Destroyer 078 - Blue Smoke and Mirrors

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THE MAD MASTER
The Master of Sinanju was in a frenzy of motion, twirling like a dervish. His silver bells
jingled like sleigh bells while he used his bamboo rods to describe circles in the air.
"An exorcism!" Air Force Security Officer Robin Green shrieked. "He's performing an
exorcism on a nuclear facility! I'm putting a stop to this right now!"
"Uh-uh," Remo said, keeping a tight hold on her. "There was a time he was addicted to
soap operas. Nobody, but nobody, interfered with his daily viewing. A couple of people
did. I always had to remove the bodies."
If Chiun was going crazy, nobody was going to stop him. The only question was, how far would he go , . . and
who would be left close enough to sanity to defeat a menace that defied the eye, mocked the mind, and left the
Destroyer himself swinging at empty air . . . ?
(2) SIGNET(0451)
REMO SAVES THE WORLD !
D DESTROYER #71: RETURN ENGAGEMENT by Warren Murphy and Rich
ard Sapir. Remo and Chiun battle a super-fiend who came back from
the dead stronger than steel. They had to find the answer to the
monstrous mystery of the man who called himself Herr Fuhrer Blutsturz
and the antidote to his irresistible evtt. But first they had to stay ative
long enough to do it.... (152441-$3.95)
D DESTROYER #74: WALKING WOUNDED by Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir. Remo goes
rambo-ing-and Chiun goes all out to bring him back alive. On a mission of rescue and revenge,
Remo returns to Vietnam to fight a one-man war against an old enemy- (156005-$3.50)
D DESTROYER #75-. RAIN OF TERROR by Warren Murphy and Richard
Sapir. Remo and Chiun shoot into action against a mad dictator who
will stop at nothing and a super-smart computer who knows how to
outwit the wise and wily Chiun-and how to destroy the indestructible
Destroyer!(157524-$3.95)
D THE DESTROYER #76: THE FINAL CRUSADE by Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir. Over 20
million copies in print! A perverse preacher and a satanic seductress have Remo in their hands,
body and soul, and .unless his Oriental mentor Chiun can loosen their diabolical hold, Remo
is going to hell in a handbasket-and taking the world with him
(159136-$3.50)
D DESTROYER #77: COIN OF THE REALM by Warren Murphy and Richard
Sapir. Death goes on sale when Remo and Chiun pay an old debt in
blood money on the island of Moo, a bubbling cauldron of cardinal sins.
Together they must rescue Princess Shastra from a psychic channeling
scam and a many-tentacled evil.(160576-$3.95)
D DESTROYER #78: BLUE SMOKE AND MIRRORS by Warren Murphy and
Richard Sapir. A Soviet spy steals a suit in which he can vibrate
between molecules and suddenly U.S. secrets are vanishing into thin air.
It's up to the Destroyer to do some of his Sinanju magic and make it ail
reappear.(162196-$3.50)
Prices slightly higher in Canada.
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PUBLISHER'S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, NEW AMERICAN LIBRARY. 1633 BROADWAY, NEW YORK. NEW YORK 10019.
Copyright © 1989 by Warren Murphy All rights reserved
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U.S.A.
signet, signet classic, mentor, onyx, plume, meridian
and NAL books are published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Books USA Inc., 1633 Broadway, New York, New York 10019
First Printing, October, 1989 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
For Tom Johnson, whose experiences fed this novel.
And for Marc Michaud, who kept the car in motion so the security police wouldn't have an excuse to use lethal force.
1
When a Titan 34-D missile exploded shortly after launch from Vandenberg Air Force Base in
California, it was dismissed as an accident.
When another Titan veered off course and had to be destroyed by the range safety officer
only seconds after lifting off from Cape Canaveral, taking with it a multimillion-dollar Delta
weather satellite, officials dismissed it as "a short run of bad luck."
And when an Atlas-Centaur rocket went out of control during a thunderstorm, lightning was blamed, prompting a
Cape Canaveral spokesman to remark that these unfortunate incidents always seemed to come in threes and no one
expected any more missile accidents.
He was correct. The trouble shifted to the new B-1B Bomber program. Three B-lB's crashed
during routine training missions. Everything from geese in the intakes to pilot error was cited.
The Air Force dismissed this as "expected test-performance attrition." Privately, the generals
were marking time until the first B-2 Stealth Bombers rolled out of the hangars.
