Warren Murphy: Murder Ward

"Take my word for it. If you were an American, you would see it's not a Christmas tree."

"If I were an American, you would still be a fattened senseless glob shooting guns at people, dropping explosives hither and yon and creating the chaos that is so typical of your culture. That is as good a Christmas tree as ever was, improved even, to take the discordancy away from the poor designs you seem determined to worship."

The telephone rang, interrupting the dispute. Remo answered it. It was Western Union. His Aunt Mildred was going to visit at 9 A.M. She was on her way already.

"Damn," said Remo.

But Chiun ignored him. How could one help someone who failed to appreciate an improved design? How could one reason with such a person? How could one teach such a person? If he wanted one of those ill-formed glaring obscenities sold in stores, then he would have to purchase one himself. It was like giving diamonds to a duck. The duck would prefer grains of corn. Well, let the duck buy its own corn. The Master of Sinanju was not in the duck-feeding business.

"Just got the code from Smitty. We're interrupted again. Our rest period's probably over. Chiun, do you hear me?"

"I do not answer quackings," said the Master of Sinanju and sat, lotus position, in a silence that Remo knew he could never break.

"I'm sorry," said Remo. "Thank you for the tree. It was very kind of you. Thank you again, Little Father."

But there was no answer, and Remo went into the bedroom and lay down for a nap, his last word before dozing being "crap."

He heard the outside door open and was awake as if an alarm had rung. There was some conversing outside in the living room and then a lemon-faced man in gray suit and white shirt with striped green Dartmouth tie entered, carrying a worn leather briefcase. He sat down in a chair.

"What have you done to Chiun? How have you insulted him?" asked Dr. Harold W. Smith.

"I didn't insult him, and what goes on between us is none of your business, Smitty. So what's the urgency?"

"I'd like to advise you again, Remo, how valuable a resource Chiun is and how truly necessary it is for you two to work well together."

"Smitty, you don't understand and I don't think you ever will. Now what's up?"

"It is not nearly as important as your relationship with Chiun. Now, as I gather it, he gave you an important and significant gift which you not only did not receive graciously, but then you refused him some small item which he wanted very much."

"Did you see the bush with the junk on it in the living room?"

"Yes. What happened? It looks like a tornado threw a shrub and some junk through the window. Don't you have maid service? You have the money."

"That's the important and significant gift. Now, have you heard of Barbra Streisand?"

"Yes."

"That's the small item he wants in return," said Remo.

"For certain things," Smith said dryly, "we have no dearth of money. And considering how limited we are in personnel on our enforcement arm, we might be able to spare some small amount for Chiun's personal pleasures. Actresses sometimes can be convinced to provide a private service. Not Miss Streisand, of course, but someone comparable."

"He doesn't want to rent her, Smitty."

"He wants to marry?"

"No."

"Then what does he want?"

"He wants to own her."

"Impossible," Smith said.

"Right. Now stick to the things you understand, like everything else."

"Just a minute. You're not going to kidnap her. I mean…"

"No. I'm not going to kidnap her. Now what's the latest foul-up I have to compensate for?"

"You know, you're getting as inscrutable as Chiun, and you were never as pleasant."

"Thank you," said Remo, and he sat up to listen. It had been more than a decade since he had gotten his first assignment from this sparse, vinegary man, and in that time, unlike Chiun, he could no longer imagine working for anyone else. He had tried it once [*Destroyer #14, Judgment Day] and it was a disaster.

As a Master of Sinanju, Chiun had been trained through centuries of heritage to work for any emperor who would pay the bills of the village of Sinanju. But Remo was not the Master of Sinanju. He had been a simple Newark policeman who was executed publicly and then woke up privately to find himself in a new life. He was to be the killer arm for an organization that did not exist, to help protect a social contract that did not work. [*Destroyer #1, Created the Destroyer]

It was not supposed to be a long tour of duty. The organization had been set up for a just a brief, trying time in the nation's history, that period when the country could not survive within the Constitution. The organization was called CURE. But the fight against crime had proved almost unwinnable, and now, ten years later, the secret organization still functioned, its activities known to only two persons: Smith, its director, and Remo, its killer arm. Only those two and whoever happened to be President at the time.

Remo had once asked Smith what would happen if the President decided to stay in office forever, using the organization CURE to cement his power.

"We wouldn't let him," Smith had said.

"What would happen if he decided to expose us? The very admission that we exist would imply the Constitution doesn't work. It'd be chaos."

"The President would appear insane, but because since we don't exist in the first place, we'd be very easy to disband. You're already a dead man, I would remove myself from existence, and no one else knows what we do." Smith said this, but he often wondered himself, and asked Remo if Chiun knew what CURE did.

"Are you still sending the gold to Sinanju on time?" asked Remo.

"Yes."

"Then Chiun couldn't care less what we do."

"That sounds like an answer he would give me," Smith complained.

"What I am saying is that if I told him this was a secret agency to protect the Constitution, he would understand that. If I told him that thousands worked for us without knowing who they worked for, he would understand that. If I told him about the computers at our Folcroft headquarters and how you use them to bribe, extort, pressure and destroy enemies of our Constitution, he could understand that. But there's one thing he could never understand."

"What's that?" Smith had asked timorously.

"The Constitution."

Smith had smiled and then, because he was a thorough man, he had personally explained to the Master of Sinanju about the Constitution of the United States.

Ever since then, Chiun was sure how the United States worked. There was a piece of paper which was a social contract, to which everyone voiced approval and allegiance and to which no one paid any attention. "It's like your Bible. Pretty songs," Chiun had said; Remo realized that Chiun, in not knowing as others knew, actually did know far, far better.

Now Remo sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the latest assignment which was, as Smith said, only urgent in timing. Whatever the hell that meant.

"We're losing some people within a general point of focus." Smith said.

Remo snapped his fingers. "Of course. Now I've got it."

Smith gave him that "I shall suffer fools gladly" look.

"Now this is where it gets somewhat complicated. In one area of focus, an IRS contingent, we've lost seven men over the last year and a half."

"Why don't you wait until it's five thousand, Smitty, and then you'll have a sure pattern? I mean, why start getting nervous at seven? Where the hell were we at three?"

"Ah, this is where it gets subtle. We're not sure it's seven. We're not sure actually what is happening. Four deaths were, to all appearances, acts of God."

"We can take on God. No trouble," said Remo. "Just find Him for me. Chiun thinks that God doesn't balance well and may leave Himself open even if He is Korean."