Warren Murphy - In Enemy Hands

"Heartily sorry," corrected Vassilivich.

"For having offended thee."

"For having offended thee," said Vassilivich, and as the American lifted him and cradled him out of the room over Ivan's wrecked body, Vassilivich heard the Korean warn:

"Next time, no more Mister Nice Guy."

What had taken so many years to hone and refine, what had been drawn from an Empire that stretched from Berlin to the Bering Straights, what had fused the best of an indestructible people with an inexhaustible supply of facilities and money, now went in a week. And Vassilivich bore grieving witness to it all.

The auxiliary Treska unit in Rome itself, on Via Plebiscito, a half mile from the Coliseum, was first.

Remo remarked that Chiun had told him that his ancestors had worked in Rome once.

"When there was good work to be done," Chiun said.

"Ever fight in the Coliseum?"

"We are assassins, not entertainers," Chiun answered. "Strange people, the Romans. Anything they found, they would put into that arena. Anything. Animals. People. Anything. I guess they just liked rodeos."

Vassilivich shuddered, and then he felt the American's hands go up his spine and there was a great relief. Vassilivich realized he had been going into shock and by some manipulation of nerves in the spine, the American had prevented this.

He could hear the night revelry of the auxiliary group from the street. Giggles of women, glasses tinkling. Who said nothing succeeded like success? Nothing destroys like success was more like it, thought Vassilivich.

It surprised him that he did not even want to warn his auxiliary team. He felt he should at least want to do this one thing. But he didn't care. All his training seemed to have dissolved in that back room of the sports shop. All caring seemed to dissolve. What did a general of twenty years' service in the KGB want now? He wanted a cool drink and nothing more.

The Korean stayed in the street with him as the American went up alone. A small police station near a closed and shuttered coffee shop was on their right. Behind them, a recent gargantuan marble obscenity built by a modern king. It had wide marble steps and highlighted some Italian on a marble horse. Floodlights showed the passersby that this was supposed to be important. The trouble with statues and monuments was that when you had them on every other block they became as common as trees in the forest, and if you didn't have a guide to tell you that this one or that one was important, you wouldn't even bother to look.

The laughter stopped upstairs. Just stopped as if someone had turned off a switch. The Korean seem as casual as if he were waiting for a bus.

"Sir," said Vassilivich, and then, on some survival instinct he was unaware he had, he added: "Gracious and noble sir. Gentle wise flower of our delight, oh, gracious sir, please bestow upon your unworthy servant thy awesome name."

The Korean named Chiun, with the wisp of a beard, nodded.

"I am Chiun, Master of Sinanju."

"Pray tell, oh magnificent one, do you work with the Americans? Are you part of what is called Sunflower?"

"I am part of nothing. I am Chiun."

"Then you are not working with Americans?"

"I receive tribute for my skills," said Chiun.

"And they are what, oh, gracious master? What skills?"

"My wisdom and beauty," said Chiun, so glad he was finally being asked by someone.

"Do you teach killing?" Vassilivich pressed on.

"I teach what has to be done and what people can do if they can learn. Not everyone can learn."

In a few minutes, Remo returned with a handful of passports. In that few minutes, the confused and brain-strained Vassily Vassilivich, general, had learned that the Oriental was a lover of beauty, a poet, a wise man, an innocent cast into the cruel world, and that he was not appreciated by his pupil. Chiun also was a few other things which he would not talk about.

Remo showed the passports to Vassilivich who gave the rank and real name for each one. He just had to look into the American's eyes once to decide not to try to throw out a cover story.

Remo gave the passports to Chiun, asking him to hold them. Chiun had many folds in his flowing kimono and could store an office there if he wanted to.

"I am now transformed into a porter for your garbage. Thus am I treated," said Chiun.

"Five passports. What's the big deal?" Remo asked.

"It is not the weight of the paper but the heavy and grievous disregard you show for a gentle poet."

Remo looked around. He hadn't seen anyone else. Vassilivich was a KGB officer. Chiun, the Master of Sinanju, was the last of the line of the most deadly assassins the world had ever known. So where was the poet Chiun was talking about? Remo shrugged.

In Naples, they came upon the Alpha Team almost by accident. Vassilivich spotted one of the members and made a fast calculation. He felt better this noon than the night before, and with a light meal and a small nap in the car which Remo, the American, drove, his calculating mind was working again. The Alpha Team was useless anyway. He had lost contact with it days before, and only Marshal Denia's desire to keep the good reports flowing to Moscow had prevented him from administering discipline. So when he saw one of the members, the explosives man, he pointed him out. Remo parked the car and ambled up behind the man. It looked as if he were greeting an old friend with a hand clasp around the shoulder. Only if you noticed that the old friend didn't have his feet on the ground might you suspect that something could be wrong.

Had Vassilivich not had more than two decades in the Treska, with the constant training of the assassination teams, the sets, the picks, the rolling sets, so many variations of killing another person quickly and surely, he knew he would not have been able to appreciate the instrument called Remo.

This American was better than anything the Treska had ever seen or imagined.

The munitions expert was dead by the time his feet reached the ground, and the American was walking him across the street as if he were still alive.

"What skill!" said Vassilivich, his voice weakened by the admiration.

"Adequate," said Chiun.

"I didn't see his hands move," said Vassilivich.

"You are not supposed to," said Chiun. "Watch his feet."

"And then I'll see him move?"

"No," said Chiun. "Then you'll see nothing."

"Why is that?"

"Because I have devoted my life to training that ingrate, instead of spending it on a nice boy like you."

"Thank you, oh, gracious master."

"I live in America now, but I am sorely tried by its misdeeds," Chiun said, and Vassilivich's cunning mind grasped the opportunity. He commiserated with Chiun over Chiun's problems.

"Do not feel sorry for me," said Chiun. "The gentlest flowers are always those stamped on the most. The delicate is crushed before the gross and unseemly. This is life."

And Chiun told of the horrors of American television, what had been done to the beauteous dramas of "As the Planet Revolves" and "Search for Yesterday." Chiun, as poet, appreciated them. But now there was such a thing as "Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman," and they had people exposing themselves, and killings, and hospital scenes in which the doctors did not save people but injured them. Not what sort of dramatic doctor did more damage than good? Chiun asked that.

Vassilivich avered that no good drama should have a bad doctor.

"Correct," said Chiun. "If one wishes to see doctors mangle people, one should go to a hospital, not a television set. If I wanted to see stupid and careless and incompetent doctors, I have only to drop in on a local practitioner, and my chances are very good. Especially in your country, you should know that."

Vassilivich gulped but agreed. What, he wanted to know, did Chiun teach this ungrateful Remo?