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Warren Murphy: Assassins Play Off

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Assassins Play Off: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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For centuries, the ancient House of Sinanju is recognized as the center of learning for all the martial arts. From the ancestral nucleus of Oriental power and prestige have come the world's deadliest assassins and killers, also man's greatest protectors and warriors. To become a Master of Sinanju, however, is to totally perfect one's mental, spiritual, and physical powers. Very few mortals possess even a fraction of the necessary skills. Mere muscle or brains do not matter. Rarer still have been the men who dare to even approach the lowest steps of this shrine to violence and sudden death at Sinanju. The masters of Sinanju are the sun source and essence of the martial arts since prehistory. Recent upstart fighting techniques such as Kung Fu, Karate, Ninja, Aikido are but minor variations in the deadly armament of a Master. Only foreplay to the Grand Battle. And now, for the first time, a Westerner, a white man, Remo Williams, is defending the Holy Place against his relentless archenemy, Nuihc. Not since the Mongol invasions and the barbaric Chinese warlords has the land trembled in such anticipation. The scenario begins in New Jersey. The die is cast in a U.S. government submarine. Now Chiun and the Premier of Korea will witness the Grand Battle. And Remo Williams - the Destroyer - is being allowed but one blow. One split-second opportunity to punch, slash, chop, smash or kick . . . The ghosts of a thousand warriors dance in the dust as the two men face each other. And Chiun knows.

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In brief, Assistant Attorney General James Bellamy Dawkins was not going to change his ways nor was he going to resign, and God help the state if anyone tried to push him out.

That response ultimately reached the Folcroft computer and gave all those facts to Dr. Harold W. Smith, who decided immediately that America could do without James Bellamy Dawkins.

So Remo's eyes rose above the snowline and he saw the two figures and smelled the cabin smells and lowered his head back into the whiteness where his knees rose and he moved forward, not packing the very light water in which he went, but moving through it as if he belonged to it.

Remo heard the dogs bark and the cabin door open crisply and a man's voice say, "What is it, Queenie?" And Queenie barked.

"I don't see anything, Queenie," came the voice again.

And just because he felt like it and just because he had seen a horror movie recently and possibly because it was Halloween, Remo poked a little hole up through the snow and moaned:

"James Bellamy Dawkins, your days are numbered."

"Who the hell is that?"

"James Bellamy Dawkins, you will not live through the night."

"You there. Wherever you are. I can blow your head off."

"Trick or treat," said Remo.

"Where are you?"

"Trick or treat," said Remo.

"Go get him, Queenie."

Remo heard the barking approach and Dawkins, a paunchy man with hollow face and a .30-30 rifle at rest in front of him, saw his bull mastiff streak through the snow, her body leaving a beveled path, her feet churning cones spaced at the outside of the bevel. When Queenie grabbed hold of whatever it was, she would get a good piece of him and Dawkins would shoot away the rest. The man obviously had come to kill him and all Dawkins had to do to show self-defense was to make sure a weapon was found on the body. If it didn't have one, he would supply it. The man was already on his property and that would suffice as circumstantial evidence supporting intent. The weapon would do the rest.

But a strange thing happened to Queenie, who had already devoured her fill of fall rabbits and had even come out on top against a family of raccoons. The path she made suddenly ended and she disappeared in the snow. Vanished.

Dawkins raised the gun to his shoulder and blasted around the area the dog had silently disappeared into. He heard a moan and he fired the lever action rifle again and the next shot showed the snow darkening and he chuckled to himself.

"What the hell are you shooting at, Jimmy?" came a woman's voice from inside the cabin.

"Shut up, honey," said Dawkins.

"What you shooting at this time of night?"

"Nothing. Shut up and go to bed."

Dawkins aimed at the spot where the red darkness was beginning to spread and he saw a small convulsion under the snow. Somehow the man had made his way under the fresh snowfall, but he saw no declivity leading to the blood, just Queenie's trail.