And when three F-117A Stealth Fighters crashed even before the first one was unveiled to
the media, this was blamed on ice forming on the wings. The Pentagon sheepishly explained that
the sixty-million-
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8
dollar craft were not equipped with wing de-icers- equipment common on all commercial
aircraft-because they were thought unneccesary.
The Air Force generals shrugged. The next generation of Stealth fighters would have wing
de-icers, they promised.
The Air Force generals shrugged. The next generation of Stealth fighters would have wing
de-icers, they promised.
No one suspected that every one of these accidents had a common cause. No one dreamed
that a single agency, unknown and unstoppable, was systematically at work. An agency that
could not be touched, tasted, smelled, or heard. And one that no one had seen.
Until the day someone stole Airman First Class Emil Risko's Calvin Kleins from LCF-
Fox.
They were ordinary jeans. Risko had bought them from a K-Mart in Grand Forks, paying
$38.49, marked down from $49.99 "This Week Only." He brought them with him to
Launch Control Facility Fox, intending to change in them after his seventy-two-hour shift. He
had promised his wife that he would take her dancing at the Hillbilly Lounge. Risko folded
the jeans neatly, still with their tags on, and placed them at the foot of his bunk so he
wouldn't forget them.
That night, after a routine patrol of the ten Minute-man III launch facilities attached to
LCF-Fox, he returned to his room and found them missing.
At first, Airman Risko thought he had placed them in a drawer. He opened every drawer.
He checked under his pillow. He dug out the K-Mart bag from the wastebasket, thinking
that somehow he had thrown out the jeans by accident. The bag was empty. Risko looked
under the bed. He found a dustball.
After he had repeated these checks five times each, going so far as to take the grille off the window air conditioner,
in the hope that someone playing a practical joke had hidden them inside, he sat down on the edge of his neatly
made bunk and smoked two Newports in a row while the sweat crawled down his face.
Biue Smoke and Mirrors9
Finally, reluctantly, Airman Emil Risko went to the facility manager's desk.
"Sarge, I have a problem."
The facility manager looked at the constipated expression on Risko's face and dryly
remarked, "Ex-Lax works for me."
"This is serious, Sarge."
The FM shrugged. "Shoot."
"I bought a pair of blue jeans on the way in this morning. I know I put them on the bunk. At
least I remember doing that. I locked the door after me. When I got back"-Risko took a breath
and whispered- "they were gone."
"Gone?"
"That's right. They must have been stolen."
Staff Sergeant Shuster took a long slow puff on his cigar. He blinked several times dully.
Wheels were turning in his mind, but he was slow to say anything. He looked like the Pillsbury
Doughboy in Air Force blues.
"Do you now what this means?" Risko hissed impatiently.
"Do you know what it means?" Staff Sergeant Shuster shot back.
"Of course! It means there's a thief on the facility."
"Maybe yes. Maybe no," the sergeant said, peeling several bills off his bankroll. "How much?"
"It's not the money. They were stolen. On the facility."
"Look, they're only a pair of jeans. Do us both a favor. Take the money. Buy another pair. Forget it."
"Sarge, regulations expressly say that this has to be reported under the program."
"If you want to report this to the flight-security controller, I can't stop you. But think ahead two steps. You report
this thing, and OSI becomes involved. Then everyone from the cook to the status officers in every underground LF
gets hauled in for questioning.
10
Including yours truly. If no one owns up to it, we're all on the hook. The Air Force can't
afford to have a thief on a nuclear facility. We'll all be transferred. Me, I like it out here. It's
flat and out of the way, but they leave me alone."
"But, Sarge-"
Staff Sergeant Shuster stuffed a pair of twenties into Airman Risko's blouse pocket. He
buttoned the pocket.
"Do it my way," he said soothingly. "We'll all have less grief, huh? You're not exactly the
most popular guy on the LCF. Catch my drift?"
Airman Risko expelled a disappointed breath. He dug out the twenties and slapped them
on the desk.
"Thanks, but no thanks," he said, stalking off.
"Don't do anything we'll all regret, kid," the facility manager called after him.
His face anguished, Airman Risko walked through Launch Control Facility Fox's homey
recreation-room area, where other airmen were playing Missile Command, reading books, or
watching television. Two airmen playing chess looked up when he entered. One cleared his
throat audibly. The buzz of conversation abruptly died and Risko hurried down the corridor
to his room.
throat audibly. The buzz of conversation abruptly died and Risko hurried down the corridor
to his room.
The FM had a point. If he reported the theft, that meant a breakdown in the Personnel Reliability Program. It
had been the first thing drummed into Risko's head when he was assigned to security detail on the missile grid.
