High Priestess

Destroyer 95: High Priestess

By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir

PROLOGUE

The Bunji Lama lay dying.

It was the second month of the Tibetan Year of the Fire Dog. Within the stone walls of the meditation cell whose Tibetan name translated as "Prayerful Refuge from the Temptations of the Sensual World," Gedun Tsering, forty-sixth Bunji Lama and the third Living Buddha, lingered as his regents fretted and paced the lamasery corridors in their boots of chewed yak hide.

On the lamasery roof, the howling winds spun the prayer wheels to no avail. The skies would not accept their whirling entreaties. Yak butter lamps guttered before the altar of Buddha Maitreya, and other lamps flickered in the cramped unglazed windows of the simple houses of the village. The Bunji Lama was destined to die on this day. All Tibet knew this. There was a single communications line that stretched out of the Himalayan village called Bunji-Kiang through the trackless snows and impassable mountain passes, and the wind-whipped line crackled with Morse code carrying the grim tidings to the dead Dalai Lama's regents in Lhasa and the living Panchen Lama in Peiping.

No one knew that the Bunji Lama had been poisoned. No one, that is, except the regents who had engineered the wicked deed and their victim, Gedun Tsering, the forty-sixth Bunji Lama, three weeks short of his fifteenth birthday.

As he lay in the chill of the meditation chamber, his slight body growing cool even as his stomach burned like a coal, the Bunji Lama's dying thoughts were of home. Burang. The village in which he was born, where he had played with his brothers and sisters, the son of a simple yak herder. Until the council of regents had come and stripped the cloth from his left arm, showing the birthmark that had pitted the shoulder of every Bunji Lama since the first. They had dangled the jade rosary of the previous Bunji Lama before his curious child's eyes, and when he reached for it, they proclaimed to the gullible that he had recognized a relic of his previous life. No one could deny them, for they were priests.

They bore Gedun Tsering away on a palanquin of gilt emblazoned with thunderbolts of bronze. It was a great honor. His mother wept, of course, but his father had beamed with pride. They were not allowed to visit him throughout the years in which he learned the five lesser and higher subjects, absorbed the tantras, studied the sutras and prepared to assume the exalted office of Bunji Lama, living incarnation of Champa, Buddha of the future.

As the day he was to be enshrined approached, the council of regents revealed him to the terrible hidden truths: that the previous Dalai Lama had been a weakling unworthy of the Lion Throne on which he had sat and that the Panchen Lama was a tool of the wicked Chinese who gnawed at Tibet's sacred borders like greedy rodents.

One day, he was told, it would be his destiny to unseat the next Dalai Lama, who had yet to be discovered, and cast out the Panchen Lama, who was a puppet of the Chinese. Only then would Tibet prosper. Thus had spoken the oracles, the regents had said.

The Bunji Lama had accepted none of this. The abbots stank of worldly ambition. Even he, still yearning for the humble village he had left behind, could see that they were but slaves of the sensual world.

So when he had refused their entreaties to denounce the rival lamas, and set the stage for assuming primacy over them, the regents had scolded him, argued and even threatened. Their worst threat had been to return him to the squalor of Burang. And when they saw in the Bunji Lama's eyes that he wished to go home more than anything else, they grew very still and locked him in his meditation room.

Finally, realizing they could not control their creation, they had poisoned his food.

Somewhere, they knew, would be found a child who could be molded into the forty-seventh Bunji Lama. It would only postpone their evil ambitions, not cancel them.

Thinking of that nameless unsuspecting child, ordained to be born in the exact moment of his own death, the forty-sixth Bunji Lama raised his voice. "Attend me, followers of the virtuous way! For I have seen a vision."

The ironbound teak door creaked open, and they padded in, resplendent in their scarlet-and-gold robes. They surrounded him, already laid out in his funeral robes of gold brocade in a long box lined with salt so that the embalmed husk of the Bunji Lama could lie in state, preserved, until his successor was brought to this lamasery in the mountains.

"The inexorable Wheel of Time turns," prophesied the Bunji Lama, "and I must drop this unworthy body for another. These are troubled times, for the fourteenth Dalai Lama has not yet been discovered and the need for my divine guidance is great. And so a vision has been revealed to me, one that will allow the faithful to locate my next body with utmost dispatch."

The abbots pressed closer, eagerness on their long faces. They believed. All save Lungten Drub, the high regent whose sour countenance curdled like day-old buttered tea.

The Bunji Lama let the words tumble out of him. "The next body that I shall reside in will have hair that is the hue of flame and will not remember this life," he said, "nor any of the trappings of it. No trapping of this body will stir recollection in me."

The abbots gasped. "But how will we recognize you, or you us, Presence?" one asked.

"You will know this body because in my next incarnation I will possess a golden joss with no face."

The abbots looked to one another. None had ever heard of such a figurine.

"This defaced joss will wield a sword and will be found in a place distant from here. By these signs, and others, will you know me, and I you."

"We will not rest until we find you again, O Presence," the abbots vowed.

And closing his eyes, the Bunji Lama smiled thinly-which the abbots took for an expression of his forbearance in the face of pain. In his heart he was glad. For there had been no vision. The faceless golden joss was a figment of his imagination. No such joss was to be discovered in all the world or any other world. Of this the Bunji Lama was certain.

He died in the next instant, secure in the knowledge that no innocent child would fall into the ambitious clutches of Lungten Drub and his council of regents, and that his cycle of reincarnations was at last over. Nirvana was his.

The winds howled down from the mountains, tearing the flimsy prayer flags from their anchorage. Conch shells were blown. The white flags of mourning went up, and all Tibet was desolated.

And in that exact moment, an incalculable distance from the meditation cell whose name meant "Prayerful Refuge from the Temptations of the Sensual World," a red-haired infant was born.

On the next morning, the search for the next Bunji Lama began.

It would go on for a very long time.

Chapter 1

The Most Holy Lobsang Drom Rinpoche sat naked in the cave that was his home high in the Himalayas. The winds that had howled around the snowcapped peaks relentlessly for the sixty years since the Fire Dog Year blew snowdrifts deep into the cave. Yet the stone floor in a circle around Lobsang Drom was moist with melted snow. It was as if his scrawny body were a human coal, giving off rays of warmth that defeated the accumulating flakes.

He did not shiver under the lash of the elements even though he ate but once a day and then only five grains of parched barley washed down by melted snow.

Distantly there was thunder. Not high above, in the howling sky, but far below, in the purplish black valley. The thunder came again. It climbed toward the sky, its echoes rebounding off the granite peaks. Somewhere a snow leopard growled.

Lobsang Drom listened to the thunder, knowing that it was not thunder but Chinese artillery. Below, Tibet was in revolt against the harsh rule of the oppressors from Beijing. It was painful to the ears, but there was many a painful thing in the world. Such as failure.

For all of his forty-three years, Lobsang Drom had endured the yoke of Chinese rule. It was a bitter thing, but the Chinese had placed their heels on the necks of the Tibetan people more than once in centuries past. Sometimes they themselves had staggered under a Tibetan yoke, as well. So turned the Wheel of Destiny, inexorably.

The combat would pass. The guns would fall silent. The Chinese dead would be shipped to their home provinces, and the Tibetan dead would be given sky burial. But Lobsang Drom's bitterness would go on the remainder of his days. For he had failed in his sacred duty, as had his father, Lungten Drub, high regent for the Bunji Lama, before him.

For the Bunji Lama, reincarnation of the Buddha of the Future, had become lost in the translation between incarnations. This had never before happened. It was not known what had gone awry, for the previous Bunji Lama had rendered a great prophecy to Lobsang Drom's father, foretelling certain events.

Lungten Drub had scoured Tibet for the forty-seventh Bunji Lama but found no redheaded boys. Nor any golden joss lacking a face but possessing a sword. He was forced to venture beyond inner Tibet. Nepal was searched, as was Bhutan, Sikkim, and even both sides of the Di-Chu, Ghost River, on the border of Tibet and China. India, cradle of Buddhism, was scoured, as well, before the Worshipful Nameless Ones in the Dark Who See the Light That is Coming-of whom his father had been first among equals-were forced to give up their sacred quest.

For China had made her long-feared lunge and absorbed Tibet. The new Dalai Lama, now grown to manhood, fled into exile. The Panchen Lama remained, a servile tool of the Chinese, as Lobsang Drom's father had predicted. It was the perfect hour for the return of the Bunji Lama, who would have been a young man by that time, but the Bunji Lama remained unfindable.

It was the year of the Iron Tiger, called 1950 in the west.

Finally the day came when the regents were dragged off by the People's Liberation Army, and Lobsang Drom was left alone. At first Lobsang hid in a high lamasery that had escaped Chinese notice, where he studied to be a monk. Upon taking his vows, he was spirited to outlying towns where he could resume the great search. He was the last of the Worshipful Nameless Ones in the Dark Who See the Light That is Coming and while he greatly feared the Chinese troops, his duty was stronger than his fear.

The day at last came when hope ran out. All Tibet whispered of the missing Much Sought for Red-haired Boy who Would Save Tibet. He could not be found. Perhaps he did not wish to be found.

Broken in spirit, Lobsang Drom retired to a cave high in the mountains to meditate, subsisting on barley and bitterness.

His meditations were broken but once a year, when a trustworthy farmer climbed the narrow footpaths to leave an offering of barley and announce tidings of supreme import.

"O Most Holy," said the barley farmer one year. "The Panchen Lama is dead."

"The Panchen Lama is a tool of the Chinese, so my father told me," Lobsang Drom had replied.

"It is said that the Chinese poisoned him. The search is on for the new incarnation."

"Let them search," said Lobsang Drom. "The next one will be no less unworthy."

That was in the Fire Hog Year. By that time Lobsang Drom had lost track of the passing years. In the Earth Hare Year, the same farmer reappeared to speak tearful words.

"There is word from the West that the exiled Dalai Lama speaks of eventual surrender to fate. He mouths words that are impossible to accept, predicting that he is destined to be the last Dalai Lama, and there will be no more after him."

"The Dalai Lama has been corrupted by the West," intoned Lobsang Drom. "It is no more or less than my honorable father warned."

"There is only the Bunji Lama left. Will you not seek him out, Most Holy?"

Lobsang Drom shook his shaved head. "He does not wish to be found."

"Then Tibet is forevermore a vassal of China."

"It is the fault of Tibetan mothers, who refuse to bear flame-haired children, or surrender them if they do."

But that was the past.

It was now the Year of the Earth Dog, but Lobsang Drom had no way of knowing this. He sat in a puddle of melted snow practicing the art known as Tumo, which kept his naked body warm without benefit of sheepskin garments, listening to the thunder that was not thunder when, in a lull between peals, a snow leopard growled.

The growl was long and low and was answered by the nervous whinny of a pony. Having had no entertainment in many years, Lobsang Drom lifted his lowhanging head and cocked it to one side.

The snow leopard growled anew. Abruptly its sound was stifled. There had been no other sound. It was as if the leopard had been conquered by a magician.

Presently the soft squeaking of desultory hooves in snow approached the cave where Lobsang Drom nursed his bitterness.

"A thousandfold fruitful blessings upon you, traveler," Lobsang Drom called in greeting.

The one who approached replied only with the squeakings of his coming.

"If you are a Chinese soldier," Lobsang Drom added, "I am not afraid to die."

"If I were a Chinese soldier," a brassy voice called back, "you should not be a man unless you strangled me with your bare hands."

"I am a monk. Violence is not my way."

A thick shadow stepped into view, leading a pony by its reins.

"You are a failure, Lobsang Drom," the shadow accused.

"With those words, I have no quarrel," admitted Lobsang Drom.

The man stepped into the cave, and Lobsang saw that his face was like a flat gong of brass set on a treestump neck. Not Tibetan. A Mongol. He wore the black leather vest and quilted riding pants of a horse Mongol. A dagger hung from his waist by a silver chain. Across the wooden saddle of his war pony was slung the ghost-gray shape of a dead snow leopard, its pristine pelt unflecked by blood.

"How did you slay that?" Lobsang asked.

"I spit in his eye," laughed the Mongol. "He is only a cat and so he died. Where I come from, the suckling wolf cubs would tear him to rags in play."

But Lobsang saw the Mongol's pole lasso hanging from the pony's saddle and understood that the snow leopard had been snared and strangled in one expert cast.

"Why come you here, Mongol?" asked Lobsang Drom curiously.

"I was dispatched by Boldbator Khan to seek out your lazy bones."

"Why?" wondered Lobsang, not taking offense.

"The new Panchen Lama has been found."

Lobsang Drom spit into the snow by way of answer.

"Well, have you nothing more to say?"

"The Panchen Lama is not worth the breath required to curse his name," said Lobsang Drom.

"And you are unworthy of even living in a cave," grunted the Mongol, planting one boot on Lobsang Drom's chest and giving a hard push. Lobsang Drom was sent sprawling into his pile of barley.

Calmly the Mongol pulled the dead snow leopard off his mount and, taking his dagger from his belt, began to skin it.

"What are you doing, Mongol?" demanded Lobsang Drom, sitting up again.

"Wasting a perfectly good pelt," growled the Mongol, who then proceeded to cut the magnificent silver-gray pelt into bolts and strips of fur.

When he was done, Lobsang saw that he had fashioned a crude robe, which landed at the Tibetan's naked feet. It steamed with the dead animal's fading warmth.

"Put that on," the Mongol commanded.

"Why?"

"So that I am not offended by your nakedness during the long journey that lies before us."

"I cannot leave this cave until I have proven to the Bunji Lama by my iron will that I am worthy to be his discoverer."

The Mongol's eyes narrowed at that, and when he spoke again, there was a hint of respect in his tone.

"You cannot obtain the Bunji Lama's respect unless from his very lips. Come, I will take you to him."

Lobsang Drom blinked. "You know where he is to be found?"

"No, but there is one who, among men, can find him if anyone can."

"How can that be? I am the last of the Worshipful Nameless Ones in the Dark Who See the Light That is Coming."

"Which is why I am about to dishonor my fine pony by letting you mount him, unwashed one," returned the Mongol. "Now hurry. We have only fourteen or fifteen years to find the Bunji Lama. Otherwise, the damned Panchen Lama will ascend to the lion Throne, and the thrice-damned Chinese will control Tibet until the Kali Yug comes."

Striding stiffly because he was unaccustomed to walking and not due to the bitter cold that had long ago settled into his bones, Lobsang Drom donned the rich snow-leopard pelt. It steamed as if cooking, and felt comfortingly warm against his wind-dried skin.

Mounting the wooden saddle chased with silver filigree, Lobsang Drom struggled to retain his balance as the Tibetan led the pony around in a circle and started down the precarious two-foot-wide mountain pass.

"Mongol, what is your name?" he asked after a time.

"I am called Kula."

"And who is this person who will locate the longlost Bunji Lama when the Worshipful Nameless Ones in the Dark Who Sea the Light That is Coming, of which I am the last, have all failed?"

"He is the Master of Sinanju," said Kula the Mongol over the cannonading of Chinese artillery. "And if there is enough gold in the bargain, he will find the moon in a blizzard"

"It is a long trek to Korea, where the Master of Sinanju dwells. All of it through Chinese territory."

"It is even longer journey to America, where the Master of Sinanju will be found."

"The Master of Sinanju is an exile, too?"

"Hush, Priest. You will need your breath and all of your strength if you are to negotiate the Karo La Pass."

By that, Lobsang Drom knew that the Mongol sought to escape into India.

"There is a mighty ocean between India and America," he said. "How are we to cross it with only one horse?"

"In my namdu," he said unconcernedly.

Hearing this, Lobsang Drom could not help but ask, "What manner of Mongol owns a skyboat?"

At that, the Mongol Kula only laughed. He said no more as they picked their way down the mountainside.

It was the Earth Dog Year. Exactly five astrological cycles had transpired since the Fire Dog Year. The wind howled, the snows of the Himalayas cut into the lines of the Most Holy Lobsang Drom Rinpoche's weathered features, and he refused to believe that the Bunji Lama would be found at the end of the long journey before him.

For to hold hope in his embittered heart was to risk having his spirit crushed forever.

Chapter 2

His name was Remo, and he was trying to remember how to spell Buttafuoco.

He stood before the automatic teller machine in the Plexiglas-enclosed outer lobby of the neighborhood bank in the seaside Massachusetts town he called home. It was night, so the green letters on the ATM screen were like jade on fire.

They read: "Hello Mr./Mrs. XXXXXXXXXX, please spell your last name."

"Damn," muttered Remo, staring at the huge, piano-sized keyboard. Streetlights reflecting off the clear Lucite picked up his lean-featured face with its grimly humorous mouth. Shadows pooling in the hollows of his deep-set eyes suggested a skull, with skin stretched drum tight over high cheekbones. It was not a happy face. It had never been a happy face. It would never be a happy face, but at least, after many plastic surgeries, it was pretty much the face he had been born with.

His high forehead wrinkled as he struggled with his problem.

It was a new wrinkle in ATM security. Four-digit password numbers were no longer enough. A customer had to correctly input his last name before accessing his account.

It had not been a problem last night, when Remo withdrew a hundred dollars as Remo Brown, or the night before, when he pulled fifty out of the checking account he had under the name Remo Black, or the night before that, when he was Remo Green. He could spell those names.

Remo really hoped he would be held up before he had to play the Buttafuoco card. But it was his own fault, he realized. After all, he was the one who picked the last-name aliases so Upstairs could provide phony driver's licenses, credit cards and ATM cards. There was, as he saw it, no problem being Remo Buttafuoco whenever he needed a quick hundred bucks.

Until the banking industry, run ragged by a proliferation of ATM-based scams, decided four-digit pass numbers weren't secure enough.

Remo stared at the screen, wondering if the number of glowing green X's corresponded to the number of letters in Buttafuoco. He hoped so. It would help a lot. He punched in the letters BUTT. That was easy. Simple word association.

He saw that the string of green X's became "BUT TXXXXXX." '

Next, he tried an E. So far so, good. Five X's left. How hard could it be?

But when he punched in the letters FUOCO and pressed Enter, the machine displayed "you are an imposter" and ate his ATM card.

"Hey! Don't I get a second chance?" Remo complained.

A new screen came up. It was dense with fine print. Remo was reading how in the interest of customer-account security the ATM machine was programmed to shut down in the event of a misspelling.

It apologized for the inconvenience, but pointed out that bank security was important, too. Besides, customers should know how to spell their own last names.

"Not if it's Buttafuoco," said Remo, whose real last name, in the days when he was a good citizen and not a dead man, had been Williams. "Nobody can spell Buttafuoco right on the first try!"

Remo was so upset he almost forgot about the ATM bandit who had been waylaying after-hours customers as they walked from area banks with their withdrawals. He had been striking on random nights. So far nobody had been hurt, but a few people had been roughed up, including a nun from the church across the street.

Remo had a soft spot in his heart for nuns. He had been raised in a Catholic orphanage.

When he'd read about the crimes in the newspaper, Remo decided to do something about it. It wasn't the kind of crime that ordinarily got his attention, but this was his neighborhood now and his bank-even if he did have four different accounts under four different aliases, and not one teller had ever noticed-and he wasn't about to let some lowlife ruin it for everyone else.

He stormed out of the bank lobby and almost walked into the shiny blue .357 Magnum revolver. Almost but not quite. The second he exited the sense-deadening Plexiglas enclosure, he knew someone was lurking in the shadows. His nose picked up the sweat stink of fear. His ears heard a heart beating erratically.

Automatically he pretended not to notice the lurker. Just as automatically he changed direction so he could pretend to walk into him.

"Right there!" a raspy voice warned.

There wasn't much to the man holding the revolver. He had dead gray skin and the emaciated aspect of a drug addictall bone and sinew, with nerve endings jangling like wind chimes. The only thing about him that stuck out was his weapon.

Remo allowed his eyes to rest upon the well-crafted pistol. In his previous life, the sight of a .357 bore pointed at his solar plexus would have started the adrenaline flowing. Instead, Remo simply relaxed.

Where once he would have been intimidated by the precision steel and smoothly fitting parts designed to inflict massive internal injury to human flesh and bone and organs, Remo saw the weapon for what it was-a crude, almost medieval device.

Chiefly it was a conglomeration of the most primitive of man-made tools-the wheel, the lever and the hammer. After all, the trigger was just a lever designed to trip the hammer, the action of both actuating the bullet-bearing cylinder, which was really a form of wheel.

