The Last Temple td-27 Read online

  It was his "pity-this-poor-old-crapped-upon-Korean-who-must-bear-the-weight-of-the-world-on-his-frail-shoulders-without-the-help-of-his-un-grateful-American-ward" voice.

  "Yes, it is I, America's premiere assassin, with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men. Remo! Who can change the course of corrupt government, bend lawyers in his bare hands."

  Remo made it into the bathroom, still talking.

  "Faster than the SST, more powerful than the Olympics, able to leap the continents in a single bound…" Remo turned on the water, hoping he could drown out Chiun's voice. But the voice, when it came, came just loud enough to be heard over the rush of water.

  "Who will help a poor old man get some much-needed peace? When will these injustices end?"

  Remo turned on both faucets. He could still hear Chiun. So he turned on the shower.

  "I do not like this new work," came Chiun's voice as if he were standing inside Remo's head and talking out. Remo flushed the toilet.

  The world had changed since Chiun had originally trained Remo. CURE had seen to that. You could not keep arranging astronomical amounts of corruption convictions, keep thinning out the roles of organized crime, and keep solving the everyday crises of a country with the military strength to wipe out the world one hundred times over without attracting attention.

  So now, all over the world, hands were being tentatively reached out to clasp those of the United States. Some were barbed, some were weak, some were strong.

  The Constitution became more than a pact with America's people, it had become a promise to other countries. Remo's job now was to protect that promise-a job that had formerly been done by other agencies. CURE was taking care of the whole earth now.

  Naturally, Congress disemboweling the CIA had nothing to do with CURE's new assignments. They would be the first to tell you that.

  "I miss my daytime dramas," finished Chiun's voice, as if he had been shouting into an empty auditorium.

  Remo knew he could never win, so he turned off the shower, washed his hands in the sink, turned off the faucets, and came back into the living room.

  "What do you mean?" he asked, drying his hands on a towel emblazoned with the huge green letters, PARIS HILTON. "Never mind, I know. Smith stopped sending you your video tapes."

  Chiun remained sitting in the lotus position, his head turned slightly to the side, his eyes cocked and ready to fire.

  "I could understand dishonesty. It is a characteristic of you whites. But deceit? What is the use of a lifetime of dedication?"

  Remo moved over to Chiun's personal video playback machine, which was lying on its side on the other side of the room.

  "Get with it, Chiun. What's the matter?" Remo asked, picking up the machine and bringing it over.

  "Observe," said Chiun, as he snapped a videotape cassette up and into the playback slot.

  Remo watched as 525 gray vertical lines spread across the screen, coming together into a color moving picture of a housewife in a childish mini-dress carrying a large bowl into a living room.

  The housewife wore her long brown hair in two fat braids with bangs above her wide oval eyes and overbite below.

  "I brought some chicken soup for him," the housewife said to another housewife actress who looked like a chicken in slacks. "I heard he was sick."

  The chicken housewife took the bowl and gave it to her bundled-up, drunk husband, then the two women sat on a couch, to talk.

  Remo was about to ask what was wrong with this, since it looked as slow and dull as any other soap opera Chiun felt the need to watch, when the TV husband fell forward in a drunken stupor and drowned in the bowl of chicken soup.

  Remo stared as Chiun sputtered: "Emperor Smith promised to send me my daytime dramas. The glorious 'As the Planet Revolves.' The golden 'All My Offspring.' Instead I receive…"

  Chiun raised his already high voice to a squeal, " 'Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman!' "

  Remo smirked as the ladies discovered the smothered man on the screen. "I don't see what is so awful, Little Father."

  "Of course, you wouldn't, pale piece of pig's ear. Any garbage would look good to a man who turns on all the water outlets to drown out his mentor's proclamations."

  Remo turned to the Korean. "What's wrong with it?" he asked, motioning to the set.

  "What is wrong?" exclaimed Chiun, as if any child could see. "Where is the drunken doctor? Where is the unwed mother, the suicidal wife? Where are the children on drugs? Where are all the things that have made America great?"

  Remo glanced back at the video screen. "I'm sure they're there, Chiun, just handled with a little more realism, that's all."

