The Last Monarch td-120 Read online

  "What is this?" he demanded.

  "I warned you," Remo replied. "Give it here." He made another fruitless grab at the box.

  "How long have you known of this?" Chiun accused.

  "I just found out tonight. It only came out this week."

  Angry, Chiun flipped the plastic case around in his hand. Remo knew what he was looking for. He also knew that the Master of Sinanju wouldn't find it.

  "Where is my name?" Chiun demanded hotly, glancing up at his pupil. His eyes were furious.

  "I think that's it." Remo pointed at a name three lines up from the movie's director.

  Chiun's eyes squeezed to walnut slits. "That is not my name," he said levelly. Every word dripped menace.

  "It must be some kind of mistake," Remo offered with a shrug. "No one contacted you to make sure it was right?"

  "Of course not," the old man spit viciously. "Do you think for one minute I would have allowed this-this slur to pass without my notice?" He brandished the video like a dagger beneath Remo's nose, so that his pupil could read the name on the box.

  " 'Mr. Chin,'" Remo read obediently.

  Chiun clapped palms to ears. "Do not speak it aloud!" he shrieked.

  "It sounds Chinese."

  "A worse insult there has never been," Chiun lamented, hands still pressed to the sides of his head. The video box stuck out like an angry black dorsal fin. "Why did they not make me Thai, or the lowest of the low-French?"

  "I think I've got an explanation," Remo said. "Did you tell them you were Master Chiun?"

  The Korean's shoulders straightened. "It was a term of respect. Something you would not understand."

  "Oh, I understand," Remo nodded. "They thought Master was Mister."

  "And this offense?" Chiun demanded, dropping his hands. His long, tapered index fingernail quivered as he indicated the name Chin.

  "A simple typo," Remo suggested.

  "Rest assured, simple type O will flood the streets of Hollywood when I lay hands on he who is responsible for this egregious insult," the Master of Sinanju warned.

  "Before it gets that far, maybe we should check the movie itself."

  "Why?" Chiun snapped. "What use is it to burrow inside a garbage heap?" He flung the box away in disgust.

  "Because," Remo said reasonably, snatching up the video before it hit the floor, "it might not be wrong on the tape. I was going to check after you went to bed."

  He popped open the box, removing the videotape. Chiun dogged him into the living room. Remo stopped in front of the VCR. After more than twenty years and a succession of replacements, he still wasn't sure how to use the device.

  "You are saying that the mistake might only be on the case?" Chiun pressed from his elbow.

  "I don't know," Remo said, frowning as he studied the VCR. "Does that top-hat-looking symbol mean on?"

  Clucking, Chiun tugged the cassette from Remo's hand. With a slap, he fed the tape into the VCR. Whirring, the machine loaded the tape and began to play automatically.

  As it ran through the first of several commercials, Remo picked up the universal remote and switched on the big-screen TV. In the meantime, Chiun settled to a lotus position on the floor before the television.

  "Can't we fast-forward this?" Remo complained as the tape ran through an ad for the second Die Down film.

  "Shh!"

  Remo sank to the floor, as well, careful to stay out of hand or foot range. He braced his chin on one hand. In addition to commercials for the first three Die Down movies, there were ads for a soft drink, a candy bar, a minivan, two competing software companies and an upcoming animated feature from the Walt Disney company.

  "I thought people rented movies to get away from ads," Remo griped as the commercials passed the twenty-minute mark.

  "Leave the room if you cannot be quiet," Chiun ordered.

  He had barely spoken before the movie finally started.

  The opening credits were superimposed over a scene depicting some sort of terrorist training camp. Apparently, it was supposed to be in Ireland if the pathetic accents the actors were attempting were any indication. To Remo, they all sounded like bad versions of the leprechaun from the Lucky Charms ads.

  When the screen terrorists began to slaughter a group of drug-dealing Catholic church officials, Remo sat straighter. The scene appeared to be coming to an end, which meant the credits had to be almost over.

