Warren Murphy: Missing Link

'The Libyans don't know anything," Remo reported.

Smith said, "The president has gotten a note from Bobby Jack."

"What's it say?"

"It says that he's being held prisoner by some group called PLOTZ. Something about Zionists."

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"PLOTZ?" Remo said. "You're kidding."

"No. PLOTZ."

"Who are they?" Remo asked.

"I don't know. There's nothing in the tapes. I'm trying to find out who they might be."

"You think this PLOTZ has anything to do with the Star of David and the swastika that were found?" Remo asked.

He could sense Smith's shrug of "who knows" over the telephone. Finally Smith said, "At least it clears up one thing. The president didn't have anything to do with Billings being stolen away. Otherwise he would have just tried to keep us in the dark."

"Good," Remo said. "I've got a question. Who is a Miss Lester from the State Department? I keep tripping over her."

"Hold on," Smith said. Remo rested the telephone on his shoulder. He knew Smith was punching up the television console on his desk and feeding the Lester name into it. Remo looked out over Central Park. It had once been a glorious urban park, but now it was generally safe to use the park only between noon and three p.m., if you were traveling with an armed escort.

Smith's voice crackled over the phone.

"Do you have a physical description of this woman?"

"Tall. Almost six feet. Blonde, hair in braids. Violet eyes," Remo said.

"Hold on." Remo looked toward the car parked at the curb. Churn's eyes were closed in repose.

"Negative," said Smith. "Nobody like that in our

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State Department, and nobody jby that name or description in our file of U.S. agents."

"Good," Remo said.

"Why good?"

"Because she's the only lead we've got."

"Not much of a lead," Smith said. "She seems to be looking for him too."

"Details," Remo said airily. "Just details. At least she knows he's missing. She found that out somewhere, and that's something for us to work on. Let me know when you find out something about PLOTZ. PLOTZ .'. . hah."

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CHAPTER SIX

As Remo came into their hotel room overlooking Central Park in New York, Chiun was turning off the television set. He turned toward Remo, his face alight with excitement.

"I have decided," he said, "what I am going to do next."

"Good," said Remo. He flopped down on a sofa. He lay with the top of his head toward Chiun. Perhaps if Chiun could not see his eyes, Chiun would not talk to him.

Chiun walked down toward Remo's feet and stared into Remo's eyes.

"Do you not wish to know what I am going to do?" he asked. He carefully scrutinized Remo's face for reaction.

"Of course I do," Remo said. He wondered what Chiun had seen on television this time that had set him off.

"I am going to the Olympic Games," Chiun said. "I'm going for trie gold."

"That's fine," Remo said, "except they don't have an event for assassins."

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"Foolish child," Chiun said. "I will not go as an assassin."

"What will you go as?"

"Everything else," Chiun said.

"I beg your pardon," Remo said.

"You're excused. I will go as everything else. I have been watching this television all day, and I have watched these people running around and jumping and using poles and lifting weights and throwing spears and lumps of iron and I can do those things better than these people. So I am going. That is that."

Remo sat up on the couch. Chiun sat on the floor in front of him.

"Why?" Remo said. "You know you can do those things and I know you can do those things, so why go?"

"I want everybody to know I can do those things."

"I thought you told me once that knowing your own virtue is enough recognition for the thinking man," Remo said.

"Forget I said that," Chiun replied. He folded his arms across the chest. His long-fingernailed hands disappeared in the voluminous sleeves of his white silk kimono. "I am going."

Remo looked at him. He had no doubt, not even for an instant, that in any event Chiun would eat the Olympic medalists alive. But why all of a sudden this urge for public recognition?

"What do you get out of it?" Remo asked. "Endorsements," Chiun said. "Eat Wheato cereal, the breakfast of Chiun, the champion. Chiun, the champion, runs on Tigeq^aw sneakers. Chiun, the

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champion, stays well dressed in shirts by Sanford. I have seen this, Remo. Even people who do nothing but swim get these endorsements and they go on television, looking silly, and get great amounts of money to say such things."

"But you don't eat Wheato Cereal, and you don't even wear sneakers, much less Tigerpaw sneakers. Shirts by Sanford? I've never seen you wear anything but a kimono."

"So I'll lie a little. Everybody does. You know very well that no one ever made it to the Olympics by eating Wheato Cereal. Anyone eating that would . be lucky to survive, much less run a race."

"You don't need the money," Remo said.

"On.e never knows," Chiun said. "I'm not getting any younger. The money from endorsements might help insure my old age."

"Back in Sinanju, you've got a houseful of gold and jewels. You don't need the money," Remo insisted stubbornly.

"And suppose I get sick and all my life's savings are eaten away by doctor bills," Chiun said.

"You've never been sick a day in your life," Remo answered.

Chiun raised his right index finger and shook it at Remo. "Aaaah," he said, "that's just the point. I am overdue."

Remo lay back on the sofa. It was all Smith needed to make him absolutely bananas. Chiun going to the Olympic games. Chiun being interviewed in the press tent after each winning event. Crediting his victories to clean living, good eating, and the support he had received from Dr. Harold

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W. Smith, head of the secret agency CURE, for which Chiun helped kill America's enemies. Remo rolled on his side to look at Chiun. ' "Who will you represent?" "What do you mean?"

"Every athlete comes from somewhere. They represent somebody or something. Some country. You come from North Korea. You want to represent them?"

"No," Chiun said. "No television in North Korea. No endorsement money. I will represent the United States."

"Oh," Remo said. He rolled over again onto his back and stared at the ceiling. Chiun began to hum the Olympic anthem, which he must have heard on television that afternoon.

"I think you have to be a citizen of the country you represent," Remo finally said.

"I don't think so," Chiun said, "but if you do, I'll lie."

"Oh," Remo said. Back to staring at the ceiling. Chiun resumed humming. Remo glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He was practicing bowing his head, so that the Olympic gold medals could be slipped around his neck.

Remo lay in silence for a long time. Then he thought of it. He sat up on the sofa. Chiun stopped humming and looked at him.

"Yon can't do it, Chiun."

"Why not?"

"Because of the Olympic uniforms."

"What does that mean?"

"You have to wear shorts and tights and bare legs

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to compete in the Olympics," Remo said. He pointed toward the television. "Like everybody you see. You don't see anybody competing in a kimono."

Chiun's face clouded over. "Is this true?" he asked. There was hurt in his voice, and Remo knew why. Chiun had an ancient Oriental distaste for exposing his body. He bathed in private behind double-locked doors. When he changed from one kimono to another, he did it in such a way that his body was never visible. He represented centuries of modesty.

"I'm afraid it is, " Remo said. "You know how it is. In some events, they have to judge you on style, and that means how you hold your legs, and how correctly pointed your toes are and like that. They just couldn't judge you wearing a kimono."