Father to Son td-129

  Father to Son

  ( The Destroyer - 129 )

  Warren Murphy

  Richard Sapir

  There's some nasty sibling rivalry in the family assassination business . . .

  For Remo, Sinanju's Holiest tradition is "cash up front"

  But as his long road to the rank of Reigning Master of the venerable house of assassins nears its end, the Time of Succession ritual begins. For the enforcement arm of CURE, this means making his way around the globe, killing the best assassins money can buy -- and proving to kings and presidents alike that Sinanju is the primo strategic weapon around.

  For a reasonable fee, of course.

  But there is a storm cloud on the horizon of Chiun's retirement and Remo's promotion: a dark nemesis has been reborn from the fires of evil and has unleashed his plot for vengeance. He starts by looting Chiun's treasure-filled basement in Sinanju. But he won't stop until he has fulfilled a prophecy of doom that even Chiun may not be able to thwart: the death of the Destroyer.

  Destroyer 129: Father to Son

  By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir

  PROLOGUE

  She was called Sonmi.

  No one in the village knew much about her. She was from one of the older families, but since none had moved into the village in many generations, they were all members of the older families by now.

  Her mother had died giving birth to her more than seventy years ago. Her father had died only recently. Some said the old man was a powerful shaman. All in the village stayed away from him and his daughter. When he died, only Sonmi wept.

  On this day, as the cold sun peeked above the eastern horizon, old Sonmi picked her careful way down the rocky shore. A small fishing boat of fine Egyptian cedar was tied to a wood post. Sonmi unhooked the rope and climbed aboard.

  It took a long time to row. Her withered arms were sore by the time she made it far enough out into the bay.

  From a pouch on the belt of her coarse dress she produced some blessed herbs. She scattered them upon the black water, reciting the mystical chants passed down to her from her father and his father before him, all the way back to before the time of the Forgotten One.

  Once she was done, she stood at the edge of the wobbling boat and jumped overboard. The cold waters of the West Korean Bay accepted her body with barely a splash.

  Beyond the empty boat, across the bay and up the rocky shore, the village of Sinanju where the dead woman Somni had lived all her life, stirred awake. The sun rose.

  The boat bobbed on the gentle waves.

  In time an elderly fisherman noticed the boat out in the bay and sent his son out to retrieve it.

  Days passed. No one thought much of old Sonmi. Eventually someone noticed she was gone. None knew where. No one looked for her. No one cared.

  The few thoughts people had soon faded and the old woman disappeared from memory.

  As if she had never existed.

  Chapter 1

  The water was warm, but not from the sun.

  The sun never warmed the waters of the West Korean Bay. Summer or winter, it was always the same. Cold. Like the emptiest heart or the farthest point in the bleak night sky.

  But that one spot, way out in the middle of the bay-only as wide across as a man's arms could stretch-was warm. And though cold waves lapped all around, it remained warm within. No one knew why.

  It was a new occurrence. Everyone was certain of that. The village of Sinanju had been founded on that barren shore more than five thousand years before. In all that time there was no record, written or oral, to indicate that the warm spot in the water had been there at any time in history.

  It was dark, too. Like blood.

  The spot had been warm for more than a year. Even though Sinanju would have been dismissed by most as a typical rural Korean fishing village, few fishermen actually lived there. Those who fished were mostly old men who kept up the tradition, coming to it later in life.

  The healthy young men who should have been fishermen-would have been if Sinanju were like any other poverty-stricken village on the inhospitable coast of North Korea-did not toil in boats with nets until their hands became tired knots of arthritic bone. They sat in the village, fat and lazy, living off the sweat of another man's brow. Some day, when they grew old, some of them would take to fishing out of boredom, out of some need to connect to their past.

  But for now, the young were young, the old were old and it was the old who fished. Sometimes. When the men who fished first found the warm spot in the water, they tried to cast their nets in it. Maybe it was a gift from the gods. Maybe that warm spot was put there to draw in the fish, for in truth the fishing in the bay was generally poor and the catch was always meager.

  The nets came up empty.

  Time after time they tried, always with the same results. The area was dead to life.

  In the summer a few young men tried to swim down to see if there was something on the bottom that was making the spot warm. But the water was too deep and the undertow too strong. They gave up and swam back to the surface.

  After that the area was left alone. The old men cursed and spit upon the waves even as they rowed wide around the spot. All avoided the evil warm blot, which, as time went on, grew more and more like the color of human blood.

  The spot was there for many months. Then one night it vanished.

  The supernatural stain on the waves was erased, consumed by cold and tide.

  Not a soul was there to see.

  When it happened, the village of Sinanju was asleep.

  The rock walls of the bay were a black void, swallowed by the moonless sky. A jagged lip of stone formed the line between earth and air. Stretching up before the twinkling stars was a pair of upthrust basalt rocks. The artificial rock formation formed a pair of horns.

  The white starlight cast the inky shadow of the horns across the bay. They rolled up and down across the waves like a pair of pinching black fingers. Far out, between the most distant, curving points of rock, they framed the spot where the water had been warm but had suddenly grown very, very cold.

