The Seventh Stone

Remo smiled. "That sounds good."

"It is good. It is the very best we have."

"I'm starved too," said Kim. "I'd like something to eat."

"Anything you want, miss."

"A filet mignon. Rare. If there isn't a little blood on the plate, I'll know it's been overcooked. And I'd like a baked potato with that, sour cream and a big salad with bleu-cheese dressing. Send a bottle of burgundy along too. The older the better."

"Will the gentleman be dining with madam?" they asked.

"Fresh water and rice," Remo said.

"Nice and clumpy," the three chorused. "Just the way you like it."

They looked to Remo for approval and Remo nodded and smiled.

Chiun grumbled in Korean for Remo's ears. "Good. Get out of here and go watch that cow eat dead cow meat."

"Sure," said Remo. If Chiun wanted to be alone, let him be alone. Remo hadn't wanted this vacation in the first place and now that he was starting to enjoy it a little, he wasn't going to let Chiun spoil it. If only Remo could shake that crazy restless feeling that sat in him like an undigested meal. He thought he had lost it for a while, back there in the cave with Kim before the tide came in, but now it was back, clinging and unshakable as the smell of death itself.

"We'll show you to the senator's suite now," the room-service trio offered.

Kim followed them through the door, the oversized robe trailing behind her like a beachwear wedding gown. Remo paused in the doorway, turned and said, "Good night, Little Father."

"For some," Chiun muttered without looking up from the spread-out roll of parchment. "If you come back reeking of dead cow meat, you'll have to sleep on the beach."

Remo smiled. "I don't think I'll have any trouble finding a place to sleep."

Chapter Ten

Reginald Woburn III took a tentative sip of orange juice, gagged and spit it out. Fighting the queasy feeling in his stomach, he poked at the two crisp strips of bacon on his plate, but couldn't bring himself to lift them to his mouth. He knew they were fine, just the way he liked them, but right now they had no more appeal than terminal lung cancer.

And the eggs were worse. There were two of them, sunny-side-up, nestled in the center of the plate between the sliced fruit and bacon, but they stared up at him like two milky-yellow blind but accusatory eyes. He could almost hear them speaking to him: "Reginald, you failed again. What kind of Wo descendant are you? You are a failure."

Reggie pushed over the glass-and-wrought-iron table. It hit the carpeted floor of the gazebo with a crackling crash. The tabletop shattered. The glassware broke. Food bits were spattered everywhere.

Reggie shoved back his chair and ran into the shrubbery, retching, his throat constricted, flooded with the loathsome-tasting bile. He tried to throw up, but nothing came out because his stomach was as empty as a freshly dug grave.

He had not been able to eat anything, not since last evening when he heard the news that the sea had not killed the one called Remo.

This time it wasn't a couple of lazy Indians or three over-priced hit men. The sea was the goddamned sea. The sea, cold, relentless, powerful enough to swallow up fleets of ships.

But not Remo. No, the sea could suck up the Titanic like a cocktail hors d'oeuvre, but Remo just went right through it, from bottom to top, and swam back to shore again with no more challenge than if he had been paddling around the shallow end of a backyard pool. With the girl in tow; that made it even more incredible.

Reggie rose from his knees and brushed off his white flannel trousers. His hands were shaking as if he had just come off a three-day party at the polo club with plenteous liquor and pliable women.

He moved slowly, like an old man with aching legs and nowhere to go, back to the gazebo, and collapsed into the high-backed wicker chair. Deep down inside, where his heart was supposed to be, he knew what was wrong with him. It wasn't that his stomach hurt or his hands trembled. They were symptoms. What was wrong with him was fear, terror, older and darker than time itself. He could feel it eating away at him, consuming him in big hungry mouthfuls from the inside out, and he didn't know how much longer he would be able to stand it. Soon, nothing would be left but a dry empty husk, not enough Reggie Woburn left beneath the dry papery skin to even matter.

Could it be that the seventh stone was wrong? Were these two invincible? Or did he just not understand the stone's message yet?

He had been certain that the sea would kill the "plum" named Remo, so certain that he already considered it an accomplished fact. But the sea, so big that you couldn't even hire it to do your work, had failed him. And what else was left? There had to be something else, especially now that the two "plums" were together again. But as he sat and thought, no new ideas came to him, only the fear gnawing away at his insides, taking away a little more of his manhood with every passing minute.

He tried to get a grip on himself. He needed something, something big and important to prove that he was not only still a man, but also the first son of the first son in the direct line of Wo, and therefore a ruler.

His train of thought was broken by the sound of someone singing. It was a high strong lusty voice, female and thick with the island's lyrical accents. The sea breeze carried the song from the beach. It was a happy song, a celebration of love and life, and not at all the kind of song that Reggie was in the mood to hear.