  "You whites find a way to ruin everything, don't you?" said Chiun. "If I want realism, I talk to you or some other imbecile. If I want beauty, I watch my daytime dramas."

  Chiun rose from his mat in a smooth movement that gave the impression of pale yellow smoke rising. He moved to four blue and gold lacquered steamer trunks that lay in the corner atop and crowding out one of the suite's beds. As Remo watched more of the TV show, Chiun opened the trunk and started hurling out merchandise.

  Remo turned as small bars of soap started dropping around him.

  "What are you doing?" he inquired, removing a washcloth with a Holiday Inn imprint from his shoulder.

  "I am trying to find the contract between the House of Sinanju and Emperor Smith. I am sure that sending 'Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman' instead of 'The Old and the Agitated' is a breach of our agreement. If this is how they value my services, I am leaving before the worst comes."

  Remo went over to where Chiun's small frame had disappeared into the large trunk.

  "Hold on, Little Father. It's just a mistake. They haven't done anything else wrong, have they?"

  Chiun rose quickly, a feigned look of surprise on his wrinkled parchment face.

  "They sent me you, didn't they?" he cackled, then sank into the luggage again. "Heh, heh, heh," his voice echoed. "They sent me you, didn't they? Heh, heh, heh."

  Remo began to pick up the trunk's contents that littered the suite floor like autumn leaves after a rainstorm.

  "Hold it, hold it. What's this, Little Father?" Remo held a small bottle up to the light. "Seagram's, courtesy of American Airlines?" He picked up another. "Johnny Walker Black, Fly me, Eastern Airlines? Smirnoff's, thanks for flying TWA?"

  Chiun rose again from the trunk, a slow-blooming flower of innocence.

  "One never knows when those things might be needed," he said.

  "We don't drink. And what's this?" continued Remo, stooping to pick up more items from the floor, "Matches from the Showboat, The Four Seasons Restaurant, Howard Johnson's? Toothpicks? These mints must be five years old."

  "They were offered to me," said Chiun. "It would be bad manners not to accept."

  Remo held up a final item.

  "An ashtray with Cinzano on it?"

  Chiun leaned over, looking slightly perplexed. "I do not remember that. Is it yours? Have you been smuggling junk in with my treasures?"

  Remo turned back to the TV screen. "I've always wondered what you filled those trunks with. I've been lugging a junk shop with me all these years."

  "I cannot find the contract," declared Chiun, "so I find myself unable to quit. Because to me, unlike you and that madman Smith, my word of honor is sacred."

  "Awwww," Remo clucked in sympathy.

  "However, I must take steps to bring these annoyances to an end. Smith must increase the payment to the village of Sinanju and send real tapes from real shows."

  "Come on, Little Father, Sinanju must be getting enough from us by now to platinum-plate your outhouses."

  "Gold, not platinum," said Chiun. "They only deliver gold. And it is not enough. It is never enough. Do you not remember the terrible devastation that gripped our tiny village just a scant few years ago?"

  "It's enough. And that was at least a thousand years ago," said Remo, knowing his protest was not enough to keep Chiun from his umpteenth
retelling of the legend of Sinanju, a poor fishing village in North Korea that was forced to hire its people out as master assassins to avoid drowning their children in the bay because of poverty.

  And for centuries after, the Masters of Sinanju had done admirably. At least in the monetary sense. Chiun, the present Master was doing the best of all. Even allowing for inflation.

  "So you see," finished Chiun, "how enough is never enough, and the seas and sky never change, yet Sinanju stays the same."

  Remo tried to stifle a yawn, purposely failed, then said, "Fine. Good. Can I go to sleep now? Smitty is supposed to contact us soon. I need my rest."

  "Yes, my son. You can go to sleep. Just as soon as we have taken steps to protect others from this Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman."

  "We?" Remo said from the bed. "Why we?"

  "I need you," said Chiun, "because there is some stupid trivial menial work involved." Chiun moved over to the desk, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a piece of paper and pen. "I want to know who is responsible for 'Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman,' " he said.

  "I think it's Norman Lear, Norman Lear," said Remo.