  As a blood-smeared bishop carrying an Uzi he'd had hidden in his miter dropped in slow motion into an open grave, the thing they had both been waiting for finally appeared: "Story by Quintly Tortilli "

  "Aiiee!"

  The scream rose up from the wounded depths of Chiun's very soul. So quickly did the old man spring from the floor, not even Remo's highly trained eyes could follow. The Master of Sinanju materialized next to the VCR in an instant. He slammed his hand to the machine's face.

  As Chiun ejected the tape, Remo jumped to his feet.

  "Chiun, wait-!" Too late.

  The tape popped out into Chiun's bony hand. The other hand swung around, kimono sleeve billowing like an angry black cloud. When the hands met, the tape between them was pulverized to tiny black shards. Spools of black tape exploded out either side.

  Chiun dusted the plastic fragments to the floor. "Heads will roll!" he exploded.

  Remo ignored the tirade. He knelt beside the smashed remains of the videotape.

  "Dammit, Chiun, I rented that with my card," he complained. "Now I'm gonna have to pay for it."

  "Oh, someone will pay," Chiun intoned seriously, his face a menacing mask. "But it will not be you."

  With that, the old Korean spun on his heel and stormed from the room. When he slammed his bedroom door a moment later, the entire house shook with the vibrations. Remo felt the rattling dissipate beneath the soles of his loafers.

  "At least for a change it's not me," he muttered. Rising to his feet, he went off in search of a dustpan and brush.

  Chapter 6

  The nine o'clock sun the next morning was shining warmly through the kitchen window the next morning and Remo was trying to decide what to make for breakfast when he noticed the broken telephone.

  The phone sat on the counter. The plastic tab that plugged into the wall jack had been crushed. Only when he was looking at this phone did Remo notice that the one that ordinarily hung from the wall was missing entirely. A bare spot stared back at him from where it had been.

  He found the phone stuffed in the trash.

  Since the previous night's outburst, the Master of Sinanju had yet to emerge from his room. Remo went to the bottom of the stairs.

  "Chiun! Did somebody call while I was in New York?"

  "Go away!" Chiun's disembodied voice shouted back.

  Remo didn't press the issue. Walking into the living room, he noted that a few black plastic videotape chips had been ground into the rug. He'd vacuum them up later. For now, he looked for the phone that was ordinarily on the lamp table.

  He found it. Or what remained of it.

  The phone was little more than a pile of stringy multicolored wires and broken tan plastic. Chiun had stuffed the remnants underneath a corner of the rug.

  "Smith," Remo muttered with a certain nod. He pushed the phone debris back under the carpet. Leaving breakfast for later, he stepped outside into the morning sunlight. Enjoying the warming rays on his face, he walked down the street to a pay phone.

  Humming, Remo stabbed the 1 button repeatedly. The familiar connections sounded in his ear as the call was routed to the Folcroft office of Harold Smith. The CURE director answered on the first ring.

  "Hello?" Smith's tart voice asked sharply.

  "Hiya, Smitty."

  "Remo?" There was a cautious edge to his tone.

  "Of course it's me," Remo said. "Hey, did you call me last night?"

  Any relief the CURE director might have felt was overwhelmed by annoyance.

  "Where the devil have you been?" Smith demanded.

  The older ma
n's aggravation was contagious. "You're on the rag a little early this month, aren't you?" Remo asked.

  "I tried calling a number of times," Smith insisted. Some of the tension drained from his voice. He seemed relieved to finally be talking to Remo. "There is something wrong with your phone line."

  "Yeah," Remo dodged. "Gotta have Ma Bell look into that. What's up?"

  "An unusual assignment that requires a certain level of both delicacy and discretion has presented itself," Smith said. "It involves the Sinanju amnesia technique. It would seem that a former United States President has regained knowledge of us."

  Remo was instantly concerned. "Not Peanut Boy?" he asked.

  The President to which he referred now worked on the Hovels for Humans program, building shanties and lean-tos for indigents. Remo had a sudden mental image of a crack-addicted, pregnant teen runaway roofer with a mouthful of nails accidentally dropping a hammer on the retired President's head.