As these idle thoughts passed through the remarkably calm brain of Remo Williams, the gunman growled, "Give me your money." He pulled back on the hammer. The thick wheel turned with all the smoothness of a windlass, bringing a bullet into line with the barrel, which was the most primitive of tools-a hollow tube. It happened in the blink of an eye, but to Remo's heightened senses, the action had all the subtlety of a drawbridge clanking into the raised position.

"You the one that's been holding people up?" asked Remo in the cool, unruffled voice which, like his body language, was calculated to relax the target.

Nonthreatening was better. They never saw it coming.

"No, I'm the one who's holding you up," the gunman snapped.

And while he was snapping out the words, Remo's right hand, dangling loosely at the end of an unusually thick wrist, came up. One finger went into the gun barrel like a long cork.

The gunman looked at Remo as if he were crazy. He didn't fire. Remo knew he wouldn't. If Remo had tried to run away or fight or yell for help, he would have fired. All the gunman wanted was Remo's money.

He didn't expect his victim to do something as stupid as trying to stop a bullet with his finger.

"What're you, on drugs or something?" the gunman demanded in an indignant voice.

"That's right," said Remo, holding his finger steady because it would hold the Magnum steady.

The gunman squinted at Remo in the yellowish haze of a nearby streetlight.

"Yeah?" he asked curiously. "What is it? Crystal meth? Crank? Acid?"

"Sinanju," said Remo.

"That's a new one on me," the gunman muttered. "What kinda high do you get from it?"

"The ultimate high. It teaches you to breathe with your whole body, think with every part of your brain and not the ten percent most people use-in your case, two percent-and become at one with the universe."

"Sounds like acid," the gunman said in a disappointed voice. "You trippin' on acid, man? Acid ain't new."

"No," returned Remo. "But this is."

And holding the .357 Magnum steady with his right index finger, Remo used the stiff, steel-hard fingers of his right hand to spank the heavy cylinder out of the frame.

The cylinder flew a short distance and bounced off the Plexiglas door, scattering soft-nosed bullets on the walk.

The gunman's reflexes weren't bad. He was pulling the trigger at the first loud sound. He never saw Remo's hand or felt the cylinder jump off its sheared pins. He was reacting to the impact of the cylinder against the door, never realizing he was dropping the hammer on thin air.

The gun went click. The gunman blinked. Remo let a cool, insolent smile touch his thin lips. His dark eyes, set deep in his skull, grew grimly humorous.

The gunman kept pulling the trigger and getting noisy ineffectual clickings.

Removing his index finger, Remo brought the precision-machined weapon up and turned it sideways so that the gunman could see the square aperture where the cylinder had been. For an instant in eternity the gunman saw it for what it actually was-a crude contraption of steel.

Then it turned lethal again as Remo's hands drove the shiny barrel up and back into the gunman's surprised brain.

Remo left him jittering on the sidewalk, the maimed weapon sticking out of his shattered forehead, gun hand frozen on the grip as if he had lain down preparatory to putting a bullet in his own brain.

The next morning, when the police found him there, they would run a check on fingerprints found at the crime scene. When all was said and done, every set would be accounted for, and every possible suspect questioned and released. Except one set: Remo's. The police never found that set in any fingerprint file on record.

They had no way of knowing the file on Remo Williams had been pulled two decades ago. After he was pronounced dead.

As he walked home, whistling, Remo didn't think of himself as dead. He felt very much alive. The night wind was blowing the cool salt tang of the Atlantic Ocean inland. A sea gull perched on top of the street lamp, eyeing the ground for scraps.

As he walked, Remo thought that he was a long way from the orphanage of his earliest memories, from the jungles of Vetnam, where he had been a Marine, from the Ironbound section of Newark, New Jersey, where as Patrolman Remo Williams, he had tried to protect honest citizens from the kind of criminal scum who changed only their tactics, and from death row in Newark State Prison, where he had lived out his last days. He was home.

It had taken a year to come to think of Quincy, Massachusetts, as home. Not that it was a bad place to live. It was fine-a residential suburb of Boston with a nice beach busy with cormorants and sea gulls, sand you could sit on and calm blue water you could swim in when the fecal coliform bacteria count was safe. Usually twice a year.

It was convenient to Logan Airport when work called him to travel and handy to the Weymouth Naval Air Station when a national emergency required flying at taxpayers' expense. You could be on the Southeast Expressway within five minutes of starting the car-not that you ever really wanted to be in Boston traffic-and except for the odd convenience-store robbery and night burglary, it was pretty quiet.

No, the problem with getting used to Quincy, Massachusetts, was not in thinking of it as home, but in thinking of the house where Remo lived as home.

As he turned off Hancock Street and came within sight of the high school, Remo was reminded why he had had such trouble adjusting.

There it was, a warm golden brown in the light of the street lamps, tucked behind the high school. Once it had been a Congregational church. According to neighborhood legend, it had served as a Sikh temple after the church fathers had sold it. Then, at the height of the condo craze, a real estate developer had condoized it into its current state.

Technically it was still a condo. There were sixteen units, but only Remo and the man who taught him Sinanju, which was not a drug but a way of life, lived there. But it looked like some mad cross between a church and a Tudor castle.

It was ugly. The peaked roof had been built up to form a third floor with rows of closely spaced dormer windows. The outer walls were fieldstone and set with Tudor-style decorative panels high up in the eaves, and the concrete foundation had been painted beige. Here and there a few jewellike stained-glass windows remained.

Still, it was home. Remo was used to it now. The crenellated tower was like a lighthouse shedding an amber glow that called him home.

Yes, it was a long way from his past life, where he had been Patrolman Remo Williams, veteran, honest citizen and patsy. It had not been a great life. What child who couldn't remember his parents could say he had enjoyed a great life? But the nuns at St. Theresa's orphanage had raised him right, the Marine Corps had made him a man, and in police work he had found something he could believe in.

Until the detectives came to arrest him.

It was easy to fall into the trap of thinking a mistake had been made. Remo had been an honest cop. But his badge had been found next to the pusher's body lying in an alley on his beat. No cop would have gone to trial on such circumstantial evidence, but Remo Williams had. No cop would have been convicted. But Remo Williams was.

By the time he found himself on death row, Remo still hadn't stopped believing in the American justice system. But he had begun to wonder if he was being railroaded because he was honest.

He still wondered who among his higher-ups had hung him out to dry when the Capuchin monk came to deliver the last rights. The monk had slipped him a black pill and whispered instructions to bite down when they pulled the knife-blade switch that sent current to the electric chair. Then they took him to the death house of Newark State Prison.

He had bitten down on the black pill just as the first jolt ripped through his shaking body.

When he'd woken up, Remo had a new face, no last name and two options, neither one good. No higherup had framed Patrolman Remo Williams. His own government had set him up. His name had been on file ever since a one-handed spook of a CIA agent had noticed his cool, methodical ability to kill Vietcong snipers with a bolt-action Garand rifle. The file had been pulled, and as a result Remo Williams became a living dead man. Officially in his grave, file closed, end of freaking story.

But the grave, Remo was told, could be opened at any time and he could be dumped into it, his body cooked by electrocution, if he chose not to cooperate.

Remo chose to cooperate. And so became the sole enforcement arm for CURE, a supersecret government organization created in the early 1960s by a United States President who would not live to see the experiment he had launched come to fruition. Because in those dark days, the American flirtation with democracy was close to the breaking point. Organized crime was reaching high into the government. Laws designed to protect the lawful instead shielded the lawless from simple justice. The young, idealistic President faced two choices-suspend the Constitution and admit that democracy was a dead end, or set in place a secret agency to bridge the gap.

Thus CURE. Not an acronym, but a code name. It represented a remedy for America's social ills. And when CURE, working quietly behind the scenes, reached the point where its anonymous brand of justice was not enough, the director of CURE reached out and chose honest, patriotic but lethal Remo Williams to be the assassin sanctioned to destroy a struggling country's enemies, foreign and domestic. The Destroyer.

It had been so long ago that Remo had all but forgotten the early days when he had been retrained in weapons handling, exotic poisons and other deadly arts that became instantly obsolete once he was introduced to the elderly Korean who was the Master of Sinanju, a discipline that people who thought kung fu was something special would call a martial art.

If Sinanju was a martial art, it was the original martial art. The ultimate system of attack and defense. It was practiced by the greatest house of assassins in human history, taught to only one man in a generation and never taught to anyone who was not born in the obscure Korean fishing village of Sinanju-until the American government asked the last living Master of Sinanju to train a white man in the forbidden discipline. Remo Williams.

Now Remo would no sooner carry a gun than wear a gorilla for a hat. The sight of a firearm no longer triggered his survival instincts. And he walked the earth, one hundred fifty-five pounds of lean muscle and perfectly coordinated bone, the most remorseless and implacable killer since Tyrannosaurus rex.

It felt good. It always felt good. His blood surged through his circulatory system pure and untainted by chemicals or drugs, and his lungs processed oxygen with such efficiency that every cell in his body worked like a miniature furnace. Whatever the human body was capable of at its maximum potential, Remo could do on his off days. And more.

Across the night came a strange haunting sound. Aummm. . . .

It came again. "Aummm. . . . "

Then Remo saw the unfamiliar silhouette in the north window of the square tower.

He ran, shifting from an easy, efficient walk to a graceful run that looked slow but covered space like a ray of light.

He hit the front door and went up the stairs. Every sense was operating. He smelled death. And unfamiliar living bodies. Not Americans. No American had such a buttery smoky odor.

At the top of the stairs, his reflexes carried him over the scattered luggage without thinking, and he hit the door to the tower room.

In the center of the square room, squatting in a lotus position, sat an Asian in a saffron robe. His head was shaved close to his skull, and his face was as smooth as soaked tissue paper.

His mouth was parted and out came a mournful sound.

"Aummm . . ."

Then, noticing he was not alone, he stuck his tongue out in Remo's direction as far as it would go.

"Who the hell are you?" Remo demanded.

Behind him, down the stairs, a door banged open and a pungent human scent came to Remo's sensitive nostrils. He was in the act of turning when a booming voice cried, "Ho, White Tiger! I bring you death. Catch it if you can!"

And the unmistakable sound of a knife whizzing toward his exposed back came to Remo's ears.

Chapter 3

The skills that Remo Williams had learned under the tutelage of Chiun, the last Master of Sinanju, were so ingrained that his reactions to danger were automatic.

All thrown blades make a specific sound. Remo had learned to differentiate among these sounds in the long-ago days of his early Sinanju training when the Master of Sinanju would pluck assorted dull knives, daggers and even scissors from his wide sleeves and send them arrowing toward Remo's back.

Remo acquired numerous bruises and minor nicks, but had learned to move first and think later whenever his ears told his brain that a deadly instrument was zipping toward him. As his training progressed, these weapons were sharpened finer and finer with a whetstone. Chiun made Remo sharpen them himself.

"You're trying to kill me, aren't you?" Remo had said one day.

"Yes," the Master of Sinanju had replied blandly.

"You admit it, huh?"

The Master of Sinanju had shrugged carelessly. "I admit it. For your enemies will attempt to kill you in earnest. If I am to instill in you the reflexes that will save your life, I must do my best to motivate them in like earnestness. That is why you must sharpen these tools yourself, so that your dull white senses fully comprehend the danger you face."

And Remo had. The training progressed from bruises to punctures and the occasional scar. Then it was second nature to twist out of the way. When no blade could catch him unawares, Remo was taken to the next level. Turning the weapon against his attacker.

Now, as the dagger neared his back, Remo slid off to one side, pivoting. His hands, impelled by chemical reactions in his brain he no longer thought about, swept around and clasped the dagger-he knew it was a dagger before he saw it because they sounded heavier in flight than a stiletto or a bowie knife-capturing it. Its momentum, redirected, became a part of Remo's pivoting until he let go.

Still in motion, the dagger spun around and returned to the one who had thrown it, point first. It was called "Returning the Angry Coin."

The blade buried itself in a wall with a heavy thunk.

And under its quivering bone hilt, a crouching man boomed out joyful laughter.

"Very good, White Tiger! Very good indeed!"

The attacker straightened, his face a beaming brazen gong in which dark almond eyes twinkled with good humor.

"Kula! What are you doing here!"

Kula the Mongol surged up the stairs and threw out his great arms in welcome.

Fading off to one side, Remo ducked the bear hug.

"Where's Chiun?" he demanded, keeping a safe distance. Mongols ate and drank things that caused their pores to leak unpleasant odors Remo would rather not inhale.

"Preparing our tea, as a good host should." The Mongol squinted. "Are you not pleased to see me?"

Remo wasn't sure if he was or he wasn't. He didn't like company. He never had company, as a matter of fact. And every time Chiun had company, trouble usually followed.

"Chiun never mentioned that you were coming," Remo pointed out.

"How could he? He did not know."

"Then how'd you find us?"

"I called the magic number and the secret address was revealed to me by the Master of Sinanju's servant, Pullyang."

"What magic number?"

"1-800-SINANJU"

"Chiun has a toll-free number!"

"Does not everyone these days?"

"You, too?"

Kula nodded. "1-800-PILLAGE. What is your magic number?"

"I don't have one."

"Ah, you have not earned the right. I see." Kula tried to give Remo a reassuring clap on the back, but ended up smacking himself in the face. Remo wasn't there when the hand reached his back. He was suddenly to Kula's right. "Do not worry, White Tiger, you will receive your magic number when you are deemed worthy. I was given mine by Boldbator Khan himself. His magic number is 1-800-GENGHIS. "

"Look, in America call me Remo. Okay?"

Kula the Mongol looked injured. "You have forgotten the days when you and I harried Chinese soldiers-you the White Tiger and I your strong right arm?"

"I haven't forgotten it. I just put that stuff behind me."

"There is a statue celebrating your glory in the lobby of the Hotel Genghis Khan in Ulan Bator."

"There is?" said Remo, brightening.

"Truly. It commemorates your mighty deeds. Of course, we gave you Mongolian eyes so as not to frighten our children with your fearsome round eyes."

"Good move," said Remo. "Now, where's Chiun?"

"He is below, communing with the Bunji Lama."

"Who's the Bunji Lama?"

"A great man, alas."

"Why is that 'alas'?"

"You will know why when you come face-to-face with the Bunji Lama!'

Remo cocked a thumb at the open door where the shaved-headed man sat serenely. "Then who's that rude guy in there?"

"He is the Most Holy Lobsang Drom Rinpoche, who is destined to find the lost Bunji Lama."

"How can the Bunji Lama be lost if he's downstairs with Chiun?"

"You will see with your own eyes."

"Why don't I do that?" said Remo. "Wait here."

Kula folded his burly arms. "I have waited all my life for the Bunji Lama. I can wait a little longer."

"Right," said Remo, starting down the stairs. His happy mood had evaporated. He had met Kula years ago in a Mongolian tavern.

Back then Kula had been a bandit chief, and Remo had hired him to help track down the Master of Sinanju, who had disappeared into the wild steppes of Outer Mongolia in search of the lost treasure of Genghis Khan. The treasure had been found and divided between the Master of Sinanju and Boldbator Khan, who had mustered an army of Mongols to fight off an attempt by Chinese troops to claim the booty for Beijing.

It had been a very difficult trek for Remo, who in addition to everything else had received none of the treasure.

Remo found the Master of Sinanju in the first-floor kitchen.

Remo noticed that Chiun wore one of his heavy brocaded kimonos usually reserved for meeting with heads of state. This one was a deep blue. It sat on his frail-looking shoulders like a lap rug supported by a clutch of sticks.

The Master of Sinanju didn't look like the deadliest assassin on earth. He stood approximately five feet tall. He weighed about as much as a hollow tree. There was no hair on his head other than the tufts of wispy white floating over the tips of his tiny ears. As he moved about the stove, his wrinkled features came into view. A tendril of stiff hair that barely passed for a beard stood out against the dark ivory of his parchment face.

He looked, not old, but ancient. But he moved with a quick, birdlike grace that put Remo's lean economy of movement to shame. The old Korean pretended not to be aware of Remo's presence. But his quick hazel eyes stole appraising glances as he moved about the kitchen.

Chiun was puttering over the stove, Remo saw, brewing tea. But the smell of tea was overpowered by a musty stench that reminded Remo of a tomb.

"What're you cooking, Little Father?" he asked. "Yak?"

"I am brewing tea for our illustrious guests," replied Chiun in a voice that was distinctly squeaky.

Remo frowned. "Smells like yak. What's going on?"

"We have guests."

"So my nose tells me," said Remo, looking around. The smell wasn't coming from the stove. It seemed to be emanating from a large black steamer trunk that sat on one end in a corner of the kitchen.

"What's that?"

"The Bunji Lama's trunk."

"It must be really old to smell like that," said Remo, going to the trunk.

"Remo! Do not disturb it."

"Okay, I won't."

"If you promise to do so carefully, you may have the honor of carrying the Bunji Lama's trunk up to the meditation room."

"Not until you explain what this is all about."

"What is anything of importance about?" Chiun asked carelessly.

Remo gave that a second's thought, reminded himself that it was Chiun asking the question and said, "Gold?"

Chiun nodded. "Gold. Good. You are learning."

"So help me, Chiun, if you've taken to renting out the other units to your friends for pocket money, I'm moving out."

"This is agreeable. Your room will fetch a good price."

"Get stuffed."

"I will carry the tea if you will carry the trunk of the Bunji Lama."

"Will carrying the trunk get me straight answers faster?"

"It will."

"Deal."

Remo used both hands to lift the trunk. As a result, it almost went crashing into the ceiling. It looked heavy but weighed next to nothing. Remo had been caught off guard. He got the awkward container under control.

"Remo! You will anger the Bunji Lama."

"Sorry." Remo started up the stairs, Chiun following and wearing a silver tray laden with celadon teacups and hot water in a brass kettle. "Where is the Bunji Lama anyway? Kula said he was with you."

"He was. Now he is with you."

"Huh?"

"He is in the trunk that you carry, and take care not to drop him or his wrath will be upon you like black hailstones."

"The Bunji Lama is inside this trunk?" Remo demanded.

"The old Bunji Lama, yes."

"He must be really old to smell this bad," said Remo, reaching the top of the stairs.

Remo set the trunk down in the center of the meditation room. The shaved-headed man continued to sit on the floor with the serenity of a contented bullfrog. Kula was laying tatami mats in a circle around the trunk as Chiun set down the tea, crossed his legs at the ankles and scissored onto his personal mat. He began pouring at once.

Remo pointed to the trunk and asked, "Is the Bunji Lama really in this thing?"

"The old Bunji Lama," Kula corrected.

"Guess he flew economy class," said Remo, knocking on the trunk. "Time to stretch your legs, pal."

"It is not time," said the Master of Sinanju. "We must bargain first."

The tea was passed around. Remo took his place, sitting as far from the colorful personal odors of Chiun's guests as possible.

Kula took his cup and swallowed it all in one greedy gulp and offered the empty cup for more. Chiun obligingly poured.

The shaved-headed Asian accepted his tea, looked deep into the cup and spoke up. "No yak butter?"

The Master of Sinanju bestowed his pupil with a reproving glare. "Remo, did you forget to churn the yak butter this morning?"

"I must've. Silly me."

Chiun addressed the shaved-headed man. "I apologize for the inefficient white help, Most Holy, but you will have to drink your tea without yak butter."

"It is good tea," boomed Kula, offering his drained cup for the third time.

When all the cups were refilled, Remo whispered to Chiun, "Yak butter?"

"The Most Holy Lobsang Drom is a Tibetan. They put yak butter in their tea," Chiun confided.

"Is that why he smells so bad?"

"Tibetans have many beliefs you would find strange. Bathing regularly is not among them."

"I don't know what smells worse, him or that trunk. Smells like it was stored in a musty cellar."

"It was. Since before you were born."

Remo settled down as tea was imbibed in silence for some time.

At length the Tibetan spoke up. "I am the Most Holy Lobsang Drom Rinpoche. Rinpoche means 'treasured one.' I seek the Light That is Coming. What is your name?" he asked Remo.

"Remo."

"Re-mo?"

"Yeah," said Remo.

"It is a strange name."

"My last name's Buttafuoco."

"Butt-a-fu-"

Remo nodded. "It means 'lies through teeth with head up ass,'" he said with a straight face.

Lobsang Drom nodded somberly. "It is a worthy name."

"For a white," inserted Chiun.

