Created, the Destroyer Page 6

  Another shot rang out in the gym. The funny little man kept coming, now crawling, now leaping, shuffling, but moving. Give him a lead. Crack!

  And he kept coming. Fifty feet away. Wait for thirty. Now. Two shots reverberated through the gymnasium and the old man was suddenly walking slowly, with the shuffle with which he had entered the gym. There were no bullets left.

  Remo in rage threw the pistol at Chiun’s head. The old man seemed to pluck it from the air as if it were a butterfly. Remo didn’t even see the hands move. The acrid fumes of spent powder drowned the scent of chrysanthemums as the old man handed the pistol back to Remo.

  Remo took it and offered it to MacCleary. When the hook came close, Remo dropped the revolver to the floor. It landed with a cracking sound.

  “Pick it up,” MacCleary said.

  “Stuff it.”

  MacCleary nodded to the old man. The next thing Remo knew, he was flat on the floor getting a close look at the grain of the gym’s wooden flooring. It didn’t even hurt, he went down so quickly.

  “Well, Chiun?” Remo heard MacCleary ask.

  In delicate, if not fragile, English, Chiun answered, “I like him.” The voice was soft and high-pitched. Definitely oriental yet with clipped, British overtones. “He does not kill for the immature and foolish reasons. I see no patriotism or ideals, but good reasoning. He would have slain me for a night’s entertainment. That is a good reason. He is a smarter man than you, Mr. MacCleary. I like him.”

  Remo got to his feet, bringing the gun with him. He didn’t even know where he had been hit until he attempted a mock bow toward Chiun.

  “Yeeow,” Remo cried.

  “Hold breath. Now bend,” Chiun ordered.

  Remo exhaled. The pain was gone. “All muscles, because they depend on the blood, depend on the oxygen,” Chiun explained. “You will first learn to breathe.”

  “Yeah,” Remo said, handing the revolver to MacCleary. “Say, Conn, what do you need me for if you’ve got him? I don’t think you’d need anyone else.”

  “His skin, Remo. Chiun can almost disappear but he’s not invisible. Can you hear witnesses saying they saw a yellow wisp of a man near every assignment we carry out? The papers would have a field day with the Phantom Oriental. And above all, Remo,” MacCleary’s voice dropped, “we don’t exist. Not you, not me, not Chiun, not Folcroft. Above an assignment, above our lives, this organization never was. Most of your assignments will be keeping it that way, I’m afraid. That’s why it’s especially important that you never make a friendship here.”

  Remo looked at Chiun. The brown slits remained impassive despite an obvious smile. MacCleary’s head was bowed as if terribly interested in the boards at Chiun’s feet.

  “What are the boards for?” Remo asked.

  MacCleary just grunted and turned from Remo and headed for the door. His blue loafers shuffled along in a gait similar to Chiun’s. He did not shake hands or say goodbye. Remo would not see him again, until he had to kill him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  HAROLD SMITH WAS EATING LUNCH IN HIS OFFICE when the direct scrambler line rang. It had little to distinguish it from the other two phones on the large mahogany desk, but a small white dot in the middle of the receiver handle.

  Smith returned a spoonful of prune whip yogurt to the white porcelain dish on the silver tray. He wiped his mouth with a linen handkerchief as though expecting an important visitor, and picked up the receiver.

  “Smith, 7-4-4,” he said.

  “Well,” came the all-too-familiar voice.

  “Well what, sir?”

  “What about the canvass in New York?”

  “Very little progress, I’m afraid, sir. We can’t get past Maxwell.”

  Smith dropped the handkerchief to the tray and absently began to build prune whip yogurt drifts with the spoon. In the valley of tears that was his life, upstairs never failed to add a few thundershowers, then wonder why he got wet.

  “What about the new-type personnel?”

  “We’re preparing a man now, sir.”

  “Now?” the voice came louder. “Preparing him? The Senate is coming to New York very soon, and it can’t come with that Maxwell still operating. Too many witnesses disappear. We need a canvass, and if Maxwell’s stopping it, then stop Maxwell.”