  "No," Smith replied, setting Remo's mind at ease. "His successor. The former chief executive was bucked by a horse and knocked unconscious. The accident triggered his memory."

  Remo was stunned. "Smitty, he's got to be a million by now. What the hell's a guy his age doing on a horse?"

  "It was supposed to be a photo opportunity," Smith answered thinly. "A foolish stunt, given his condition."

  "You got that right," Remo agreed. A thought occurred to him. "Plus, doesn't he have Alzheimer's? How do you even know he remembers?"

  "He called me," Smith stressed. "It seems that our agency is not all that he remembers. If his conversation with me was not simply a moment of bizarre clarity, I assume that the symptoms he has displayed over the past few years have been a direct result of the Sinanju amnesia technique."

  "Hmm," Remo mused. "I never heard of it affecting anyone like that. In fact, I don't know of anyone who it's ever come undone on before except Hardy Bricker. Remember that whole RX thing a few years back?"

  "Of course," Smith said vaguely. "And perhaps you should discuss this with Chiun. After you have taken care of the President."

  "Gotcha. He still in California?"

  "Yes," Smith said. "I want you to visit him as soon as possible. There is no great urgency to the situation, but I do not feel comfortable having someone outside the loop with knowledge of our existence. Not even a former President."

  "No sweat. We'll give him a double whammy."

  "Er, Remo," Smith offered slowly, "perhaps you should handle this alone."

  "Chiun's better at this than I am," Remo replied. "But is he not the one who performed the procedure the first time?"

  "Yeah," Remo replied. "But you can't say this is his fault. By my tally, he's four and one with retired Presidents."

  "I understand that," Smith agreed. "But news of the accident has leaked. The press has staked out the hospital. It will not be easy for you and Chiun to get in undetected. If I had been able to contact you last night-"

  "But you didn't," Remo interrupted. "Guess you dropped the ball there." Before Smith could bring up the trouble he'd had calling, Remo asked, "What hospital is he in?"

  Smith sighed. With practiced patience, he gave Remo not only the hospital's name, but the top-secret room number of the ex-President.

  "Relax, Smitty. This'll all be a memory by tonight," Remo promised once the CURE director was through. "And don't worry. All follow-up visits are freebies."

  Smiling, he hung up the phone. Hand still on the receiver, he turned toward his house.

  "Now comes the tricky part," he muttered. Leaving the pay phone, he headed back down the sidewalk toward Castle Sinanju and its stewing occupant.

  Chapter 7

  The former President of the United States could not believe how much he had forgotten. Nor how much he now remembered. It was as if for the past six years he had been in a long, foggy twilight from which he was only now emerging.

  The sunlight that shone through the tinted glass of his private hospital suite was brilliant. The blinds were partly angled to keep out prying eyes.

  Touring the rooms in his blue pajamas, hands stuffed in the pockets of his terry-cloth robe, the President paused at a bedroom window. He used his fingers to crack two blind slats.

  Reporters were on the street eight stories below. Camped out like vultures. Most had accepted the assignment gleefully, thinking they were on a death watch. It wasn't surprising. The press had never had a kind word to say about him.

  "You fellas are in for the shock of your life," the ex-President whispered in the soft, playful tone that was at one time familiar to all Americans.

  He checked the digital clock on his nightstand for what seemed like the millionth time.

  It was 6:00 a.m., Pacific Standard Time. He had called Smith late the previous evening.

  He wasn't concerned that Smith's men wouldn't show up. Smith had always been reliable. The lemony voiced man had gotten America out of more than a few scrapes during the former President's tenure in office.

  Once Smith's people got here and worked their magic, the ex-President could get on with what remained of his life. He would lose his memory of CURE, but that was as it should be. It wasn't right for more than four people to know of the agency at one time: Smith, his two special people and the current U.S. President. That had always been the way with CURE. Four was enough. More than that would risk exposure.

  He tried to think of how many ex-Presidents were still alive.