"For a white, it is a perfect name!" roared Kula.

Everyone except Remo laughed and drank to that.

Remo waited for the hilarity to settle down, then asked, "So what's this about?"

"The Bunji Lama," said Chiun, his hands disappearing into the brocaded sleeves of his kimono and the sleeves coming together to form a tube.

"He is lost," said Kula.

"I thought he was in the trunk," said Remo.

"That is the old Bunji Lama," said Kula. "We seek the new Bunji Lama."

"So if you're looking for the new Bunji Lama, why'd you drag the old Bunji Lama all this way?"

Everyone looked at Remo as if he had just asked why they exhaled after each intake of breath.

"The nuns who raised me had a saying-there's no such thing as a stupid question," Remo said.

"These nuns were white, too?" asked Kula.

"Yeah."

"Buddhist nuns?" asked Lobsang Drom.

Chiun answered that: "Christian."

Kula and the Most Holy Lobsang Drom grew wide of eye.

"I have beaten the Christianity out of him," Chiun said hastily. "Most of it. Some remains." He shrugged.

"He is white," Kula pointed out.

"He cannot help being white," Lobsang Drom added.

Everyone agreed that Remo couldn't help being white and if the Master of Sinanju continued beating him regularly, he would renounce the last lingering delusions of Christianity in due time.

Remo sighed. His eyes kept going to the steamer trunk.

"I'm still waiting for the answer to my question," he said. He was ignored.

Instead, Lobsang Drom said, "We have come a great distance to acquire your services, great one whose hands are like swords."

"I cannot help you," Chiun told his visitors sadly.

Kula started. Lobsang Drom slumped where he sat.

"For I serve the white emperor of America who is named Smith," Chiun said, one clawlike hand emerging. His fingernails, like bone blades, flashed in the room's mellow light.

"A simple smith rules this land?" Lobsang Drom asked in surprise.

"Why not?" said Kula. "Lord Genghis was born Temujin, a name which means 'ironworker,' and he grew up to found a great empire."

"Of plunderers and murderers," said Remo.

"Who told you those lies?" Kula demanded.

"The history books," said Remo.

"Christian histories?"

"No, American ones."

"Hah! You are well named, Remo Buttafuoco, for you speak lies even without an ass on your head."

"That's 'head up my ass,'" corrected Remo.

Kula nodded, and, his point made, addressed the Master of Sinanju.

"Why can you not help us, Master of Sinanju? Does the emperor of America fear the return of the Bunji Lama?"

"I do not know if he does or does not," said Chiun, "but while I enjoy his gold, I can work for no other, for my contract is with him"

"We will pay more gold."

"How much?"

Kula extracted a yak-hide bag from his vest. Untying the drawstring, he emptied out shapeless nuggets of gold.

Chiun made a face, as Remo knew he would. "Not enough."

Grumbling, Kula removed another bag, and the pile of gold was doubled.

Chiun's eyes grew veiled and his voice thin. "The gold of Smith would fill this room three times over," he pointed out.

Kula the Mongol threw his gaze about the room, avoiding Chiun's hazel orbs. "For how many years of service?" he asked aridly.

"One."

"We ask only for help finding the Bunji Lama."

"Which could take one year or twenty," returned Chiun.

"We have less than ten years, for the Panchen Lama has been found."

Chiun nodded wisely. "I read of this. A Chinese, discovered dwelling in America. Never has a tulku been discovered so far from Tibet."

"Since the Dalai Lama sits spineless in exile, the Panchen Lama is next in line to the lion Throne of Lhasa and will claim it when he comes of age. Unless the Bunji Lama can be found."

"It is a bad thing," Chiun agreed. "But I cannot risk angering my emperor for less than a roomful of gold."

"A roomful of gold would earn how much service?" Kula asked.

"For a roomful of gold, I would search the entire West for the Bunji Lama until he was found or my last breath was spent."

"The West! Why the West?"

"It is simple. The East has been scoured to no avail. No flame-headed one bearing the true birthmark has been found. Nor any faceless joss holding a sword. There can be but one conclusion. The Bunji Lama was born in the West."

Kula the Mongol and Lobsang Drom exchanged startled glances. Remo sat there and looked confused.

"It is impossible," Lobsang Drom spit.

"If the Panchen Lama has been found in the West, why not the Bunji Lama?" Chiun countered. "Clearly the Panchen Lama chose to be born in the West to evade Chinese oppression. Might not the Bunji Lama have foreseen the coming of the oppressors and elected to be born here in the West, so that his next body would not be imperiled?"

Kula leaned across and muttered to Lobsang Drom, "He speaks sense."

"He's conning you both," Remo said.

Chiun spanked the floor with his heel. The overhead light rattled. "Silence, Christian! Do not interfere."

"Blow it out your ass," Remo hissed.

"I must consult with Boldbator Khan before I can agree to your terms, Master of Sinanju," said Kula. "For he authorized me to offer no more than six bags of gold."

The Master of Sinanju said, "Remo, bring our honored guests a telephone."

"Want me to dial 1-800-GENGHIS for them, too?" he said acidly.

"Yes," said Kula.

Frowning, Remo returned with the phone. He sat down and punched out the numbers, but only because he wanted to see if the 800 number really existed. There was a brief clicking of overseas relays, and a musical voice said, "Sain Baina."

"Sounds like Outer Mongolia to me," muttered Remo, who recognized the traditional Mongolian greeting.

Kula took the phone. In his native tongue, he spoke in low whispers, listening often. Chiun feigned disinterest, but Remo knew that the old Korean was following every word of both sides of the conversation.

At length Kula clapped a beefy hand over the receiver and said, "Boldbator Khan, Khan of Khans, Future Overlord of Mankind, has instructed me to tell you that he will agree to pay you a roomful of gold for your services upon one condition."

"Name it," said Chiun.

"That you permit the gold to be shipped on your Federal Express account number."

"Done," said Chiun, clapping his hands.

"Since when did you get a Federal Express number?" Remo demanded of Chiun.

"It was a stipulation of my last agreement with Emperor Smith," said Chiun.

By that Remo knew Chiun meant Harold W. Smith, director of CURE, whom Chiun called emperor because it kept up appearances. His ancestors, the past Masters of Sinanju, had slain in the service of history's kings and emperors, and Chiun, who hoped to go down in the histories of the House of Sinanju as Chiun the Great, could not admit to serving anything less than a caliph.

As they waited, Kula finished his long-distance conversation and hung up.

"It is done," he boomed. "We have an agreement."

"We have an agreement," said Chiun. "Now it is time to consult the oracle."

"What oracle?" asked Remo.

"That one," said Chiun.

All eyes followed the Master of Sinanju's indicating finger.

It was pointing toward a big-screen TV in one corner of the great square room.

Chapter 4

"It is a fearsome-looking oracle," intoned Lobsang Drom.

"It's a freaking TV," said Remo.

"Yes, it is a freaking TV," said Kula. "Now that we have thrown off the yoke of communism, there are freaking TVs just like that one in every town and ger in Mongolia. I myself have thirty such devices so that I may watch every program at once without having to change channels."

"It is no ordinary television," said Chiun. "It is an enchanted television."

"Enchanted television, my Buttafuoco," said Remo. "It's Japanese."

The others looked closely and saw the brand name: Nishitsu.

"Truly it is a Japanese TV, as well as a freaking one," muttered Kula.

"Is it a Zen oracle?" Lobsang Drom asked. "I cannot accept visions from an oracle that is Zen."

The Master of Sinanju shook his head sagely. "It is not Zen. And it will show us the new Bunji Lama if he lives."

"The Bunji Lama always lives," said Lobsang Drom.

"Not for long if you don't let him out of his trunk," said Remo.

Abruptly the Master of Sinanju clapped his hands together. "In order to consult the oracle, we must first consult the guide," he proclaimed. "Remo, fetch the mystic guide."

"What guide?"

"The guide to the oracle, witless one," Chiun hissed. "Are your ears filled with hardened wax?"

"No, but my nose is clogged from the stink of whatever's in that freaking trunk."

"I did not know it was a freaking trunk," muttered Kula.

"The guide is always kept in a place of honor atop the oracle so that it will not be misplaced by careless servants," Chiun said pointedly. "Now, bring it to us."

"Oh, that guide," said Remo. He padded over to the TV set and brought back the current week's issue. Chiun accepted it and turned it around so that the others could see the cover clearly.

"I cannot read those English characters," said Lobsang Drom, squinting.

"I can," said Kula. "The red shape forms the words, TV Guide. The Master speaks truly. It is the legendary TV Guide. Very rare to find a copy in this land of America."

"One shape makes two words?" said Lobsang Drom in wonderment.

"You should talk about another person's language," said Remo.

Lobsang Drom leaned closer, squinting at the cover. "Is that a dugpa I see?"

Remo looked. He didn't know what a dugpa was, but he figured it was as good a name for Roseanne Arnold as any.

"She is the most feared dugpa on American television," he assured the Tibetan.

"I do not know this word, ted-a-vish-on, " said Lobsang Drom slowly.

Remo asked, "Where have you been living-in a cave?"

"Yes."

Remo blinked. Then Chiun began consulting the guide to the oracle.

"I vote for 'The Twilight Zone,'" Remo whispered. "Rod Serling's usually good for putting things in perspective."

"Hush!" Chiun hissed. "I seek an augury of the Bunji Lama's fate in this guide."

"And if you find it?" asked Lobsang Drom.

"It will foretell the most auspicious time to consult the oracle on the fate of the Bunji Lama, which will be revealed to us on the dark screen of glass."

Lobsang Drom nodded. It was strange magic but not much stranger than a Tibetan oracle. Perhaps there was hope after all.

Remo noticed that Chiun was consulting the evening listings.

"If you find the Bunji Lama in there," he whispered, "I'll eat whatever's in that trunk."

His face tightening like a spiderweb whose anchorings were stretched taut, the Master of Sinanju ran a long-nailed forefinger down the listings.

"According to the guide to the oracle," he announced solemnly, "the Bunji Lama will be revealed to us at midnight."

Remo closed his eyes. His mind told him that midnight was less than an hour away. He hadn't needed a watch in years. He always knew what time it was. He just didn't know how he knew.

"I have lived for this moment most of my life," said Lobsang Drom, his voice trembling.

"This is a great moment," agreed Kula.

"This is a great big scam," Remo muttered.

"Scam?" said Lobsang Drom.

"It is American slang," said Chiun quickly. "It means a glorious occurrence."

"Yes, it is a great scam we are on the brink of," said Kula. And they drank tea in silence as they waited for the hour of midnight to strike.

"Anyone for opening the trunk?" Remo asked at one point.

Chiun shook his aged head. "It is not yet time."

"So what do we do-sit here telling camp-fire stories?" Remo snapped.

"I will build a fire," Kula said, starting to rise.

"No fire is necessary for those of us who sit in the presence of the Worshipful Nameless Ones in the Dark Who See the Light That is Coming," said Chiun in a magnanimous voice.

Seeing that the old Korean meant Lobsang Drom, Remo said, "Him? It's not dark, he told us his name and besides, he stuck his tongue out the moment he first laid eyes on me."

"Then you should be honored," said Chiun.

"Why should I be honored?" said Remo.

"In Tibet to display the tongue is to give greetings. "

"And you a chiding, " added Kula.

Remo looked his question.

"A foreigner," explained Kula.

"Foreigner? This is my country, not his."

"Now," said Kula.

"What do you mean-now?"

"The Khan of Khans talks of following in the war boots of Lord Genghis, may his praises be sung forever. At the proper moment, he intends to topple the citified Mongols who govern in Ulan Bator. Once that is done, China, Russia and other lands will follow. Korea will be spared, of course."

"I do not care what happens to South Korea, as long as no unpleasant sounds reach my village," said Chiun dismissively.

"Considerate of you," said Remo.

"North Korea will be spared," resumed Kula the Mongol. "Europe will fall in time, and then perhaps this country, if there is sufficient booty and the women are compliant."

"American women are about as compliant as mules," Remo said.

Kula grinned broadly. "I will be happy to tame these American mules."

"A lot of them are diseased. You could catch leprosy or something worse."

"I do not fear their diseases, for American women now have condoms of their very own. Their condoms will protect Mongol men from their diseases."

"Just try to get an American woman to wear one," Remo growled.

Kula leaned over to Remo and confided, "I have heard that they squeak like mice in bed."

"I never heard a woman squeak in bed in my life."

"I meant the condom."

"Let's just change the subject," said Remo, rolling his eyes. "You're a Mongol. Why are you so worried about Tibet?"

"The Chinese think Tibet is Chinese. The Tibetans know they are Tibetan. They are fighting now, which is good. Tibetans do not fight as much as they should, and so they are conquered often. At least once every second century."

"But we are fighting now," said Lobsang Drom.

Kula nodded. "Now you fight. It is a good thing."

"I hear they're getting the crap kicked out of them," said Remo.

"Should they lose, and Tibet become a slave of China forever," said Kula, "the Chinese who think they rule Inner Mongolia will turn their eyes upon Outer Mongolia. This should not happen too soon, before Boldbator Khan unites all of Mongolia. Otherwise, Mongols might lose. And then we will never own the world. Excepting North Korea, of course," he added for Chiun's benefit.

"I do not care about all of North Korea," Chiun said. "Only my village of Sinanju."

Kula brightened. "You would not object if we sack Pyongyang?"

"Pyongyang is yours if the wailing of the vanquished does not keep innocent Sinanju babies awake at night."

"It is agreed. There will be no unseemly wailing. Any so inconsiderate as to wail will be beheaded without mercy."

"Before you divide up the whole world," Remo inserted, "let's stay on the subject. Where does the Bunji Lama fit into this?"

"We Mongols have always followed the Bunji Lama. This is well-known, White Tiger."

Chiun said, "Remo must be forgiven, for he is an orphan and raised by virgins."

"You Mongols are Buddhists?" Remo blurted.

"Of course. This is well-known, too."

"I thought Buddhists were pacifists."

Kula laughed roughly. "Tibetan Buddhists are pacifists. Not Mongol Buddhists. We are fighting Buddhists, proud to slay and conquer in the name of the Buddha of Infinite Compassion, knowing that those who die will be reincarnated anyway, so that Mongols can conquer and slay them all over again. It is a very good system. There is always something to do."

"In times past, Mongols were the protectors of Tibet," said Lobsang Drom.

"So why are you running around looking for the Bunji Lama instead of fighting to free Tibet?" wondered Remo.

"If Mongolia enters the fighting openly, there will be war between Mongolia and China. The Chinese would lose, of course. They only outnumber us five hundred soldiers to one Mongol horseman. But it will take time to defeat China. Better if the Chinese are demoralized by a Tibetan people led by the new Bunji Lama. Then when we strike, they will surrender without resistance, for they will know if they cannot defeat peaceful Tibetans, what chance have they against the new Golden Horde?"

"Fighting Buddhists, huh?" said Remo.

"We also worship ancestors," said Kula.

"Ancestor worship is a good thing," spoke Chiun.

"Do you worship your ancestors?" Kula asked Remo.

"No," said Remo.

Remo found himself the recipient of thin almond gazes that might have accused him of breaking wind loudly.

"He is an orphan," Chiun explained. "He does not know his ancestors and therefore cannot worship them. If he knew who they were, he would make offerings to them nightly."

"It is a sad thing to be an orphan," clucked Kula.

"And Christian, too," murmured Lobsang Drom, shaking his shaved head.

Remo rolled his eyes and prayed to his nameless ancestors for midnight to hurry up.

AT MIDNIGHT the Master of Sinanju closed his eyes and began to chant in Korean. Neither Kula nor Lobsang Drom spoke Korean, so only Remo knew that Chiun was heaping abuse, recriminations and dire warnings of what pain would be inflicted on him if he again spoke out of turn and jeopardized Chiun's promised roomful of gold.

Remo sat quietly, not saying anything when the old Korean began making passes in the air before the TV with his right hand while surreptitiously activating the remote control hidden in the folds of his lap with the left.

The set winked on.

Lobsang Drom gasped in surprise. Kula's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward on his mat.

"We will behold the Bunji Lama with our own eyes," he hissed.

Remo bit his tongue.

Happy-sounding music emerged from the speaker while the set warmed up. The brightening colors on the screen resolved into a free-spirited black woman dancing in and out of a free-floating graphic that read, "The Poopi Silverfish Show."

"Is that a sorcerer?" asked Lobsang Drom.

"It is Poopi Silverfish," said Chiun. "A famous wizard of this land."

"Her skin is as black as a corpse, and her hair hangs in mats," Lobsang muttered. "I have never see the like of it."

"Wasn't her show cancelled last year?" Remo asked.

"I told you this was a magic television," said Chiun.

"Or a rerun," grumbled Remo.

The credits faded, and the happy music segued to wind chimes. The picture became a darkened living room where Poopi Silverfish lounged on an overstuffed couch catercorner with a settee on which a redheaded figure sat sprawled.

The camera moved in closer.

And the voice of the Master of Sinanju lifted to proclaim, "Behold! Behold the long-lost Bunji Lama. "

Gasps came from the lips of Lobsang Drom and Kula the Mongol.

"It cannot be!" the Tibetan gasped.

"If you do not trust your eyes, Tibetan, then listen well with your ears."

"So, tell me," Poopi Silverfish was saying in a voice like a smoky cat's purr, "exactly how many lives have you lived?"

And the answer brought the eyes bugging out of Lobsang Drom's head.

"If you count the Moovian princess and the time I shared a Siamese soul with Mae West, thirty-two. I don't know why I keep coming back to this world, Poopi, but there must be a good reason."

"Maybe there's something you really need to do on this earth that you can't remember," suggested Poopi.

"That's exactly what my last guru told me!"

The Most Holy Lobsang Drom Rinpoche wrenched his stricken eyes from the screen. "Master of Sinanju," he said thickly, "how can this be?"

Chapter 5

"Wait a minute!" Remo blurted. "You know who that is? Squirrelly Chicane! She's a professional fruitcake."

Kula demanded, "You know this flame-haired woman, White Tiger?"

"Not personally. She's an actress. She also writes books about her life."

"More than one book?"

Remo shrugged. "She's got in her head that she's lived more than one life. And people eat it up."

Kula nodded somberly. "She is spreading the Buddha's teaching. That is a sign she has found the true path, even though she has had the misfortune to be born white."

Lobsang Drom wore a drained expression. "But she is a female," he said. "The Bunji Lama would not come back as a woman"

"Do not question the oracle," said the Master of Sinanju in a loud voice. "Watch and learn. Listen and believe, for the words spoken by the flame-haired incarnation of the Buddha to come will convince you with their sweet grace and forcefulness."

"Laying it on a little thick, aren't you, Little Father?" whispered Remo.

The Master of Sinanju reached over to take his incorrigible pupil by the hand and squeezed a wrist nerve that would test his ability to withstand pain.

Remo gritted his teeth and tried to pull away. Chiun exerted greater force. Remo squeezed his eyes shut but emitted no dishonorable sounds of surrender.

When he was satisfied that his willful white pupil would neither succumb to the overwhelming temptation to shout out his pain nor speak out of turn after it abated, Chiun released him.

Thereafter Remo sat quietly and watched the screen.

"I never heard of a Siamese soul," said Poopi Silverfish, shaking her head so her dreadlocks seemed to rattle. With her high cheekbones, very white teeth and animated eyes, she resembled a human marionette swayed by the tug of unseen strings.

"I may be the first human being in history to evolve a Siamese soul," said Squirrelly Chicane. "I think it's because my soul was searching for something important and knew it needed two bodies to do it."

"Do you know what it was, this important thing?"

"No. And frankly, Poopi, I'm becoming worried. I turn-dare I say it-sixty pretty soon. My Mae West body is dead, and now this one is getting a little frayed around the edges."

"Oh, don't say that! You look great. And you're still the best hoofer in the business."

"Hoofer?" said Kula.

Remo swallowed the urge to crack that the speaker was half-yak.

Squirrelly Chicane beamed, and mischievous gleams came into her blue eyes. "Why, thank you for saying so, Poopi. But on the cosmic scale, I have only a twinkling of time left in this body. I'm afraid I'll have to wait for my next incarnation and I start the search all over again. Whatever it is."

"It is the Bunji Lama," breathed Kula.

"No, no," said Lobsang, shaking his head stubbornly. "It cannot be. She is white."