Because of the potential risks of an accidental missile launch caused by an unstable person, everyone watched
everyone else for any sign of attitude or emotional changes. The officers watched the enlisted men, and each
other. The enlisted men were allowed to report personality changes in any officer, regardless of rank.
Risko's bunkmate had been relieved of duty only last summer when he expressed suicidal thoughts. Risko had
reported him. The man was interrogated and it
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came out that he had been having trouble with his wife. He suspected her of cheating on him
during the long three-day shifts everyone in the grid put in. He was summarily transferred to
Montana's inhospitable Malstrom Air Force Base.
Every one of the officers assured Risko that he had done the correct thing. But many of the
enlisted men began avoiding him. He heard the word "fink" whispered a time or two behind his
back.
Now he faced a similar situation, and although his duty was clear, Risko hesitated.
As he turned the corner to his room, his eyes cast downward, Risko bumped into someone.
"Whoa there, airman!"
"Oh, sorry," Risko mumbled, looking up. It was the new cook, Sergeant Green. She was the
only woman on the LCF. That alone would have made her stick out. She was a pert little
redhead with laserlike blue eyes. She wore a white cook's uniform with silver-and-blue chevrons
on her collar. But Risko wasn't looking at her chevrons. He was looking at her chest. Half the
LCF had bet the other half that Sergeant Robin Green had a bigger chest than Dolly Parton. No
one had yet figured out a way to prove this belief to the satisfaction of the lieutenant who held
the betting money in trust.
Sergeant Green looked at him sharply.
"Is there something wrong?" she demanded.
"What? No," he said quickly. "Excuse me." Risko brushed past her hurriedly. He shut the door after him,
thankful for once that he had no roommate. He sat down to think.
The knock at the door came before he had a chance to light up.
"It's Green," the voice called through the door.
Airman Risko muttered something under his breath and let her in.
"OSI," Green said sharply, flashing a security ID. It
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featured her photograph and the words "Office of Special Investigations," but as was customary, no indication of
rank.
"You?" he said stupidly, stepping back to let her in.
"I've been assigned to look into some problems on the facility," Green said briskly. "And
you look like you have one of your own."
Risko shut the door woodenly.
"I don't know what to do, Sarge-I mean sir. Do I call you sir, sir?"
"You know OSI ranks are classified. Call me ma'am."
"Yes, ma'am. You see, the regs are clear on this," Risko said, spreading his hands
helplessly. "But it's going to cause hell."
"Spit it out, airman."
"Yes, ma'am. It's simple. I bought a pair of blue jeans. I put them right here. At the foot
of my bunk. Then I went on duty. When I got back, they were gone."
"I see. There's no chance you misplaced them?"
"I turned this room upside down a dozen times."
"Who's your roommate?"
"I don't have one," Risko said miserably. "He got transferred. It was my fault. That's why I
don't know what to do."
"Damn," Robin Green said, pacing the floor. Risko noticed that her white uniform seemed
two sizes too small. Especially above the waist. Her buttons looked ready to pop. A brief
interest flickered in his eyes, but the sick fear in the pit of his stomach seemed to creep up to
his eyes, dulling them.
"Airman, you strike me as a solid kind of guy. I'm going to level with you."
"Ma'am?"
"LCF-Fox is troubled. Deeply troubled. Critical missile parts are missing from the stores.
Guidance-system components and computer parts. Technical stuff I don't even understand.
We've run countless checks, quietly
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put a few people through lie-detector tests. But no leads. No confessions. Nothing. All we
know is that the trouble is localized. No other LCF or LF in the grid has had problems. Only
put a few people through lie-detector tests. But no leads. No confessions. Nothing. All we
know is that the trouble is localized. No other LCF or LF in the grid has had problems. Only
Fox."
"You think this is related to my problem?"
"My superiors are on my cute little ass-if you'll pardon the expression-to uncover a bad apple
in this barrel. But I don't think we have a bad apple."
"Then how ....?"
"It's not a breakdown in the Personnel Reliability Program. It can't be."
"But it has to be. Nobody just walks on a launch-control facility unless he has clearance."
"I can't explain it, but I feel it in my North Carolina bones. OSI wants to pull me off this
assignment, but I can bag this guy. I know it. But I need your help."
"Name it."
"I'm gonna wrangle you a pass. You go buy another pair of jeans. Let's see if he snaps at the
same bait twice."
