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  "I will pay triple the down payment, for you have come a long way. That is, if you are able to accomplish this task I set before you."

  "Able?" Chiun squeaked. "I am the Master of Sinanju."

  "But you are old. Past your prime years."

  "Past! I am young by Sinanju counting."

  "And you have no weapons."

  The Master of Sinanju said nothing for a moment. He picked up a coconut that had been placed at his feet earlier. He had declined its sweet milk.

  "Quadruple the down payment," said Chiun evenly.

  "Too much! Too much!" cried the High Moo. "I do not have the coffers of Old Moo. This is a small island compared to the greatness of former times."

  "If you cannot afford proper protection from assassins, you should have called upon a lesser house," Chiun returned coldly. "For although the glory of Moo has set, the power of Sinanju has waxed great in the modern world."

  The High Moo winced at the pointed insult. And Chiun smiled thinly.

  "Triple," repeated the High Moo stubbornly. "Quadruple," said Chiun, "and I will deliver the perpetrators tonight."

  "Tonight?"

  "By dawn you will preside over a peaceful land," promised Chiun.

  "And triple if it takes longer?"

  "Agreed," said Chiun.

  "Done is done," said the High Moo, getting to his feet. Chiun rose beside him. The High Moo placed a hand on the Master of Sinanju's frail shoulder and Chiun placed his on the High Moo's opposite shoulder to signify agreement.

  "We will drink to our agreement," proclaimed the High Moo. "Fetch a coconut."

  "No need," said Chiun, raising his right hand to the High Moo's broad face. The coconut was balanced on the uprights of Chiun's fingers. With his other hand he made a series of passes over the hairy shell, as if weaving a spell. When he knew the High Moo's attention was fixed on his hand, Chiun lashed out and sheared the top off the coconut.

  The white meat lay exposed in a twinkling. Chiun offered the shell to the High Moo, who, to his disgust, spat into it. He offered it to the Master of Sinanju. Chiun sipped lightly. He spat the juice back into the husk and returned it to the High Moo.

  The High Moo drained the husk greedily, milk spilling from the corners of his mouth.

  "None for me?" asked Remo.

  "Hush, slave," said Chiun. "I will now reveal the name of the chief culprit," he announced, stepping into the circle. Curious, Remo folded his arms.

  "This better be good," he mumbled.

  Chiun, his hazel eyes like steel, stamped around in a slow circle.

  "The evil one is in our midst. I know this, for I am Chiun, Master of Sinanju, who came across a great ocean to bring peace to this troubled empire. I see all. I know all. "

  "Bull," whispered Remo in English, He was ignored. "I know there are conspirators in this very feast. I do not know them all, but I know their leader."

  The Red Feather Guard looked back at him stonily. The village women stared open-mouthed. The Low Moo watched with tight lips. And the royal priest raked the crowd with his avid black eyes, as if to imply that he, too, knew and saw all, and was able to visit justice as well.

  "I knew him on the beach," Chiun went on. The High Moo looked at Chiun with steely eyes.

  "I know him now," Chiun intoned. "And soon you will all know him for what he is-an octopus worshiper."

  A hush fell over the feasters. The crackling of the fires alone broke the stillness. Cinders danced in the night air. Chiun, his hands clasped behind his back, paced around the circle. Here and there he paused to look someone in the eye. Some flinched from his gaze. One or two of the children suppressed giggles.

  Watching, Remo thought he knew what Chiun was trying to do. He hoped to smoke out the conspirator with psychology. It was a bluff.

  Chiun continued his circuit. His face was hard, uncompromising. But no one broke and ran, as Remo expected. Finally, on his third circuit, the Master of Sinanju went directly to one man.

  "I accuse you, Teihotu," he screeched, one finger pointing with undeniable accusation, "royal priest to the Shark Throne, of being a secret octopus worshiper!"

  "I ... I . . ." sputtered the royal priest.

  "Do not deny it. You reek of guilt."

  And from the dark robes, Teihotu extracted a bone knife.

