Misfortune Teller td-115 Read online

  "Sorry," Remo said. "Not interested."

  "Speak for yourself, paleface," Chiun said. He muscled in front of Remo, taking a spot before the counter.

  "Three dollars," said the smiling Loonie.

  "Chiun, let's go," Remo insisted.

  "Pay the simpleton," Chiun said in reply.

  Remo knew from experience that it would be pointless to argue. Grumbling, he dug into his pocket, producing three singles. He handed the bills over to the Loonie. The man laid three darts atop the counter, which Chiun scooped up into his bony hand.

  Tapping a lone dart on the fingertips of his right hand, Chiun's arm wound from behind, looking like a cross between a major-league pitcher and a windmill. When his hand reached the release point of the throw, the dart zoomed from his loose fingers with an audible snap.

  The metal-tipped projectile flew at supersonic speed across the length of the booth, exploding a bright red balloon into rubbery fragments before burying itself deep into the surface of the board.

  Before the popped cork from the first dart was settling to the ground behind the booth, the second dart was airborne.

  This missile passed through a balloon at the lower left of the booth and continued on into the next kiosk. The last anyone saw of it, the dart was heading out toward the Major Deegan Expressway and the Harlem River beyond.

  "Watch this, Remo," Chiun cried. "Wheeee!" The third dart was loosed.

  Chiun seemed to have lost control of the final missile. Instead of heading directly at the board, the dart fired up to the top of the booth, where it snapped off a metal securing clasp with the report of a rifle shot. The ricochet carried it down to where it clattered amid an explosion of tiny sparks against another small piece of metal attached to a side beam.

  A few rusty flakes of metal fluttered to the whitewashed railing below.

  The new trajectory of the dart brought it at an angle across the face of the corkboard. As the Loonie barker watched in amazement, the dart wiped out a line of seven fat balloons in a series of rapid-fire pops. In a wink, it had buried itself up to its plastic feathers into the cold tar floor of the booth.

  Before the booth, Chiun clapped his hands in glee. "I destroyed nine of the orbs, Remo," he announced proudly. He turned to the vendor. "What do I win?"

  "Win?" asked the Loonie vendor. He was still looking in shock at the remnants of his balloons.

  "Uh-oh," Remo said.

  "My prize," Chiun insisted, still beaming. "It must surely be magnificent for one who has performed as I."

  Before the baffled vendor could explain that the only prize was the knowledge that Chiun's three-dollar gift would go to the Grand Unification Church, a voice piped in behind them. Luckily for the vendor, for the interruption allowed him to keep his head.

  "It is," the voice proclaimed warmly.

  When they turned around, they came face-to-face with yet another pink-robed Loonie.

  Remo glanced around. There was no one else in the immediate vicinity. The man appeared to be talking to them.

  "My name is Roseflower," explained the Loonie. He smiled a disconcerting, Valium grin. "I have been sent to bestow on you a most valuable treasure."

  Remo groaned at the word.

  Chiun clapped his hands again. "You see, Remo?" he chirped happily. To the Loonie, he said, "What is my reward?"

  "A personal audience with the Reverend Man Hyung Sun himself," Roseflower smiled, nodding.

  Chiun could scarcely contain his joy.

  "Vat's behind door number two?" Remo asked, just before Chiun elbowed him in the ribs.

  Chapter 13

  The brides wore white. All fifteen hundred of them.

  The giggling women were stretched out in zigzagging lines and clusters that extended from the edge of the dugouts behind home plate to the product-endorsing billboards on the outfield wall.

  The grooms wore white, as well. Unlike their brides-to-be, the men still wore their pink saris. Blue sashes knotted around their waists distinguished them from the other male Sunnie disciples inside Yankee Stadium.

  A groom had been assigned to each bride that morning. In most cases, the men and women had never met before.

  Roseflower led Remo and Chiun down the stands behind the home-base line.

  "You mean these are all arranged marriages?" Remo asked as they climbed down the steps. He looked out across the sea of faces awaiting the start of the marriage ceremony.

  "That's right," the Sunnie said.