"I don't see how he'd be crazy enough to come back after getting away with it once."
"He's come back seven times to pilfer missile parts. He's a creature of habit. This is the fourth
time he's gone after noncritical stock."
"Fourth time?"
"I work in the kitchen. We've been losing steaks. Sometimes two or three a night."
"Steaks?"
"From a locked walk-in freezer, airman. Twice on nights when I sat outside that locker, all night, pistol in hand. I
never slept. Hell, I never even blinked. But in the morning there were two steaks missing. Porterhouse."
"How is that possible?"
"I don't know if it is. But it happened. I haven't reported it. Without bagging the guy, you know what would
happen to me."
14
"Section Eight, for sure."
"Okay, you get those jeans. Bring them back here. When you go on duty, I'm going to be
under your bed waiting for this guy."
OSI Special Agent Robin Green waited five hours for the doorknob to turn. It was cramped
under the bed. There was not enough room for her to lie on her side. Lying on her back was
comfortable except that every time she exhaled, her blouse kept hanging up on the bedsprings. A
couple of times she had to pinch her nose shut to keep from sneezing. Dust.
She never heard the doorknob turn. She had one eye on the slit of light that marked the
bottom of the door. It never widened, never moved, never changed, except when someone
walked out in the corridor and interrupted the light.
The hours dragged past. Robin Green grew bored; her nerves, keyed up for hours, started to
wind down. She was yawning when she glanced at her watch and saw that it was 0200 hours. She
shifted under the bed and happened to turn her head.
She saw the boots. They were white, with some kind of jigsaw golden tracery all over them. They
were just there. For a moment they looked faint and fuzzy; then they came into focus. Robin
Green thought it was her eyes coming into focus.
The hair on Robin's arms lifted. She could feel the gooseflesh crawl. She could never recall
being so afraid. No one had opened the door. She was certain about that. And there was only
one door into the room.
Then a voice spoke in an eerie, contented tone.
"Krahseevah!" it said. "Calvin Klein." The voice seemed particularly pleased.
She pulled her sidearm, tried to cock it, but her elbow cracked on the bedsprings.
"Damn!" she cried, struggling to squirm out from under the bed. A blouse button hung up on the springs.
15
She tore it free. But another one caught. She cursed her mother, who had bequeathed Robin
her D-cup genes.
When Robin Green finally tore free, she rolled into a marksman's crouch. She swept the room with her automatic.
Nothing. No one. Then she blinked. Something was on the wall. Then it was gone.
Robin ran to the wall and ran her fingers over the wallpaper. The wall was cool to the touch.
There was nothing there. The paper was unbroken, the wall whole. She banged on it. Solid. It was
not hollow. There was no secret door.
Yet a moment before, she had seen a car battery disappear into the wall. At least, it looked like a car battery. It was
moving so fast, it was blurry and indistinct.
Robin Green felt the gooseflesh on her arms loosen. Then she snapped out of it. She plunged
through the door and called security on a wall phone. A Klaxon began howling.
White-helmeted security police came running. They stopped in their tracks when they saw Robin Green, automatic
in hand, her cleavage spilling out of her torn blouse.
"Intruder on the facility," she called. "Search every room!"
"One minute, Sergeant."
"Intruder on the facility," she called. "Search every room!"
"One minute, Sergeant."
"OSI special agent," Robin Green corrected, flashing her ID card. "Now, get moving!"
"No, you hold on," one of the SP's said firmly. "Let's hear your story first before we turn the LCF upside down.
How did you rip your blouse?"
"I was hiding under the bed, waiting for him."
"Who?"
"The thief."
"Thief? Who is he?"
"I don't know. I only saw his feet. He wore white boots."
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"This isn't your room." The SP tapped the half-open door with his truncheon.
"It's Risko's. He let me use it."
"You and this Risko-how long have you known him? You just friends?"
"Damn this chickenshit Personnel Reliability Program! There's a thief on this LCF and he's getting away. Get
Risko. He'll corroborate my story."
They brought Risko, who nervously told his story.
The entire facility was put on maximum Threatcon. Security-alert teams were deployed and every room was
searched. The elevator leading to the underground missile-capsule crew was sealed off.
By sundown the entire perimeter had been thoroughly searched. No one was found who wore
white boots. Nor were Airman Risko's missing jeans found. But an inventory of the locked
freezer indicated that two more steaks were missing. Porterhouse.