  Smith said, “We only have an instructor-recruiter that’s capable in this field…”

  “Now, damn it. What the hell are you doing up there?”

  “If we send our instructor, we’ll only have the trainee.”

  “Send the trainee then.”

  “He wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “Then send your recruiter. I don’t care how you do it.”

  “We need three more months. Our trainee will be ready then.”

  “You will eliminate Maxwell within one month. That is an order.”

  “Yes, sir,” Smith said and hung up the receiver. He demolished the yogurt drifts and let the spoon sink into the grayish mixture.

  MacCleary or Williams. One untrained, the other the only link to new material. Maybe Williams could pull it off. But if he failed, then no one. Smith stared at the white-dotted phone and then at the inter-Folcroft lines.

  He picked up a local phone. “Special unit,” he said into the receiver and waited. The noon sun sparkled on the waters of Long Island Sound.

  “Special unit,” a voice answered.

  “Let me speak to…” Smith’s voice tailed off. “Never mind,” he said. Then he hung up and stared at the waters while he made his decision.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  REMO HAD FOUND CHIUN’S QUARTERS MUCH LARGER THAN HIS OWN, but stuffed with so much colored bric-a-brac that it looked like an over-crowded gift shop.

  The elderly Oriental forced Remo to sit on a thin mat. There were no chairs and the table they ate from was ankle high. Chiun had said folded legs developed more tone than legs dangling from a chair.

  For a week, Chiun only talked. There were no direct instructions on his trade. Chiun probed and Remo evaded. Chiun asked questions and Remo answered them with other questions.

  Maybe the plastic surgery had slowed the pace of training. Surgeons straightened a break in Remo’s nose and removed flesh from beneath the cheekbones to make them look higher. Electrolysis pushed back his hairline.

  His face was still in bandages when, at one meal, he asked Chiun: “Ever eat a kosher hot dog?”

  “Never,” Chiun said. “And that is why I live so long.” He went on: “And I hope you will never again eat kosher hot dogs or any of the filth you Westerners drop into your stomachs.”

  Remo shrugged and pushed away the lacquered black bowl that held the white, semi-transparent fish flesh. He knew that at night he could order real food.

  “I see you will never give up your bad habits as far as your mouth goes.”

  “MacCleary drinks.”

  Chiun’s face brightened as he lifted a sliver of the whitish fish. “Ah, MacCleary. There is a very special man. A very special man.”

  “You train him?”

  “No, I did not. But a worthy acquaintance did. And he did an excellent job considering he was working with a person of Mr. MacCleary’s idealism. Very difficult. Fortunately, you will have no such problems.”

  Remo chewed on a few grains of rice that hadn’t been tainted by touching the fish. A strange light filtered through the orange screens.

  “I suppose I should not ask, but how did you escape the burden of this idealism?”

  “You should not ask,” Remo said. Maybe he’d get the prime rib tonight.

  Chiun nodded. “So. Excuse the prying but I must know my pupil.”

  Suddenly Remo realized the last nibble of rice had touched the fish. He would have spit it out, but he had done that the day before and Chiun had launched into a lecture on the preciousness of food. It had lasted half an hour, thirty minutes of tedium. Remo swallowed.

  “I must know my pupil,” Chiun repeated.

  “Look, I’ve
been here six days and all we do is talk. Can we get on with what we have to do? I know about Oriental patience. But I don’t have it.”

  “In due time, in due time. How did you escape it?” Chiun began to chew the fish and Remo knew there would be at least three minutes of mastication.

  “You assume I once had this idealism.”

  Chiun nodded, still chewing.

  “Okay,” Remo said softly. “I was a team man all my life and the only thing it ever got me was the electric chair. They were going to burn me. I went for a deal and when I woke up, it felt like Hell. I’m here and so’s this fish and it is Hell. That’s it. Okay?”

  When Chiun had finished chewing, he said: “I see, I see. But one experience does not kill a thought. The thought remains. It is only hidden. It is a good time for you to learn. But when the feelings of your childhood return, beware.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Remo said. Maybe a steak would be better than prime rib.

