Warren Murphy: Assassins Play Off

"But I would not expect you to understand that," said Chiun. "For you, for the western mind, all the world is divided into two categories: shiny and not shiny. For you, a piece of glass. But for a Master of Sinanju, diamonds. Because we can look under the dullness and see the value of the core."

"Like you did with me?" said Remo.

"Even Masters of Sinanju sometimes get fooled. Something that is supposed to be an uncut diamond may turn out to be just a rock."

"Chiun, I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask me anything."

"I wanted to know," and then Remo felt the strength draining from his limbs and he knew that his muscles had been extended beyond the point that they could be extended, and his right leg started to cave, and suddenly the effort of will ended, and his shoulders were blazing with pain. He opened his mouth to say something more, but he couldn't, and then he was falling toward the floor of the room.

He did not remember hitting the floor. He did not remember being lifted.

He only remembered waking up and looking around. He was in a small sunlit room, lying on a pile of cushions, naked, covered only with a thin silken sheet.

Chiun stood by his side and when Remo's eyes opened, he knelt. Carefully but quickly, his hands began to remove the bandages from Remo's shoulders.

"The doctor put those on," said Remo.

"The doctor is a fool. No muscle is helped by being strapped. Rest, yes. Imprisonment, no. We will make you well soon. We will…" but his voice trailed off as he saw Remo's right shoulder, as the last strand of bandage fell off.

"Oh, Remo," he said in a sad, pained voice. He said nothing further as he unwrapped the left shoulder and then he said it again, "Oh, Remo."

"The one who hit the leg was the best of all," Remo said. "Wait until you see it." He paused. "Chiun, how did you know I would come here?"

"What do you mean?"

"When you said goodbye to Smith, you said I would be here."

Chiun shrugged as he bent toward the bandage on Remo's right thigh. "It is written that you would."

"Written where?" asked Remo.

"On the men's room wall at Pittsburgh Airport." said Chiun nastily. "In the books of Sinanju," he said.

"And what does it say?" asked Remo.

Chiun deftly removed the bandage from Remo's thigh. This time he said nothing.

"That bad, huh?"

"I have seen worse," said Chiun. "Although not on anybody who survived."

He took a bowl from a small table near Remo's sleeping mat. "Drink this," he said. He lifted Remo's head and brought a cup to Remo's lips. The liquid was warm and almost tasteless except for what seemed to be a trace of salt.

"Awful. What is it?"

"It is a mixture from the seaweed that will start making you well again."

He let Remo's head down slowly. Remo felt tired. "Chiun," he said in a questioning voice.

"Yes, my son."

"You know who did this to me, don't you?"

"Yes, my son, I know."

"He is coming, Little Father," said Remo. His eyelids grew heavier as he spoke. It seemed as if his words were being spoken by someone else.

"I know, my son. He is coming."

"He may try to hurt you, Little Father."

"Sleep now, Remo. Sleep and heal."

Remo's eyes closed and he began to drift off. He heard Chiun's voice again. "Sleep and heal, my son."

And then Chiun's final words. "Heal quickly."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

And thus it came to pass that the Master of Sinanju did walk along the path in the village where he had once been of such honor.

His feet were heavy, as was his heart, because he knew that powerless, unprotected was the young disciple from the land across the sea, and because he knew that the evil force that would destroy that disciple would soon make its appearance on the rocky soil of Sinanju.

And the Master thus had no patience with the tongues of fools, and when people approached him on the path, to talk about the young disciple, about the leadenness of his step, about the infirmities that seemed as if they were of age, the Master had no patience with them and flailed about and scattered them as the barking dogs scatters the goose. But he did not harm the people who gave him such aggravation, because it has always been written, since the dawn of writing, that the Master must not raise his hand in anger to harm a person from the village.

And it was this very command that gave the Master such pain of spirit. Because the one who was coming to destroy the young disciple was of the village of Sinanju, yea, even of the blood of the Master, and the Master could find no way in which he might violate his ages-old vow and inflict upon that one the death he deserved.

Yea, as the Master walked alone, he thought that his disciple, injured as he was, defenseless as a babe as he was, that his disciple would be killed, and Chiun, the Master of Sinanju, could not protect him because of his vow never to hurt someone from the village.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Premier Kim Il Sung was at the plain wooden desk in his office in the People's Building in Pyongyang when the secretary entered the room.

The secretary was a young captain of artillery. He affected a gabardine military uniform instead of the rough canvas-textured khaki that was official government issue, but Sung had never held this against him because he was a good secretary.

Communists could come and Communists could go; military styles could come and go; pride even could come and go, but good secretaries were to be nurtured.

Once, years before, Sung had been accused of turning into a reactionary rightwinger after seizing power, and he had explained in what he considered his gentle voice that all revolutionaries become conservatives after gaining power. "Radicalism is fine for revolution," he had said, "but conservatism is what gets the trucks out of the garage in the morning."

He had then displayed his continuing revolutionary zeal by throwing the insulter into a prison for two weeks. When the man was released, Sung summoned him to his office.

The man, a minor official from one of the provinces, had stood before Sung, humiliated, chastened.

"Now you know you cannot judge everything by appearances," Sung had said. "It was an easy lesson for you to learn because you are still alive. Many have not been so lucky."

So it was that Kim Il Sung rated his secretary by secretarial standards and not by any standard of appearance set for soldiers. And so it was that Sung rated the man his secretary ushered in to see him, not by his size or his clothing or his speech, but by a kind of internal fire that seemed to come through the man's eyes and that invested all his words with power.

"I am Nuihc," the man said, "and I have come to serve you."

"Why am I so lucky?" said Sung.

He saw immediately that the man named Nuihc had no sense of humor.

"Because it is through you that I can regain the hereditary title of my family. Master of Sinanju."

"Yes," said Kim Il Sung. "I have met the Master. He is a charming old rogue."

"He is a very old man," said Nuihc. "It is time for him to tend his vegetable garden."

"Why do you bother me with this?" asked Kim Il Sung. "Who cares what a small band of brigands does in one tiny village?"

He had chosen his words carefully and was rewarded by a small flash of anger in Nuihc's eyes.

"You know, my Premier, that that is not so," said Nuihc. "The House of Sinanju has for centuries been famed in the ruling palaces of the world. Now it is up to you to decide whether or not you wish the house to be run by a Westerner… an American. Because that is the choice. Who will be the new Master: Me? Or an American who represents the CIA and the other spy agencies of the government in Washington?"

"And again, I ask, why does it concern me?"

"You know the answer to that," said Nuihc. "First, our nation will be a laughing stock if this hereditary house becomes the property of an American. And second, the powers of the House are well known to you. Those powers could be put to use in your behalf, to the benefit of your rule. Not as they are now, working for the capitalists of Wall Street. Do you know, for a certainty, that the power of Sinanju will not be turned against you tomorrow or the next day? Whenever Washington wills it, Premier, you will pass into the pages of history for the dead, killed in office. You can prevent that."