  Remo laughed. "I hope you're planning on renting out Shea Stadium for the mass divorce," he said.

  "Actually, in those parts of the world where arranged marriage is the custom, divorce is low to the point of being nonexistent," Roseflower explained.

  "Baloney," Remo said.

  "It is true," the Master of Sinanju said with a nod.

  Remo frowned. "Yeah, well, that's probably because you'd get your eyes gouged out by a witchdoctor judge if you even mentioned it," he grumbled.

  The stands had been opened onto the field to allow mingling among the Reverend Sun's followers. Roseflower led Remo and Chiun down into the periphery of the crowd.

  "Where is the Holy One?" Chiun asked as they walked along just outside the first base line.

  "He is preparing himself for the ceremony," Roseflower said. "Your meeting will take place afterward. I thought you might wish to get a better view of the service. This is a good spot, I think."

  The Sunnie stopped, still smiling, a few yards away from first base.

  Remo looked around. A platform had been set up in the middle of the diamond near the pitcher's mound. It rose high enough above the heads of the many gathered bride-and-groom sets that it was visible from anywhere on the ground.

  A few Sunnies were making last-minute preparations atop the stage. Women arranged flowers of yellow and white. The men tested the public-address system on the floral-painted podium. When Remo glanced back at their escort, Roseflower was smiling blandly at the proceedings.

  Remo cleared his throat guiltily. "You know, this probably isn't the best time to tell you this, Rosebud," Remo said. He shot a glance at Chiun. "But I don't think we're who you think we are."

  The Master of Sinanju scowled. "Of course we are," he insisted. Hazel eyes flamed. "Remo, hold your tongue."

  "Chiun, maybe he's supposed to meet somebody important."

  "Who is more important that I?" the old Korean demanded.

  "I was sent for you," Roseflower interjected.

  "No," Remo insisted. "It couldn't be us. No one even knows we're here."

  "The Reverend Sun does. He knows all."

  Remo raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Forgive me if this insults one of the basic tenets of your religious faith, but bulldookey."

  "I do not understand," Roseflower said, his bland Midwest face clouding.

  "Hokum. Bunk. Crap. Bullshit," Remo elaborated. "I don't believe in any of this fortune-teller malarkey."

  Chiun grabbed Roseflower by the arm, steering him away from his pupil. "Do not listen to the heretic. If he blasphemes, it is merely the product of latent Catholicism. Perhaps Good Seer Sun might perform an exorcism," he suggested, shooting a hateful glance at Remo.

  "I am confused. Are you not of the Sun Source?" Roseflower asked.

  "Yes," Chiun said quickly.

  "Ye-es," Remo hedged. "But not the way you mean it."

  "See how he qualifies? It is a nasty habit learned at the feet of wimple-wearing dowagers."

  Remo rolled his eyes. "What time are the nuptials?" he asked, surrendering to the two men.

  His question was answered by a cheer from the crowd.

  The roar started suddenly, at a point beyond the platform. It swept rapidly across the packed stadium like a thundering tidal wave.

  Pale arms draped in white rose wildly into the air. Trailing pink ends of saris flapped liked flags caught in a crazed wind as the frantic screaming grew.

  And the chanting began.

  It was low at first,
shouted only by a few Sunnies planted at strategic points in the crowd.

  "Sun! Sun! Sun! Sun!"

  Others around the few screaming men took up the cry. It spread like wildfire. Inarticulate cheering was soon overshadowed by the single, shouted word.

  "Sun! Sun! Sun!"

  Clapping gleefully, Roseflower joined the chorus of chanting voices. Veins bulged on his reddening neck as he screamed the name of the Sunnie cult leader.

  Remo shot a look at the Master of Sinanju.

  Chiun had not joined in with the crowd. His hands were tucked inside the voluminous sleeves of his sea-green kimono. Yet even though he did not cheer, his face belied his elation. Hazel eyes danced merrily as he stood on tiptoe, trying to catch a first glimpse of the Reverend Sun.

  None of them had to wait long.

  All at once, the head of the Korean cult figure began to rise siowly and majestically above the crowd. it was a perfect fluid motion. Sun did not mount the stage in the jerky fashion of someone climbing stairs.

