Coin of the Realm td-77 Read online

  Coin of the Realm

  ( The Destroyer - 77 )

  Warren Murphy

  Richard Sapir

  Moo wasn't exactly your typical island paradise

  Its fat-cat master made his subjects slaves to his greed. Its beautiful princess was motivated by lust-for money or whatever. Its people were far deeper into digging their ruler's grave than his mines. And its only tourists were a dollar-demented psychic charlatan named Shane Billiken and a crew of money-mad murderers from the back pages of Soldier of Fortune.

  In short, Moo was a bubbling caldron of every cardinal sin..and Remo and Chiun had to sweat blood to keep the lid on..as Chiun ran into an evil with too many tentacles even for him..and Remo found how dangerous a royal female could be when it came to attacking his principles- or whatever...

  Destroyer 77: Coin of the Realm

  By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir

  Prologue

  The Master of Sinanju reined in his shaggy-footed pony on the beach of what would one day be called Shanghai. The sun shining off the sea which the barbarian Chinese called the Sea of Sudden Typhoons hurt the eyes. He turned to his night tigers.

  "Dismount," he called.

  Weary and hunger-wasted, the young night tigers of Sinanju climbed off their steeds. One, Sako, sat dazedly on his horse blanket. His eyes were squinched shut in pain. His face, dry in spite of the brutal heat, was the color of soiled ivory.

  "Help him," Master Mangko said, holding his scabbard as he dismounted.

  Two night tigers assisted Sako from his horse blanket. They laid him on the trackless white beach. The sound of the tide was a lap-lap-lap that would not change with the centuries to come.

  The Master of Sinanju knelt beside his faithful warrior. He felt the man's ribs. Sako winced in pain at evry gentle touch, but he uttered no curse or word of protest.

  At last the Master of Sinanju spoke quietly.

  "I can offer you no hope, my faithful night tiger. No hope, but one boon. You have only to ask."

  "Do it," whispered Sako, and he shut his eyes on the last sight of his life-the Master Mangko, tall and lean, his hair like a cap of dark horsehair over his penetratingly clear eyes.

  The Master of Sinanju, kneeling, rested one hand on Sako's fevered brow and the other on his throat. He spoke soothing words until he felt Sako no longer shrink from the touch of death. Sako would not know which hand would strike the blow. Such was Master Mangko's mercy. The blow came swiftly. The Master of Sinanju lifted a hand and it hammered in Sako's forehead like an old egg. Sako shuddered and lay still.

  They buried him in the sand, close to the sea, so that the Chinese bandits who had wounded him would not get the body. Then they set about to build boats of bamboo and rattan.

  They toiled all through the night, with the Master of Sinanju pausing often to cast his gaze inland. The bandits would not be far behind, although they too had suffered casualties.

  Night came and the sun on the water no longer burned their eyes. When the young red sun rose, three bamboo boats sat leaning on sands that were as white as crushed pearls.

  The Master of Sinanju inspected the rattan lashings of each until he was satisfied with their seaworthiness.

  Only then did he give his night tigers a short bow to signify that they had done a creditable job, and the order to push off. The ponies were stripped of their blankets and provisions and given their freedom.

  The bandits appeared atop the near hills. They sat on their horses like sullen Buddhas.

  "Quickly," urged the Master of Sinanju. The first boats pushed off.

  "With me," Master Mangko ordered. Two night tigers sprang to his side. They understood that they must give the others time to make open water.

  The Chinese bandits came off the hills like thunder, the hooves of their horses pounding and splitting on the rocks. Master Mankgo shook his head. The Chinese never learned to treat their horses properly.

  There were four bandits. They charged like a breaking wave.

  The Master of Sinanju stood resolute in his blue tunic and trousers, a black-clad night tiger on either side of him. "Remember," he intoned, "if we die, our village dies. We do not fight for our lives only, but for the lives of our fathers and mothers, our sons and our daughters and their offspring for generations to come. The lives of thousands yet unborn depend upon our skills this day."

  The night tigers clenched their iron daggers in their hands. Master Mangko drew a long sword from a scabbard. They stepped away from each other to give themselves room to fight.