  One had died a few years back, he thought. If memory served, there were four remaining, including himself. If those men who were retired hadn't been given amnesia, that would make eight men total to know of CURE. Far too many. Smith was right to make departing Presidents forget.

  The President released the blinds. He wandered back across the room, taking a seat at the foot of his bed.

  It was difficult to reconcile some bits of memory. His mind had struggled to record some things over the past few years, but it seemed as if they hadn't been properly filed. Everything before the onset of his brain disease was crystal clear, however. Smith told him on the phone the previous evening that both of his operatives were still with the agency. Things were still fuzzy last night, so soon after the accident. But the more he thought of it, the more he knew that wasn't right.

  The young one was dead. That's what Smith had told him years ago, during the waning days of his presidency. Not only that, but the old one had supposedly quit CURE over a contractual clause.

  For some reason, Smith had lied to him. It didn't trouble the former President in the least. If there was one thing he remembered about the taciturn Smith, it was that he was a good man. The kind America used to turn out like good, solid reliable cars or black-and-white two-reelers where the black hat always lost and the white hat always, always won. The former President trusted that the director of CURE had a reason for keeping him in the dark back then. Just as he trusted that Smith would send his men as promised to right their mistake.

  As he sat patiently, hands upon his knees, the door to his bedroom opened. A doctor in a white coat and green surgical scrubs entered. The blue stitching on his coat identified him as Dr. Kahler.

  For an instant, the former President saw the familiar black suit of one of his Secret Service guards standing stoically in the hallway.

  The doctor frowned as the door swung shut.

  "You should be in bed, Mr. President," he said seriously.

  "Do you have any idea how much sleep I've gotten the past six years?" the President asked with a wry smile. "That sandman fella and I are on a firstname basis."

  The doctor's expression remained somber. "Be that as it may, you're going to have to lie down while I examine you. Please."

  Dr. Kahler tried to ease the former President onto his back. Although he was much older than the doctor, the President didn't budge.

  "I know you're just trying to do your job, and that's fine," the ex-President said, his voice firm. "But I've been examined all night long. If you want to poke and prod
me again, you're going to do it while I'm sitting up."

  The doctor pursed his lips. "Yes, sir."

  When he tried to unbutton the blouse of the President's pajamas, strong hands pushed him away. Mouth twisted in mild displeasure, the President opened his own shirt.

  Dr. Kahler saw at once that his famous patient was in amazingly good shape for a man his age. Some old, faint scarring around the chest from an assassination attempt nearly two decades before. A stethoscope showed that lungs and heart were fine. His pulse rate would have put to shame a man a quarter of his age.

  "How's the head this morning?" the doctor asked as the President buttoned his pajamas once more.

  "On straight," the former President replied.

  "Headache?"

  "A little. It hurts behind my eyes."

  Dr. Kahler nodded. "We were worried about a concussion, but everything looks okay today. X rays don't show any fluid build-up like the last time you fell off your horse."

  "I was bucked," the President insisted. "And if it was a concussion, why didn't you folks keep me awake? Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

  The doctor hesitated. "Actually, we kind of thought under the circumstances...ah..." His voice trailed off.

  "My daughter, right?" the President said, eyes level.

  The physician shifted uncomfortably. He cleared his throat. "She thought it would be best."

  "To let me just drift off." The President shook his head. "She was always so worried about everyone else's shadow, she never really tried to cast one of her own." He exhaled loudly. It was a sigh of regret. "What about my wife?" he asked, looking up suddenly.

  "According to the news, she's on her way back from Washington," Dr. Kahler said.

  At the mention of his former residence, a wistful smile drew up the deep crags of the old man's face. "The shining city on a hill," he uttered softly. The doctor's brow furrowed at the words. The man on the bed obviously hadn't been to Washington in quite a while.

  The ex-chief executive's tan, wrinkled face had taken on a contented expression as he stared into space.

  This wasn't right, Dr. Kahler thought. Everyone knew that the former President was suffering from Alzheimer's. He had a degenerative brain disorder that was incurable. There was no way the man should ever have been this lucid for this long so far into his bout with the disease.