blotter.

He folded Hefferling's hands across his lap. At the door, he turned back to survey his work. There was Hefferling's body, sitting up neatly. On the paper dangling from his head was written:

DON'T TREAD ON ME. SUCH IS THE VENGEANCE OF EVERYMAN.

24

When Remo walked back outside, Marsha turned anxiously toward the door. When she saw him, she smiled. There it is again, she thought, that feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"Hi, Marsha," Remo said.

"Hello. You wanted to . . . talk to me?"

"Actually, no, Marsha. I wanted to kiss you."

She felt herself getting dizzy as he bent over her and placed a hand between her shoulder and her neck. She waited anxiously for his lips to touch hers. She thought she felt his breath on her forehead and then there was a gentle pressure on her throat and she felt nothing more.

Remo placed her head gently on her desk, cradling it on her arms. When she woke, she would feel fuzzy and dazed and find it difficult to remember what had happened in the last half-hour. Later, she would tell police that she had fallen asleep with her head on her desk and had dreamed about a man, but she could not describe him, except to say that he made her stomach feel funny.

"I think your head is funny," one of the cops would growl, but he would write in his report, "No witness to Hefferling murder."

Remo walked back to his hotel room, strolling past the Playboy Club, where he waved at people sitting near the windows and yelled at them that they ought to be playing racquetball, instead of drinking so early in the day.

Back at his room, he walked up to an aged Oriental who sat in a lotus position in the middle of the carpeted floor. Remo said, "I am Everyman. Beware my vengeance." He pointed his index finger toward the ceiling for emphasis.

The Oriental rose in one smooth motion, like smoke escaping from a jar, and faced Remo. The old man was barely five feet tall and had never seen a

25

hundred pounds. At the sides of his head, white wisps of hair flitted out from his dried yellow skin.

"Come, my son, and sit," he said to Remo, guiding the young man forcefully to the couch. Remo didn't want to sit down. The old man gently touched his chest and Remo sat down.

The old man shook his head and said sadly, "I have been expecting this."

"Expecting what, Chiun?" Remo asked.

"The strain of learning the techniques of Sinanju has finally driven you mad. It is my fault. I should have known that a white man could not stand the strain forever, even with my genius to guide him. It is like trying to pour an ocean into a cup. Eventually the cup must crack. You have cracked. But remember this, Remo, before they come to take you away: you did well to last this long."

"Come on, Chiun. It was a joke."

Chiun had returned to the lotus position and appeared to be praying for Remo's memory, his hands folded across the lap of his purple kimono.

"Chiun, stop it. I'm not crazy. It was just a joke."

"A joke?" Chiun said, looking up.

"Yes. A joke."

Chiun shook his head again. "Worse than I feared. Now he jokes with the teachings of the Master of Sinanju?"

"Come on, Chiun, stop fooling around."

"My heart is broken."

"Chiun-"

"My spirit is low."

"Chiun, will you-"

"My stomach is growling."

The cartoon lightbulb flashed on over Remo's head. "Oh, crap. I forgot your chestnuts."

"Don't apologize, please," Chiun said. "It is nothing, really. I couldn't expect you to remember a sick

26

old man's request, when you had the chance of frolicking with those rabbits."

"What rabbits?"

"At that palace of evil."

Remo scrunched up his face, trying to remember what Chiun was talking about. "Oh. They're bunnies, not rabbits."

"I will pray for your salvation."

"Chiun, I promise you, I didn't even walk past that place."

Chiun snorted. "The promise of a white man who also promised to bring home chestnuts."

"The promise of a student of a Master of Sinanju, of the greatest Master of Sinanju," Remo said.

"I will believe you for all we have meant to each other," Chiun said.

Remo stood up, bowed from the waist and said, "I thank you, Little Father."

Chiun waved a hand magnanimously. "You are forgiven. Now go buy my chestnuts."

27

CHAPTER THREE

When the threat to the United States Olympic team arrived at the office of the Olympic committee, it was immediately brought to the office of R. Watson Dotty, head of the committee.

He was, however, otherwise occupied. He had heard that there was a swimmer in Sierra Leone who had accepted a free pair of bathing trunks from a swimsuit manufacturer, and Dotty was trying to pin down the rumor so he could demand the athlete's banishment from the upcoming Moscow games. It was Dotty's feeling that no one in the world but him knew the difference between amateur and professional, and he was dedicated to keeping the difference alive. So he pushed aside the note that was laid on his desk by his assistant.