Warren Murphy: Funny Money

But when the film was over, Chiun was silent, staring at the blank spot on the wall where the pictures had flashed.

"Well, Little Father?" said Remo.

"I have never seen his school before. It is none of the newer fashions like Karate or Kung fu or the other game variations of Sinanju."

"What would you say it is?"

"I would say we say nothing to Smith," said Chiun. "That man is not a game. That man is real and I have never seen his technique."

"I got the feeling," said Remo, "that the things he was doing shouldn't have worked. We know how the body moves. What he did was, well, it didn't have the flow of life."

"You must avoid this man for the time being."

"Why?" asked Remo, very concerned.

"Do you know him?"

"No."

"Do you know his technique?"

"No."

"Then what makes you think he will not prevail over you?"

"He moves too slow. I can take him. I can take anyone but maybe you, Little Father."

"Have I taught you nothing? Does the dog attack the lion? Does the snake attack the mongoose? Does the worm attack the bird? How do you know you are not the worm or snake or dog if you do not know for sure who he is or what he is?"

"He's slow."

"An avalanche can be slow. A wave can be slow."

"Ahhhh, crap," said Remo, spinning away in frustration.

"Once again we hear the wisdom of the West," said Chiun.

When Smith came that afternoon and explained the danger of perfect counterfeits and the possibility that the entire country could go under with people literally starving to death in the street, Remo was just grateful that Dr. Smith asked only one question about the contact's technique.

"No," Remo said. "Chiun didn't recognize it."

"I sat in on a meeting, and the man who had been in charge of the abortive exchange said he thought the contact, this Mr. Gordons, had some sort of sharp instrument," said Smith in the lemony voice that matched his gaunt, parched lemony face on which a smile would appear as a foreign body.

Remo shrugged.

"But no matter," said Smith. "There are now four engraving plates. The fifty-dollar bill and this new hundred-dollar bill. I want them, and I want you to find out if there are any more. This may be the most crucial assignment you've ever had."

"Yeah. It has to do with money," said Remo.

"I don't understand your negative attitude."

"That's because you never had one."

"A negative attitude?" asked Smith.

"No. Any attitude at all. Those computers at Folcroft are the soul of this organization. We just work for those machines."

"Those computers are necessary, Remo, so that we don't have to use people. It would be impossible to keep an organization secret if thousands knew of it. With the computers, we have the perfect information coordinators. The information gatherers? Well, they're people who don't really have to know what they are doing. Most people in ordinary life don't know how their jobs fit in anyhow."

"Do we?"

Smith cleared his throat and adjusted his briefcase on his lap.

"We have a contact point for Mr. Gordons. Group Leader Francis Forsythe of the CIA is working with Treasury on this. He is expecting a special agent whose name is Remo Brian and your identity papers and credit cards are here with me now. We don't have time for our usual closed drops on identity papers. Go in and get this thing cleared as quickly as you can. In the past, I have complained occasionally about the excessive violence you have used. This time, things are so dangerous that I don't think there could be such a thing as excessive violence."

"Sure," said Remo. "We're protecting the almighty dollar. God forbid we should exert ourselves to protect an American life."

"We are protecting American lives. At every dinner table," said Smith. On his way out he paused to assure Chiun that the annual gold tribute had been transferred to the village of Sinanju in North Korea.

"The village of Sinanju places its trust in Emperor Smith and the Master of Sinanju shall always assure his glory."

"By the way, did you happen to see the films?" asked Smith.

"It is a beautiful day here in your fair New York City, no?" said Chiun and appeared calm as a white cloud as Smith attempted to unravel the answer, shrugged, and gave up, bidding the Master of Sinanju good fortune in his continued training of the American.

"Why didn't you tell him you had seen the film?" asked Remo when Smith was gone from the suite.

"For the same reason you are doing Smith's bidding against my wishes."

"And that reason is?"

"The less an emperor knows about our business, the better. We go together. I have put too much of value into your life to let you squander it," said Chiun and folded his hands again.

"You mean you're worried about something?"

Chiun did not answer.

"Are you worried about Smith?" asked Remo. "You gave him a dodge-job of an answer. You didn't want to answer him about that film. Is there something on that film that you're worried about?"

But Chiun, the latest Master of Sinanju, the grand and ancient house of assassins, was silent, and silent he remained for the rest of the day.

CHAPTER THREE

Group Leader Francis Forsythe, in khaki bush jacket and pearl gray ascot, rapped the pointer on a three-inch-high airplane hangar, which was part of a mockup of Chicago's O'Hare Airport, put together window by window, swinging door by swinging door, hangar frame by hangar frame, in a sealed Washington basement of the Treasury Building.

A sharp overhead beam illuminated in yellow artificial sun the runways, terminals, even miniature passenger jets. Round circles, ranging from light pink to dark blood red, covered the airport. Dark red at the passenger terminals and ticket counters, light pink on the runways.

"We have blood-coded the airport," said Forsythe, "so that should sniper fire go awry in our attempt to get Gordons, we will hurt as few innocent bystanders as possible. Darker red is for heavier people concentration and lighter pink is for less. Now that you see this you will understand our fire patterns for tomorrow's exchange. Our primary, secondary, and tertiary sniper stations will be cross matrixed on an evolving plane on nothing darker than pink. Maximum, pink… if that's all right with Remo Brian."

"How can it be all right?" asked Remo. "I haven't understood a word you said."

"I'm talking about fire patterns, Mr. Brian," said Forsythe, with enough bitterness in his voice to pucker the walls. The bitterness had been there since Forsythe had checked with his commander in Langley, Virginia, earlier in the day and discovered that this boor, who walked around in slacks and an open-necked sports shirt and who did not carry a gun, and who seemed more interested in the opinion of a senile, decrepit Oriental than in the most modern technology of counter-espionage, was—for this mission—Forsythe's superior. The order came from so high up even Forsythe's superior wasn't sure where it had originated.

"Fire patterns, Mr. Brian. I am talking about fire patterns, if you know what they are."

"That's guns going off, right?" said Remo. Chiun's delicate long fingers glided out to a miniature 747 on the airport mockup. He moved it down a runway to see if the wheels worked. With his hands, he glided it off the runway and then down over the hangar and back into a perfect landing.

Group Leader Forsythe watched. His neck reddened. He turned back to Remo.

"Correct. Fire patterns are guns going off. Now you know what a fire pattern is."

There was a smothered chuckle at the end of the table away from Remo and Chiun.

"No," said Remo. "No guns going off. None of that dilly ding-dong stuff. I don't like the idea of you people walking around with guns in the streets among citizens."

"I don't think you realize how dangerous we believe this Gordons may be," said Forsythe. "More importantly, he has access to perfect plates for fifty and hundred dollar bills that could literally destroy our economy. I don't know what your instructions are, sir, but mine are: A, get the source of those plates and destroy it; B, get the plates themselves; and C, get Mr. Gordons."