Kula frowned. "The age is correct. By her own words, she has seen nearly sixty yak-foaling seasons. The last Bunji Lama has been missing for that span. And her hair is like a flame."

"No, no, it cannot be. The Bunji Lama is fated to lead Tibet to greatness. That person is communing with a creature that might have climbed out of Hell itself."

"No argument there," said Remo.

"I do not see the joss without a face," said Lobsang.

"No doubt it is kept on a sacred altar that we must locate," Kula said firmly.

"Listen closely," said Chiun. "The words of the new Bunji Lama will unveil the truth if only you heed them."

The program continued. The Master of Sinanju pretended to watch as intently as the others, but he was actually observing the actions of his guests. Their faces, in the shifting glow of the television screen, were tight with concentration. The Mongol, Kula, wore the rapt expression of an accepting child. But Lobsang Drom contorted his long face with every sentence that reached his ears. From his saffron robe, he extracted a Buddhist rosary of tiny jade skulls and fingered them nervously.

"How do you come up with all these past lives, Squid?" Poopi Silverfish was saying. "I mean, do they come to you in dreams or something?"

"Past-life regressions. My guru taught me how to invoke the buried memories. But we broke up. Now I do it all myself."

Poopi Silverfish rolled her eyes, and her dark face broke out in a smile that managed to be beatific and goofy at the same time. "You know, sometimes I like to think I was the Queen of Sheba about a million years ago."

"I was a princess in the lost continent of Moo twenty million years ago. My name was Toomazooma."

"How did it turn out?"

"Moo sank and I drowned. To this day my heart pounds uncontrollably whenever I slip into the Jacuzzi.

"I'm that way about showers ever since Psycho."

Kula muttered, "I do not understand much of her words, therefore she is very wise."

"No doubt her guru was a very wise man," suggested Chiun in a bland voice.

No one challenged this statement. Least of all Remo.

As the program wound down, the Most Holy Lobsang Drom Rinpoche remained unconvinced.

"That is not the Bunji Lama," he said bitterly.

"Do you distrust what your lazy eyes have seen, Priest?" Kula demanded. "Or what your ears have heard? It is the incarnation, the tulku, the Light That is Coming, himself."

"Herself," Remo inserted.

"Is her hair not flame?" Kula went on. "Does she not speak of many past lives?"

Lobsang Drom hardened his eyes. "I refuse to accept this."

"But we must go to the Bunji Lama and prove it or disprove it ourselves. The Master of Sinanju would not lie."

Chiun cast a warning glance in Remo's direction, then came to his feet like a pillar of blue smoke.

"There is one who can convince you," he said firmly.

"How?" said Lobsang.

"The old Bunji Lama. We will consult him."

All eyes went to the closed steamer trunk, including Remo's.

Chiun waved toward it, saying, "Remo, you will have the honor of opening the trunk."

"Pass," said Remo, making a face.

They looked at him as if he had spoken a filthy word.

"It is a great honor," Chiun chided.

"All right, all right." Remo walked over to the trunk. It was not locked. The brass clasps opened easily enough. Remo forced the two halves apart and stepped back from what was revealed with sudden haste.

It was not the sight of the thing in the trunk that caused him to step back. It was the smell. The interior of the trunk was lined with salt to retard decomposition and hold the odor of decay inside.

For the trunk contained a mummy. Seated in a lotus position, hands cupped in a lap that was covered by a faded and moth-eaten robe of gold, the Bunji Lama wore lichens and mold where his face should be. His eyes were black pits, and his teeth were exposed between lips that had long ago dried and withered. In his hands lay a bronze object that might have been a very ornate dumbbell.

"Looks like a midget," Remo said.

"The Bunji Lama was not yet fifteen when he dropped that body."

Remo made a face. "Don't you people believe in a proper burial?"

Lobsang Drom said, "When a Tibetan dies, he is given sky burial. The ragyabas take the corpse to a proper place, and after its bones have been picked clean by vultures, they are interred."

"Must save a lot of space down at the of boneyard," Remo said dryly. "Not to mention entertaining the kiddies."

Lobsang Drom regarded him thinly. "How do you bury your dead?"

"They go into a wood box, and that goes into the ground."

"Your barley must taste like corpses," said Lobsang Drom.

Remo looked blank.

Kula said, "The Bunji Lama always sits in state until his next body is discovered, with his face turned to the south, which is the direction of long life. This is a form of respect for the old body, and there have been times when the old body will help point the way to the new."

"It is said that the body of the previous Dalai Lama turned his dead face to the northeast after he had been in state for ten days," offered Lobsang. "And it was to the northeast that the new Dalai Lama was discovered."

"Imagine that," said Remo.

"We will ask the Bunji Lama if the oracle has truly revealed his present body," announced Chiun.

The others came to their feet. Remo watched carefully.

Lobsang Drom faced the mummified remains of the forty-sixth Bunji Lama and said, "O, Light That Was. If the oracle reveals to us the Light That is Coming, as the Master of Sinanju has said, give us a sign, Thrice-Blessed One."

The old Bunji Lama sat mutely, the shifting colored light from the TV set making shadows crawl in his hollow eye sockets.

From the TV came the voice of Squirrelly Chicane, "My guru told me that I have a better chance of discovering my true mission in life after I turn sixty."

"Why is that, child?" asked Poopi Silverfish.

"Because sixty is the age when a woman becomes a crone."

"You mean like a witch?"

"That's just superstition. Throughout history the crone has been a symbol of female wisdom. Upon my sixtieth birthday, I will become wise."

"Honey," laughed Poopi, "if you look as good then as you do now, they're going to have to put a whole new picture next to the word 'crone' in the dictionaries!"

And covered by the laughter emanating from the TV, the Master of Sinanju surreptitiously swept a hand into the black steamer trunk and swept it out again.

The head of the Bunji Lama toppled off his dried stalk of a neck and rolled across the floor to come to a rest under the television set just as Poopi Silverfish said, "Squirrelly Chicane! Girl, I do believe you're gonna find your mission in life."

"Hark well," cried the Master of Sinanju, "the Bunji Lama has spoken."

"The Bunji Lama on the screen or the Bunji Lama whose head is on the floor?" asked Remo.

"Both," cried Chiun. "By rolling his head on the floor, the last Bunji Lama has revealed the long-hidden truth to the incredulous."

"Incredulous is right," said Remo.

Quivering from head to toe, Lobsang Drom faced Chiun, bowed once deeply and said, "Master of Sinanju, I should never have doubted you."

And the Master of Sinanju bowed back, the better to conceal his beaming face of triumph. Tibetans were so gullible.

"This is a great scam," Kula said reverently, brushing at a tear. "Perhaps the greatest of my life."

"No argument there," muttered Remo.

Chapter 6

The next morning Remo Williams awoke with the sun. He rolled off his sleeping mat, stretched his limbs and went to his walk-in clothes closet. The T-shirts were up on wooden hangers on one side, and his pants on the other. They all looked brand-new, which they were. When one of his T-shirts got dirty, Remo threw it away-if it was a white one. If it was black, he might save it for a rainy day. He only wore black or white T shirts. Plain. No dippy sayings or decorations.

His pants occupied the other half of the walk-in closet. Remo wore chinos almost exclusively with a preference for tan, gray or black, although the black ones tended to pick up lint and therefore, unlike the black T-shirts, were usually thrown out after a day's use.

Remo selected a white T-shirt and a fresh pair of black chinos. Remembering that before he had turned in for the night, Chiun had announced that they would seek out the living Bunji Lama on the morrow, he switched to a black T-shirt and gray chinos. No telling when they'd be back, and Remo didn't feel like packing for what might turn out to be only a day trip.

Clothes on his arm, he walked across the hall to his private bathroom. From behind the closed door came the sound of someone moving around.

Remo knocked and asked, "Who's in there?"

A boisterous voice cried, "It is I-Kula!"

"Water warm enough for you?"

"It is wonderfully cold."

"You shower cold?"

"I was speaking of the well water. It is very cold and sweet when one plunges one's face in it."

"For an extra thrill, pull the silver handle," said Remo, annoyed that his private bathroom had been usurped. Still, there were sixteen units and each had a bathroom. Finding an unoccupied shower wouldn't be hard.

Scraping sounds came from the next bathroom. The door was open and Remo peered in.

Inside, the Most Holy Lobsang Drom Rinpoche was seated beside the bathtub, stark naked, using one of Remo's spare toothbrushes to abrade caked dirt off the skull and shoulders of the dead Bunji Lama.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Lobsang Drom stuck out his tongue at Remo in greeting and said, "I am making the old Bunji Lama presentable so that he may meet the new."

"After you're done, don't forget to clean the tub."

The Tibetan. looked injured. "You are the servant here, not me."

"Fine. I'll clean the tub if you agree to bathe."

"I will bathe when the proper time comes."

"When will that be?"

"When the new Bunji Lama sits on the Lion Throne. For I took a vow that I would not bathe until that glorious day arrives."

"You took a vow of nonbathing?"

"Yes. What do devout Christians do?"

"Oh, the usual. Mass. Fasting. Celibacy. Bingo."

"I too have taken a vow of celibacy."

"When you stop bathing, celibacy stops being optional," said Remo, moving on to the next bathroom.

From the downstairs kitchen came the sound of Chiun puttering around, and Remo decided his shower could wait. On the way down the stairs he climbed into his clothes.

The Master of Sinanju did not turn at his approach. Instead, he sniffed the air, wearing a disagreeable expression on his parchment countenance.

"I see you have not showered this morning," he said in an arid tone.

"So call me a filthy Tibetan."

"You are worse than an unbathed Tibetan. You are insolent. I can stand the way you reek, but not your braying."

"Look, these people are your friends. How can you con them with this Bunji Lama mumbo jumbo?"

Chiun whirled. "Remo! How can you ask a question like that of me? The one who raised you up from the muck of this backward white land and made you into what no white has ever been?"

"I meant no disrespect, Little Father-"

"I do what I must do so that the babies of my humble village are properly fed and want for nothing. If my emperor tells me that an enemy of his waxes great in strength and must be dispatched, do I ask if this enemy truly deserves death? No. I go to the place where he dwells and although it is an unpleasant thing, I do this. For it is the obligation I took upon my frail shoulders when I assumed full Masterhood, as you one day must do. For if we fail in our obligation, no more gold will go to the barren shores of Sinanju, and the people, who cannot fish because the waters of the bay are too cold and cannot plant because the ground is always hard and untillable, will be forced to send the babies home to the sea, which is another way of drowning them so they do not suffer from privation."

"Look, I know this story by heart."

Chiun cocked his birdlike head to one side curiously. "And do you believe it?"

"Not completely."

"No! What part do you not believe?"

Remo thought a moment. "All of it."

"All?"

"Yeah. I don't think the babies have been in danger of being sent home to the sea in centuries. Maybe they never were. Maybe it's just a story your ancestors told themselves because they did things that were hard to stomach. Besides, you've got so much treasure back at the Masters of the House that you could feed all of Korea on the gold alone."

Remo waited for Chiun to explode.

"That is what you truly think?" he asked coldly.

Remo folded his bare, lean arms in quiet defiance. "Yeah. Sorry. But that's the way I figure it."

Chiun cocked his head the other way and clucked, "You are learning more quickly than I had imagined you would."

Remo blinked. "So answer my question. Why are you conning your friends? They take this Bunji Lama stuff very seriously. It's their religion."

"I do this for a very simple reason."

"Yeah?"

Chiun lifted a wise finger. "They have turned to the Master of Sinanju for help-"

"And-?"

"And they offered a roomful of gold!" said Chiun, raising both fists to the sky so fast his wide kimono sleeves dropped back to reveal bony pipe-stem arms.

"I should have known," said Remo. "Look, how about I stay home for this outing?"

"You would let your adopted father travel across this country in the company of strangers, unescorted?"

"You just want me to carry your trunks, and you know it."

"Kula will carry my trunks."

"What do I carry?"

"You," said Chiun, returning to his pot of rice, "will carry the burden of making an honored guest of this house carry my trunks."

TWO HOURS LATER, Remo was carrying Chiun's steamer trunks to the rental limousine idling in the condo parking lot. Since it was a day trip, Chiun had not insisted on bringing all fourteen. He had wanted Remo to carry five, but Remo had put his foot down.

"There's room in that trunk for maybe four trunks, and that's it," Remo had pointed out.

"Then I will make do with only four," Chiun had allowed.

Remo got the fourth one into the spacious trunk and locked it.

"Why did you lock the trunk?" asked Kula when Remo started back to the house.

"Because it's full."

"What about the Bunji Lama's trunk?"

"Damn! I forgot about that."

"How could you forget the Bunji Lama?"

"Believe me, it wasn't easy. But there's no room for him in the trunk."

"Then he will ride with us."

"I'll give it a second look. You never know."

"No, it is only fitting that the Bunji Lama ride with us."

Remo thought fast and said, "How about if I ride up front?"

"That is agreeable," said Kula.

"Good," said Remo, who hoped the glass partition between the driver's compartment and the back was airtight.

It turned out to be completely airtight. It also turned out that when the Master of Sinanju heard that Remo had insisted on sitting up front, he had dismissed the expensive rental driver so Remo could drive, and personally placed the trunk containing the Bunji Lama in the front passenger seat.

Remo found this out when he slid behind the wheel and almost gagged. He rolled down the windows, got in again and glared at the Master of Sinanju in the rearview mirror.

Chiun looked his blandest.

Remo started the limo, and soon they were humming along the Southeast Expressway, north to Logan Airport. It was normally called the Southeast Distressway, but this morning traffic was flowing smoothly.

Kula's voice boomed over the passenger intercom.

"There is no fermented mare's milk in the refrigerator."

"Remind me to give the limo company people a severe scolding when we get back," Remo said.

"You live in a very uncivilized country, White Tiger."

"No argument there."

"But do not worry. There will be plenty of fermented mare's milk in my personal skyboat. "

Remo blinked. "You have your own plane?"

"How did you think I came to this country-on horseback?"

And everyone laughed at the foolish white dolt whom the Master of Sinanju had kindly taken under his wing in the hope that he would one day become Korean, or close to Korean.

THE PLANE WAS a pristine sky blue with a silver stripe running along the windows on both sides. It was a 747 and it might have belonged to some exotic airline, except there was no company name and on the tail was the silhouette of a heavy wheel mounted on a pole, from which dangled nine horsetails. Remo knew it was a representation of the nine-horsetail standard of Genghis Khan.

The pilot and copilot stood at attention at either side of the door. They wore the traditional del of the Mongol nomad and bowed when the Master of Sinanju, Kula and Lobsang Drom stepped from the parked limousine.

As Remo got the trunks, the pilots yelled at him to hurry up.

"Hold your horsetails," muttered Remo, carrying Chiun's trunks to the open cargo bay. Once they were stowed, he brought the Bunji Lama's trunk into the cabin.

Inside it was dark. From the outside there had been the usual rows of windows. Inside, the walls were hung with colorful Mongol tapestries, which also covered the windows. There were no seats, just piles of overlapping rugs on the floor. Here and there were low taborets and chests.

Remo had been in Mongol felt tents before. They looked exactly like this, except they were round and spacious, with a stove in the center and a stovepipe leading to an open smoke hole in the ceiling.

There was no stove here, and the ceiling was intact, but otherwise it looked exactly like the interior of a very long ger.

"Place the Bunji Lama in the spot of honor," Kula called, indicating a gorgeous Oriental rug.

"And close the door after you," called the pilot from up front.

Remo did both and found a place on the floor.

"I'm glad to see you haven't let all that treasure spoil you, Kula," Remo told the Mongol.

Kula beamed. "You like my skyboat? It has every modern convenience. There is a microwave oven, and through that door behind you there is a flying well."

"Where are the stewardesses?" Remo asked.

Kula looked blank.

"He means the slave girls," said Chiun.

Kula scowled. "We do not allow Mongol women to fly. Otherwise, they will give birth to two-headed babies and other freaks. Only warriors are allowed to fly."

"Do American women fly?" asked Lobsang Drom.

"All the time," said Remo.

"And what is done with the babies that are born with two heads?" he asked in a puzzled voice.

"Oh, usually the mother picks the head she likes best and chops off the other one," said Remo.

"American women are very clever," said Kula.

"Perhaps the American woman with flame for hair is the Bunji Lama after all," muttered Lobsang Drom as the jet's engines began screaming, setting the wall hangings to shaking and shivering.

They were airborne a moment later. The rugs and chests shifted until the plane leveled out.

Lobsang Drom immediately closed his eyes and began moaning one word over and over.

"Aummm. "

In one hand he spun something that looked to Remo like a wooden cat-food can on a stick. The turquoise-studded teak can spun and spun. Other than a creaky whirring, it made no noise.

"How long does this go on?" Remo muttered.

"It is a prayer wheel," Kula explained. "One writes his prayer on a strip of paper and places it in the wheel. Each time it spins, the prayer goes forth, earning much merit."

Remo groaned. "This is going to be a long flight."

Kula blinked. "How many marches to this land called California?"

"Marches?"

"It is less than five hours," announced Chiun.

"On horse?"

"By air," said Chiun.

Lobsang Drom's eyes came open instantly. He and Kula exchanged startled glances.

"So wide as that?" Lobsang said.

"It is a very great country in size," said Chiun. "Not so great in culture."

Frowning, Kula flung aside a tapestry and pressed his flat nose to a window. He squinted.

"I see no yak herds."

"They have no yaks," said Chiun.

"Not one?"

"Perhaps a few underfed buffalo," Chiun allowed.

"Not enough to reimburse the invasion army," added Remo.

Kula's scowl darkened. "Then we will bring yaks with us. As a peace offering. To lull the white man into thinking that we bring peace."

"You're pretty open with your master invasion plan," said Remo. "You don't expect to just ride into every city and town from Outer Mongolia to L.A. and announce you're now in charge."

Kula scooted away from the window. "Of course not."

"So how do you figure to pull it off?"

"It is simple. Japan has purchased many places in America and other citified lands."

"True."

"When they have bought up most of the world, we will take over Japan. Struck numb with fear, the rest will fall into place."

"Sounds like a long-term project to me."

"Rome was not sacked in a day," Kula said unconcernedly.

"You meant Rome wasn't built in a day," corrected Remo.

"Do you think one can simply sack an empire in an afternoon?"

"I got news for you. The American people will fight back."

"I will show you something," Kula said, digging a thick leather-bound book from an ornate chest. He opened it to a certain page and presented it to Remo.

Remo took it and saw that the book was open to the entry on Genghis Khan. Kula's thick finger pointed to the final paragraph.

In the past unsympathetic Persian, Chinese and Arab writers condemned Genghis as a ruthless and cruel destroyer, but his terrorism was in reality calculated psychological warfare. He never set out to annihilate a people, like Hitler, or a social class, like Stalin and Mao. Although Genghis did destroy some centers of culture, his administration was generally very tolerant in religious matters and toward ethnic minorities. Today China champions and Russia condemns him, while in Mongolia he is venerated as a symbol of Mongolian nationhood.

"What idiot wrote this?" Remo demanded.

"It is from a very wise and famous American book called the Encyclopedia," said Kula proudly.

Reno looked. He was holding an encyclopedia, all right. One found on the shelves of every library, school and university in the nation.

"This takes political correctness to new lows," he muttered, surrendering the book.

Kula beamed. "Boldbator Khan has made a study of Western thinking. As long as we slay and pillage without regard for race, creed or color, no one will condemn us. And of course we will be merciful in our conquests. If a city submits to us without resistance, only the adult males will be put to the sword."

"You are too kind to us poor backward Americans," said Remo.

"Pax Mongolia is the wave of the future," said Kula, beaming.

"It will be a good thing," said Chiun, "to bring Eastern culture to this benighted land."

Remo looked at him and demanded, "You mean to tell me that when the Mongol cavalry rides in, you're just going to watch? What about the gold America pays you?"

"The gold of Emperor Smith reserves the services of Sinanju for the express purpose of disposing of America's enemies upon demand," said Chiun. "Not in preventing possible invasions. If Emperor Smith decrees Boldbator Khan an enemy to be slain, I will slay him. With regret, of course," he added for Kula's benefit.

"And if you slay my Khan, I will be forced to seek your illustrious head in revenge," returned Kula. "Although it will pain me to lop it off."

"If the Wheel of the Inexorable decrees these events," inserted Lobsang, "what mortal hand can stay them?"

"We will all be reincarnated anyway," Kula said, laughing. "Except the White Tiger, who, being Christian, is disqualified from rebirth."

