Warren Murphy: Assassins Play Off

Blood red.

And it was wet.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

When Remo opened his eyes again, it seemed as if the entire village of Sinanju had crowded into his bedroom to look at him.

Standing alongside him was Chiun, who was busy pointing out to the villagers that they should not be fooled. "He only looks American. Inside the best white man is a Korean trying to get out."

Remo looked around the room at the flat-faced villagers, who only a little while before had been ready to hand up not only Remo, but also Chiun, who had supported them for untold years, and he said: "I have something to say to all of you."

He looked around the room as Chiun translated his English words. He could see their attention grow stronger.

"I am an American," said Remo.

Chiun said something in Korean.

"I am proud of it, proud to be an American," Remo continued.

Chiun rattled off a string of Korean words.

"The next time you start talking about the weak Americans, perhaps you should think that it was an American who overcame the pain, a white American."

Chiun said something.

"And it was Nuihc, not only a Korean, but of your village, who was cowardly and died."

Chiun said something more.

"And I think his fate is what all of you deserve because as far as I'm concerned, you are a pack of back-biting worthless ingrates who all ought to be sent home to feed the fishes. If the fishes would have you."

Chiun said something and the villagers' faces broke into broad smiles and they applauded. Then Chiun ushered them out of the room and was alone with Remo.

"I think it lost something in the translation," said Remo.

"I delivered to them your coarse words," said Chiun. "Of course, I had to make minor changes to fit the idiom."

"Give me an example of a minor change," said Remo.

"I had to tell them so that they would understand, you see, that you had shown Korean heart, and that Nuihc had been softened by reactionary imperialism and that I would not have picked anyone weak to be my son, even if he was white, and… well, and so forth. It is not necessary to go on because it was all just as you said to say it."

There was a knock on the door and when Chiun opened it, Premier Kim Il Sung stood there.

"You are awake," he said to Remo in pleasantly flavored English.

"Yes. I am glad you speak English," said Remo.

"Why?" asked the premier.

"Because I have several things to say to you that I don't want Chiun to have to translate."

"He is very tired," interjected Chiun. "Perhaps some other time."

"Now will be fine," interrupted Remo. "Pyongyang is a whore city," he started off.

"Don't we know it," said Sung. "If you want to see a good town, you should come to Hamhung, my home town. That's a real place."

"If the people there are like the people here," said Remo, "you can stuff them."

"People are people everywhere," said Sung. "Even here. Even in America, I suppose."

Chiun nodded. Remo found it maddening not to be able to insult Sung.

"I was in Vietnam," Remo finally said. "I wasted a lot of Vietnamese!"

"Not enough," said Sung. "Vietnamese are like bird droppings. As far as I'm concerned, Hanoi is no better than Saigon. I sometimes wonder how the bird droppings tell themselves apart."

"I'd like to wipe out the whole Communist cong," said Remo.

Kim Il Sung shrugged. "It might not be a bad idea. Vietnam is the only country I ever heard of where the population increased during a war. I hope you didn't get too close to any Vietnamese. They're all diseased, you know."

"Oh, shit," Remo said and gave up. He turned his head away and looked out the window at the cold white Korean sky.

"I will leave," he heard Kim Il Sung say.

"You will arrange that the tribute is no longer stolen by your thieving ministers here," said Chiun.

"I will. The tribute now comes under my protection."

Chiun nodded. He escorted Sung to the door and as the premier left, said to him in a stage whisper: "Don't be upset by anything he said. He's really a Korean at heart."

"I know," said Kim Il Sung.

Chiun closed the door and again was alone with Remo.

"Well?" said Remo.

"What well?"

"I'm sure you've got something to say. Say it."

"I am glad you brought it up, Remo. Your stroke against Nuihc was faulty. It was an inch too low to do any real good. In the old days, I would forgive such sloppiness because your improper American attitudes always make you sloppy. But now I can no longer excuse it. As soon as you are well, you must practice. Fortunately the villagers knew you were injured so they would excuse your sloppiness. You did not disgrace the House, but we must be sure you never do that again."

"Is that all you've got to say?"

"What else?"

"Why was your fingernail red?" asked Remo.

"My fingernail?"

"Yes. Your fingernail on your index finger of your left hand."

"In your delirium, you must have imagined it," said Chiun.

"You zapped Nuihc, didn't you?"

"Remo. What a terrible thing to say. You know that the Master is bound never to strike someone from the village. And I am the Master. Oh, maybe for a few seconds there, when Nuihc claimed to be the Master, maybe I was not the Master, but…"

"Don't give me any of that," interrupted Remo. "You were the Master and are the Master and if you zapped him, you shouldn't have."

"If I have done anything wrong, I will answer to my ancestors. But that is all yesterday and today. Now we must speak of tomorrow. Of the day when you, Remo, will become the Master of Sinanju."

Chiun threw his arms open wide, to encompass the entire bedroom with its assortments of pots and jars and vases.

"Just think, Remo, someday this will all be yours."

"Bring back Nuihc," Remo said, and for the first time in days, it didn't hurt to laugh.