  The bandits howled in ferocity as they bore down on their victims, certain that their great swords were better than the crude blades of the Koreans, and that their war cries had paralyzed the interlopers.

  Closer came the horses. And when they were almost upon the three unmoving Koreans, the great swords of the Chinese swept back for the kill.

  The Master of Sinanju let out a cry of defiance and he rolled between two converging horsemen. His sword snapped bones to the right of him and bones to the left of him. Shrill whinnying preceded the sounds of the horsemen crashing into the surf.

  The Master of Sinanju leapt to his feet. He saw that his night tigers had also snapped the forelegs of their foemen's steeds.

  The Chinese were carried into the waves by their terrified, stumbling mounts. They floundered in the water. One was pushed under by the maimed hooves of his mount. He did not return to the surface.

  The Master of Sinanju strode into the water. His blade flashed left and his blade flashed right. Chinese heads leapt into the sky like ugly moons.

  As a last gesture, the Master of Sinanju dispatched the horses so that they would not suffer. He felt bad about the horses. It was not their fault that they belonged to stupid Chinese bandits.

  "You did well," Master Mangko told his night tigers, and together they pushed off in the third boat and joined the others.

  Days passed. The water was calm. They fished with string and silver hooks. They ate cold balls of rice boiled the night before.

  It was many days' journey later when the sky darkened. They pulled down the gaily colored sails of cotton, fearing a storm. But no storm smudged the sky. The boats were lashed together for safety.

  The Master of Sinanju grew pensive of visage. All signs pointed to a storm. Further on they sailed into the darkening sky of clouds. Talk grew less frequent. The night tigers were quiet.

  When he felt it safe, the Master of Sinanju ordered the sails raised. But there was little wind to fill them. The universe seemed terribly still. After a time, their hooks brought up no more fish and the night tigers began to mutter of fearsome things.

  "Where is the storm these clouds promise?" one asked. "And why do our lines fail us? Are there no fish in this entire sea?"

  And the Master of Sinanju was silent for a long time. At length he spoke.

  "We have entered the storm," he announced. The night tigers looked puzzled.

  "You do not see this storm because it is not a storm in the sky," Master Mangko went on coldly, "but one of the deepest ocean. This storm is not above us. It is below us."

  At that, the night tigers demanded answers, but the Master of Sinanju only gave them his enigmatic back. And still they sailed on.

  On the twelfth day, the ocean changed color. First it was a milky brown, as if the very sea bottom had been stirred by a great hand. And as they sailed onward, ever fearful, the sea color became green. Not the green of certain pools, but the green of sickness, of poison.

  They sailed past a floating body but did not disturb it. There was no sign of land for miles in all directions. Later, other bodies appeared. Men. Women. Some children. As they watched the swells, a b
ody here and a body there floated to the surface, bloated and white. No sharks disturbed these bodies.

  "What does this mean?" asked the night tigers.

  And for that the Master of Sinanju had no answer either. When they were twenty days out and still no sign of land, the Master of Sinanju looked up into the night sky. He read the multitudinous stars and consulted a scroll. After a long silence he announced in a sad voice, "We must turn back."

  The night tigers were shocked.

  "Back? What of our destination? Our hardships to get this far? How can you order us to give up? Our village depends upon the coin of this emperor."

  "The coin sent as a guarantee will have to do," intoned the Master of Sinanju, his voice full of doom. "The stars over my head tell me that we have passed the emperor's realm."

  "How? It is so big."

  "We have passed it because it is no more," answered the Master of Sinanju. "Now, quickly, bring your vessels about before Sinanju is no more as well."

  And the Master Mangko, third in the history of the House of Sinanju, settled at the tiller of his boat. Hard times lay ahead for his village. But a more terrible fate had befallen those who had summoned him.

  The greatest client state in the history of Sinanju had been swept from the sea's frigid face. The Master of Sinanju would have wept, but he knew he would need all his tears for his own people....

  Chapter 1

  The sound of the morning newspaper hitting the flagstone walk awoke Shane Billiken.

