Warren Murphy: Terror Squad

But then Remo had shown up and had said that he was the Master of Sinanju, whatever that was. And they had talked about the old man as if he had died.

And why did they want to watch things on television? Television. It would be nice to see what was happening to those imperialist running dogs up at the United Nations.

All this chitter-chatter between Remo and Nuihc wasn't very interesting anyway. Typhoons. Barking dogs. Tricks. Guns in wheelchairs.

Silly, all of it. All that counted was a new order for the Third World. She had been willing to step aside, once the revolution was accomplished, but now she wondered if she should. She might just be the kind of leader that they would need. After all, what did they know of government, the poor, naked, ignorant savages?

From the corner of her eye, she saw Nuihc leap at Remo, just as she turned the television back on. The announcer's voice was a backdrop for the sound of their scuffle.

She watched, suddenly realizing this was a battle to the death. Goodie. She felt like Queen Guinevere. Was that her name? Yes. Arthur's wife.

Nuihc was very good. He threw a punch which seemed to be in slow motion, but it hit Remo and it spun him around. Remo was bigger and stronger, but maybe he was slower. He threw a blow that missed, and he slid past Nuihc toward the marble balcony railing that overlooked the first floor and the huge suspended whale.

Nuihc clasped both his hands together over his head, like a prize-fighter in victory, and jumped toward Remo who lay sprawled across the railing. But Remo rolled away, just as Nuihc's hands crashed down and hit the railing with a crack like a pistol shot. The marble chipped and fell to the floor.

Then. Remo was standing on the railing, and then Nuihc hopped onto the railing too. Back and forth they moved, each throwing blows, each missing. Remo did something fancy with a kick that missed, and his momentum took him off the railing and he plunged toward the floor thirty feet below, but he caught onto one of the overhead cables that supported the fibreglass replica of the ninety-foot whale, and turning his body in the air, did a double flip and landed on his feet on the whale's back, twenty-five feet above the floor.

Nuihc dove for the cable, also spun in the air, and landed softly on the back of the whale five feet from Remo.

And then they fought back and forth along the back of the whale. Strange, they had fought and fought and fought, and yet she found it hard to remember either of them landing a hard blow. Perhaps they weren't really very good after all.

She ignored the buzz of the television as she watched. She squealed. Fight on, men. My heart to the winner.

Then somehow Remo had Nuihc's two wrists in his hands and was squeezing. Nuihc pulled back and then lunged forward. Bis body twisted in the air, and his feet went up and over Remo's head.

How wonderful. They were fighting over her. She felt like throwing a kerchief so they could fight for it and the winner could pin it over his heart. But she didn't have a kerchief. She had a Kleenex. It was wet. She threw that. It didn't go very far.

Nuihc landed behind Remo, his back to Remo, and his hands were free, his body carefully balanced, but before he could turn, the wet Kleenex fluffed through the air, hit his shoulder, and Joan giggled as it plopped on the whale's back. The small touch of the crumpled paper destroyed Nuihc's balance and he slid to the back of the whale. Before he could regain his feet, Remo was on him with an elbow.

And then Remo lifted Nuihc by the scruff of the neck and carried him like a suitcase toward the head of the whale.

The winner and champion. He had fought for Guinevere and won. Too bad. She had hoped Nuihc would be her saviour. Oh, well. At least, she and Remo were sexually compatible. "Hey, toots," Remo called. "Turn up the sound on that television, will you?"

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Remo tied Nuihc's hands behind his back with Nuihc's own leather belt, then hung him from the whale's mouth, his hands and arms pulled up painfully behind him.

Then he almost skipped the distance down to the floor, landing softly on his feet, not even pausing to brace himself, but bitting-click-and stepping off in a fast trot.

He came up the stairs and stood alongside Joan Hacker, who was amusing herself by stuffing a little cocaine inside her upper lip.

"Want a snort?" she giggled.

"No thanks," he said. "I prefer rice myself."

"Oh, rice must be nice, but I've never sniffed it. Anyway, you've won. My body is yours."

"Stuff your body into your mouth and silence it, will you? I'm trying to hear the television."

The announcer was talking.

"There is still only confusion here. The crowd outside remains more or less under control, but we have definitely confirmed that shots were fired inside the U.N. building. However, we are advised that no diplomats ... we repeat, no diplomats . . . have been shot. The victims of the shooting appear to have been a group of Army officers, but there is some question as to their identity. We are awaiting further details."

Remo snarled at the television. Maybe this and maybe that. Confusion and further details. He wanted to shout: Is Chiun all right?

There was a groan from the direction of the whale. Remo turned and him eyes met Nuihc's, as the small Oriental was hung out, like a side of beef from the jaw of the huge whale replica.

Him eyes screamed hatred for Remo.

"If it had not been for her, I would have won," he hissed.

"Just a theory on your part," Remo said. "Now for a fact. I don't know yet whether Chiun is all right or not. But if he is not, I'm going to come back and peel your skin off in strips. You better hope your men missed."

Remo turned on his heel to walk away.

"You can't go," Joan Hacker shrieked. "You've won me. You have to take my body now."

"I might have your body but I know your soul will always belong to the Third World."

"No, Remo," she said. "Not any more. I'm tired of the Third World. I want to go home. I want you to take me home."

Suddenly, she was a very young girl again, as cocaine depression seized her.

Remo felt sorry for her. 'I've got to find something out first," he said. "Then I'll take you home."

He walked away and as he went down the stairs, he heard Nuihc's voice behind him, speaking softly to the girl.

Remo cracked open the front door of the museum and stepped out onto the broad stone stairway that led down to the street

From far down the block, he heard the whoop, whoop, whoop of sirens. From the rising pitch, he could tell they were heading his way. He looked, and then saw a familiar looking yellow cab, careening down the street, between cars, bouncing off curbs, racing toward him. Several blocks behind it were a string of squad cars, strung out, following the maniacal cabdriver.

Then the taxi pulled abreast of Remo, hopped the curb up onto the sidewalk, and skidded to a stop. The passenger's door opened and Chiun stepped out on the sidewalk.

"Now, begone, P. Worthington Rosenbaum," he said to the driver. The cabbie took off again down the street and only seconds later, the police cars roared by in full pursuit. Chiun looked up, saw Remo on the top of the stairs, paused, then smiled.

He strolled casually up the stairs, hitching his robes up around his ankles.

"Kind of in a hurry to get here, Little Father?" Remo said.

Chiun looked at him blandly. "You have no doubt forgotten the importance of this day?"

"Importance?"

"Today is the day we are to visit Brooklyn."

"Oh," Remo said, snapping his fingers. "No wonder you were in a hurry."

"Of course," Chiun said. "What else could be so important that I would rush anywhere?"

Remo nodded. "Well, before we go, I want you to see something. I have a present for you."