Warren Murphy: The Head Men

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Outside, Chiun allowed as how Remo was beginning to learn. He especially liked Remo's attitude toward new countries. But most of all was Remo's new ability to understand things without being told.

"Like what?" asked Remo.

"Like promising to save his life. We cannot do it, of course. Nobody can guarantee saving a life anymore than one can guarantee to make life. One can only guarantee a death."

"I intend to save his life."

"That makes me most sad," said Chiun. "I had thought you were becoming wise."

For, he explained, it was an old guarantee that one could give an emperor that his life would, without question, be saved. For if one failed, the only person who had heard the promise made- besides yourself-would no longer complain.

It was of little matter. And this Chiun tried to use to reassure Remo.

"The least endangered position in the entire world is that of your emperor or king."

"I thought everyone tried to kill them."

"That is true," Chiun said. "But has the death of one emperor ever meant that there would be no more? There is always someone willing to take that position in the world. And it is the least of all positions. Most attain it by entering the world from the correct womb. And what baby ever chose his womb or made an effort to be born ? Yet that is how most emperors are made. It is the least position, while appearing to be the most."

Thus spoke Chiun on that spring night in Washington, D.C. Thus spoke the Master of Sinanju.

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But his pupil was not quite as philosophical about the comings and goings of world rulers.

"I like this President, Chiun. I'm going to save him. Besides, I've seen the Vice President."

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CHAPTER FOUR

The knife came very slowly. So did the man behind it. He jumped from a shiny black Buick LeSabre, his black shiny paratrooper boots clomping on the sidewalk.

"Whitey, you dies," he bellowed. He wore a towel around his head with a cheap orange glass jewel in the middle. "Die fo' Allah."

He was a big man, at least six feet four and 250 pounds, his face glowering with flaring nostrils.

"I'm busy," Remo said. And he was. They had left the White House through the front gate and been followed and Chiun was in the middle of explaining the politics of assassination, that there were many reasons for it, and only rarely did assassinations descend to the mindlessness of hate or revenge. Hate was to performance of a function as a boil on the heel was to the long jump. It was at best a distraction and, at worst, a crucial impediment.

And in the midst of this while Remo was trying to piece together the connection between an explosion in Sun Valley, Utah, and the presidential concern for assassination, some guy with a

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knife disturbed him by blocking the street in front of them.

"This ain' no niggah muggin'," snarled the man. "This a Muslim holy war o' righteousness."

"I'm very busy," said Remo.

"I Arab. I gots Arab name. Name Hamis Al Boreen. That mean savior of his people."

"That means nothing," said Chiun to Remo. Chiun knew Arabic and had once explained to Remo that the western word assassin came from Arabic, from the word hashish which assassins were supposed to use to give themselves courage. "Hashishan" had become "assassin." They were good, but not great, assassins. Often they did sloppy work. They killed unnecessarily and, what was anathema to Chiun, they had no qualms about killing children to obtain their ends. "That is not an Arab name," said Chiun.

"I Hamis Al Boreen," repeated the man. He raised his curved knife. He plunged his curved knife toward Remo's chest. Remo walked past the outside of the arm, so the lumbering oaf's thrust carried him by Remo and Chiun. An observer would think the man had merely stumbled through them, but no one could attack anything on the outside of his arm moving past him.

"There are two kinds of assassination. One is the vicious insane blood murder for revenge that is becoming increasingly common in your country. It is not even assassination. It is just killing. The other is the elegant, perfect function of a civilization at its peak, honoring its craftsmen. These are assassinations paid for in advance."

"Which one does the President have to fear?" Remo asked.

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"AH of them," said Chiun. "But there is a particular one coming to him and he does not see it."

The big man with the towel imitation of a turban and the imitation Arab name lifted his bulk back up to standing balance. Three others with towels also wrapped around the heads, one still carrying a Sears' white sale label, came to him from cars farther down the street. Obviously the first man was supposed to have stopped Remo and Chiun, diverting their attention, while the other three made the real attack. Now all four were running down the block after Remo and Chiun.

"Kill in de name of de all merciful and mighty," screamed the man as the four charged. They were in the worst positions to attack, Remo knew. The best stroke was a balanced stroke. It had more power. Running at something and swinging at it simultaneously appeared to be more powerful, but it was only an illusion. Power was balance and all four were off balance and running. The three helpers had machetes.

"There has been an example set for this emperor of yours," Chiun said.

"How did you know that, Little Father?"

"If one uses one's head and sees and hears instead of talking back, one can easily deduce there was a threat that your President failed to take seriously. But Emperor Smith did take it seriously and wanted the President to take it seriously, so he sent us. And we convinced him."

"But how did you know it's one threat? One particular threat?"

"Not only is it just one threat but the example was in your Sun Valley of Utah," said Chiun with not a little pride.

"How do you get to that, Little Father?"

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"And they put you in charge?" sighed Chiun.

The attack by the four men was met with short sidestepping and rolling by as though Remo and Chiun were letting a dark rushing subway crowd push by them. This glancing collision accompanied screams about the greatness of God by the four attackers and how they were going to wash the streets with the blood of the invader infidels.

One of the attackers lost his Sears' white sale towel.

"Dey has dishonored my turban. Dey has dishonored my turban."

Remo and Chiun stepped over the struggling bodies of the four men.

"I am in charge, Little Father," Remo said. "How did you know Sun Valley? I mean, why Sun Valley?"

"The only logical place," said Chiun.

"You never even heard of Sun Valley," said Remo.

"Smith told me."

"In the hotel in Los Angeles, right? What did he say?"

"He said he was worried about the death that was an example."

"And then what?"

"And then he betrayed me by putting you back in charge."

"Well, what makes you think that it's one person or one group that's the danger?"

"It is a danger. One danger. It is the one we know about. There may be others. The important thing is that the name of the House of Sinanju does not become associated with your emperor because if another one of your emperors goes, it could shame the name of the House of Sinanju.

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And it would not be our fault because your land is filled with insane bloody lunatics who do not get paid for this work."

Hamis Al Boreen* and his crew regrouped for another charge.

"Stop or we cut," he threatened. "You ain' dealin' wif no ordinary niggers now. We all got Islamic names. Onliest people what can stop a Muslim is another Muslim, that who. It written in de holy whatchamacallit."

"I don't want this President to die, Little Father."

And Chiun smiled. "We all die, Remo. What you are saying is you do not wish his death to come too soon or too violently."