OSI Agent Robin Green sat in the flight security controller's office, her arms folded over her torn blouse. No one
would let her change, even though as far as anyone knew, she outranked most of the officers. She shivered. In the next
chair, Airman Risko cast quick, hunted glances in her direction.
"We're in pretty deep, aren't we?" he muttered.
"Worse than you think. I haven't told them about the car battery yet."
2
His name was Remo, and all he wanted was to enjoy a Saturday-afternoon ballgame.
Remo sat on a tatami mat in the middle of the bare living-room floor in the first house he had
ever truly owned. The big projection TV was on. Remo enjoyed the projection TV because his
eyes were so acute that he had to concentrate hard not to see the scanning lines change thirty
times each second. This was a new high-definition TV. Its scanning lines changed sixty times a
second.
It was a legacy of years of training in the art of Sinanju, the sun source of the martial arts.
One of the many downsides he had come to tolerate.
Remo thought it was ironic that the more attuned his mind and body became to the physical
universe, the more trouble he had with manmade technology. He first recognized that this
could be a problem when, in the early years of his training, he did a harmless thing. He
happened to eat a fast-food hamburger.
Remo nearly died of monosodium-glutamate poisoning.
After that, he found it hard to watch movies. He had never thought much about how film worked before- how the
illusion of action was created by light shining through the rapidly moving picture frames. Movies, of course, did not
actually move. They just seemed to,
17
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much the way old flip-action book drawings appeared to move when the pages were fanned. The
human eye read the changing images as action.
Remo's more-than-human eyes read them as a series of stills. Only the sound was
uninterrupted. Over the years, Remo had learned to adjust his vision so that movies still moved
for him, but the concentration required sometimes gave him eyestrain.
Television was the same. The pixels-the tiny phosphorescent dots of light which changed every
one-thirtieth of a second-created the illusion of moving images. In fact, it was a lot like movies,
which changed at a mere twenty-four frames a second, and Remo had to learn to adjust to that
phenomenon too. Sometimes he could see the pixels change, line by line, on old TV's. It was
distracting.
He didn't have quite as hard a time with high-definition TV's.
And so he sat down with a bowl of cold unseasoned rice and a glass of mineral water, to enjoy the national pastime. He
looked like any American on this Saturday afternoon. He was a lean young man of indeterminate age, with chiseled but
And so he sat down with a bowl of cold unseasoned rice and a glass of mineral water, to enjoy the national pastime. He
looked like any American on this Saturday afternoon. He was a lean young man of indeterminate age, with chiseled but
not too handsome features set off by high cheekbones. His brown eyes were hard as brick chips. His chinos were gray
and his T-shirt was white.
Millions of other Americans had their eyes glued to millions of TV sets across America on this ordinary day. Remo
liked to think he was one of them. He was not. Officially, he no longer existed. Unofficially, he was the sole
enforcement arm for CURE, the superse-cret government agency created to fight crime and injustice outside of
constitutional restrictions. Professionally, he was an assassin.
It was a peaceful day in early autumn. The leaves had only started to turn brown and gold outside the windows of
his suburban Rye, New York, neighborhood. The air was crisp, and Remo had left the win-
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dows open so he could hear the last birds of summer twitter and cheep.
A pleasant afternoon.
He knew it was not going to last when the familiar padding of sandals came from one of the bedrooms.
"What is it you are watching, Remo?" a squeaking voice asked. There was a querulous
undertone to the question. Remo wondered if he had disturbed the Master of Sinanju's
meditation. No, he recalled, Chiun usually meditated in the morning. Chiun had trained him in
Sinanju, making him, first, more than human, and ultimately the sole heir to a five-thousand-
year-old house of assassins, the first white man ever to be so honored.
"Baseball," Remo said, not looking up. No way was Chiun going to ruin this day. No way.
"It's Boston versus New York."
"I knew it would come to this," Chiun said sagely. "Though you often spoke with pride of
America's two-hundred-year history, I knew it could not last. It is a sad thing when an empire
turns on itself. I will pack for us both. Perhaps the Russians will have use for our mighty
talents."
"What on earth are you talking about?" Remo asked.
"This. Intercity warfare. A terrible thing in any age. Who is winning?"
"New York. And it's not warfare, Little Father. It's a game."
"A game? Why would you watch such a thing?" asked Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju. He
was an elderly Korean with the bright hazel eyes of a child.
"Because I'm a masochist," Remo said, knowing the humor would be lost on the man who
had trained him to such a state of human perfection that he was reduced to subsisting on rice and
focusing all his attention in order not to see the pixels change.