"I don't want to be reincarnated," muttered Remo. "So there."

"Remo means that he does not wish to be reincarnated as a Christian," said Chiun.

"Bulldooky," said Remo. He got up to get a glass of water from the washroom sink. When he came back, both Kula and Lobsang looked at the paper cup in his hand with horrified expressions.

"What?" said Remo.

"You do not know enough not to drink water intended for washing the hands?" Kula said.

Remo emptied the paper cup in one satisfied gulp, saying, "Well water doesn't agree with me."

Chapter 7

On the morning of her sixtieth birthday, Squirrelly Chicane awoke, expecting wisdom.

She flung off her sleeping mask and blinked blue eyes at the California sunshine flooding in through the windows. Outside, the surging Pacific gnashed at her private Malibu beachfront.

"I'm sixty!" she cried, sitting up. Her hair was the color and texture of carrot shavings. "I'm a crone. The wisdom that comes to every woman in her rightful time is mine!"

There was no wisdom in the sunshine. It hurt her eyes. The pounding of the ocean made her head throb in sympathy.

"Gotta align my chakras," she muttered, closing her dancing blue eyes.

But her chakras wouldn't align. Especially the yellow one. It was being stubborn again.

The phone rang.

"Squid, baby-doll. How goes it?"

"Wonderfully, Julius."

"Great. Great. Listen, you read that Mamet script yet.

"Three pages of it. Gotta say no."

"No! Why not? It's perfect for you. Free-spirited woman decides to have a baby at fifty, goes to a spermbank and ten years later figures out it was her long-lost high school sweetheart's sperm. She sets out to find the brat's father, they fall in love, but something's not copacetic. Turns out it's the guy's twin brother, and the real guy, the father, he's been dead for years. So your character decides to raise the brat without a father. It's the perfect love story for the nineties woman. She gets laid all over the place and still has her freedom. It's very Bridges of Madison Countyish. "

"The clothes are the same as my last picture."

"Clothes-shmothes! We'll hold out for a bigger wardrobe budget, which you get to keep because, after all, it's you."

"That's sweet of you, Julius, but I'm turning a new leaf today. No more ditzy roles."

"But you're the queen of ditz. And glitz, of course."

"I'm sick of ditz. Just Re I got sick of being called kooky, loopy, daffy, dizzy, free spirited and every other ditz synonym the trades could think of. You know, they didn't stop calling me a gamin-faced starlet until I was past forty."

"Don't knock it. You project youth. That's very important in this biz."

"From now on, I project crone."

"Crone! Baby-cakes, I'm third generation. My Yiddish goes only skin-deep. What's this crone?"

"A crone is what I am-a vital, brilliant, mature sixty-year-old woman"

"Sixty! When'd you turn sixty?"

"This morning. I'm a new me, Julius. Throw out all the scripts the majors have been sending you. That's the old Squirrelly Chicane. Get me the kind of scripts that Jessica Tandy gets."

"Jessica Tandy! No offense to Jessica. A lovely woman. But I think she took advantage of a special discount on predeceased embalming. She looks positively pickled."

"Jessica Tandy. But I'll settle for Barbra Streisand."

"Squirrelly, doll. Listen, boobala. If you want to flush your career down the john, that's your business, but don't take your ever-loving agent with you. I got kids."

"My way or the highway, Julius. Get me all the crone scripts that are out there. Remember, I can always write another book."

"Okay, okay, I'll do what I can. But I'm not loving this. And this turning-sixty thing? Don't breathe it to anyone, not even your mother."

"I'm going to shout it from the rooftops. I'm sixty. I'm beyond men and sex and all those unevolved things."

Squirrelly hung up. Almost immediately she picked up the receiver and dialed a long-distance number.

"Hello, Bev. Squirrelly. Just great. It's my birthday! I'm sixty! Isn't that a kick? Listen, I just had a brainstorm. Another self-help book. Different angle this time. Here's the title-Squirrelly: Sixty and Sexellent. "

A prim voice at the other end said, "I don't think that's exactly what your readers want to read."

"Don't be silly. My readers will buy any book with my name on it. They always have."

"We need a media tie-in. Do you have anything happening?"

"You know I'm always happening."

There was a long silence at the other end of the line.

"I don't suppose you've uncovered any more past lives?"

"Did I tell you I was a scullery maid in the days of Henry VIII and he kept hitting on me?"

"Doesn't sound racy enough for a whole book."

"What do you want from a scullery maid? Upward mobility hadn't been invented back then."

"Well, if you get something publishable, give me a call."

The line went dead, and Squirrelly Chicane stared at the holes where the dial tone was coming from.

"What's with everybody today? You'd think I'd contracted the plague. I haven't had the plague since-well, whenever that awful time was."

Squirrelly lay back and stared at the ceiling. It was pink. So were the bedroom walls. Not to mention the bed, the covers and everything else that would take paint.

"Okay," she said slowly. "I'm having an off day." She corrected herself. "A bad birthday. It was bound to happen sometime. I've had such wonderful karma up till now. It'll pass."

She closed her eyes and focused on her chakras. Once she got them lined up, the day would fall into place.

But they refused to align, and the day wasn't getting any younger.

"What I need," she told herself, sitting up, "is a good old-fashioned past-life regression."

Scooting around on the spacious heart-shaped bed, Squirrelly took a pair of silver chopsticks from the night table and used them to extract a cake of brownish material from a turquoise box. She placed the cake in the brass bowl of the silver-filigreed hookah that dominated the night table. The cake crumbled to powder under the rapping of the chopsticks, and a Zippo brought the bit of coal under the bowl to smoldering.

The pipe began bubbling, and Squirrelly Chicane took up the pipe with its amber mouthpiece. She took a hit, held it in her lungs and exhaled it with studied langour.

It felt good. In fact, it felt great. She took another hit, slid back under the pink satin covers and smoked contentedly. It was good bhang. Very excellent. It mellowed her right out.

As she sank deeper into a fog of smoke, Squirrelly thought that she was a long way from the sleepy Virginia town where she had been born.

The bhang brought back her most treasured memories. It was hard to believe it was sixty years ago.

"Sixty years," she murmured. "Sixty years. Two hundred forty seasons. Forty-three pictures. Twenty-eight plays and musicals. Six autobiographies and one self-actualization book. Thirty-two past lives-so far. One flop TV comedy, true, but a gal's gotta eat."

It had, Squirrelly Chicane decided, been a very fulfilling sixty years. She had traveled everywhere. And everywhere she went, she was recognized and feted. It's true the Peruvian authorities had tossed her out of their country for insisting that saucer men had built the Inca pyramids. And there were those unfortunate run-ins with customs over some inconsequential amounts of recreational hallucinogens. But the best was yet to come. She could feel it in her bones. After all, she was a Taurus.

Once she felt loose and relaxed and ready to take on the world, Squirrelly laid aside the pipe and started to rise.

She got her head clear of the pillow when she heard a distinct crack in the area of her lower spine. Then she fell back.

"What's wrong with my back?" she muttered.

She tried rolling over. It was an effort.

"Imelda! Bring me my healing crystals. Quick!"

But the healing crystals failed to work after her trusted Philippina maid had rubbed them up and down her bumpy spine.

"I will call doctor, Miss Squirrelly."

"No way. Doctors are old-fashioned."

"But you cannot get out of the bed."

"It'll pass. It's probably just a crick from the cold. Close all the windows and get a good fire going. That'll warm up my wise old bones."

"I think that is a good idea," Imelda said, replacing the covers.

"Good."

"Heat is good for arthritis."

"Arthritis?"

"My poor mother had it just like you got it, Miss Squirrelly. On damp mornings she could not even turn over."

"Arthritis! It can't be. I eat smart. I do my yoga. And I'm a Taurus."

"You are not a young woman anymore."

And the maid slipped from the room to start the great fireplace going.

Squirrelly Chicane lay on her pink silk sheets, her disordered mop of red hair on the pink satin pillow, and stared at the pink ceiling with troubled blue eyes.

"I'm sixty and I'm falling apart," she moaned. "Why me? Why now?"

Chapter 8

At LAX, Lobsang Drom and Kula the Mongol looked to Remo Williams with expectation writ large on their faces.

"Which way lies the Bunji Lama, White Tiger?" asked Kula.

"What are you looking at me for?" Remo replied.

"This is your land," said Kula. "Do you not know your own neighbors?"

"We just crossed the entire freaking country."

"We must consult another oracle," announced Chiun.

They looked around the airport. Video monitors were mounted at several locations.

"But which one?" asked Lobsang. "There are so many."

"We will each seek the answer, and good fortune smile upon him who discovers the truth first," proclaimed Chiun.

Kula and Lobsang stood before different monitors, attracting rude stares.

"Quick, Remo!" Chiun urged. "We must discover where Squirrelly Chicane lives, or I will forfeit my Mongol gold!"

"Couldn't you have thought of that before we left?"

"What is a pilgrimage without uncertainty?"

"Over with quicker," said Remo. "Look, let's call Smith. He's got every useless piece of trivia that ever was stored on those computers of his."

"No, not Smith."

"Why not?"

"If you ask Smith for Squirrelly Chicane's address, he will want to know why you wish this knowledge. I do not want him to know that I am sunlighting. "

Remo sighed. "The word is 'moonlighting.' And have it your way."

Chiun clapped his hands abruptly. "Remo has had a revelation," he called out. "We must do as he says."

The others returned and regarded Remo with narrowed eyes.

"I say we rent a car to start," said Remo.

Reluctantly Kula and Lobsang followed Remo and Chiun to a car-rental counter. Seeing that it was staffed by a woman, Kula said suddenly, "I demand the honor of renting the vehicle that will transport us to our destiny."

When no one else claimed the honor, Kula whispered, "Remo, teach me the honeyed words American men use to impress their women with their virility and yaks. I wish to practice wooing your women so that when America writhes under our merciful heel, no woman will go unsatisfied."

" 'I have herpes' is a pretty arresting opening line," said Remo.

Purposefully Kula marched up to the counter and, slapping down his gold card, announced, "I am Kula the Mongol, owner of many yaks. I also have herpes in plenty, unlike your weak American men."

A minute later Kula came back with the rental keys in his hand and a broad smile on his face.

"She was very impressed. Her face paled in surprise, and her eyes went exceedingly round in her head."

"Would I steer you wrong?" said Remo.

The rental had a cellular phone, and once they were in traffic, Remo dialed directory assistance, breathing through his mouth because the smell emanating from the old Bunji Lama's trunk in the seat beside him hadn't improved any. Opening the windows didn't help, either. The stench of pollution smelled almost as bad.

"Give me the numbers of the Hollywood tour-bus services," he asked. "All of them."

"Do you have a pencil handy?" asked the operator.

"Don't need one," said Remo, and held up the phone so the Master of Sinanju could absorb the numbers when they emerged from the receiver.

One by one Chiun repeated the telephone numbers back to Remo, who then dialed and asked whoever answered, "Does your tour go by Squirrelly Chicane's place?"

When he got a yes, Remo asked for the tour company address and they drove there.

They were in luck. As soon as they pulled up, a tour bus was pulling out, and Remo got behind it.

The bus led them to the seaside community of Malibu, and they listened for the amplified voice of the driver to announce Squirrelly Chicane's residence.

Over the sound of the bus's engine, the driver started to say, "And just up the road ahead is the home of the multitalented Squirrelly-"

The caterwauling of an ambulance overtook them, forcing Remo to pull over. The bus got out of the way, too, and the white-and-orange ambulance roared up the road marked Private.

"Uh-oh," said Remo.

"What is it?" asked Lobsang, his voice stricken. "What means that awful sound?"

"It is an ambulance," explained Chiun, tight of voice. "In this land it serves but two purposes-to fetch the sick to a doctor and to carry off the dead."

"It is going to the place where the Bunji Lama dwells," muttered Kula uneasily.

Lobsang swallowed hard. "If she has died, we must begin the search anew."

"Quickly, Remo!" squeaked Chiun. "We must save the Bunji Lama from death, else our quest will go on for years to come."

And Remo, trying to keep the dead smell of the old Bunji Lama out of his lungs, floored the accelerator.

SQUIRRELLY CHICANE LAY on a throw rug before her environmentally correct fireplace with her eyes closed, trying to align her chakras. Maybe if she got there lined up, her spine would fall into place. It was a good theory and it might have worked, but for some reason she was seeing double. Even with her eyes closed. Maybe it was the bhang.

She opened her eyes. She was still seeing double. The flames were dancing in stereo just inches away from her pink nailed toes. Their crackling was as loud as a California brushfire.

"This is great bhang," she said aloud. Everything was repeated, from her twenty-no, make that forty-toes, to her various Obies, Tonys, Oscars, Emmys and Grammys ranked upon the mantelpiece. She tried to remember how many Oscars she had won. Three, or was it four? It was hard to tell. She kept spares in every home she owned, from her Parisian pied-a-terre to her London flat.

She lay back, her vertebrae popping audibly with her every move.

"Maybe I should try a chiropractor," she told the high, white ceiling.

The phone rang. Imelda immediately brought it in and held the receiver to her face so Squirrelly needn't sit up and risk dislocating her spine.

"Hello?" she said through gritted capped teeth.

A low, ingratiating voice said, "Hello. How's my favorite sixty-year-old nymphet?"

"Warren! You remembered my birthday! How sweet."

"How could I forget?" The pause on the line was awkward. "So, now that you're sixty, wanna make it with me?"

"Warren! For God sakes, I'm your sister!"

"Yeah, but you're the only actress left in Hollywood I haven't slept with."

"Sue me, you satyr."

"Is that a no?"

"Yes."

"Is that a yes?"

"No."

"So, you'll think about it?"

"Hang up, Imelda," said Squirrelly, pulling away from the phone.

Imelda replaced the cordless phone on its base and left the room.

"And people think I'm a bit flipped out," muttered Squirrelly, who suddenly realized that she had sat up in surprise during the conversation.

She experimented with moving her legs and fell into such a spasm of writhing, twisting, screaming anguish that Imelda, fearing for her mistress, immediately called for an ambulance.

THE PARAMEDICS rushed in, took one look and one of them said, "Back spasm."

The other, sniffing the air and seeing Squirrelly's dilated eyes, added, "High as a kite, too."

They brought in a spine board and tried to strap her to it. But Squirrelly only writhed and screamed more loudly.

The paramedics were trying to figure out what next to do when a resounding bell-like voice punctuated by heavy footfalls that shook the pine flooring announced, "I am Kula the Mongol, possessor of herpes in abundance, and I will slay any Christian who defiles the Bunji Lama with his unworthy hands."

The paramedics looked up, saw a hulking Asian brandishing a silver dagger and immediately backed away.

"We don't want any trouble, friend," one of them said.

"And if you stand away from that woman," a squeaky voice added, "there will be none."

The next person to enter was a little wisp of an Oriental wearing a kimono of scarlet silk. His serious gaze fell upon Squirrelly Chicane, half-strapped to the spine board. With a shriek, he fell upon the board and flung it aside.

"Western medicine!" he said derisively. "It is fortunate that we arrived in time, before they inserted foreign objects down the Bunji Lama's throat or removed her ears."

"They remove the ears of the sick here?" Lobsang said.

"Western doctors are quacks. They believe it is their right to remove any organ or appendage once they pronounce it to be infested with cancer."

"Oh, right," said Remo. "Ear cancer. That's a real killer."

And in the middle of this a dreamy voice called up from the floor, "Who's the Bunji Lamb?"

No one answered that question. Instead, Squirrelly Chicane found herself looking up into a sweet Asian face. It reminded her of the trusting faces she had seen in China years ago, when she had been there on a goodwill tour. To this day, people still criticized her for going and for praising the Chinese authorities after she had returned home. Republicans, mostly. They were so unenlightened.

"Who are you?" she asked the sweet, trustworthy face.

"I am the Master of Sinanju, and I have come to relieve you of your suffering."

"I think my chakras are out of whack, Mr. Sinatra."

Another Oriental face came into view. It looked worried.

"I am Lobsang Drom, of Tibet. You know of the chakras?"

"Yes, of course."

"You are Buddhist?"

"Yes," said the other Oriental.

"Baptist," Squirrelly offered.

"Bap-tist?"

"It is the American word for Buddhist," said the trustworthy-looking Oriental.

"Sounds about right to me," said Squirrelly, going with the flow.

"Can you heal her, Master?"

"Yes, can you heal me, Mr. Sinatra?" asked Squirrelly, who wondered if the old man was some distant cousin of Frank's.

Then the trustworthy Oriental reached behind her head with one hand and began manipulating her spine. Immediately, Squirrelly started feeling very warm in the area of her neck, and a sleepiness suffused her mind. She drifted off, and in the darkness behind her eyelids, she could see her chakras-one set now-falling into line.

Her eyes snapped open suddenly, and she felt firm fingers withdraw from her neck.

"You may sit up now," said the old Oriental, standing up.

Squirrelly gathered her dancer's legs under her. They worked fine. She sat up. Her back responded without protest. There was no pain, no stiffness, no hesitancy.

"Chiropractic?" she asked, assuming a lotus position.

And the trustworthy old Oriental turned his head to spit into the roaring fire.

"Your humors were unbalanced," he said. "There was too much wind in your spine. I have released the bad wind."

Squirrelly blinked. She had never heard of wind in the spine. But it sounded really New Age, so it must be true. That was her personal philosophy in a nutshell: if it sounded right, it was.

Squirrelly saw now there were four strangers in the room, not counting her maid and the two paramedics, who were packing up their spine board and first-aid equipment with sheepish expressions. They quietly slipped away.

Two were the Asians she had seen. The third was also an Asian. But different from the two. He looked like Conan the Hulk. The fourth man was white, very casually dressed, and had the biggest wrists Squirrelly had ever seen in her life.

There was something indefinably interesting about the way he moved. She couldn't take her eyes off him.

And the others couldn't take their eyes off her. Which was perfectly understandable, she decided. After all, wasn't she Squirrelly Chicane, toast of stage, screen, song and many lives?

Squirrelly bestowed upon them her most alluring smile.

"Let me guess, you're a delegation from the People's Republic, sent to convey greetings upon the occasion of my sixtieth birthday."

The faces of the three Asians fell, and the old one spit into the fireplace again.

"Wrong guess," muttered Squirrelly. "Okay, I'll bite. Who are you?"

"I am the Master of Sinanju, destined to be known as Chiun the Great, and I bring with me the Most Holy Lobsang Drom Rinpoche and Kula the Mongol."

"Who's the hunk?"

Everyone scowled at that. Especially the hunk himself.

"A minor servant," said the sweet-faced Chiun.

"Trade you my maid for him"

"No deal," said the hunk with the wrists.

"You don't want to be my boy toy?" Squirrelly asked in a pouty voice.

"I'm a free agent."

"Enough!" cried the Master of Sinanju. "Memo, fetch the trunk of the former Bunji Lama."

And the white guy named Remo stepped from the room, moving, Squirrelly saw with pleasure, like a dancer. Better than Nureyev. With cuter buns, too.

While he was gone, the old Oriental said, in a voice that lost its squeakiness with each word, "O flamehaired one of many lives, we have journeyed far to bring you momentous tidings."

Squirrelly began singing, "Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. I hope the hunk is a Chippendale dancer, because he's built like a tree ...."

When no one joined in, she stopped. "Okay, this isn't about my birthday. So, tell a girl."

"An oracle has told us of your dwelling here in the land called Malibu," said Chiun, "and lo, it has spoken the truth. We have found you here."

"The Master of Sinanju speaks truly," said the Mongol, Kula.

"Truly, he has," added the Tibetan, Lobster. Or whatever his name was.

"I'm in the book," said Squirrelly.

"And now the time has come to test the veracity of the oracle's other revelation," said Chiun.

"An oracle has been talking about me? Behind my back?"

"The oracle has named you the next Bunji Lama."

"I never heard of the Bunji Lamb," said Squirrelly, "I did meet the Dehli Lamb at a party once. He was with Richard Gere. Any relation?"

This time it was the Tibetan who spit into the fireplace.

"When the Bunji Lama comes to the natural end of his life," he said, "it is his destiny to be reincarnated into the body of an infant born at the exact moment of his death. By certain secret signs is the next body recognized. In the case of the last Bunji Lama, he prophesied that the body fate had decreed for his next fleshly house would be born far from Tibet, and so he further prophesied the certain signs by which his regents could recognize him."