  Chiun nodded. "I have heard of this man. He has done much to ruin American television." The Master lifted the pen and paper and dropped them onto Remo's stomach. "Take a letter."

  Remo grumbled, watching Chiun move to his mat and settle softly into the lotus position. "Are you ready?" the Master inquired.

  "Yeah, yeah," said Remo.

  Chiun closed his eyes and gently positioned the backs of his hands upon his knees.

  "Dear Norman Lear, Norman Lear," he said. "Watch out. Sign it Chiun."

  Remo waited. "No sincerely or anything?" he finally asked.

  "I will read it tomorrow for accuracy and then you will send it," said Chiun before he slipped into a shallow level of sleep, sitting erect upon his grass mat.

  The phone was ringing, and Remo had to know whether it was for him. There were many phones ringing during the night. You could hear them through the walls. You could hear people talk and air conditioners hum, and a mouse that made it through the walls, running desperately through the building's innards. It was pursued by nothing, because there was no other sound moving with it.

  There were sounds in the night; it was never quiet. For Remo, it had not been quiet for more than a decade. The meat eaters and the warriors slept with their brains blanketed, but it wasn't sleep. It was unconsciousness. Real sleep, that cool rest of mind and body, floated gently, aware of what was around it. You could no more turn off your mind than you could your breath. And why should you?

  Primitive man probably didn't. How could he and live to create modern man? Most people slept like meatloaves. But as Chiun had taught him, to sleep like that was to make oneself dead before one's time, so Remo heard everything as he slept. Like listening to a concert next door. He was aware of it, but not part of it. Then the phone rang. And since he realized it was too loud to be next door, he got up and answered it.

  As he lifted the receiver off the hook, he heard Chiun mumble, "Must you let that thing ring for hours before you bestir yourself?"

  "Stuff it, Little Father," Remo said. "Hello," he growled at the phone.

  "I'm here," said a voice so acerb Remo's ear felt as if it were puckering up.

  "Congratulations, Smitty. You've made my night."

  Dr. Harold W. Smith sounded disappointed. "I thought by contacting you this early I would avoid the sarcasm."

  "The CURE sarcasm service is open twenty-four hours a day. Call again this time tomorrow and see."

  "Enough," Smith said. "Have you fixed that faulty French connection?"

  "Is the Fonz cool?"

  "Where is the Fonz?" asked Smith.

  "Never mind," said Remo. "Job's done."

  "Good. I have another assignment for you."

  "What now?" asked Remo. "Don't I ever get any sleep? Who've we got to zap this time?"

  "Not over the phone," Smith said. "The outdoor cafe on the north side of the hotel. In twenty minutes."

  There was a click, then a dial tone that Remo swore sounded as if it had a French accent.

  "That was that lunatic Smith," Chiun said, still immobile in the lotus position on the mat.

  "Who else at this hour?"

  "Good. He and I must talk."

  "If you wanted to talk to him, why didn't you answer the telephone?"

  "Because that is servant's work," Chiun said. "Did you send it?"

  "Send what?"

  "The message to Norman Lear, Norman Lear," Chiun said.

  "Little Father, I just got up."

  "I cannot trust you to do anything right. You should have sent it by now. He who waits waits forever."

  "And a stitch in time saves nine, a penny saved is a penny earned, early to bed and early to rise. Which way is north?"

  Harold Smith, the director of CURE, sat among the colorful, babbling young French patrons at the early-morning bistro like a cockroach at a cocktail party.

  As Remo slid into a seat across the simple white table, he saw that Smith wore his customary gray suit, vest, and annoying Dartmouth tie. Countries changed, years passed, some died and some lived, but Harold W. Smith and his suit remained eternally the same.

  Chiun parked himself on the next table, which was, mercifully, unoccupied, so that Chiun did not have to unoccupy it. Customers stole glances at the trio, and one young man identified Chiun as Sun Mung Moon in town for a pop rally.

  The hired help had seen the trio's kind before, however. The older one in the twenty-year-old suit must be the producer. The thin one in the black T-shirt was the director, and the Oriental couldn't be a servant since he was sitting on a table as if he owned the restaurant, so he must be the actor playing Charlie Chan or Fu Manchu or something. Just another silly American film company.