"Is this the game all Americans watch?" demanded Chiun, whose parchment features were
hairless but for
20
thin wisps of hair clinging to his chin. Two cottonlike puffs adorned his tiny ears.
"Yep," Remo replied. "The national pastime."
"I think I will watch it with you," said the Master of Sinanju. He settled at Remo's elbow like
a falling leaf. Except that a leaf would make a sound hitting the floor. Ghiun did not.
Remo noticed that Chiun wore his chrysanthemum-pink kimono. He tried to remember
why that was significant.
"You were so quiet in there I thought you were busy," Remo remarked.
"I was writing a poem. Ung, of course."
"Uh-huh," Remo said. And he understood. Chiun was writing poetry and Remo had
interrupted with his baseball. Well, Remo had as much right to watch baseball as Chiun had
to write poetry. If Chiun expected total silence, then he could go outside and do it under the
trees. Remo was watching this game.
"I have just completed the 5,631st stanza," Chiun said casually as his face screwed up. He,
too, had to focus so as not to see the pixels change.
Remo took a sip of water. "Almost done, huh?"
"I may be almost done when I come to the 9,018th stanza. For this is a complicated Ung
poem. It describes the melting of the snowcap on Mount Paektusan."
"Korean mountains aren't easy to describe, I'm sure," Remo said politely. No way, he
vowed silently. He was watching this game.
"You are very astute. Tell me, I am curious about this ritual which fascinates whites so. Explain it to me, my
son."
"Couldn't we wait until it's over? I'd like to enjoy it."
"I would like to enjoy my declining years," Chiun said sharply. "But I was forced to come
to this strange land and train a white man in the art Of Sinanju. 1 could have declined. I
could have said, no, I will not.
21
And had I been so selfish, you, Remo Williams, would not be what you are now. Sinanju."
The memories came flooding back. Fragments of Remo's past life danced in his head. His youth as an orphan.
Vietnam. Pounding a beat in Newark. Then, the arrest, trial, and his execution in an electric chair for a murder that
The memories came flooding back. Fragments of Remo's past life danced in his head. His youth as an orphan.
Vietnam. Pounding a beat in Newark. Then, the arrest, trial, and his execution in an electric chair for a murder that
was not his doing. It was all part of a frame engineered by Dr. Harold W. Smith, the head of CURE. It provided
CURE with the perfect raw material, a man who didn't exist. Chiun's training had provided the rest. He shut out the
memories. It had been long ago. These were happier days.
Remo sighed.
"Okay," he said, putting down his rice. "See the guys in the red socks? Those are the Red
Sox. That's their name on the screen."
" 'Socks' is not spelled with an X," Chiun pointed out.
"It's just their name. They spell it that way because . . . "
Chiun's eyes were bright with anticipation. "Yes?"
"Because," Remo said at last. "That's all. Just because. The other guys are the Yankees."
"Should they not be called the Black Sox? With an X."
"The Black Sox is a whole different story," Remo said dryly, "and if we get into that, we'll be
here until the year 2000. But in your own way I think you're catching on."
Chiun smiled. "The Yankees are the ones who are hurling balls at their opponents?"
"Absolutely correct. But only one of them is pitching right now. They take turns."
"And what is the purpose of this pitching?"
"They're trying to strike out the player who's up at bat."
"He is the one with the club?"
"They call it a bat."
22
"Why? It does not have wings."
Remo sighed again. "Look, just give me the benefit of the doubt on terminology. Otherwise
we will be here until the year 2000."
"We will save the elaborate details until I have mastered the fundamentals," Chiun said
firmly.
"Good. Now the pitcher tries to strike out the batter."
Chiun watched as the pitcher threw a fastball. The batter cracked it out to left field. Infielders
scrambled for it. The batter ran to first.
"I think I understand," Chiun said levelly. "The pitcher is attempting to brain the batter. But
the stalwart batter uses his club to fend off the villain's cowardly attacks. Because he was
successful, he is allowed to escape with his life."
"No, he's not trying to hit the batter. He just wants to get the ball past him. If he does it three
times, it's called an out and they retire the batter."
Chiun's facial hair trembled. "So young?"
"Not permanently. They just switch batters."
"Most peculiar. Why is this new person taking up a club?"
"The first batter has earned the right to go to first base. That's the white pad he's standing
on there. Now the second batter is going to do the same thing. If he hits the ball correctly, he
gets to go to first and the second guy will go to second base, or maybe third if the first one hits
the ball far enough."