  In the hour after midnight there came a flash. It was brilliant, white. The white flash was the flash of a meteor. But it came from sea, not sky. From the dark depths of the bay. A bright pop of something otherworldly from beneath the waves.

  No one saw it. Sinanju slept.

  The water grew hot once more. Then boiling.

  The air was cold. Steam rose white over the icy bay, rolling into shore like sweet-smelling fog.

  The water churned. Hotter than blood. A swirling, frothy red foam bubbled to the surface.

  The waves stained the shore red.

  Three hours after midnight, something screamed. A single cry, like the shock of birth.

  And as the swirling water leveled off, a hand rose through the foam, fingers clutching.

  Then came another hand.

  All at once, a face broke the cold surface, the gulping mouth gasping for air.

  The hair was black and clung to the scalp. Streaks of blood ran down, framing the face. The face of a dead man.

  The pain was too great.

  With feeble kicks, the figure rolled over onto his back.

  He floated there for a long time as the warmth dissipated and the water cooled around him. Hazel eyes stared up at the cold, thankless sky. It had been many years since those eyes had glimpsed the sky.

  For a long time, the man just lay there, naked and alive. When the cold began to sting like life, he rolled over. Testing reborn limbs, he began swimming for shore.

  For Sinanju. For home.

  Chapter 2

  His name was Remo and he could feel a thousand sets of eyes following his e
very move even though he was alone.

  When the sensation first manifested itself all those months ago, he hadn't known what it was. For Remo Williams, the not knowing had been a frightening thing.

  Remo was a Master of Sinanju, the most ancient and deadly of all the martial arts. The other, lesser martial arts were but splintered rays. Sinanju was the sun source.

  The very hum of life was white noise to most people. Their senses were dead to the world around them. As a Master of Sinanju, Remo was trained to the pinnacle of human perfection. His environment was alive. He was able to see and sense things the rest of the world tuned out.

  One of the things Remo was able to detect were the telltale signs that signalled to him he was being watched. As a professional assassin, this honed sense was oftentimes the difference between life and death. The ability was as much a part of him as hands or eyes or breath itself. And so when he'd gotten up that morning almost a year ago and felt an audience crammed into his small bedroom alongside his sleeping mat, he thought his senses were going screwy. There was no one else with him. He was certain of it. No heartbeats, no nothing. He was alone. Yet not alone.

  With great worry he sought the counsel of the man who had taught him everything important in his life. "Little Father, something's wrong," Remo said, the worry evident in his voice and on his face.

  The very old Asian to whom he spoke was in the process of packing. They were scheduled to move soon.

  The tiny Korean had skin like ancient leather, dry and weathered. Twin puffs of yellowing white hair clutched the age-speckled flesh above his shell-like ears. He looked frail. He was anything but.

  Chiun, Remo's Master and teacher in the ancient art of Sinanju, understood his pupil's unspoken question.

  "Your senses do not lie," the wizened Asian explained in his singsong voice. "That which you feel is called the Hour of Judgment. It is the time when the spirits of masters past scrutinize the Transitional Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju. As my successor, they will judge if you are worthy to become Reigning Master."

  It was unnerving. The invisible eyes had trailed Remo from his sleeping quarters out to the common living room he shared with his teacher.

  There was no one there. Remo was certain of it. But he had seen much in the many years since his training began. He had grown to grudgingly accept things that in his youth he used to dismiss as hocus-pocus.

  "The spirits are all here?" Remo asked worriedly.

  Chiun tipped his head. "There are probably a few dawdlers who have yet to arrive."

  Remo felt his flesh crawl, cold and clammy. As if a too close spirit had just brushed the exposed skin of his arms.

  "Can you feel them?" Remo asked.

  "No. This is your time, not mine."

  Remo exhaled. The knowledge of what was happening didn't bring him the relief he'd hoped for. "So this is normal? It feels like I'm the Super Bowl half-time show for a stadium full of Peeping Tom ghosts."

  "You are being watched with great interest. After all, you are the first outsider to achieve such greatness."

  Sinanju the discipline had originated in the North Korean village of the same name. In its five-thousand-year history, Remo was the only individual born outside the village to reach this level.

  "Swell," Remo had said. "So should I just stand here, or do they want me to do a little dance or something?"

  "If you want me to die of embarrassment, go ahead."

  Remo folded his arms and studied his surroundings with forced casualness. The basement rooms with the painted cinder-block walls were empty. He and Chiun were all alone. Yet his senses screamed otherwise. "This happens to all Masters?"

  "All who reach your level."

  "And what if they don't judge me worthy?" Remo whispered from the corner of his mouth.

  Chiun had returned to his packing. "There is little they can do now," the old Korean had admitted. He dropped his voice low. "But when you die, they can make your life miserable. If the Masters' Tribunal judges you unworthy, you will be banished with the other outcasts of the Void."

  "Great," Remo muttered. "I had to join a heaven with a caste system. I guess I can stand this for a couple of days."

  The days stretched into weeks. Moving day came and went. Remo and Chiun settled into their new lodgings, yet still the weird sensation that he was being watched didn't go. When Remo couldn't take it any longer, he again approached his teacher.