  His close-set black eyes snapped open instantly. Sunlight streamed in through the glass doors of his bedroom. The pounding of the surf was close. He reached for the nightstand, knocking over a copy of The Cornpleat Shirley MacLaine, and pulled a pair of oversize sunglasses to his eyes.

  "It's here," he said hoarsely, sleep clogging his throat.

  "Mummuph?" The sleepy girlish voice barely penetrated the silk covers.

  "I said it's here," Shane Billiken repeated. He elbowed the sleeping figure.

  "Owww!" Bedsheets were clawed off an angry blond head. "Did you have to hit me?"

  "The paper. I heard it arrive."

  "I'll bet you did. Every morning you hear it. Through twelve rooms and ten doors, you hear it."

  ''My senses are attuned to the physical universe," Shane Billiken said. "I hear the tread of ants and the whisper of a spider slipping down its web. Now, be a good girl, Glinda, and go fetch."

  Glinda shook her blond hair into place. She eased over to the side of the bed. She had the body of a teenager, tanned and fit and unblemished.

  "You know it's probably not going to be in there," she said.

  "I made a positive affirmation last night. My stars are exceptional. Today will be the start of my new career."

  "I want to know what's wrong with the old. You make enough. "

  "Don't whine. It's negative. You know negativity affects my biorhythms. And don't forget I found you pushing drinks. If you don't like it, I can find another Princess Shastra. "

  "Not after the Donahue show. We're famous now."

  "Just get the paper, okay?"

  Glinda pulled on a purple nightgown. She rummaged through a nightstand drawer.

  "What are you waiting for?" Shane demanded.

  "I gotta find my crystal pouch. You know what my horoscope said. You cast it yourself 'Don't go anywhere without your crystal.' "

  "I meant trips. Not walking to the damned front door."

  "You said anywhere. Getting the paper is anywhere. Ah, here it is."

  Glinda tied a green Nepalese pouch around her neck with a rawhide thong. She fingered open the drawstring mouth to make sure the crystal was safely inside.

  "Come on, come on. I can feel my positive energies fading. "

  "The ink isn't going to vanish because you can't hold on to your biorhythms, you know."

  "Just get it."

  Glinda passed out of the room, her gown trailing like a cape. She hadn't bothered to close the front.

  She returned a moment later, the pouch nestled between full breasts that bore the unmistakable rigidity of silicone implants.

  "Here," she said, tossing a folded newspaper onto Shane Billiken's hairy exposed chest. Glinda folded her hands over her breasts, feeling their hardness, and tapped a bare foot while Shane Billiken rummaged for the obituary section. His fleshy face was a mask as he read.

  "O'Brien ... Oliver ... Olney ... Ott. Damn! It's not here."

  "Try page one. After all, he is famous."

  "Good thought." Shane Billiken tore the scattered newsprint apart until he found page one. It wasn't on page one. Nor on page two. The entertainment section was no different.

  "See?" Glinda said.

  "Quiet, I am making a positive affirmation. Okay, the obit wasn't published today. That means he's going to die today. It'll be in tonight's paper. Tomorrow morning at the latest. I can feel it in my bones, Glinda."

  "Sure, sure, Shane."

  "Hey, how many times have I told you-"

  " 'It's magic, and you don't fuck with magic.' I know, I know. I'll meditate on it in the shower, okay?"

  "Take off the pouch first."

  "No chance. I don't want to fall and crack my neck."

  "It'll shrink in the shower."

  "I'll take the crystal out and hold it between my legs. Do me a favor, Shane? Put some Kitaro on the CD player." As the sound of showering penetrated the bedroom, Shane Billiken rolled out of bed. He walked over to his bedroom mirror; examining his square face in the mirror. With a jade comb he straightened his bangs.

  "Lookin' good," he murmured. Then he noticed a slight hollow effect when he moved his head from side to side. He would have to eat more ice cream or something. He mustn't lose that face. No one would ever accept him as his idol if the resemblance slipped.

  As he walked into his private dressing room, he started to hum an old rock song.