Craning his neck, he peered over the thick wall of shrubbery that separated his gazebo from the beach. He saw an immense black figure waddle into view. Her brightly colored cotton dress stretched around her huge body like a sausage casing about to split. The woman's toenails were painted an improbable day-glo pink. A bright red kerchief was wrapped around her head and atop that was a towering stack of hand-woven baskets nearly as tall as herself.

She moved along the sunlit beach with her own easy, shuffling rhythm, singing. As she came abreast of the gazebo, she noticed Reggie and ended her song abruptly and favored him with a wide easy smile.

"Basket Mary at your service," she said. "Everybody know me. I make the best baskets in all the islands, maybe even the whole wide world. Big baskets, little baskets, all sizes in between, all different colors, all different shapes. You want something special, I make it up for you. Only one day wait. You ask anybody and they tell you that Basket Mary's baskets are the best. The best."

She paused at the end of her oft-practiced spiel and looked at Reginald Woburn III for encouragement.

"Let's have a look at them then," Reggie said with a smile. He leaned over and opened the little wrought-iron gate buried inside the shrubs and then stepped back while Basket Mary squeezed her bulk through it. Her grin faded a little as she caught sight of the overturned table, the shattered crockery, the little slumps of congealed egg and fruit with the bluebottle flies buzzing around them. Something was not so nice here was the expression that briefly crossed her face. Something was not right. But like the smallest cloud crossing in front of the sun, the feeling passed in just a moment. Basket Mary looked up. The sun was still there, right up in the middle of the sky as always, and she smiled as she looked again at Reginald Woburn and noticed his beautifully cut clothes, the luxurious furnishings of his gazebo and the private beach that led to the big fine mansion on the hill behind it.

Basket Mary decided there was nothing wrong here, at least nothing that a couple of her baskets couldn't cure.

"Let's see the green-and-white one there," Reggie suggested. "The one in the middle of the stack."

"You got the eye for real quality," Basket Mary congratulated him. With a swift and surprisingly graceful motion, she transferred the teetering stack of baskets from her head to her hands and then to the carpeted floor. She leaned over to separate the one he wanted from the stack. Reggie leaned over too. He was smiling as his fingers fumbled for and clasped the breakfast knife, lifting it out of the debris of his scattered food.

Suddenly Reggie was feeling good. The fear that had clawed at his inside was melting away as if it had never been there at all. In its place was a warm glow, the thrill of anticipation. What had he ever been afraid of?

"Here you go." Looking up, Basket Mary held out the pretty green-and-white basket.

"And here you go," Reggie said, smiling. Sunlight glistened off the long slender blade as he drove it into her vast chest. Blood sputtered around the metal and Basket Mary screamed, until Reggie clapped his hand over her mouth and bore her to the ground with the weight of his own body, as his knife-continued to rummage around in the big woman's chest.

She struggled for a few moments, her body thudding around as she tried to buck Reggie off her. The latticework walls of the gazebo shook, and then she was still.

Reggie never felt better in his life. Suddenly, he wanted breakfast. He rose and looked down at Basket Marys body. Then he remembered something he read once: that inside every fat person was a thin person trying to get out.

He knelt again alongside Basket Mary, raised the knife and started to test that theory.

When he was done, he picked up a telephone and dialed the police. "Could you send someone over?" he requested cheerfully. "There's a dead woman all over my gazebo."

The constable arrived an hour later. He stood just inside the wrought-iron gate and surveyed the carnage with professional calm. "No arrow in the heart, no morder," he pronounced. "Natural causes for sure. Never any morder here. Just surf, sun and good times. A real vacation paradise."

"Absolutely," Reggie agreed. He nodded toward what used to be Basket Mary. "If it's not too much trouble, I'm a little short of staff."

"No trouble," the constable said. "I get her up for you." He reached into the pocket of his baggy uniform and pulled out a folded plastic trash bag. "My scene-of-the-crime kit," he said. "Never go nowhere without it. Come in handy when these natural-causes deaths be messy like this one."

"Very commendable," Reggie said.

"You go and enjoy yourself. I clean up fine." Kneeling down on the blood-soaked carpet, he began to shove Basket Mary into the bag, with all the eagerness of a slum kid who had unintentionally been invited to the White House Easteregg hunt.

The aftermath of killing held no interest for Reggie. He picked up a croissant that had landed atop one of the bushes, and munching casually, he opened the gate and sauntered down to the beach. There was a cool pleasant breeze from the sea. Gulls wheeled and dived above the clear blue water. The surf lapped gently against the rocks like a lover talking.

Reggie sat down on a flat-topped rock at the water's edge. Now that he was feeling like his old self again, his thoughts returned to the problem of the two plums. He could think of them now without fear. It was a strange but wonderful contentment, a feeling of being at peace with himself.