He watched and the snow was still, and then he tramped out from the cabin to inspect his kill. But when he was almost to where Queenie had gone out of sight, he felt something tugging at the back of his pants and he found his body sitting down. Then a hand was smacking snow into his face and he could not hold onto his .30-30 and he tried desperately to get the snow out of his face.

He tried to stand, but just when a foot seemed to get firmness underneath it, it somehow slid out. When he tried brushing the snow from his mouth, his hand seemed to go out in strange directions. Then the horror of it overtook him.

He was going to drown in snow and he could neither stand nor get the cold air-draining stuff out of his mouth. Then, in one last desperate life-grabbing thrust, he threw his whole body away from the force that seemed to be holding him down. And he moved nowhere and swallowed another handful of snow.

Everything became white and then he was no longer cold. Only his body was. When he was discovered the next morning by his horrified mistress, the county coroner labeled his death suicide. As he figured it, Dawkins had "flipped his giggy," shot his dog, then rolled around swallowing snow until he drowned and froze.

In Minnesota, the incident made immediate headlines:

ELECTED OFFICIAL DEAD IN LOVE NEST

By the time the story was in print, Remo's plane had landed at Raleigh Durham Airport in North Carolina where he took a taxi to a motel outside Chapel Hill.

"Out all night?" winked the desk clerk.

"Sort of," said Remo.

The desk clerk chuckled. "You must have spent it indoors. Nights can get chilly here in late autumn."

"I wasn't cold," said Remo honestly.

"Oh, I wish I were young again," said the clerk.

"Young has got nothing to do with it," said Remo, taking three keys because he had rented three adjoining rooms.

"There was a call for you from your Uncle Marvin."

"At what time?"

"'Bout ten-thirty this morning. Funny thing happened. The phone went dead almost as soon as I rang your room. I went to your door and yelled that there was a phone call but all I heard was the television on inside, and I didn't push it."

"I know you didn't push it," said Remo.

"How's that?"

"You're breathing, aren't you?" said Remo and when he slipped into the middle room he was very quiet because a frail, elderly Oriental with a wispy beard sat on the floor in lotus position, golden kimono draped immaculately around him.

The television set with the taping device to catch the other channels and then run the concurrent shows consecutively so that not one second of one soap opera would be missed was on.

Remo sat down quietly, not even rustling the couch. When Chiun, the Master of Sinanju, was enjoying his daytime dramas, no one, not even his pupil Remo, disturbed him.

In the past, some, by accident, had thought this was just an old man watching soap operas and had failed to treat this moment with reverence. They were no longer among the living.

So Remo sat as Mrs. Lorrie Banks discovered that her young lover loved her for herself and not her new face lift operation performed by Dr. Jennings Bryant, whose eldest daughter had run away with Morton Lancaster, the noted economist, who was being blackmailed by Doretta Daniels, the former belly dancer who had purchased the controlling shares in the Elk Ridge Cancer research hospital, and was threatening to close it down unless Lorrie disclosed where Peter Malthus had parked his car the night Lome's eldest daughter was run over and crippled for weeks, during the night of the flood when Captain Rambough Donnester had run away from the dark incident in his past, leaving the entire city of Elk Ridge exposed to the elements without the protection of the Air National Guard.

Lorrie was talking to Dr. Bryant, wondering whether Peter should be told about his mother. It occurred to Remo that just about two years earlier the actress was discussing whether someone else should be told some other gloomy thing about a relative, and what made these dramas different from reality was not so much what happened but that everyone was so all fired concerned about it. To Chiun, however, this was beauty and, as much as anything could be, a justification for American civilization. He was further convinced that this was the epitome of American culture when, in an exchange program with Russia, America had sent the New York Philharmonic—as Chiun said, "keeping the good things home." In exchange, Russia had sent the Bolshoi Ballet, which Chiun knew was also second-rate because their dancers were clumsy.

It was four-thirty in the afternoon when the last commercial on the last show was finished, a movie came on, and Chiun turned off the set.

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