  "Only the lonely, dum dum dum dum dee dee dah." he sang.

  In his dressing room, he flipped on the CD, grimaced as synthesizer music droned from ceiling speakers, and lifted the Pyrex cover of a cheese container. He broke off a handful of Brie and started nibbling on it. Pieces fell at his feet.

  The shower sounds cut off and Glinda's voice penetrated the walls.

  "You know, sometimes I think you don't love me."

  "I love you," he said, putting on white linen pants. He selected a golden silk shirt, not bothering to button the top three turquoise buttons after he drew it on. He selected a mood charm in the shape of the astrological sign of Taurus and dropped it over his neck. When the charm touched his bare chest, the bull turned blue.

  Shane Billiken smiled. Blue was a good augury.

  "You didn't say it as if you meant it," Glinda complained.

  "I'm a fully Evolved Being. I don't have to sound like I meant it. I exist in a state of perpetual sincerity."

  "Say it again."

  "I love you." Under his breath he added, "You nimnoid."

  "Sometimes I think you just love me for my body."

  "No," said Shane Billiken. And this time he really sounded sincere. "I love you for the money you make for me," he whispered.

  "Or because I'm the psychic conduit through which Princess Shastra, High Priestess of Atlantis, has chosen to speak. "

  "You're very special," Shane Billiken said, taking a hit of rhubarb wine from a green glass jug.

  "You know, I was reading that Shirley MacLaine book last night, and it got me thinking."

  "With what?" Shane Billiken asked his image in the mirror as he primped his hair.

  "I mean, what if I'm channeling so good because, like, I really am the reincarnation of an Atlantean girl? I don't mean a priestess or princess, but I could have been a lady-in-waiting or something. Or maybe an Atlantean atomic scientist. Oh, yuk!"

  "What?"

  "I just found this really gnarly pimple on my tush." Shane Billiken rolled his eyes behind his impenetrable sunglasses. He would have preferred mirror shades, but R
oy never wore mirror shades. Maybe he should send the guy an anonymous note suggesting that wearing mirror shades would be a boost for his image.

  "Yeeowch!"

  "What now?" Shane sighed.

  "I squeezed the pimple and got blood. It's, like, all over my legs. What do I do?"

  "Think coagulation," said Shane Billiken, opening the sliding glass doors and stepping onto the redwood sundeck. He closed the doors on that sissy mood music. That was the one drawback to this business, he thought. The music sucked.

  The sunlight danced on the Pacific. Shane Billiken eased into a deck chair. He flipped through his appointment book. At two o'clock Mrs. Paris was due in for her monthly Aura Replenishment. Better make sure the ultraviolet lamps were working. At three the McBain twins were due to be Rolfed. Shane smiled. Rolfing them wasn't exactly what he had in mind. Maybe he could send Glinda off on an errand before they arrived. Then that yuppie stockbroker, what's-his-name, was coming in to talk about opening a major-city chain of biocrystal generating stations.

  Not bad, thought Shane Billiken. By five o'clock he would have pocketed over seven thousand dollars, and that still left his evening free. He took another hit of rhubarb wine.

  It was a long way from telling fortunes out of a house trailer at carnivals and psychic fairs all over the country, thought Shane Billiken. And really, he wasn't doing much different. Instead of servicing all comers, he saw only a select clientele of wealthy patrons. They paid fifty times for the same line of patter Shane had been dispensing in his curtained-off trailer cubicle. But they weren't just paying for the patter now, they were paying for bragging rights as one of the select clients of the exclusive Shane Billiken, world-renowned Doctor of Positivity, author of The Elbow of Enlightment, Soul Commuting, Crystals and Your Cat, and his current best-seller, The Hidden Healing Powers of Cheese.

  It was a sweet deal, lately getting sweeter with the channeling bit he was doing with Glinda.

  The wind coming off the Pacific sent the Tibetan prayer wheels positioned at each corner of the redwood sundeck to spinning, and Shane Billiken adjusted his shades. He settled back to enjoy the rays.

  He was almost into an Alpha state when the sliding glass door grated open.