"This sounds really, really cosmic," said Squirrelly.

The Master of Sinanju proclaimed, "Behold, the white woman Squirrelly Chicane. Has she not red hair?"

"Yes."

"Truly."

"Not even dyed," said Squirrelly, patting her carroty shag.

"It is well to remember that the first prediction of the forty-sixth Bunji Lama was that his next body would possess hair the hue of fire."

"That's me," said Squirrelly. "Oh, my God! Was I the Bunji Lamb in a previous life?"

"The first test has been passed. Now it is time to see if this woman recognizes any relics of her former life."

"Show me a relic! Show me a relic!" Squirrelly said excitedly.

At that moment Remo returned with the trunk and before Squirrelly's mesmerized gaze, it was opened to reveal a dead, musty smell and a headless seated mummy. Its head sat in its lap as if that were the natural place for it.

"What's that?" she asked,

"The old Bunji Lama," said Lobsang, prying a bronze ceremonial object from the dead mummy's clenched brown fingers. He brought it over to dangle it before Squirrelly's wide eyes.

"Do you recognize this dorje?"

"Dorje?"

"Ceremonial thunderbolt," said Lobsang. "It is the symbol of the Bunji Lama's temporal power."

Squirrelly's brow knit in perplexity. "No. Darn it, it doesn't ring a bell."

"She has passed the second test!" Chiun proclaimed.

"I have?"

"It was predicted that the forty-seventh Bunji Lama would recognize none of the trappings of his former body."

"My God. It's true. I don't recognize it at all." And looking at the lichen-eaten face of the old Bunji Lama, she added, "As a matter of fact, I don't recognize me at all."

"Bulldooky," said Remo. "Of course she doesn't recognize it. She never saw it before in her life. What kinda of cockamamy test is that?"

"Silence, white eyes!" said Lobsang.

"There are other tests," said the Master of Sinanju. "Reveal to us your left shoulder."

Squirrelly peeled her pink pajama top off her shoulder, unbuttoning the top buttons so Remo could get a peek at her cleavage. He pretended to look out the window with a bored expression. Squirrelly figured he was sneaking a peek in the reflection of the windowpane. Men were so obvious.

"Behold the mark! It is the sign that has appeared on the shoulder of the Bunji Lama down through the ages. "

Squirrelly started. The old Oriental was pointing with a perfectly manicured fingernail at her bare shoulder. She pulled it around, saying, "Mark! What mark?"

And there it was, a dimplelike pit on her shoulder.

"My God! Look at it. It's some kind of birthmark I never noticed before."

"That's your vaccination mark, you dip," said Remo.

"What is this chiling word-'vaccination?'" Lobsang demanded.

"It is a rare word meaning the mark of the Bunji Lama-for even in this backward land the fame of the Bunji Lama has spread!" explained the old man.

The Tibetan was hovering close now, squinting at the mark. His long face was unhappy.

"It is the right mark, isn't it?" Squirrelly asked. "Oh, tell me it is. I've been between past lives for so long I've had a serious case of the blahs."

"It is as the texts describe." said Lobsang. "But you are a female with white eyes. No white eyes has ever been a tulku. "

"What's a tulku?"

"An incarnation."

"Call me a white-eyed tulku. Except they're blue, you know."

"There is another test, one not prophesied by the last Bunji Lama, but known to all Worshipful Nameless Ones in the Dark Who See the Light That is Coming," Lobsang said slowly.

"What's that?"

"I must see your navel."

"Sure." And Squirrelly obligingly lifted her pajama top high enough so the lower curve of her breasts was revealed. Remo continued to pretend to be looking out the window.

"It is true!" Lobsang gasped. "Her navel protrudes, just as did all previous Bunji Lamas!"

"You mean I'm the Bunji Lamb because I'm an outie-"

Chiun lifted a quieting hand. "There remains one final test."

"What is it? What is it? I'll take it, whatever it is. I'm great with tests. Crossword puzzles. Scrabble. You name it."

"There remains the joss," intoned Chiun.

"Yes, the joss," said Kula. "Have you a Buddhist shrine in this place, O Light That Might Be?"

"No."

"No."

"Then where do you worship your ancestors?"

"Usually I just call home and talk to my folks."

"If the joss is not found, she is disqualified," Lobsang said sternly.

"But I don't wanna be disqualified," moaned Squirrelly. "I wanna be the Bunji Lamb. I deserve to be the Bunji Lamb. I've been just about everything else. Except the Queen of Sheba. My friend Poopi has dibs on her."

"Does this mean we can go home now?" asked Remo.

"Not until this entire house is searched and the joss found or not found," said Chiun firmly.

"Somebody tell me what a joss is and I'll help you look," Squirrelly said helpfully.

"It is an icon unique in all the world, which with his dying breath the last Bunji Lama described in detail," said Chiun, casting his eyes around the room but avoiding the mantel over the crackling fire.

So it was that Remo Williams, trying to look everywhere but directly at Squirrelly Chicane, spotted the sword-wielding golden statuette without a face.

He blinked. He started to open his mouth, caught himself and slipped up to the fireplace to stand directly in front of the statue, blocking it from view.

"Why don't you guys check the other rooms?" he said casually. "I got this one covered."

Chapter 9

The minute the others left the living room of Squirrelly Chicane's Malibu beach house, Remo turned, grabbed a goldplated statuette off the mantelpiece and tried to find a place to stash it.

The redwood furniture was spare and modern. Not a single cushion to hide anything under. Under the couch looked inviting, but knowing Chiun, Remo figured that would be the first place he'd look.

That left the fireplace. Remo hated to do it-the statue wasn't his property-but this might be an emergency. Whatever Chiun was up to, trouble was sure to follow.

Remo tossed the statue into the fireplace so it landed behind the burning log.

Except the log wasn't really a log, but some kind of papier-mache pseudolog. The minute the statue hit it, the thing cracked in half with a mushy sound and a shower of sparks.

The statue lay in the flames and whirling bits of burning paper exposed for anyone to see.

"Damn," said Remo.

He had no choice. He had to hide the damned thing. Getting down on one knee, Remo reached into the flames. His hand went in and out so fast it was a pink blur, driving a wall of air before it and pushing aside the hungry flames. The hairs on the back of his hand weren't so much as singed when he pulled it out again.

The statue was hot, though. Holding it lightly so the hot metal wouldn't sear his fingertips, Remo rushed it over to the Bunji Lama's trunk and stuffed it behind the mummy's squatting form. Then he closed the trunk.

When the Master of Sinanju returned a few minutes later, Remo tried to look innocent.

Chiun, seeing his expression, said, "What have you been up to?"

"Nothing. Just turning the log." Remo pointed at the shattered log and kept his face relaxed.

Then Kula stormed in saying, "I have found it! I have found it! The defaced joss!"

And he held up the golden statue that was familiar to anyone who ever watched an Academy Award ceremony.

"It is the joss that was foretold!" Chiun cried. "Exactly as foretold."

"It is?" said Squirrelly.

"This is your joss?" demanded Lobsang.

"Yes, of course it's mine."

"I found it holding open the door to the well room," said Kula. "Like a worthless object."

"Yeah, I use that one for a doorstop. What's a girl to do when she has so many josses?"

"It does not look like a Buddha," Lobsang said. "What is this joss called?"

"Oscar."

"Os-car? How came you by it?"

"That thing? Oh, I've only had it for a million years.

Just then, everyone noticed the smoke.

"Where is that smoke coming from?" asked Chiun, crinkling his tiny nose.

"It comes from the trunk of the old Bunji Lama," said Kula. "See? It has closed itself. Now it is smoking. The Bunji Lama craves our attention."

"Oh, hell," muttered Remo. "Here it comes."

Kula threw open the trunk. Pungent smoke rolled out. It smelled like a compost pile on fire.

"What is it you wish to reveal, O Light That Was?" asked Lobsang of the wizened form.

But the old Bunji Lama simply sat there, smoking. Then, all at once, his gold brocade robe surged up in fire.

"It is being consumed!" Lobsang cried. "The old Bunji Lama is leaving us. What can it mean?"

"It means," Remo said dryly, "that he caught fire."

As they watched, the mummy blackened, shriveled and collapsed into a pile of sooty bones and ash.

Revealed was a statue of gold, blank of face and holding a sword point down in his joined hands.

"Look," Kula gasped, "it is another faceless joss. Exactly like the first."

"It is a sign," said Chiun. "The Bunji Lama has offered proof that the joss of the new Bunji Lama is the true one by magically producing its mate!"

"Is this truth?" Lobsang asked Squirrelly.

"Sounds good to me," Squirrelly giggled.

And at that, both Lobsang Drom and Kula the Mongol prostrated themselves before Squirrelly Chicane, saying, "We are your servants, O Light That has Come at Last."

With a shriek of glee, Squirrelly Chicane cried, "I'm the Bunji Lamb! I'm the Bunji Lamb! I knew it! I knew it! I have such awesome karma! This is better than winning at 'Wheel of Fortune'!"

"It's Bunji Lama," said Remo unhappily.

Squirrelly was dancing around the room now. "Wait'll I tell my friends. Wait'll I call my mother! I'm the Bunji Lamb. And I'm gonna be the Bunjiest Lamb that ever was."

"This is the greatest scam that ever was," sobbed Kula, brushing a tear from his eye.

Remo sidled up to the Master of Sinanju and whispered, "I hate to pop everyone's bubble, but I stashed that Oscar in the trunk."

"I know," said Chiun.

"How'd you know?"

"Because I knew you had recognized the joss where the others did not when I beheld the dazed look upon your pale face."

"Wait a minute! Are you telling me you took everyone out of the room because you knew I'd stash the statue?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you just point it out yourself?"

"Because I have pointed out every other portent. It was someone else's turn."

"What about the other statue?"

Chiun shrugged. "Sometimes the gods smile twice in one day."

"Great. Now I'm a part of one of your con jobs."

"No one forced you to do what you did."

"So what do we do now?"

"Celebrate the good fortune of our Buddhist friends who have discovered their long-lost high priestess," said Chiun.

"High is right," said Remo, eyeing the spectacle of Squirrelly Chicane as she squatted down, and like an aging beatnik, began beating out a drum solo on Lobsang Drom's bald and uncomplaining head.

"SO," SQUIRRELLY WAS saying after settling down onto a divan. "Tell me about the Bunji Lamb. What was I like? Who were my lovers? Did I have a craving for chocolate-covered cherries?"

They were seated in a circle about the room, on the floor, in lotus positions. The maid had served tofu and carrot juice. Squirrelly was digging into a large bowl of double-peach frozen yogurt.

Remo sat away from the others because he didn't like the way Squirrelly was eyeing him. If there was such a felony as lascivious gaze, she'd do the maximum jail term.

"It does not matter what you were, Bunji Rinpoche," said Lobsang. "What matters is what you are to be."

"Huh?"

"You are the Bunji Lama."

"You mean I was the Bunji Lamb."

"'Lama,'" said Remo. "Get it right."

Squirrelly frowned at her yogurt. "Llama. Isn't that an animal? I saw a herd of them last time I was in Peru. They smelled worse than wet sheep."

Lobsang Drom intoned, "The Light That Is, you were the Bunji Lama in times past and you are the Bunji Lama anew. You have always been the Bunji Lama. You will always be the Bunji Lama until you have achieved perfect Buddhahood and the cycle of incarnations is no longer necessary for you."

Squirrelly brought the yogurt to her firm mouth and let it slide down her throat before saying, "I'm not following this. How can I be the Bunji llama in this life if I'm already Squirrelly Chicane?"

"Now that you know who you truly are, you are no longer Squirrelly Chicane," Lobsang explained. "Now you are the Bunji Lama."

"Okay," Squirrelly said slowly. "I'm the Bunji Llama. I accept that. Let's get serious about this. I'm the Bunji Llama. First thing I need to know is what does the Bunji Llama wear?"

Lobsang Drom blinked.

"Wear?"

"Yes. What's my wardrobe? I do get a wardrobe, don't I?"

"Yes. I have brought your meditation robes."

Chiun spoke up. "Remo, fetch the meditation robes of the new Bunji Lama."

Remo got up to go.

"Walk slowly, Remo," Squirrelly called after him. "I want to meditate on your buns."

Remo backed out of the room wearing an unhappy expression.

He returned a moment later and surrendered a small ebony chest. Lobsang Drom set it before him and opened it reverently. Out came a silken robe. With silent ceremony he offered it folded to Squirrelly Chicane.

Squirrelly took it, unfolded it, and her aging gamin face went slack.

"Saffron? That's not my color. Do you have anything in burgundy?"

Lobsang flinched.

"Her education has been neglected," Chiun said quickly. "It is obvious that the new Bunji Lama, after being lost for so long, suffers from loss of memory."

Lobsang nodded. "Yes, she suffers from loss of memory."

"I do?"

"She must be reeducated," added Chiun.

"You are a Buddhist?" Lobsang asked Squirrelly.

"Baptist."

"It is the same thing," said Chiun.

"Like hell it is," said Remo.

"I don't think we've been properly introduced," Squirrelly said suddenly, smiling in Remo's direction. "I'm Squirrelly Chicane."

"Remo Buttafuoco," said Remo.

"Any relation?"

"He's my sister."

"Sister?"

"Yeah, that part hasn't come out yet"

Squirrelly looked blank. "You know, I've suspected that for some time."

"Good for you."

Lobsang said, "You know the sutras?"

Squirrelly looked up from her empty yogurt cup. "Sutras?"

"Yes, you have learned these as a child?"

"I have a copy of the Kama Sutra." She looked toward Remo and smiled sweetly. "I know it by heart. Practice makes perfect."

"From this day forward," said Lobsang, "you must embrace celibacy."

"Celibacy!"

"You will eat no meat, no eggs, and meditate daily."

"I already do those things."

"Proof that she is truly Buddhist even if she has lost her way," cried Chiun.

"Look, whatever it takes, I'll do it. I'm really, really into being the Bunji Lamb. Or llama. Whatever. "

"You'll be sorry," said Remo.

"Hush," admonished Chiun.

"Why do you say that?" Squirrelly wanted to know.

"Because I've been on one of Chiun's little outings before. Everybody eats dung except him."

"I can see you're really evolved."

"Well, I don't go around thinking I've lived before."

"You have," said Squirrelly. "You just have to be open-minded like me."

"You're open-minded because you've got holes in your head."

"Remo has lived before," Chiun said blandly.

"The hell I have."

"You were once Lu the Disgraced. A Korean and a Master of Sinanju."

"Is this true, White Tiger?" asked Kula. "Were you once a Korean in a past life?"

Everyone looked to Remo with expectant and welcoming eyes. He felt like an alcoholic stepping into his first AA meeting.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said, and abruptly left the house.

REMO WALKED ALONG the beach. His face was a scowl, and there was an uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. Yet his feet left no discernible marks in the soft sand. Leaving no trace of his passing was so ingrained he was no longer conscious of the fact that he was doing it.

It was night now. The surf was murmuring in some ancient tongue, and the water swept up to spread a cold blanket of bitter cream on the sand. It would have erased his footprints had he left any.

Remo had been raised a Catholic. He had also been taught Western physics, which said it was not possible for a human being to outrun a speeding car, climb the sheer side of a building, dodge a bullet and drive a stiff finger into a block of steel-all feats Remo had learned to perform at Chiun's feet.

Just as his illusions about the physical world around him and his place in it had been stripped away by the Master of Sinanju, so had his religious beliefs been challenged.

When Dr. Harold W. Smith had hired Chiun to train Remo, he wanted only a Sinanju-trained white assassin who could operate in American society. What Smith got was a white man who grew to be more and more a part of the long lineage of Sinanju.

Twenty years later Remo stood with one foot in both worlds. He had learned to live with it. He was loyal to his country still. But a part of him was continually tugged toward the bleak fishing village on the West Korea Bay that had given rise to the House of Sinanju, which for centuries before the birth of Christ had served the thrones of the Old World.

Remo shared no blood with them, as far as he knew. But he was connected to all past Masters through powerful bonds of duty and tradition and honor. Only once or twice in a century was a Master of Sinanju created. And he was the first white man. It was an honor. Remo was proud of it.

Years ago, on one of their earliest missions, Chiun had told Remo about a prophecy of Sinanju, that one day a Master of Sinanju would train a white man who had died in the art of the sun source. And that white man-the dead white tiger, the stories called him-would be the avatar of Shiva the Destroyer. The Hindu god of destruction.

Remo had scoffed at that story. It was just another colorful fable told to mask a harsh reality, like sending the babies home to the sea. For a long time he figured it was something Chiun made up to cover his embarrassment over having to take on a non-Korean pupil.

But things had happened to Remo to make him wonder. He had experienced brief blackouts. When he emerged from them, he found he had done things. Sometimes it was as simple as an enemy lying dead at his feet and Remo having no recollection of killing him. Sometimes it was more. During the Gulf War he had lost several days' worth of memory.

That time Chiun had tried to explain that Shiva had possessed Remo, and the time was approaching when he would take total possession of Remo's mortal form.

That day Remo had walked out of the room, too.

On their last assignment, Remo had experienced one of those episodes again. This time he had a dim recollection of it.

Neither he nor Chiun had spoken of it then or after. But it had been an awkward, unspoken thing between them ever since. Remo wanted no part of any other life or consciousness. He just wanted to be Remo.

Chiun, he could tell, was growing more and more nervous about these episodes. Whatever the predictions had been, the reality was much more menacing. Chiun feared losing Remo to the Shiva consciousness. For to lose Remo was to have the Sinanju line end-a line that Chiun was convinced Remo belonged to by blood. Korean blood.

That was impossible, Remo knew.

And then there was Lu the Disgraced, the Sinanju Master who had served ancient Rome and through his weakness allowed the most important client Sinanju had ever had to fall.

Remo had scoffed at that story-until he had met and fell in love with Ivory, a Sri Lankan woman whom he had never met before but whom he had recognized the instant he met her-and somehow remembered. From another life.

Two thousand years ago they had been lovers, Chiun had told him. Remo was Master Lu and she was a priestess of Kali, the mortal enemy of Shiva. In that life, as in this, cruel death had sundered them at their moment of greatest fulfillment. Remo had moved on. And mostly buried the memories. Until now.

It had seemed so real at the time. The memories coming back were Technicolor vivid.

Was he really Shiva? Had he been Lu?

"Who the hell am I?" Remo muttered to himself as he walked along the sand.

Out in the Pacific the incoming waves were topped with thin white Bombers. He paused to watch them form, crest and collapse on the sand, as eternal as the stars over his head.

The waves formed and collapsed. The stars burned with a cold fire. Man was born and he died. Who could say that his spirit wasn't reborn in other times?

"Ah, the hell with it," Remo said, and started back to the house. One thing was sure. Squirrelly Chicane wasn't the Bunji Lama. That was just another of Chiun's legendary cons.

Chapter 10

Squirrelly Chicane lounged in her pink heart-shaped bed eating chocolate-covered cherries.

"Mom! Hi! It's me, Squirl. I have the most fabulous news."

"You met a man."

"Better than that. I met four men."

"Isn't that a little much even for you, dear?"

"No. It's not like that, mother. Really. Get your mind out of the gutter. Four men came to visit me today with the most unbelievable news."

"What? What?"

"I'm the Bunji Lamb. Or Llama. Or something like that."

"Squirrelly Chicane, have you been nipping at that Wild Turkey bourbon your father gave you last Christmas?"

"Will you stop? Will you just stop this instant? Now, as I was saying, I'm the forty-seventh reincarnation of the Bunji Lamb. In fact, I'm all of them-stretching back to the Wood Dragon Year. Don't even ask how many centuries ago that was. And it gets better. The Bunji Lamb is the reincarnation of-rum-pum-pum-pum-pum-pum-Buddha!"

"The fat ugly person with the big belly and the long earlobes?"

Squirrelly looked at her pink nails. "I don't know exactly which Buddha. I guess so. Will you stop interrupting? Oh, I'm so excited I can hardly think straight."

"Squirrelly dear, if you think you're the reincarnation of some heathen deity, you really aren't thinking straight. Stop being so giggly for a moment and think. How can you be all those persons when you've already told people you've been so many other persons?"

"Mother, have you ever considered the possibility that this just might be too cosmic for someone who's never left Virginia except to have a secret hysterectomy?"

"Leave my operation out of this. Even if you accept that rubbish, a body can have just so many lives. It's only common sense. Something you, I am sorry to say, have been shortchanged on."