  Chiun bowed slightly and said, “Remove the food. We begin.”

  As Remo brought the bowls to the sink painted with purple and green flowers around the basin, Chiun murmured. He closed his eyes and lifted his head as though staring at a dark heaven.

  “I am supposed to teach you how to kill. This would be very simple if killing were simply walking up to your victim and striking him. But it is not always that way in your trade. You will find it more difficult and complex and so your training will be more difficult and complex.

  “Unfortunately, it takes many years to build an expert. And I do not have many years in which to train you. Once I was given a man from your Central Intelligence Agency and told to train him in two weeks for a European assignment. I pleaded that this was not enough time; that he was not ready. They would not listen. And he lived but two weeks. It is pitiful that there is not more central intelligence in your Central Intelligence Agency.

  “They have, however, promised me more time with you. How much more, neither of us know. We will try to learn as much as we can in these first few weeks, and then we can return, if time remains, to the beginning and specialize.

  “Before you can learn anything, you must know what you are studying. All the defense arts are an application of Zen beliefs.”

  Remo smiled.

  “You know Zen?” Chiun asked.

  “Sure. Beards and bums and black coffee.”

  Chiun frowned. “Theirs is not Zen; theirs is nonsense.”

  “You will see,” he continued. “All the defense arts… judo, karate, kung fu, aiki … are based upon the philosophy of instant action when action is required. But that action must be instinctive, not learned. It must proceed naturally from the person, from his being. It is not your coat, which you can remove, but your skin, which you cannot. It may sound very complex, Mr. Remo, but it will become more clear.

  “Most important to all your training will be your breathing.”

  “Of course,” Remo said dryly.

  Chiun ignored the joke.

  “If you do not learn to breathe properly, you will learn to do nothing properly. This is most important and you must practice correct breathing until it becomes instinctive. Ordinarily, further training would await that time. Under these conditions, it cannot.”

  He rose and went to a black lacquered cabinet from which he removed a black metal metronome. He placed it on the table between himself and Remo.

  For Remo, there followed the most boring afternoon of his life. Chiun explained different breathing techniques, and recommended a course of two beats inhale, two beats hold breath, two beats exhale for Remo.

  Remo practiced it all afternoon as the metronome clicked and Chiun talked. He caught only parts of what the old Oriental was saying: the ki-ai, spirit breath, welding your breath with that of the universal in order to weld the universal’s power to your power.

  Press down the breath, Chiun exhorted. Pull it down into your groin, down in behind the complex of nerves that control the emotions…down, down, down.

  Calm those nerves. Calm nerves make a calm man and a calm man feels no fear. As you breathe, meditate. Clear your mind of thoughts and impressions from outside you. Then the thing inside you…your mission…can receive all your attention.

  He went on and on into the evening. Then he told Remo: “You do very well. And already you walk well. Balance and breathing. There is little else. Tomorrow we specialize.”

  The next morning Chiun explained the difference between the self-defense arts: the difference between a do, a way; and a jitsu, a technique.

  “You have learned judo in the military,” Chiun said as a half-question.

  Remo nodded. Chiun frowned. “There is much then to unlearn.”

  “You have learned to fall?” he asked.

  Remo nodded, recalling the judo falling technique of hit, roll and slap with your arm to dissipate the force of the fall.

  “Forget it,” Chiun said. “Instead of falling like the dummy, we learn to fall like the dishcloth.”

  They moved out toward the mats on the gymnasium floor. “This is aiki-do, Mr. Williams,” he said. “It is a defense art pure and simple. The art of escaping, not being hurt and coming back to fight. Judo is a system of straight lines; in aiki we would emulate the circle. Throw me over your shoulder, Mr. Williams.”

  Remo moved around in front of Chiun, grabbed his arm and tossed the tiny little man over his shoulder. Judo technique would call for Chiun to hit the mats, roll, and slap out with his arm to nullify the force of the fall. Instead, he hit like a ball, rolled, spun and ended on his feet facing Remo, all in one motion.