  A few dozen yards away from the cult leader, Remo's finely tuned ears picked up the sound of gears grinding over the crowd noise. Sun stood on a small elevator platform.

  The shoulders appeared, then the rest of the torso. Sun wore his usual business suit. A white alb was pulled over the conservative blue jacket.

  The robe was open in a wide V-shape that extended down to the gathered waist.

  "Sun! Sun! Sun!"

  The screaming grew more intense. The Sunnie leader reveled in the accolades of his wild-eyed disciples. He raised fat hands in a gesture of triumph above his head.

  Everyone in the stadium had gotten to their feet. Men and women in the stands stood cheering, as well, their voices raised along with those on the field waiting to be married.

  To Remo, it was like being in the middle of someone else's mad dream. He looked around at the sea of zombielike faces. Grinning, beaming. Screaming.

  Even for someone like Remo, who had seen much that was alarming and horrifying in his life, standing in the midst of the crowd of frenzied Sunnie disciples was a truly terrifying experience. It was not a fear of injury or death. Remo had been trained beyond both of those childlike things, The frightening characteristic of the Sunnies was their blind devotion to a man whom the rational world knew to be a fraud.

  At that moment-as he gazed out upon the sea of rabidly devoted disciples-Remo Williams knew that these demented followers would kill for their leader. Man Hyung Sun need only give the order.

  "Friends in the Sun!"

  The Reverend Sun's voice boomed out over his screaming flock. Flapping pink saris continued to wave victoriously as the Sunnie throng grew hushed.

  "We are gathered here today for a most joyous occasion!"

  The brides and bridegrooms cheered as one. Almost three thousand voices rattled across the stadium.

  "We must remember that this occasion," Sun continued when the crowd had quieted once more, "while joyful-is also one most solemn!"

  Remo sidled up to the Master of Sinanju. "Don't get in my way for the bouquet, Little Father," Remo warned beneath the continuing amplified voice of Sun.

  "Must you make a mockery of even sacred ceremonies?" Chiun asked. He was still standing on tiptoes, trying to see Sun more clearly.

  "Come on," Remo said. "This is about as sacred as one of Liz Taylor's weddings. In fact, she's probably here somewhere. Don't you find this all a little bit over-the-top?"

  "It is not my place to question the wisdom of a holy man," the Master of Sinanju replied.

  "I'll take that as a yes."

  Sun was still speaking. Feedback squealed occasionally from the tinny speaker system as he continued with the mass wedding ceremony.

  As the cult leader was lecturing his followers on the solemnity of the vows they would take this day, Remo began to notice an odd movement taking shape within the crowd.

  He wasn't quite sure how he became aware of the men. It was as if some sort of internal trip wire had been struck.

  When his unconscious mind steered his conscious mind to the strange intruders, he saw that there were six of them.

  No.

  Seven ...eight. Eight in all.

  They wore white robes minus the blue sashes of the rest of the grooms. But these men had no brides next to them. These were not the only differences between the new arrivals and the grooms, however. These men were armed.

  "Chiun," Remo said, his voice low.

  "I know," the Master of Sinanju replied, his face stern.

  "Eight?"

  Chiun shook his head. "Nine. Beyond the stage." He nodded beyond Sun.

  The ninth man in white was just threading through the crowd of couples. Like the others Remo had seen, he was moving in the direction of the stage. By the way he walked, it was obvious he had some sort of weapon hidden beneath the folds of his flowing white garment.

  "Catch up with you on the other side," Remo said.

  Nodding, Chiun split away from him. The elderly Korean moved swiftly toward the right, across the first-base line and onto the crowded infield.

  Remo had already moved off in the other direction. He cut a path directly for the first man in white.

  ". ..must appreciate the importance of the church in every aspect of your lives together. There is no individual. There is no couple. There is only Sun ...." the cult leader was proclaiming from the stage. His voice boomed out across the stadium.

  "Don't we have an inflated sense of self?" Remo muttered sarcastically to himself as he slid between pairs of beaming Sunnie brides and grooms.