  Chiun disarmed him with a twist of his wrist. He dragged the man to his knees and, clutching him by the neck, forced a horrible scream from his thin lips.

  "No, no! I confess! I confess!"

  There came a collective gasp from the Moovians.

  "Who else, priest?" demanded Chiun. "Who else among this gathering belongs to your evil cult?"

  "Goom. Googam. Bruttu. And Shagg."

  At the sounds of their names, four of the Red Feather Guard broke and ran. Remo started after them.

  "Hold," Chiun said. "Time for them later. This is the important one."

  Out of the trees came a hurled object. It smashed, dousing the main fire. Moovians screamed. For in the embers an octopus sizzled and curled as the embers seared its tentacles. It died in a flopping, spitting agony.

  "Fear not," said Chiun, "for this evil ends tonight." He dragged the priest before the Shark Throne and made him kneel.

  "You have heard this man's confession," Chiun said loudly. "Now pronounce his fate."

  "Death," intoned the High Moo.

  "Death," the Moovians repeated.

  "So be it," Chiun said. "I will give you a boon, priest. Reveal to us the name of every octopus worshiper, and your death will be swift and without agony."

  Teihotu, royal priest to the Shark Throne, wept bitterly. He spat name after name until he had surrendered twelve names in all.

  When he was done, Chiun nodded. The priest had spoken true. Abject fear was in his voice. Chiun passed his long-nailed fingers over the man's quaking head. On the third pass, there came a sound like the coconut shell cracking. Where the priest's hair had been was the open bowl of his skull.

  Holding the corpse by the back of its neck, Chiun bent the head forward so that the High Moo could see the yellowish curd of the traitor's brain. The High Moo nodded silently.

  Chiun let the body collapse at the High Moo's feet and stepped back proudly. Remo joined him.

  "Lucky guess," Remo whispered in English.

  "No," Chiun replied. "I remember smelling octopus on his hands when he blessed us."

  Remo thought. "Now that you mention it, I do remember his hands smelled kinda fishy."

  "Not fish. Octopus."

  "Same difference. I don't know why everyone's so petrified. I once watched a National Geographic TV special on octopi. They're actually gentle, harmless creatures."

  "You will know the error of your ways by dawn." The High Moo spoke up.

  "You have done well, Master of Sinanchu," he said, his voice full of respect. "But dare you enter the Grove of Ghosts to complete what you have begun?"

  "My servant and I depart now. Await us at first light."

  "If you do not return, you will long be remembered for your feats of magic this night."

  "Come, Remo," Chiun said.

  Remo made a point of waving to the native girls as he left.

  "Catch you later," he told them. They giggled, thinking that he meant he was going fishing.

  Chapter 16

  Harold Smith pulled his car into an available space in the County Registry of Deeds office. He carried his worn leather briefcase with him through the glass doors and into the dim oak-paneled service area. He would not need his briefcase, but it contained his portable computer link and White House hot-line telephone. He never went anywhere without it, just as he was seldom seen wearing anything but a gray three-piece suit. Smith was a creature of rigid habits.

  The prim woman in the white blouse, severe black skirt, and librarian's string tie pretended not to notice Smith's entrance. Smith walked up to the counter, straightening his Dartmouth tie. The close atmosphere reminded him of the Vermont elementary school h
e had attended. Municipal buildings always evoked a nostalgic reaction in Smith.

  "Excuse me," Smith said, clearing his throat. "I would like to look up a deed. It's a recent sale, and I'm not sure how to go about this. Do I need to know the plot number?"

  "No," the woman said. "This is, unless you don't know the name of either the grantee or grantor."

  "Which is which?" Smith asked.

  "The seller is called the grantor. The buyer is referred to as the grantee." Her voice was bored. The woman looked down her glasses as if to ask: who was this man who didn't know the most commonplace facts?

  "I have the name of the grantor," said Smith.

  "Come this way," said the woman, stepping out behind the flip-top counter. She led Smith to a book-lined alcove. "These," she said sternly, running her fingers along a line of black-bound books, "are the Grantor Indexes. And these are the Grantee Indexes." She pointed to an opposite shelf of similar books. They were dated by year, Smith saw with relief. He had had visions of having to comb through countless volumes.