"For your information, they proved it beyond a shadow of a doubt."

"How, pray tell?"

Squirrelly tucked her legs under her, noticing that she had to pull the left one in by hand. It would probably have hurt except that she was feeling no pain from the brandy in the cherries. She was on her second box.

"You know that Oscar I earned for Medium Esteem? The one, dear mother, in which I was playing a certain buttinsky older female relative whom I will not name but who bears an uncanny resemblance to your mother?"

"Yes."

"Well, it just so happens it was the spitting image of some Tibetan idol or something that the last Bunji Lamb, who was me in a male body, predicted that the future me, which is the me you are currently talking to, would own. Wasn't I wonderful? I had the foresight to think of all that. And I was just a mere man."

"Squirrelly, are you on drugs? Shall I call Betty Ford?"

"It's just like you to rain on my reincarnations. You know that brassy know-it-all woman I played in Letters from Limbo? Well, that wasn't acting. I was imitating you."

Click.

"That's right," Squirrelly called into the dead phone, "hang up on me. See if I care. You're only my mother for this life. I hope you die and come back as a silkworm."

The phone rang again. Squirrelly counted three rings and said tartly, "If you're calling to apologize, you're too late. My feelings are too terribly hurt for apologies to work."

"Squirl, baby-doll," came the voice of her agent. "Why would I call to apologize?"

"Julius! Listen, dear, I'm so glad you called."

"Good. Have I got a script for you."

"Screw the script. I have stumbled upon the role of a lifetime, Julius."

"What's that?"

"I'm the Bunji Lamb."

"Is that like a Pumi stick? Because if it is, I'd stay away from it. My cousin Irv, who was in Vietnam, stepped on one once. They had to whack his foot off at the ankle. To this day he doesn't walk. He hops."

"For your information, the Bunji Lamb is the spiritual leader of Tibet."

"Tibet Tibet?"

"Tibet Tibet. That's correct. I have the most incredible offer to go to Tibet and be the Bunji Lamb."

"You mean play the Bunji Lamb?"

"No, I said 'be.' Not play. Be. I've evolved beyond mere acting."

"Hold the phone. Are we talking about a movie here?"

"A book. A movie. At worst, a miniseries based on a book. I want you to put the package together for me."

"Who do I call?"

"I don't know. The government of Tibet, I guess. One of their reps is here with me. A dried-up Yul Brynner type named Lobsang. "

"Lobsang. Lobsang. The name rings a bell. Is he producing?"

"He's more of a coach. He's showing me the ropes. You know, language, customs, stuff like that. I already know my title in Tibetan. It's Bunji Bogd. You should see the scrumptious saffron number he gave me to wear. It clashes something awful with my hair and nails, but I think I can fix that."

"Squirrelly, baby. Sweets. You're a million miles ahead of me. How can I put together a package for you without a director, producer or locations scouted?"

"Find someone. Anyone good. How about Hardy Bricker?"

"Bricker? No one can find him. You know, they're whispering that the government got to him because of that assassination movie of his. Maybe he was right, after all."

"Then try Robert Altman. I don't care. I'm not fussy. I can carry this project. Maybe I'll direct."

"You?"

"Why not? It's about the Bunji Lamb. It's set in Tibet. The Bunji Lamb is the long-lost spiritual leader of Tibet. And I'm the Bunji Lamb. What could be more perfect?"

"This sounds like a high-adventure thing. We may need Spielberg or Lucas. Someone of that caliber. And what about the script?"

"We don't need a script! We'll go. I'll liberate the country, write a book about my experiences, and someone can adapt it. I'm thinking of calling it Lamb of Light. How's that for a boffo title?"

"What's this about liberating the country?"

"Oops. Almost forgot," said Squirrelly, fishing for a particularly fat chocolate-covered cherry. She picked it apart with her perfectly-capped teeth as she talked. "It seems there's this itsy-bitsy disagreement between the government of China and the Tibetanese, or whatever they call themselves. I'm sure it's been blown all out of proportion. Goodness knows when I visited China back during the Nixon regime it was a lovely country with a very enlightened leadership. I still know a few low people in high places. Once I get to Tibet and claim the Lion Throne-isn't that a scream? I'm the Bunji Lamb and I'm going to sit on the Lion Throne. Isn't there an old saying about the lion lying down with the lamb? Anyway, once I'm there, I'll just make a few calls and straighten it all out. "

There was a long silence on the line, broken only by the measured breathing of both parties.

Finally Julius said, "Squirrelly, sweetheart. What are you smoking?"

"Listen, Julie. You know I'm not one to lose my temper. Just talk to Universal or Amblin or whomever. Work out the money end. Then we'll all go to Tibet together."

"I don't do locations, you know that. I only have to drive past a Thai restaurant and my bowels clench."

"And listen, I'm having a party tonight. I'm calling it a little lost Bunji Lamb coming-out party. Drop by. I'll introduce you to Lobsang. You and he can talk. Ciao. Or as we Bunji Lambs say, kale pheb. It means 'go softly.' That's Tibetan for Ciao. "

Click.

Squirrelly Chicane leaned back in bed and stretched her limber dancer's body. It was the night of her sixtieth birthday, and she felt as if her entire life stretched before her.

"I wonder if this would work better as a musical?" she muttered. "Maybe I could convince that Remo hunk to be a chorus boy-or whatever they call them."

Chapter 11

"I hope you're happy with yourself," Remo Williams was saying as he brought in the last of the precious lacquered trunks.

The Master of Sinanju sat on his tatami mat on the polished hardwood floor of Squirrelly Chicane's guest house, facing the television screen. He said nothing. There was nothing to say.

His pupil continued addressing imaginary wrongs. "I hope you really enjoyed treating me like a second-class citizen in my own country. In front of your friends."

This time the Master of Sinanju deigned to answer. "Kula was your friend before he was my friend," he said. "In Mongolia he was your Mongol, not mine."

"Well, he sure acted like one of your friends this time around," said Remo, setting down Chiun's trunk. He began pacing the room, wasting both breath and energy.

"He has sworn allegiance to Boldbator Khan, whom I discovered riding the barren steppes and whom I encouraged to grasp the birthright that was his. Now I have done it again."

"Like hell, you have. Boldbator was one thing. Squirrelly Chicane is another. She's an actress, for Christ's sake."

"What better choice to play the greatest role a person can be asked to play? That of the long-lost Bunji Lama."

"Tibet is practically in revolt. There's a civil war going on over there. You just made it ten times worse."

"The outcome has not yet been ordained."

"Ten times worse," Remo repeated. "And for what? Gold?"

"A roomful of gold," Chiun corrected. "A mere purse of gold, or six purses of gold, would not have been sufficient. But for a roomful of gold, the Master of Sinanju was willing to put aside the few fading moments of the end days of his bitter life and undertake the momentous and exhausting search for the long-lost Bunji Lama."

"Exhausting? It took you a freaking day."

"Less. Technically, fourteen of your hours."

"Nice work if you can get it."

"I got lucky."

"Did you see the look on Lobsang's and poor Kula's faces when they decided Squirrelly was the Bunji Lama?" Remo continued. "They were practically in tears."

"Yes, it was very moving."

"It was a scam!"

"Yes. Kula said that. He is very perceptive. For a horse Mongol."

"How you can accept gold under false pretenses and not feel bad about it is beyond me."

"Many things are beyond you," Chiun said coolly. "But to answer your shouted question-I will feel bad if the outcome of the events I have set into motion decree that I feel bad. Until then, I am content. I have earned a roomful of gold, and the long-suffering Tibetan people will soon have their precious Bunji Lama restored to them."

"You know they're planning to sneak her into Tibet."

"The Lion Throne has been too long vacant."

"And she'll probably get killed. The Chinese have beaten Tibet into the ground."

"Rumors spread by whites. No one knows what is happening in Lhasa, which is the capital of Tibet."

"What if Squirrelly gets herself killed?"

"It is very simple. She will be reincarnated once again. And now that I have set her on the proper path, in her next life she will begin as the forty-seventh Bunji Lama, as is her birthright, without the burden of this wasted white interlude."

"I don't believe that crap."

"No, you believe other crap. You believe in goodness and justice and a gaudy bolt of cloth called a flag because it is a different pattern and color from the bolts of cloth of other countries. In Vietnam you were willing to throw your life away because fat men in starched uniforms told you it was the correct thing to do. You are willing to die for a slice of your mother's apple pie, and you without even a mother. Are these not the fables of your ignorant youth?"

The Master of Sinanju's pupil looked pained and said nothing.

"You believed in these things," the Master went on in a less stern tone. "But you remember Lu the Disgraced. And you have heard the voice of Shiva emerge from your own throat."

"Shove it."

"And this is why you are so angry and troubled. You do not understand these things. You wish to bury them in the dead part of your mind. But you cannot. You are still a child in marry ways. It is very sad."

"The hell it is."

"Spoken like a true child. Now be silent. The California news is coming on. Perhaps there will be tidings of interest."

Chiun picked up the remote control that lay in his lap and pressed the On button. The blow-dried head of a local television anchor appeared on the screen. He began speaking in the clear, bell-like tones of those native to the California region of America.

"Topping our news this evening, the Chinese crackdown on Tibet is in its ninth week and the secretary general of the United Nations is calling for Beijing to put an end to martial law and withdraw her troops. Reports of secret executions cannot be confirmed, but refugees continue to carry out of the beleaguered former kingdom horrific tales of murder, torture and other human-rights abuses. From his exile in India, the Dalai Lama has issued a statement that is widely seen as a mild rebuke. And in Beijing a statement attributed to the Panchen Lama has urged the Tibetan people to lay down their arms and cooperate with the people's republic."

"Who's the Panchen Lama?" asked Remo.

"A tool of Beijing. It is his destiny to hand up the Tibetan people into oppression."

"Same old story," muttered Remo. "The UN will fart around until it's too late to help the people on the ground."

"Whites do not care about Asians," sniffed Chiun. "Forceful words will be spoken in ringing voices, but in the end no hands will be lifted."

"No argument there."

"In other news," the newscaster was saying, "the manager for Squirrelly Chicane, award-winning actress, author and advocate of past-life experiences, has declared herself the forty-seventh Bunji Lama and announced that she will go to Tibet and reason with the Chinese military leaders there."

"News travels fast," Remo grunted.

"It is to be hoped that it also travels far," said the Master of Sinanju in a distant voice.

Remo regarded Chiun with a questioning eye, but he pretended not to notice.

Chapter 12

Denholm Fong was doing his morning tai chi exercises when the faxphone began tweedling.

He let the air flow out of his stomach as he extended his right arm, brought his left hand back and planted both feet on the ground. He refused to break his rhythm, even though it was the unlisted faxphone that was emitting sound and paper.

Fong stepped in a circle around the walled-in patio of his Bel Air home that he had purchased for cash, he told his neighbors, from the sale of his first screenplay, Shanghai Cats.

It was an excellent cover story. Southern California was filled with writers making handsome livings off spec screenplays that were optioned and never produced. And so, after moving into Bel Air, Denholm Fong made it a point to periodically throw a party celebrating his latest "sale."

That no film was ever made mattered not at all to Fong's neighbors. They accepted it as business as usual. This was Hollywood, where no one was rejected without compensation.

The trouble was, it had begin to chafe Denholm Fong's ego. People really were making crazy money in this strange country of America writing screenplays that producers paid fabulous sums for and that ended up collecting dust in filing cabinets.

Denholm Fong took to writing screenplays for real. Why not? All his neighbors were doing it. And the unlisted faxphone seldom sounded these days. His true business had been quiet. The biannual stipend from Beijing covered living expenses, but not the boredom that vexed Denholm Fong's days and nights.

It had been so long since the unlisted faxphone had rung that Fong had at first no reaction. He waited for the sounds to cease, then he brought his exercises to an end and walked limber and casual into the house.

There was a single sheet of plain paper in the faxphone output box. He picked it up. It was simply a copy of a Reuter's report that had been faxed from a number in Hong Kong so that there was no phone record of communication between Beijing, China and Denholm Fong-a Chinese-American living in Bel Air, California, who had entered the U.S.A. in the aftermath of the Tiananmen Square massacre to claim asylum, dropped out of UCLA after two terms and now listed "screenwriter" on his 1040 Form.

The article was in Cantonese. It was brief. It reported, in the clipped deadpan prose of newspaper copy the world over, that the American actress Squirrelly Chicane had claimed the title of Bunji Lama, the spiritual leader of Tibet who had last died in the early 1930s. She planned to go to Lhasa as soon as Chinese authorities processed her visa.

There was no cover sheet. No instruction, coded or otherwise. The Chinese Intelligence Service was too clever for that.

The fax transmission might have been simply an amusing clipping sent by one cousin to another across the gulf of the Pacific Ocean. Self-explanatory. Good for a laugh. No reply necessary. Trust you are living the good life in America, cousin.

And so Denholm Fong read it over once, neither smiled nor frowned and let it fall casually from his fingers into a waiting wastepaper basket. No surveillance camera, no hidden CIA microphone, no suspicious spy could possibly divine the fact that China's top assassin-in-residence in the United States had been notified of his next victim.

Denholm Fong dropped into the executive chair before his dormant computer and began calling around.

"Squirrelly? It's Denholm. Listen, darling, I heard the wonderful news. What a part! Congratulations. What's that? A party? I'd love to come. Of course I'll bring a friend. Ciao. "

Click.

"Cousin Nigel? Hello, It's Denholm. My dear friend Squirrelly Chicane is throwing a party tonight, and I'd like you to accompany me. Would you be good enough to tell a few of the others? I'm trying to finish up my latest script. It's called Katmandu Cats. Yes, I'm still mining the cat thing."

Hanging up, Denholm Fong booted up his computer. If he stayed focused, he might be able to finish a working draft of his latest script before Squirrelly's party started. Surely the party would be packed with eager producers who just might give it a read once the hostess had been shoveled into a body bag.

After all, this was Hollywood, where even sudden death didn't get in the way of business. Unless, of course, you happened to be one of the suddenly dead.

It was, the Hollywood community agreed, one of the best parties anyone had thrown in a long, long time.

Even after the terrorists came and tried to slaughter the hostess. Some of the invitees were later heard to say that the terrorists were the best part.

Everyone who was hot that week had been invited. They crammed Squirrelly Chicane's Malibu beach house, percolated in and out of the guest house to indulge in various encounters and vices, then spilled out onto her private beach.

Squirrelly herself held court in her living room with her impressive array of entertainment-industry awards standing at attention on the mantelpiece, the Oscar that had catapulted her to new heights positioned exactly in the center. The air was redolent with a sickly sweet smell coming from a hand-rolled cigarette that was being passed around.

"As soon as the visa problem is cleared up," she was saying, "Tibet, watch out!"

"How does it feel to be a high priestess?" asked a well-known director as he handed off the cigarette.

Squirrelly looked in both directions, grinned and said, "Gotta make sure that sour old Lobsang isn't around when I do this. He always has a yak. Watch."

Squirrelly knocked hot ash off the cigarette and said, "I'm the high priestess, right?"

She took a quick hit, held it in and released aromatic smoke in a cloud of high-pitched giggling, shrieking, "Now I'm the higher priestess! Isn't that a hoot?"

Everyone thought is was a hoot. It was the biggest hoot anyone ever thought of. No one, Squirrelly Chicane was assured, could in the history of the human race, never mind Hollywood, think up a bigger hoot. Pass the joint, please.

THE TERRORISTS got past the private security stationed at the private entrance leading to Squirrelly Chicane's Malibu home by saying, "We're with Sony Pictures."

The first car was allowed to enter.

The second car was not challenged, either.

The valets finished parking both cars at about the same time, and the friends of Denholm Fong began to mix with the crowd, make small talk, sample expensive finger sandwiches and sip assorted intoxicants. They looked relaxed, polished and very southern California. They were all in the film business, they pointedly told anyone who asked and a few who didn't. Most claimed to be Japanese producers or bankers. Japanese money was very important in Hollywood these days. It was enough to impress people who might, but probably would not, know a Japanese from a Chinese at twenty paces.

By the time Denholm Fong pulled up to the gate and identified himself, the party had shifted into second gear. Anyone who wasn't high was drunk or borderline intoxicated.

It would be, Fong saw with a single appraising glance as he stepped from his black Porsche, a piece of cake.

He looked perfectly natural as he strolled onto the beach, smiling and nodding his head to those who waved to him in recognition.

Everyone was here, he thought. Good. There would be no problem. He might even make that long-wished-for connection.

Then he saw the old Korean.

The old Korean wore traditional clothing. Not the trousers of the Korean peasant of the south or the gray work uniform of Fong's North Korean comrades, but the Japanese-style kimono that Koreans almost never wore.

Except for one very special Korean.

It was, in the face of it, utterly impossible. This was a typical ostentatious Hollywood party. It was true that the occasion was rather unusual. And he was expecting Tibetans. He saw no Tibetans. Probably they were wringing their hands in horror at the unspiritual display of opulence.

But the Korean, who looked as if he had first drawn breath in the previous century, was dressed exactly like a Master of Sinanju.

Denholm Fong was a political assassin. He knew his adversaries. He knew also his competition. It was known in Beijing that the House of Sinanju had degenerated to the point that it now worked for the United States.

There could be no doubt. The Reigning Master of Sinanju was present. Fong paused to accept a stuffed crab leg from a silver tray a waiter offered him. He tasted it carefully as he studied the little man who must be the legendary Master of Sinanju.

The little man moved about the crowd like a fussy hen. He wore a disapproving expression on his wrinkled features. His kimono was a riotous thing of shimmering scarlet-and-violet silks.

As Fong watched, the old Korean seemed to be slipping up to each of his own agents. While they blended well in their chic clothes, expensive haircuts and mirrored sunglasses, they nevertheless stood out from the others in one unavoidable respect: they were all ethnic Chinese.

Each time the old man approached one of Fong's agents, the man lost color.

What could he be telling them? Fong wondered.

Denholm waited for the little man to walk away from Nigel before approaching his friend.

"What did that man say to you, Nigel?"

Nigel's voice was very tight as he replied, "The old dragon said that I had come to the wrong party. Cat is not being served."

"A Korean, without a doubt."

"I respectfully request permission to empty my weapon into the old dragon when the time comes."

"The time," Fong said as he caught a flash of saffron out of one corner of his eye, "has come."

Squirrelly Chicane stepped onto the veranda overlooking the beach. She wore the saffron robes of a high lama. On her head, leaning forward drunkenly, perched one of those conical lama hats that resembled a horn of plenty.

"Is everybody having a great time?" she called out, trying to hold the hornlike hat in place.

"Yes!"

Squirrelly hoisted her Oscar high. "Am I the Bunji Lama?"

"Yes!"

"Am I the Bunjiest Lama that ever was?"

"Yes, you are, Squirrelly!" the crowd cried out.

"Good. I want you all to come visit me in Tibet once I settle in and kick out the Chinese army."

Applause greeted the invitation.

"If anyone can kick the Chinese army out of Tibet," someone said, "it's Squirrelly."

"Absolutely. Look at how many Oscars she has."

And over the cacophony of sounds, Denholm Fong raised his voice and said in Mandarin, "Now!"

Out from under silk and poplin jackets came a narrow range of silenced 9 mm pistols.

Fong let Nigel get his Tec-9 out and trained on the old Korean before he reached into his shoulder holster and grasped his Beretta.

He had already decided to draw it only if absolutely necessary. The others could handle the killing. No point in Beijing's top assassin risking his life and blowing his cover just to liquidate an empty-headed over-the-hill actress with delusions of religious grandeur.

Besides, he had his latest script in the car. The chances of a sale were pretty fair once the shooting stopped and his men had escaped in the confusion.

As a precaution, Fong placed his thumb on the safety catch and pushed. The safety wouldn't budge. It felt as if it were welded in place. No matter, he decided. He held the tiny automatic low in both cupped hands and faced the veranda and his target. The first shots from the others would thin out the crowd and start the real party.

Except that no shots came.

A silver dagger did bury itself in Nigel's jugular, though.

Nigel dropped his weapon and tried to grab at the fountain of blood that bubbled out. He spun in place as if trying to synchronize his hands with the blood flow. It was so unexpected, so comical, that Fong almost laughed.

Then Fong became very busy trying to gather up his bowels and stuff them back into the raw hole that had been his abdominal cavity.