  The nearest moving robe had vanished in the sea of couples. Remo allowed his instincts to guide him through the knot of people. On automatic, his body brought him in a direct line to intercept the would-be assassin.

  Passing a thick cluster of people, Remo came out several yards away from the stage. On the other side of the crowd within the crowd, the first white-robed man emerged.

  He was Korean. Remo spotted it straight off. The man's sleeves were wider than those of the other Sunnies. In the next moment, Remo realized why.

  A gun slid expertly down the length of the sleeve and into the killer's waiting hand. A rustling at the chest of the robe, and the other hand, which had been concealing the gun, slipped back down the other baggy sleeve.

  It was a K-50M. A North Vietnamese knockoff of a Russian Tokarev.

  Remo flew over to the man.

  The free hand snapped a banana clip into place. Turning toward the stage, the Korean assassin brought his gun barrel up and around, aiming at the fleshy face of Man Hyung Sun.

  He would have fired-indeed, he tried to. But something had gone suddenly and inexplicably wrong with his weapon.

  It took a second for the killer to realize what was wrong. His gun would not fire without ammunition.

  "Looking for this?" Remo asked sweetly. He was standing between the killer and the stage. In his hand was the banana clip from the Tokarev knockoff.

  The would-be assassin's eyes grew wide in shock when he saw the stranger standing before him with his gun's magazine. Quickly, his free hand disappeared back up the sleeve, fumbling for a replacement clip. His grasping fingers had just wrapped around one in the pouch at his waist when Remo surprised him by returning the original. However, the way it came back was not the same way it had left.

  "Yum, yum, yum," Remo said as he stuffed the curving clip down the man's throat. "Eat up. Bananas are a good source of carbohydrates. They give you that extra burst of killing energy."

  The man wiggled and fought. To no avail. Remo jammed the clip down past his epiglottis, blocking the air flow to and from his lungs. Suddenly, respiration became a far more important thing to the assassin than shooting the Reverend Sun. Face turning purple, he sank to his knees, clawing at the rectangular piece of metal that jutted from his open mouth.

  To Remo's surprise, the Sunnies in the immediate vicinity did not appear concerned in the least at the display of violence. The faces of those who
saw Remo cram the magazine down the Korean's throat held looks of utter indifference. Most of the people around did not even bother to look his way. They simply continued to stare up at their leader, faces rhapsodic.

  "Wonder if lobotomies come free with the blood tests," Remo said, shaking his head in disbelief.

  He left the killer to choke to death in the grass. Remo dived into the crowd in search of the next assassin.

  CHIUN WAS STILL FAR AWAY from the stage when he came upon the first set of killers.

  The Master of Sinanju noted with only minor interest that they were both Koreans. Assuming they were agents of some rival religious sect, he forged ahead.

  The two flat-faced risen had not even gotten close enough for an unobstructed shot at Sun before Chiun whirled in between them.

  Guns were still hidden in the sleeves of their robes. With a move that seemed casual, Chiun sent a single index finger into the baggy cloth at the side of one man. He caught the hollow muzzle of the weapon with his fingertip. Instantly, the gun rocketed up like a missile fired from an underground silo.

  The stock had been braced inside the man's armpit. On its path skyward, it wrenched through the shoulder socket with a tearing snap. Arm and gun both plopped from the hollow sleeve. Chiun stifled the man's scream with a toe to the throat. Continuing the move, he brought the heel of his foot into the jaw of the second man.

  The killer's head twisted wildly around with the snap of dry, uncooked pasta. Both bodies fell simultaneously.

  At the moment they dropped, another armed man sprang from the crowd a few feet away.

  Eyes opened wide as the killer saw the tiny dervish whirl out from between his dead comrades. The man tried to fumble his gun free from his robe as the wizened Asian flew over to meet him.

  It was no contest.

  The barrel had barely emerged from the sleeve before Chiun was before him.

  Hand flat, the Master of Sinanju slapped the killer's forehead so hard his eyes sprang loose, popping twin sacs of viscous fluid from bloody sockets. Inside his skull as the dead man fell, his brain quivered like so much gray jelly.