  “This is what you must learn,” Chiun said. “Now encircle me from behind.”

  Remo moved up behind Chiun, then grabbed him around the chest, pinning his arms to his sides.

  In judo, there are many responses to this attack, all of them violent. Smash the head back into the face of your attacker; twist your body to the side and drive your elbow into your attacker’s throat; stamp onto your opponent’s instep; bend down and grab your assailant’s ankles through your legs, pull up and smash back into his stomach.

  Chiun tried none of them.

  Remo perversely began to apply more pressure. He felt Chiun wince and his muscles tighten. Chiun reached up and placed one hand on each of Remo’s wrists. With steady, even pressure, he simply pulled Remo’s hands apart…an inch…two inches…until finally they broke apart. Chiun spun, came up under Remo’s armpit, and flashed him over his back into a pile at the edge of the mat.

  Remo sat there, dazed.

  Chiun said: “You forgot to roll.”

  Remo rose slowly. “How the hell did you do that? Christ knows I’m stronger than you.”

  “Yes, you are, but your strength is rarely directed from one point to another point. Instead it sprays out from your muscles in many directions. I simply concentrated my puny strength in the saika tanden, the abdomen’s nerve center, and then directed it through my arms outward. I could pull apart ten men’s hands that way, and you could do the same with twenty men, when you learn. And you will.”

  He continued the drill.

  Three mornings later, Chiun told Remo: “You have had enough aiki. It is a defense art and you are not to be a defender. You are to learn attack. I have been told we have not much more time so we must hurry.”

  He led Remo to the pounding posts at the end of the gym. As they walked, he explained, “There are many types of offensive arts in the East and all are excellent if performed well. We must, however, concentrate on one and karate is by far the most versatile.”

  They stood within the rectangle made by the four shoulder-high Y-shaped posts.

  Chiun continued: “The story is told of the beginning of karate that many years ago the peasants of a Chinese province were disarmed by their evil ruler. Dharma, who began the science of Zen, lived in that time. And he knew his people must be able to protect themselves. So he called them to a meeting.”

  Even as he spoke, Chiun was setting inch
-thick pine blocks into the Y-shaped posts.

  “Dharma told his people they must defend themselves. He said, ‘We have lost our knives, so turn every finger into a knife’…” And with the points of his fingers, Chiun snaked out at one pine board. Its two halves dropped with a clunk on the floor.

  “And Dharma said, ‘We no longer have maces, so every fist must be a mace’…” and with his fist clenched, Chiun thumped out, splitting the board in the second Y-post.

  Chiun stood before the third post. “Without spears, every arm must be a spear,” he quoted, and he punched out stiff-armed, jolting the third block into two pieces. He stood there momentarily looking at the solid two-by-four Y-post from which the two halves of the board had fallen.

  He inhaled deeply. “And Dharma said: ‘Make every open hand into a sword’…” The last words were almost shouted in a violent expulsion of air. And Chiun’s open hand splashed forward, its side smacking against the two-by-four with a report like a rifle shot. And then the post wasn’t there. It tumbled and fell, severed cleanly three feet from its base.

  Chiun turned to Remo. “This is the art of the open hand, which we know as karate and carry on today. You will learn it.”

  Remo picked up the broken top section of two-by-four and looked at its splintered edge. He had to admit it. Chiun was impressive. What could stop this little man if he took a notion to kill? Who could fail to fall in front of those terrifying hands?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  DURING THE AIKI TRAINING, Remo had been taught the body’s main pressure points. There were hundreds of them, Chiun had told him, but only about sixty were of any practical value and only eight were reliable killers.

  “These are the eight you will concentrate on,” Chiun said.

  After lunch, Remo found two life-size dummies mounted on spring bases in the gym. They wore the white gym uniforms, but had red spots painted at both temples, the adam’s apple, the solar plexus, both kidneys, the base of the skull and a spot that he learned later was the seventh major vertebra.