The batter swung and missed. Then he popped a r ball into center field. Two Yankees collided in an attempt to
catch it. The ball slipped between their meshed gloves.
"See!" Remo shouted excitedly. "He's going for second. He's at third! Now he's going
home!"
The first batter slid to home base in an eruption of dust. The second was tagged running for third base.
The Master of Sinanju absorbed all this in passive
23
silence. Then he nodded. "He is going home now," he said, "his work done."
"No. He's gone to the dugout. He's already been home."
"He has not!" Chiun flared. "I was watching him every minute. He ran from third base to
fourth base, and now he is walking away, dirty but unbowed."
"That's not fourth base. That's home."
"He lives there? The poor wretch."
"No," Remo said patiently. "Home plate is the object of this game. You hit the ball so you
can run the bases and reach home."
"But that man started off on the home plate. Why did he not remain there, if he coveted it
so?"
"Because you don't win unless you run the bases first," Remo said in an exasperated voice.
"I see. And what does he win?"
"He doesn't win. The entire team wins. They win points, which are known as runs."
"Ah, diamonds. I have heard of the famous baseball diamond. It must be exceedingly
precious."
"Not diamond points. Points. You know, numbers."
precious."
"Not diamond points. Points. You know, numbers."
"Money?"
"No," Remo said patiently. "Numbers. See the score at the bottom of the screen? The Red Sox
just went from four to five. The score is now twenty to five."
"Numbers? Not gold? Not jewels? Not riches?"
"Actually, these guys make a fair piece of change. I think that batter pulls down almost two
million a year."
"Points?"
"No, dollars."
"American dollars!" Chiun cried, leaping to his feet. "They pay him millions of American
dollars to run around in circles like that!"
"It's not the circles, it's the points. It's the achievement."
"What do these men make, what do they build,
24
what do they create that they are worth such money?" Chiun screeched.
"Baseball is a skill," Remo insisted.
"Running in circles is not a skill. Beheaded roosters do it even after they are dead."
"Will you please calm down? Wait until I finish explaining the game before you get upset."
Chiun settled back onto the floor.
"Very well," he fumed. "I am very interested in learning more about these inscrutable white
customs of yours."
"Now, see this batter? While you were jumping up and down he swung twice and missed.
Each miss is called a strike."
"I see. If he fails to defend his home from the aggressor, his fellow warriors punish him with
their clubs."
"No, a strike means a ... There! See? He just struck out."
"And look!" Chiun proclaimed. "The opposing forces are rushing to attack him. I see now.
They are going to pummel him into submission, thereby conquering his territory."
"No, that's not it. Will you let me tell it, please? They're changing sides. Now it's the Red Sox's
turn to pitch and the Yankees' at bat."
Chiun's parchment face wrinkled up. "They are surrendering their opportunity to make
points?"
"Yep."
Chiun clenched his bony fists. "Unbelievable! They have all the clubs and yet they let their mortal enemy take over.
Why do they not beat them back? Why do they not simply crush their skulls and run around in circles as much as they
wish? Thus, they could achieve thousands of useless points after they have eliminated the other team."
"They can't. It's against the rules."
"They have rules?" Chiun's voice was aghast.
25
"Yes, they have rules. It's a game."
"All games are a form of warfare. Chess is one example. And Go another. And intelligent
men know that in war there are no rules. With such wealth at stake, they should be defending
their position to the death."
"Now, how can they have a contest if they don't let the opposing team have their turn at bat?"
"Did the Greeks allow the Persians to take over their cities?" Chiun countered. "Did Rome
cease laying waste to Gaul, and then stand idle while the enemy besieged their own cities so the
ultimate victory would not be excessively decisive?"
"It's a freaking game, Chiun."
"It is base. Now I know why they call it baseball. It is a pastime for idiots. They run around in circles for no
purpose and are paid richer than royalty. More than an assassin. Why am I not paid this richly? Do I not perform a
more important service in this land of cretins? Without me, your American civilization would crumble. Without me, your
feeble Constitution would be only a scrap of yellowing paper."
"Louder," Remo muttered. "The neighbors might not hear you clearly."
"I am going to speak to Emperor Smith about this at our next contract negotiation. I demand
parity with these base baseball cretins."
"You may not have long to wait. I think I hear knocking at the back door."
"Some journeyman, no doubt," Chiun sniffed.
"No," Remo said suddenly, getting up. "I think it's Smith."
"Nonsense. Emperors always employ the front entrance."