  "Hi, Smitty," said Remo. "What's worth waking me up for?"

  "Remo," said Smith, by way of greeting. "Chiun."

  "Right again," said Remo.

  "Hail to the Great Emperor, wise guardian of the Constitution, ageless in wisdom and generosity," said Chiun, bowing low, even with his legs crossed on the table.

  Smith turned to Remo. "What does he want now? When he calls me 'Great Emperor' he wants something."

  Remo shrugged. "You'll know when he tells you. What's happening?"

  Smith talked for approximately twelve minutes in the annoying ring-around way he had mastered during the bug-infested sixties. Remo gathered that there had been two deaths of Israelis recently, thousands of miles apart, but they tied in to something much bigger.

  "So?" he asked.

  "Reports from the areas in question," said Smith, "mention a man who fits your description."

  "So?" Remo repeated.

  "Well," said Smith, in a way of explanation, "the victims were found mutilated."

  Remo screwed his face up in disgust. "Come on, Smitty, I don't work like that. Besides I don't free-lance."

  "I'm sorry. I just had to be sure," Smith said.

  "We've found that both victims were involved in the nuclear area."

  "What?"

  Smith cleared his throat and tried again. "We have reason to believe that these deaths may signal an impending attack on a recent addition to the Israeli armament."

  Remo waved a hand in front of his face as if shooing a fly away. "Run that by me again. This time, try English."

  "These violent incidents might be directly related to the Israeli stockpile of powerful armaments that might threaten the entire world."

  "I got it," Remo said, snapping his fingers. "You're talking about atomic bombs. He's talking about atomic bombs, Chiun," he called.

  "Shhhhh," said Smith.

  "Yes, shhh," said Chiun in a loud voice. "If the Emperor wishes to talk about atomic bombs, I alone will protect his right to do so. Go ahead, great one, and speak of atomic bombs in perfect safety."

  Smith looked upward as if hoping to see an elevator from God.

  "Wait a m
inute," Remo said. "You say they found a woman's body, too?"

  "She was clean," Smith replied. "Probably just an innocent person who got in the way."

  "Okay," said Remo. "Where do we go from here?"

  "Israel," said Smith. "This might be a prelude to World War III, Remo. The two dead men had been involved with Israel's atomic weapons. With terrorists running wild there, who knows what might be going on? Any kind of incident could blow up the Middle East. Perhaps the whole world."

  Smith sounded as if he were reciting a recipe for chicken salad, but Remo managed to look concerned. Chiun looked overjoyed.

  "Israel?" he chirped. "A Master has not visited Israel since the days of Herod the Wonderful."

  Remo looked over. "Herod the Wonderful?"

  Chiun returned his look brightly. "He was a much maligned man. He paid on time. And he kept his word, unlike some other emperors who promise things, then send other things."

  Smith rose, managing with obvious difficulty to ignore Chiun's hinted complaints. "Find out what's happening and stop it," he told Remo. To Chiun, he said, "Be well, Master of Sinanju."

  As he turned to go, Chiun said, "My heart is gladdened by your news, Emperor Smith. So gladdened that I will not disturb you with the grieving woe that besets your poor servant."

  Smith shot a glance toward Remo. Remo stuck out his top front teeth in an imitation of Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman or of Hirohito, Hirohito.

  "Oh, that," said Smith, "The man responsible has already been taken care of. Your daytime shows will be forwarded to you as soon as you settle in the Holy Land."

  This time Chiun stood on the table before bowing, intoning graciousness and lifelong gratitude, and explaining that no matter what Remo recommended, he would not think of demanding increased tribute for the village of Sinanju, even if the cost of living had increased seven-tenths of one percent in the last month.

  Seasonally adjusted.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In the hills of Galilee are the cities of Safed and Nazareth, where Israelis cultivate the land, raise turkeys, pick oranges, and happily exist in their Holy Christian cities.

  In the bay of Haifa, one of the Mediterranean's busiest shipping ports is run between warehouses, metal foundries, oil refineries, fertilizer factories, textile mills, and glass plants.