  "You look up the name you know in either set," she concluded.

  "I only know the grantor's name," Smith repeated.

  "I am explaining the entire procedure in case you ever have to do this again. Now, do you understand the difference between the indexes?"

  "Indices. "

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "The plural of 'index' is 'indices,' not 'indexes.'"

  "Sir, have you ever heard the expression 'close enough for government work'?"

  "Of course."

  "Well, it applies in this case." She went on in a lecturing like tone, "Now, if you will let me continue. You will find a reference number next to the name. It will probably be a four-digit number, unless of course you are searching records prior to 1889, in which case it will be a three- or possibly two-digit number. It will correspond to the number of one of these books." She indicated a bookshelf filled with worn black spines. They bore numbers written by hand in white ink.

  "Select the correct book and look up the deed by the page number, which you will find next to the two-, three-, or four-digit number separated by an oblique stroke. These books contain sequential photocopies of all deeds within each serial."

  "I see," Smith said.

  "Good. Do you have any other questions?"

  "Yes. Is there a photocopy machine on the premises?"

  "Around the corner by the water cooler. Copies are fifteen cents. And I do not make change."

  "Of course. Thank you," said Dr. Harold W. Smith. The woman walked off without another word and Smith made a mental note to see if there was a nameplate at the counter. The woman was very efficient, no-nonsense. Smith liked that in a worker. He resolved, if he should ever lose his current secretary, to offer the position to this woman. Smith went to the Grantor Index, found the name of his former next-door neighbor, and made a mental note of the serial and page number. The book was on a lower shelf. It was new. There was a red-stamped bindery date on the flyleaf that was barely two weeks old.

  Smith flipped through the pages of photocopied deeds until he found the one he wanted. He gave it a quick scan. The name of the grantee was James Churchward.

  The name sounded familiar. Smith tried to place it. He could not.

  Hurriedly he went to the photocopy machine and put in a quarter. He made a copy, and when his change did not come, he hit the change plunger several times without result. And so concerned was Harold Smith over the familiar name that he did something unprecedented for the frugal bureaucrat.

  He did not stop at the counter on his way out to demand restitution.

  In his car, Smith slid in on the passenger side and opened the briefcase on his lap. He dialed the Folcroft computer number and placed the receiver in the modem receptacle. Then Smith input the name of James Churchward and requested a global search of all CURE-sensitive files pertaining to past operations.

  It was ten minutes and six seconds by Smith's wristwatch before the on-screen message showed. It said, "NOT FOUND."

  Smith frowned. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps the name was not CURE-linked. He lifted the receiver and dialed his home.

  "Dear," Smith said when his wife answered. "That man you saw leaving the house next door-the one whose name you couldn't recall?"

  "Yes?"

  "Was his name James Churchward?"

  "No, I've never heard that name. Who is James Churchward?"

  "I don't know," Smith said slowly. "It is probably riothing," he added. "Just a hunch. Excuse me. I must get back to work."

  "On your way home, why don't you pick up another box of those nice potato flakes you like so much? The supermarket is having a two-for-one sale."

  "If I can," said Smith, hanging up.

  He stared unseeingly out the windshield for several minutes, trying to make the puzzle parts come together. His wife recognized the face of a man coming from the house. And Smith recognized the name. The name did not match the face. Unless, Smith thought suddenly, Mrs. Smith never knew the man's name in the first place. Or this could mean that there were two of them. The man Mrs. Smith saw and this James Churchward.

  Tight-lipped, Smith closed his briefcase and slid behind the wheel. He sent his car in the direction of Folcroft Sanitarium. The sun was going down, but there was much more work to do today. The Folcroft computers might not contain any reference to a James Churchward, but somewhere, he knew, there was a computer that did. And Dr. Harold W. Smith knew that his computers would find that computer and extract the information.

  It was now, without question, a top-priority matter.