This, too, had happened with great suddenness.

Fong had been in the act of turning when he heard a short rip of a sound. His stomach suddenly felt very empty, and something wet and heavy plopped onto his shoes.

He looked down and recognized the slimy grayish-white loops of human intestines. They were still piling up, and his heart gave a single dull thud when Fong realized that they could only be his.

The old Korean who Fong was certain was the Master of Sinanju was already moving on to his next target. There was not a trace of blood on his extended forefinger with its viciously long killing nail. But there was a hell of a lot of it gushing onto the sand under Fong's feet.

Fong folded up like a cheap telescope on the sand and tried to do something about his unraveling intestinal tract. It appeared intact. It was just hanging out of him. Then the bleeding began.

Fong was too professional to delude himself. There was no hope. He looked up to see how the others were faring and watched, helpless, as one by one his men were taken out with such expert skill that most of the other party goers had no idea what was happening.

A lean white man Fong had brushed past and noticed only because his wrists were freakishly thick stepped up to Lee and took hold of his pistol muzzle. It was a stupid thing to do. He might as well have attempted to fend off a stabbing sword by grasping the sharp blade.

Yet before Lee could squeeze the trigger and destroy the man's hand, the weapon was forced upward. The white guy's free hand came up, slapped full on. When it came away, there was red jelly where Lee's face should have been.

The white guy didn't even pause to watch the body fall. He moved on, found another Chinese agent and took hold of his gun arm by the shoulder. When he pulled, the arm came out of the socket like a cooked shoulder of ham, the pistol slipping unfired from dead fingers.

The dismembered arm was flung carelessly into the sea. The rest dropped into the sand to writhe and scream until a descending shoe imploded the screaming man's larynx.

It was that way all up and down the beach. Fong saw it all. The low kicks shattered ankles and kneecaps and brought exposed throats and skulls down to the sand where heels could be brought down with lethal force. That was the white guy's technique. The old Korean simply drifted up on the blind sides of Fong's dwindling agents and inserted one of those fingernails that looked like delicate ivory and were by reputation as sharp and unbreakable as tempered steel. Stealth and skill as one. And Fong's most highly trained men were no more than helpless children before the awful beauty of it.

Only one man, Wing, had the presence of mind to go for the target. He elevated the perforated muzzle of his Tec-9 and squeezed the trigger. The gun quivered. Wing cursed his weapon. It refused to fire. He pounded it with the flat of his hand. And then Fong recalled his own stubborn Beretta. He yanked it from his jacket, trying not to detach his guts, and saw that the safety latch had been mangled so it could not be undone.

Someone had obviously slipped up on him and accomplished this with great skill and care.

"The white guy..." he breathed. A trained US. agent would have spotted the shoulder bulge, unobtrusive as it was.

Denholm Fong would have thrown up except that his stomach was already slipping into the pile made by his escaping viscera. And then all life and consciousness was slipping out of his mortal remains.

While the light was going out of his eyes, Fong smelled a disagreeable body odor and sensed a heavy presence kneel beside him in the sand.

A growling voice said, "I am Kula the Mongol. Why are you not dead, Chinese?"

A Mongol! Fong thought, shuddering. They were more fearsome than Klingons.

"I will cut your throat to send you on your way to another life. Perhaps I will have the honor of killing you in that life, too, Chinese."

Denholm Fong never felt the blade that opened his throat and finished his dying. His last thoughts were of failure. Not of the miserable failure of his duty to the motherland, but the unrealized dream that had been his since he had come to America.

He would never see the worthy name of Denholm Fong up on the silver screen.

REMO Wits was making a pile of bodies in the sand.

The cream of Hollywood stood around applauding as if he and Chiun had been some kind of floor show. Maybe, he thought, if they saw the dead pile high enough without moving, they'd figure it out. But he doubted it.

"That was marvelous, Squirrelly," they were saying.

"The special effects were great!"

"That fake blood looks really, really real."

"It's just Karo syrup with a dash of red food coloring," a punky-looking man said. And he dipped a fried shrimp into a thick scarlet pool in the sand.

He bit down, tasted salt and not sugar, and turned green.

Everyone saw him turn green. Not everyone realized what that meant, but enough of them did. One actress in basic black, too-pale skin and cherry red lips dipped a finger in, tasted and kept tasting. One of the producers present was casting a vampire movie, and a girl had to stand out in this town.

"It's real!" a waiter gasped.

"It is?" said Squirrelly.

"Of course it's real," Remo shouted after depositing another body. "Unless you suddenly remember hiring someone to pretend to kill you."

"Why would anybody want to kill me?"

"Take a look at the guys. What do they look like?"

Lifting her long skirts, Squirrelly came down off the veranda on bare feet.

She looked at the bodies. Everyone looked at the bodies. They made faces. Some scratched their heads or other itchy parts of their anatomies.

"What do they look like?" Remo repeated.

"Dead?" Squirrelly guessed.

"Yeah. Squirl's right. They look dead."

"Okay. Given. They look dead," admitted Remo. "What else do they look?"

More head-scratching and face-making followed. No one offered any theories.

Then Squirrelly said, "Producers! They look like producers."

Remo sighed. "Chinese. They look Chinese."

"The Chinese are my friends," Squirrelly said indignantly. "I was a guest in their country. It was a paradise of sexual equality and happy, productive people living so close to the earth it brought tears of shame to my eyes to think that Americans are denied the kind of fulfillment even the poorest Chinese peasant enjoys as his birthright."

"You were given the VIP bullshit tour. Everybody knows that. And now that you've announced to all the world that you're going to liberate Tibet, they're out to snuff you."

"Remo is right," came the voice of the Master of Sinanju, indicating the stacked dead. "This is the true China."

Squirrelly looked blank. "The true China is dead?"

"The true China is treacherous."

"I don't believe it," said Squirrelly.

"Believe it," said Remo. "Now, before you call the police, we gotta get out of here. Our job is done."

"Why would I call the police?" wondered Squirrelly Chicane.

"To report a crime. To have the bodies carted off to the morgue."

"That's not how we do it in the Hollywood community," Squirrelly said. "The business of Hollywood is publicity, and bad publicity is bad business."

"You can't just leave them here."

"Won't the tide be in soon?" inquired the actress who wanted to play a vampire. She had stopped tasting the blood, and with the aid of a compact mirror was using it to freshen her lipstick.

"Yes," said Lobsang, appearing as if from nowhere. "The tide will be in soon. It will return their useless husks to the sea, for they no longer reside therein."

Squirrelly clapped her hands together like a child. "Oh, that is so Buddhist. I love it when you talk like that. Teach me to talk like that."

"Look," Remo said, dumping the last body onto the pile, "do what you want. Chiun and I have stuck around too long as it is." He turned to Chiun. "Isn't that right, Little Father?"

"We have paid our respects to the forty-seventh Bunji Lama and done her a service, as well." Chiun bowed. "Let that be a gift to you, Light That has Come. May you reign in wisdom and glory."

"Do not fear, Master of Sinanju," said Kula stoutly. "I will see to it that the Bunji arrives in Lhasa still wearing her pink skin. Farewell."

Squirrelly waved them off. "Kale pheb! Go slowly. Or softly. Or whatever. Has anybody seen my roach clip?"

ON THE WAY to the rental car, Remo said to Chiun, "What happens when the Chinese government discovers that Squirrelly's still alive and their agents are dead?"

"They will realize that a message has been sent to them. Perhaps they will discover the wisdom to do the correct thing."

"Is this what you meant by the message traveling far?"

"Possibly," said Chiun.

"Do me a big favor. Let's keep this entire episode between you and me. Okay?"

"Agreed. I do not wish to anger my emperor with my sunlighting. "

"That's 'moonlighting!'"

"We practice the sun source. We are sunlighters. And by the next sun I will have much gold to count"

"I still say there's going to be blood on that gold."

"Spoken like a true Buttafuoco," said Chiun, standing by the passenger side door and pretending to look at the waves until Remo got around to opening it for him. Once that was done, he would remind his pupil to fetch his trunks.

Chapter 13

Dr. Harold W Smith arrived for work promptly at 6:00 a.m. He was a very punctual man. The gate guard had a habit of checking his wristwatch as soon as Smith's beat-up station wagon rolled past the gate, and if it was more than thirty seconds off, he reset it. Smith was that punctual.

The lobby guard knew to expect him to walk in at precisely 6:01. If 6:01 came and went without Smith striding into the lobby attired in his unvarying uniform consisting of a gray three-piece suit, the guard knew that Harold Smith wasn't late. He was out sick. That's how punctual Harold W Smith was.

Smith's personal secretary knew that her employer invariably stepped off the second-floor elevator at exactly 6:02. When she heard the ding of the elevator, she didn't bother to look up. She just said, "No calls, Dr. Smith." That's how tied to his routine was Harold W Smith, director of Folcroft Sanitarium, a sleepy little private hospital nestled amid the poplars and oaks of Rye, New York.

Once Harold W. Smith closed the door marked Director, the portion of his routine that was known to no one but him began.

He settled into the cracked leather chair before the picture window of two-way glass that gave an excellent view of Long Island Sound. It was wasted on Smith because his back was to it, but it had the advantage of being opaque to prying eyes.

Smith looked at his pathologically neat desk, saw nothing out of place and took that as a sign Folcroft's cover had not been penetrated and pressed a concealed stud under the oaken desk.

A section of the desktop to his immediate left dropped, slid away, and up from the exposed well hummed an ordinary-looking computer terminal. The keyboard unfolded itself, and Smith addressed the keys with his long thin gray fingers.

Everything about Harold Smith was gray. His eyes, shielded by rimless glasses, were gray. As was his thinning hair and his dryish skin. He was the grayest of gray men-colorless, uninteresting, a bureaucrat to the bone.

Smith entered a password known only to him, and the computer screen began scrolling the Bill of Rights, which Harold Smith read silently as a reminder of the awesome responsibility that had sat on his gray shoulders since that long-ago day when a much-admired United States President had plucked him out of the bowels of Langley to offer him the position of director of CURE, the supersecret organization that didn't exist.

His reading done, Smith called up the night's news extracts. Deep in the basement of Folcroft, sealed behind a concrete wall, was a bank of mainframe computers that twenty-four hours a day scanned data banks throughout North America, extracting raw data according to programs Smith himself wrote, seeking threats to US. security, whether domestic or foreign.

It had been a light night. Only two events stood out.

Squirrelly Chicane, noted actress, was claiming to be the long-lost Bunji Lama, an obscure Tibetan spiritual leader dead nearly half a century.

Smith frowned. This seemed not to fall under any of the program rubrics he created. Then he read further and saw that Beijing had denounced the announcement as a transparent American provocation.

Smith blinked. It had been a long time since Beijing had used such harsh language to describe a US. action. Relations between the two countries these days were relatively settled.

Smith went on to the next extract.

It was the report of the death of an obscure screenwriter named Denholm Fong. Fong's body had washed up on a California beach, disemboweled.

Smith blinked again. This was not right. Was the computer acting up?

He pressed the question-mark key, and the computer responded by highlighting the single common word in both reports.

The word was "Malibu."

"Odd," said Smith in the dry, lemony voice that betrayed his New England upbringing. "Could there be a connection?"

Smith logged off the extract program and ran a background check on Denholm Fong.

Smith had only to glance over the dead man's bank account activity, IRS files and permanent-resident immigration status in order to come to a conclusion.

"A Red Chinese sleeper agent," he muttered. "But who killed him-and why?"

Smith considered that matter for a few silent moments, decided there was insufficient data for a working theory and dumped his findings into a new file he labeled "Bunji" for brevity's sake. He instructed the computer to dump any related discoveries into the Bunji file. Perhaps a pattern would reveal itself.

Smith turned his attention to Folcroft matters. From time to time the terminal would beep and display an incoming fragment of data that programming had culled out of the billions of bytes of raw data being transmitted across the nation. Nothing escaped the Folcroft Five, and nothing that they brought to his attention escaped the tired gray eyes of Harold W. Smith.

It was close to noon when the intercom buzzed and Smith said, "Yes, Mrs. Mikulka?"

"A Mr. Buttafuoco to see you:'

Smith blinked. "First name?"

"Remo," said the very recognizable voice of Remo Williams.

"Yes, send him in," said Smith quickly, adjusting his hunter green Dartmouth tie.

"Remo, what brings you here?" asked Smith after Remo had closed the door after him.

"Just thought I'd drop by," Remo said in a subdued voice.

"You do not just drop by. Is something wrong?"

Remo dropped onto the long couch by the door and crossed his legs. He looked everywhere except directly at his employer.

"Nah. I was just in the neighborhood."

"Remo, you are never just in the neighborhood. What is wrong?"

"Nothing," said Remo, absently rotating his thick wrists. Smith recognized the habit as something Remo fell into when restless or agitated.

"Have it your way," Smith said dismissively. "But I am very busy."

Remo came out of his seat and wandered over to the terminal.

"Anything up?" he asked.

"No."

Remo's face fell. "Too bad. I wouldn't mind an assignment right about now. You know, just for something to do."

"I would think that you would enjoy some time off after your last assignment."

"The HELP scare? It wasn't so bad." Remo was looking out the window now. Seen in profile, his face was troubled.

Smith took off his glasses and began cleaning them with a cloth. "According to Master Chiun, you came close to death at the hands of that Sri Lankan woman assassin. Have there been any aftereffects of that poison?"

"No. I feel great. I shrugged that stuff off like a twenty-four hour flu."

"People do not shrug off lethal toxins," Smith pointed out.

"I do."

Smith cleared his throat and said, "Er, Master Chiun said you had one of those . . . episodes again."

Remo whirled. "He told you about it?"

"Yes. He has told me about most of them."

Remo frowned. His mouth compressed, and he seemed to be looking inward.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell me, Remo?" asked Smith in a voice he tried to keep calm.

Remo shrugged. "What's to tell? I don't remember them."

"Any of them?"

"I remember some of it, yeah. I remember the voice."

"You heard the voice?"

"Sometimes I hear it in my head. Sometimes it comes out of me."

"Is that why you've come here?"

"Smitty, you know the crap Chiun believes in. The legends of Shiva?"

"Chiun has explained it to me."

"It's just superstition, isn't it?"

Smith hesitated. He had seen Remo when one of those spells had overtaken him. The Remo he knew had talents that outclassed the greatest athletes and martial artists ever known. The Remo who had spoken in another voice was utterly alien to anything human and displayed attributes far beyond the amplified skills that could be explained by Sinanju training.

"Define superstition," said Smith.

Remo turned away from the window. "Oh, come off it, Smith. You can't tell me you buy any of it."

"I buy nothing," returned Smith in a crisp voice. "But since my first encounter with the Master of Sinanju, my natural skepticism has taken successive pummelings. I prefer not to dwell on things I cannot adequately explain."

"I'm not talking Sinanju. I'm talking-" Remo waved his arms "-that Squirrelly Chicane bull!'

Smith leaned back in his chair. "I do not believe in reincarnation, if that is what you are driving at."

Remo suddenly returned to the desk, set his hands on the desktop and leaned close to Smith's thin face.

"Smitty, this place is full of specialists. Ever hear of a condition that could explain this voice I hear?"

Smith considered. "Yes, there is a condition known as Psychogenic Fugue State. Its chief symptom is a complete personality displacement in which the subject's personality is sublimated for that of another's. In profound cases the subject talks and acts in a manner distinctly different from his usual self. I have sometimes wondered if it applied to your case."

"Case? I don't have a case!"

"You are hearing voices. You admit this."

"I'm making the voice. Or my throat is."

"Would you like to see a psychiatrist, Remo?"

"Yes. No!"

"Well, which is it?"

"I'd like for all this metaphysical junk to just fly away. But I'll settle for somebody explaining it for me."

"Dr. Gerling might be able to shed some light. Would you like to speak with him?"

"Let me think about it. Okay. If I've slipped my track, I'm not sure I'm in a big rush to find out."

"What if I simply explain your situation to him and get back to you on his opinion? "

"Okay. I can live with that."

"Good," said Harold Smith. "Is there anything else?"

A desk drawer began ringing. Smith opened it, lifted out a standard AT ephone the color of a fire engine and lifted the receiver. There was no dial.

"Yes, Mr. President?" said Harold Smith after clearing his throat.

Remo turned his back and pretended not to be listening, but every word spoken by the President of the United States over the dedicated line to Washington reached his ears.

"Dr. Smith," the President said in his hoarse but mellow down-home voice. "How are you?"

"I am well, Mr. President," said Smith in a voice that communicated his mild impatience with idle talk. Smith let the silence hang between Folcroft and the White House.

"Well, yes. Glad to hear it, Smith. I need your input on something."

"Do you have a matter requiring my people?" Smith asked.

"Yes and no," said the President uncomfortably.

"Which is it?" returned Smith.

Remo made a hand motion that meant speed it up. Smith ignored him.

"I wonder if you've read about-I hesitate to bring this up-Squirrelly Chicane?"

"I have," admitted Smith.

"Well, she's a friend of my wife, who as you may have heard, has appointed herself head of the Presidential Commission on Tibetan Independence, and she's bound and determined to go to Tibet and see this thing through."

"Who-the First Lady or Squirrelly Chicane?"

"Squirrelly. The First Lady appointed her a special envoy of something when this crazy lama thing was announced. Myself, I don't swallow all this New Age stuff-and let me say that neither does the First Lady-but as I said, she and Squirrelly are friends."

Smith furrowed his pale brow. "I am not following this."

"My wife has asked the Chinese state department to expedite Squirrelly Chicane's visa application to enter Tibet."

"Mr. President, don't you realize the implications of that act?"

"Well, we can't stop her. Either of them, actually. And Squirrelly's free to travel where she wants to go."

"Yes, but her presence in Tibet could lead to open revolt."

"Isn't that what they have over there already?"

"Lhasa is in an uproar, but the countryside is relatively passive now. The introduction of a volatile and unpredictable element like Miss Chicane-"

"Unpredictable is correct," the President said wryly. "I recognize the seriousness of the situation, but as I said, she's determined to go, and the First Lady is especially interested in the situation over there in Tibet. I know I'm not empowered to order you to accept assignments, Smith. I can only suggest them-"

"A built-in safeguard designed to avoid executive-branch abuse of CURE."

"And I want it clearly understood that I'm not insisting on this," returned the President. He lowered his voice as if to protect against an eavesdropper. It became ingratiating. "But do you think you could see your way clear to sending your people along to kinda chaperone Squirrelly?"

Harold Smith stared into space a moment. His lemony expression did not change a particle.

Remo turned and made throat-cutting gestures and shook his head violently. Smith ignored him. He and he alone had sole authority to accept or decline Presidential tasks.

"No, Mr. President, I do not see this as within the CURE mandate."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," the President said in a disconsolate tone.

"I do not feel that way. That is simply the way it is. Conditions in Tibet, regrettable as they are, have no bearing on US. security. But if Miss Chicane goes to Tibet, a rift could develop between the US. and China. I can only advise you against allowing her to go. The rest I leave to your judgment."

"If it were up to me-"

"It is up to you. You are the President of the United States."

"You don't know my wife, the copresident."

"Mr. President," Smith said sternly, "the American people did not elect a copresident. There is no such constitutional office. There is only a president and a vice-president. Your wife is your wife, not an elected official."

"I share my every decision with her. She's my rock. There are no secrets from her."

Smith went instantly white. His voice cracked on his next word. "Mr. President, you did not tell her about the organization?"

"I take that back. I held that one back. Just in case of a divorce."

"I hesitate to mention this," said Smith, "but last month the red telephone rang, and when I answered, a suspicious woman's voice demanded to know who I was"

The President let out a weary sigh. "Yeah, she told me. I'm sorry, Smith. I really am. She was thinking of redecorating the Lincoln bedroom and found the red phone stashed in the night table. Naturally she picked it up, and-"

"What did you tell her?"

"I fibbed. I told her it was the hot line to Canada or something."

"I trust she believed you."

"Well, not exactly," the President admitted in a sheepish tone. "I think she thinks it's some kind of secret line to an old girlfriend."

"Do not disabuse her of that notion," said Smith.

"Are you crazy?"

"Mr. President, it is better for you to have a public divorce than to have the existence of CURE come out on your watch. You could be impeached for allowing CURE to continue."

"Don't think the notion doesn't haunt me."

"Good day, Mr. President. If you have other matters directly pertaining to national security, do not hesitate to bring them to my attention."