Warren Murphy: Last War Dance

The second sociologist—white—was now asking to be flayed. He predicted even higher levels of violence, and his eyes glinted wildly and spittle appeared at the corner of his mouth. He was a man in the throes of passion, ecstatic at the thought of someone attacking whites.

Then came the minority-party senator. "Political solutions have failed. The administration has refused to support my plan to give everybody ten thousand dollars in reparations. So even though I support the uprising one thousand percent, I must now wash my hands of it. The higher levels of violence that must now come will not be on my conscience but on the conscience of those in Washington who turned a deaf ear to the pleas of those poor Indians."

The moderator was a slim blond man with a penchant for laughing at himself. This, Remo thought, was of a piece with the philosophy of the French general who once asked where the people were going so he could hurry up and lead them there.

The moderator now asked what kind of men were occupying the massacre site at Wounded Elk.

"Average, every-day Indians," said the senator. "Red brothers who have labored to try to build normal lives despite terrible deprivation and hardship."

Van Riker stood up angrily. "Who and what are they talking about? Is there another Wounded Elk somewhere that we don't know about?"

"General, you have been away from the country too long. The black one, you see—he's for all kind of violence by everybody. He wants to make violence as American as apple pie because it excuses violence when it's used to promote something he believes in.

"The white one, well—he's for violence because he thinks he ought to be punished for going to an Ivy League school. It never occurred to him that he went to an Ivy League school because his folks worked and because he had the brains to make it. Somehow, he's gotten the idea that his education was extracted forcibly from somebody who thinks that 'he do' is proper English."

"And the senator?" asked Van Riker.

Remo shrugged. "He's just a dumb shit."

"You know, that's the most perceptive social analysis I've ever heard," said Van Riker.

"I owe it all to Chiun," said Remo. "By the way, he'll be coming back soon. I don't think he'll appreciate your watching his television set."

Van Riker turned the set off. "It's all right. I'm going for a walk, anyway. Oh, it'll be nice to get to the Bahamas again. As soon as this blows over and the AEG crews can come and put Cassandra back together again."

"Have a nice walk," said Remo.

Van Riker disappeared through the connecting door into his own room, and Remo flopped back onto the bed, debating whether or not to exercise.

He decided he would, since he hadn't had a good workout for over a week. Where would he exercise today? London? Paris? Algiers? San Francisco? Dayton, Ohio? White Plains, New York? None of them excited him today.

Wait. There was a little town in the Berkshire Mountains where Chiun had been receiving mail at a post office box. He and Remo had driven up there to collect the mail one day after it had been lying around for months and the post office had threatened to close the box down. Chiun had been expecting job offers and was disappointed because the letters did not contain even one offer of temporary employment. But he stolidly refused Remo's suggestion to throw the letters away.

What was that town? Right. Pittsfield, Massachusetts. Right. He remembered now. And there was a pond near there. And a Girl Scout camp where the girls sang terrible songs terribly at terrible hours of the day and night. And there was a flautist who walked out to the edge of the pond most mornings to play and to shame the very birds.

Remo pictured it now. Pittsfield. He closed his eyes. The pond. He put his foot on the edge of the water. He moved slowly to his right, along the water's edge, gliding. It was night and dark, and he glided along, the water's edge, moving swiftly but lightly, trying not to make a sound.

In his mind he heard his foot touch a twig and snap it. Mentally he criticized himself. He began to run faster, skipping along the pond's edge, setting feet lightly on wooden docks when they got in his way, occasionally running across the bows of anchored boats. Move, move. His speed increased. He could feel a little perspiration forming on his neck. He checked his senses. His heartbeat was increasing. Good. No workout was any good unless the heartbeat accelerated. He felt a cold breeze blow off the water onto his forehead.

He was racing now at full speed. He was halfway around the pond. He had forgotten something—he had failed to move more blood into his legs. He lay there, willing the blood into his lower extremities, and he felt them flush and heat.

Good. He kept moving. He slowed down at the Girl Scout camp, stealthily, moving darkly through the dark night. With his hands he found and ripped out the wires of their public-address system, then continued on his way.

It was another ten minutes before he returned to his starting point.

His heart was beating strongly; his respiration was up to twelve breaths a minute from its usual seven. There was a faint trace of perspiration on his neck, under his chin, and at his right temple.

Great, thought Remo, gulping air, moving his heart beat down and his respiration back to normal. What a great workout. What a beautiful evening in Pittsfield, Massachusetts.

The front door opened, and Chiun entered. He paused in the doorway and looked at Remo lying on the bed.

"Why are you perspiring?"

"I was just working out, Little Father," said Remo.

"It is about time you did something but lie on your back in bed," said Chiun.

"Thank you. I aim to please."

Chiun stepped inside the room, then turned to usher someone else in.

"Remo, I want you to meet this nice man I just met. He has a foolish name, but he is a nice man." The fat man wobbled into the room and looked at Remo through piercing electric eyes that looked like chips of blue anthracite, set in a face of uncooked muffin dough.

"What is your name?" asked Remo.

"Valashnikov."

"That's right," Chiun said. "That is his name. But you can call him comrade. He told me everyone can call him comrade. Comrade, this is my son, Remo." He moved closer to Valashnikov and pretended to whisper but spoke loudly enough so that Remo could hear. "He isn't really my son, but I say that to make him feel adequate."

"It is pleasure to meet you," said Valashnikov to Remo, who was still lying on the bed.

"See," said Chiun. "See. Isn't he pleasant? He says hello. Isn't he nice? Don't you like him? Don't you like him better than some emperors we know?"

At this moment Remo had decided he hated Valashnikov worse than anyone he had ever met or even heard of. A Russian. Wounded Elk hadn't been a bad enough mess. Now the Russians were arriving to turn it into an international debacle.

"What are you doing here, Valashnikov?" asked Remo.

"I am cultural attaché to Russian Embassy."

"And you came out here to find culture?"

"I am in charge of the Russian-American friendship through the music. I come to hear the authentic Indian music. Mother Russia is interested in such things."

"Russia is interested in a lot of things, Remo," said Chiun. "Why, do you know that they even treat assassins like honored people instead of the way some people we know treat them?"

"That's great," Remo said without enthusiasm.

Valashnikov entered the room and sat down heavily on the stool in front of the dresser.

"Is truth," he said. "Russia understands principle of using different skills the different people have. We honor assassins. Particularly those who have done the labor for many years without the reward."

He looked at Remo searchingly. Remo looked at Chiun, whose eyes were rolled upward in a gesture of humility and unconcern. Remo looked disgusted. So Valashnikov was just a recruiting agent; Remo would have preferred it if he had been a spy.