  Chapter 17

  Remo raced into the benighted jungle, his eyes automatically compensating for the deeper darkness under tree cover. He glided like a phantom, his loafer-clad feet avoiding twigs and vines in an automatic way that Remo could not explain because his eyes weren't on the ground, but on the vine-choked path before him.

  "Remo!" Chiun called breathily.

  Remo halted, annoyed. He figured the chase for an easy one. And the quicker it was done, the sooner he could get back to the delectable Moovian maidens.

  "What's the problem?" he demanded, hands on hips. "Do not blunder ahead like a fool, Remo," Chiun warned, halting beside him. He looked up at Remo with a grave face.

  "What's the big deal?"

  "And what is the rush?" Chiun countered.

  "I don't want them to get away," Remo said defensively.

  "And where would they go? We are on an island." Remo shrugged.

  "And do not underestimate these people, Remo. They have dangerous weapons at their disposal."

  "Come on, Chiun," Remo said, looking around. "Clubs and bone knives? I've been known to two-step between the bullets in a machine-gun crossfire, for crying out loud. No clown in bark briefs is going to get the drop on me."

  "No?" asked Chiun. "Then what is that beside your left cheek?"

  "Huh?" Remo said, turning. "It's a tree. So what?"

  "And what is that sticking out of the tree?"

  Remo looked closer. He saw a needlelike object projecting from the rough bark.

  "You mean this thorn?" he asked, pointing. Chiun shook his stern head.

  "It is not a thorn."

  "Sure it is. It's growing out of the tree."

  "If it is growing from that tree," Chiun went on, "it is growing backward. Look again, O brave and foolish one."

  "What are you ... ?" Then Remo noticed that the thick end of the thorn stuck out. The point was embedded in the bark.

  "Booby trap, huh?" Remo said.

  "If we scratch ourselves on it, we die."

  "You are beyond help, Remo. It is a blowgun dart."

  "Blowgun! I didn't hear anything."

  "That is why they are so dangerous. That one missed you by the span of one hand."

  "Oh," Remo said in a small voice. He was looking around him.

  "Now that you are enlightened, you will listen for the sound of the man who expels darts. You will be awa
re of the tiny tick of a sound as the dart embeds itself in a hard object."

  "Fine. No problem." Remo started to go. Chiun restrained him with a firm hand.

  "I have not finished my instruction, you who think dancing in the path of loud and large bullets is all there is in the world to know about preserving one's life."

  "What else is there?"

  "A question. It is this. What happens if you hear the expelling breath but not the tick?"

  "I duck?"

  "No, for by then it will already be too late."

  "I look for darts in my skin?"

  "If you live that long, you may," said Chiun with undisguised disgust, and abruptly took the lead.

  "Guess I'm on my own," Remo muttered to himself. He took up the rear, his eyes questing this way and that. He moved with greater caution, his overconfidence gone.

  "We will not follow them," Chiun said so softly it might have been the winds in the turtle grass. "We will go to this haunted grove where these devils in human form live."

  Remo, surprised at the vehemence of Chiun's words, asked what he thought was a logical question.

  "Business aside, why do you have it in for these cultists?"

  "I suppose you were not taught about octopus worshipers in these schools where they knew naught of Moo."

  "Not really."

  "Westerners," Chiun mumbled. Then he spoke up. "There are many legends about the creation of the world, Remo. Every land has stories of how the Supreme Creator brought forth the universe and those who inhabit it. Of course, the Korean version is the only factual story, but in different lands, other stories are told."

  They came to a clearing bathed by the full moon. Chiun crouched down, signaling for Remo to follow suit. Remo did.

  As Chiun's hazel eyes raked the open area, he went on in a sonorous voice.

  "Just as lands tell their tales of the Supreme Creator, they have stories of his opposite. Now, in some lands this opposite creature is ludicrously described as a man with a tail and the horns and hooves of a goat. Of course, this is beyond reason."

  "The nuns who raised me didn't think so."

  "They probably told you laughable stories about angels too. "

  "As a matter of fact-"