"When Smith accepts that he's an emperor, and not the head of the organization we work for,
I'll believe you," Remo said, angrily shutting off the TV on his way to the kitchen.
26
Remo opened the back door on a lemon-faced man in a gray three-piece suit and striped
Dartmouth tie. His rimless glasses rode his patrician face like transparent shields.
"Hi, Smitty," Remo said brightly. "Here to complain about the noise?"
"Quick, Remo," Dr. Harold W. Smith, the director of CURE, said. "I mustn't be seen by
the neighbors."
Remo shut the door behind Smith.
"Oh, for crying out loud, Smitty. We're next-door neighbors now. You can afford to be
seen paying a social call."
The Master of Sinanju entered the kitchen and bowed once, formally. His expressionless
face was a mask.
"Hail, Smith, Emperor of America, where hurlers of balls are paid more richly than
anyone. Including those closest to the throne."
Smith looked at Remo. "What is he-?"
"I've been explaining baseball to him. He was fascinated by the players' salaries."
"Does that mean what I think it means?" Smith asked in a raspy voice.
Remo nodded grimly.
Smith turned to Chiun anxiously.
"Master of Sinanju, I realize it may seem out of line that baseball players are paid what they
are, but you have to understand the circumstances. They are paid out of commercial
revenues."
"Then we will do the same," Chiun shot back triumphantly. He raised a finger from which grew a long sharp
nail. "I can see it now. We will fly to the ends of this disintegrating empire and after dispatching the enemies of
America, Remo will shout for all to hear that this assassination was brought to you by Chocolate Frosted Sugar
Bombs, breakfast of assassins,"
"Oh, my God," Dr. Harold W. Smith said hoarsely.
"I'll talk him out of it," Remo whispered. "Relax, Smith. What's that in your hand?"
Biue Smoke and Mirrors27
Smith looked down at the measuring cup clutched in his hands as if seeing it for the first time. His knuckles were white.
He relaxed. His pinched sixtyish features registered doubt.
"Er, oh, this. I told my wife I was going to borrow a cup of sugar."
"Smitty, you know we don't use sugar."
"It slipped my mind. Well, that isn't the real reason I've come. We have a situation on our
hands. A very bizarre one."
"Pull up a chair, Smitty. You look pale. Paler than usual, I mean."
"Thank you," said Smith, taking a seat at the kitchen table. Remo and Chiun joined him. Chiun
folded his hands on the table. His expression was impassive.
"I don't know how to tell you this," Smith began. "I don't believe it myself, but the President
specifically requested that I bring you into this."
"He is very wise," Chiun said blandly. "And healthy, one trusts?"
"Yes, of course. Why?"
"Chiun caught the Vice-President on TV," Remo remarked dryly.
"Youth is overvalued in this country," Chiun said. "It is another of its deficiencies."
"That is not our department," Smith said quickly. He stared into the glass measuring cup as if peering into his own
grave. "We have a low-level crisis at a launch-control facility attached to the Grand Forks Air Force Base in North
Dakota. They have been plagued by a rash of unexplained thefts."
"Don't tell me someone lifted a warhead?" Remo said.
"No. But critical missile parts are missing. As are certain other . . . things."
"Which things, Emperor?" Chiun asked interestedly.
"Steaks. Blue jeans. Nonmilitary items such as those. The jeans disappeared from a secure
building. The
28
steaks from a locked and watched freezer in that same building. It is impossible."
"We did not do it," Chiun said quickly.
"Master of Sinanju?" Smith said.
"When people whisper of the impossible, the name Sinanju always comes to mind first."
"I think I detect a commercial coming on," Remo groaned.
"Hush," Chiun admonished. He addressed Smith in deferential tones. "What you describe is
not impossible. I could accomplish such things. Remo, too, on one of his more alert days."
"Thanks a lot," Remo said, folding his bare arms.
"But we did not. I assure you."
Smith nodded. "There's more. We have a witness to one of the thefts. An Air Force OSI
agent named Robin Green. She saw the thief's feet-or what we presume are his boots. He wore
what she describes as shining white boots."
"What else?"
摘要：

THEMADMASTERTheMasterofSinanjuwasinafrenzyofmotion,twirlinglikeadervish.Hissilverbellsjingledlikesleighbellswhileheusedhisbamboorodstodescribecirclesintheair."Anexorcism!"AirForceSecurityOfficerRobinGreenshrieked."He'sperforminganexorcismonanuclearfacility!I'mputtingastoptothisrightnow!""Uh-uh,"Remo...

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