Warren Murphy: Summit Chase

Remo shrugged and went into his bedroom to change. He was worried about Chiun. He had known the deadly little Korean for ten years now, ever since Chiun had been given the assignment by CURE to make Remo Williams the perfect human weapon. In those years, he had seen Chiun do things that defied belief. He had seen him smash his hand through walls, walk up the sides of buildings, destroy death machines, wipe out platoons of men, all by the strange harnessing of power in that frail eighty-year-old body.

But now, Remo feared, that body was running down, and with it, Chiun's spirit. He no longer seemed to care. He showed less interest in his training sessions with Remo. He seemed less anxious to cook a meal, to make sure that he and Remo were not poisoned by the dealers in dog meat who called themselves restaurateurs. He had even stopped his incessant lecturing and scolding of Remo. It seemed that all he wanted to do was to sit in front of the television and watch soap operas.

No doubt about it, Remo thought, as he peeled off the brown robe, uncovering nylon lavender briefs and undershirt. He's slipping. Well, why not? He's eighty years old. Shouldn't he slip?

It was all very logical, but what did it have to do with a force of nature? It was like saying the rain was slipping.

But he was slipping nevertheless. Yet, for the better part of those eighty years, Chiun had plied his trade very well. Better than any man before. Better, perhaps, than any man would ever do again. If there were a hall of fame for assassins, the central display belonged to Chiun. They could stick everybody else, Remo Williams included, in an outside alley.

Remo rolled the monk's robe up into a brown ball, wrapped it tightly with its own white rope, and dropped it into a wastepaper basket. From a wall-length closet, he took out a pair of mustard-coloured slacks and put them on. Then a light blue sports shirt. He kicked off the sandals and slid his feet into slip-on canvas boat-shoes.

He splashed skin-bracer on his face and neck, then walked back into the living room.

The telephone was ringing. Chiun studiously ignored it.

It would be Smith, the one, the only-thank God, the only Dr. Harold W. Smith, head of CURE.

Remo picked up the telephone.

"Palazzo Monastery," he said.

The lemony voice whined at him. "Don't be a smartass, Remo." Then, "And why are you staying at the Palazzo?"

"There was no room at the inn," Remo said. "Besides, you're paying for it. Therefore it gives me pleasure."

"Oh, you're very funny today," Smith said, and Remo could picture him twirling his thirty-nine-cent plastic letter opener and magnifying glass at his desk at Folcroft Sanatorium, the headquarters for CURE.

"Well, I don't feel funny," Remo growled. "I'm supposed to be on vacation, not running errands for some…"

Smith interrupted him. "Before you get abusive, put on the scrambler, please."

"Yeah, sure," Remo said. He put down the telephone and opened the drawer of the small end-table. In it were two plastic, foam-covered cylinders that resembled space-age earmuffs. Remo picked up one of them, looked at the back of it for identification, then snapped it on the earpiece of the phone. He snapped the other over the mouthpiece.

"Okay, they're on," he said. "Can I shout now?"

"Not yet," Smith said. "First set the dials on the back to number fourteen. Remember to set each one of them to fourteen. And then turn the units on. That's important too."

"Up yours," Remo mumbled as he held the telephone away from him and set the dials on the back of the scrambler units. It was CURE'S latest invention. A portable telephone scrambler system that defied interception, recording devices, and nosy switchboard operators.

Then Remo flicked the "on" switches and raised the phone back to his ear.

"All right," he said. "I'm ready."

All he heard was garble, as if a man were gargling.

"I got it set," Remo shouted. "What the hell's wrong now?"

"Grrgle. Grrble. Drrble. Frgle."

Remo regarded it as an improvement over what Smith generally had to say.

"Grrgle. Frppp."

"Yes," Remo said. "In your hat."

"Grggle. Drbble."

"Yes. And put your foot in it. Up to your ankle."

"Brggle. Cringle."

"And your Aunt Millie too." Remo said sweetly.

Then Smith's voice broke in. "Remo. Are you there?" His voice was clear, but slightly brittle.

"Well, of course I'm here. Where else would I be?"

"Sorry. I had trouble with the device."

"Fire the inventor. Better yet, kill him. That's your answer to everything anyway. Now, as I was saying, about my vacation."

"Forget your vacation," Smith said. "Tell me about Devlin. What did he have to say?"

"That is about my vacation," Remo said. "You called me in to talk to him, when it's not a problem for us. It belongs to the CIA. So why the hell don't you give it to the CIA? Empire-building again?"

"No," said Smith, petulantly, wondering why he felt any need to explain anything to Remo who was, after all, only a hired hand. "The fact is that the CIA questioned Devlin three times. Three different agents. All three were killed. In fact, I was going to tell you to be careful."

"Thanks for telling me," Remo said.

"I figured it wouldn't matter," Smith said. "Now what did Devlin say?"

Remo recounted the story, the plan to assassinate the President of Scambia, to set the small nation up as a haven for the world's criminals, the implicating of the Vice President, Alibaba, or something…

"Asiphar," Smith interrupted.

"Yeah, Asiphar. Anyway, he's in it, but he's not the leader. Devlin didn't know the leader."

"When is it scheduled to happen?"

"In a week," Remo said. Deep inside his stomach, he felt that first small tinge that unfailingly told him of impending catastrophes, such as the necessity to postpone his vacation.

"Mmmmm," Smith mused. Then he was silent. Then "mmmmm" again.

"Don't bother telling me what 'mmmm' means. I know," Remo said.

"This is serious, Remo, very serious."

"Yeah? Why?"

"Have you ever heard of Baron Isaac Nemeroff?"

"Sure. I buy all my shirts from him."

Smith ignored him. "Nemeroff is probably the most dangerous criminal in the world today. He has a houseguest this week at his villa in Algeria."

"Do I get three guesses?"

"You don't need any," Smith said. "It's Vice President Asiphar of Scambia."

"So?" Remo said.

"So, that means, that Nemeroff is involved in this. Probably the man who started it. And that is very dangerous."

"All right. Assume everything you say is true," Remo lectured. "It's still a job for the CIA."

"Thank you for your lecture on policy," Smith sniffed. "Now let me tell you something. You seem to have forgotten our basic mission which is to fight crime. That effort will be seriously compromised if Nemeroff and Asiphar are allowed to make this Scambia a haven for criminals."

Remo paused. "So I'm elected?"

"You're elected."

"And what about my vacation?"

"Your vacation?" Smith said loudly. "All right, if you insist upon talking about it, let's discuss vacations. How many weeks a year do you think you're entitled to?"

"With my longevity, at least four," Remo said.

"All right. Where did you spend three weeks of last month?"

"In San Juan, but I was training," Remo said. "I've got to keep in shape."

"All right," Smith said. "But the four weeks you spent in Buenos Aires, in a damned chess tournament? That was training too, I suppose."

"Certainly, it was," Remo said indignantly. "I've got to keep my wits razor-sharp."

"Do you think it was sharp-witted to enter the tournament under the name of Paul Morphy?" Smith said coldly.

"It was the only way I could get a game with Fischer."

"Oh, yes, that game. You spotted him pawn and move, I believe," Smith said.