  Chiun was watching television.

  Of late, the Master of Sinanju had developed a fondness for Mexican soap operas. Remo wouldn't dare interrupt the programs themselves. Years ago, when his teacher used to watch American daytime dramas, fatal results came to anyone foolish enough to intrude on the old man's moments of joy. A Spanish-language commercial for Crest toothpaste came on, replacing the bright colors of Mexican TV studio sets and ultraclose close-ups that made the actors' pores look like flesh-draped lunar craters.

  "So how long does this judging thing go on?"

  "It depends," Chiun replied, his eyes glued to the flickering television set. "It could be brief or long."

  "It's been weeks," Remo complained. "I feel like a freaking zoo exhibit."

  "Said the monkey to the chimp."

  "Ha-ha. It's gotten so I can't even go to the can in peace. Did it take this many weeks for you?"

  "For me?" Chiun bristled, insulted. "Of course not. Why would the ghosts of my ancestors need to waste their precious time watching for a mistake from someone who obviously doesn't make mistakes? The dead have better things to do, Remo."

  "So how long will they watch me?"

  "Ten million years," Chiun replied. "Shush." The old man's program was back on.

  It wasn't ten million yet, but it was right around one year since he'd first awakened to his supernatural spectators and they hadn't left him alone for a minute. Even though it had gone on for what seemed like an eternity, it remained a feeling Remo doubted he'd ever get used to.

  They were with him always. Watching, judging. Remo had thought his teacher's gaze during training was bad. After all, Chiun hadn't been the most forgiving instructor. Multiplied by a thousand, it was worse than he'd ever imagined.

  The invisible eyes were there morning, noon and night.

  They were with him earlier that afternoon when he was watching the twelve-o'clock news in the Stamford, Connecticut, duplex he now shared with the Master of Sinanju.

  As a rule, daytime reporters and anchors were usually even more frivolous and dim-witted than their evening counterparts. But for some reason this day, everyone seemed very businesslike. Remo soon learned why.

  There was a breaking news story out of nearby Milford.

  An office worker at a small software company had gone berserk an hour before. According to the reporter on the scene, the heavily armed man had entered the building where he worked, guns blazing.

  There were a dozen confirmed dead, seven more wounded.

  The killer was holed up in the rear of the building. A handful of office workers were unaccounted for. The police had not yet stormed the building, fearing for the safety of any survivors that might still be inside.

  And so began the strange dance of camera and helicopter that seemed to capture American interest every few months.

  The film crew showed stock footage of the killer's car a dozen times. It was a red Pinto with Bondo on the hood and rust chewing away the doors. The name Munchie was emblazoned on the lopsided vanity plate. A reporter mentioned repeatedly that this was the killer's nickname.

  They flashed pictures of the killer on-screen. It was the sort of face not easily forgotten.

  Remo needed only one look.

  He had put on the news only for the weather report. But the weather forecast was suspended in favor of shock news. For Remo, enough was enough. He was sick of seeing this sort of thing erupt on his television with disgusting regularity.

  When Remo switched off the TV and headed for the front door, the ghostly gaze of his invisible en
tourage was with him. The eyes trailed him out to the car and remained with him for the drive up to Milford.

  "Could you back off today, fellas?" Remo muttered. "I'm trying to work here."

  Asking around, he found the cordoned area around Soft Systems, Inc. with relative ease. At the line of police cars he doubled back, parking his car down the street in a Shop-Rite supermarket lot. He returned to the office complex on foot.

  Remo was a man of average height and weight. The only thing outwardly unusual about him were his wrists, which were thicker than a normal man's by far. Most women found his face-with its high cheekbones and deep-set eyes-appealing, although even they would have described it as vaguely cruel.

  No one saw the cruelty on Remo Williams's face this day, for no one saw the face of Remo Williams. He slipped up the sidewalk, past crowds and reporters and police without raising a single eyebrow. Avoiding the front of the building and the gaggle of press still crammed beyond the parking lot, Remo slipped around the back.

  Even though it was broad daylight, the police at the rear of the building didn't see the thin man slip between them. Their eyes always seemed to be where Remo wasn't. The uniformed men milled about anxiously, guns drawn.

  Remo found a caged window in the alley near a Dumpster. The metal mesh popped in silence. He lifted the window and slipped soundlessly inside without a single living eye tracking his movements.

  He found himself in the downstairs ladies' room. There were two bodies in the bathroom. One was near the sink; another had been sitting in a stall. The woman near the sink had lived for a time after she'd been shot. She had crawled on her side to the wall, only to die near a trash can. The blue tiled floor was streaked with congealing blood. The other woman had been luckier. A shotgun blast through the flimsy stall door had delivered her a speedier, if grislier, end.

  Face steeling, Remo slipped from the room. Another body in the hallway. The man wore a suit with no jacket. The back of his white shirt was stained red. Papers that had been so important in the last moments before his violent death were now scattered on the drab green carpet around his prone body. Unlike the women, the man hadn't been felled by a shotgun blast. This one was a bullet, not a shell. The newscast had mentioned this. According to eyewitnesses, the killer carried an arsenal.