With the sun warm against his face, he leaned over to doodle in the wet sand with his blood-encrusted finger. He drew a sailing ship with no emblem on its unfurled canvas. He doodled men in armor, their faces old and wise and full of mystery. He drew himself and his father and a crude outline of the island and finally the seventh stone itself. The surf came in, spitting at the rocks. When it went back out again, the wet sand was smooth, his drawings erased by the sea.

Not fully aware of what he was doing, Reggie leaned over again. The sand and water had washed the blood from his finger. He began to draw again, not shapes or images this time, but a single word, in ancient runelike characters. He recognized the language immediately. It was the language of Wo, the words that tied all the descendants of Prince Wo together. And he recognized the word too, a single word of command that had come unbidden to his casual finger from somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind. He had known all the time what he must do about the "two plums." Smiling, Reggie stood and studied the word in the sand. It was a summons, a call to the far-flung Wo clan.

The single word was "COME."

Reggie sent the one word to the farthest corners of the earth. In Nairobi, the Wosheesha tribe forsook the sacred ritual of the harvest hunt to pack up their spears and leather thongs. In Hokkaido, Japan, the Woshimoto clan prepared their ceremonial robes and made a final visit to the graves of their ancestors. In Manchester, England, the Woosters packed their gladstones and left a note for the milkman. The Wogrooths of Holland left their tulip beds in the care of a neighbor while the Worriers of France closed and shuttered their prosperous Left Bank café.

Two mornings later, the descendants of Prince Wo had converged on the island of Little Exuma. As the clock in the tower of Government House chimed the noon hour, Reginald Woburn III rose from his chair at the head of a long banquet table. The table was piled high with food, an international bazaar of delicacies representing the best of more than a dozen different cultures. There was even more diversity in the people seated in the high-backed chairs that bordered the table. Faces as ebony as a starless night; delicate oval faces the precise shade of yellowing ivory; bland milkwhite faces, cream and cocoa faces, cinnamonred faces; young faces and old faces, and all of them turned attentively to the man at the head of the table.

"You are all welcome here," Reginald Woburn greeted them. "You have come from near and far in answer to my summons and now we are all together, every last living descendant of the great Prince Wo. It is a time for rejoicing, a time for celebration, but that is not the only reason you have traveled these many miles."

He looked around the large room. The faces stared at him.

"We are gathered here for a purpose, a noble undertaking that will, once and for all, restore our noble house to its full and rightful position of honor. We have come here to band together against a single enemy. We are united so that we may banish him from the face of the earth forever."

"Who is this great enemy?" Maui Wosheesha demanded. His voice was as full of quiet strength as a lion passing silently through the high grass. His gold and ivory bracelets clattered musically as his broad hand closed around the shaft of his steeltipped spear.

"You wish to see him?" Reggie asked. "You desire to hear his name spoken aloud?"

"Show the man and say the name," Hirako Woshimoto insisted. There was the faintest rustle of silk as his fingers came to rest on the tasseled handle of his ceremonial samurai sword.

"The man is one called Remo. And if you wish to see him, you need merely to look beneath your plates."

The low-voiced murmur of a dozen different tongues accompanied the lifting of the plates. There was a photograph under each one, all alike. They showed Remo, wearing the ugly grayish suit he had worn to the presidential press conference. The camera had caught him in the instant that he had tossed a notebook, severing Du Wok's sword hand from the rest of his arm.

"His head is mine," Ree Wok shouted. "Mine," said Maui Wosheesha. "Mine," said Hirako Woshimoto.

Reginald Woburn silenced them with an upraised hand.

"Who will kill this man?" he shouted.

"I will." A hundred voices, a dozen tongues, all of them speaking as one. The windowpanes rattled as the chorused response filled the huge dining hall.

Reginald Woburn smiled, then slowly looked around the long table, meeting the eyes of each of them in turn.

"He who kills him will have a further honor," he said.

"What is this honor that will be mine?" asked Hirako Woshimoto.

"He who kills this man will be allowed to kill another."

"Who is?"

"The beast," Reginald Woburn said. "The Korean assassin who drove Prince Wo to these shores. For this young one is his disciple and the seventh stone tells us that both must die."

Chapter Eleven

"Pay attention now," said Chiun. "A wandering mind gathers only moss."

"That's a rolling stone," said Remo, "and I am paying attention. I always pay attention."

"You know less about attention than you know about wisdom. A rolling stone gathers no moss; a wandering mind gathers all moss. They are very different," Chiun said.

"If you say so, Chiun," Remo said. He smiled at his teacher, who looked away, annoyed. Chiun was worried about Remo. The hiding time had still not passed for him, and he was out of touch with himself and his reason for being. He did nothing now except to perform unspeakable acts with that imposter posing as an actress, who didn't even know Barbra Streisand, and that was proof that there was something wrong with Remo.

Because he should not be paying so much attention to a woman and to sex; there were more important things for a Master of Sinanju, primarily training and contemplation. As it was now, Chiun had had to implore Remo to show up for this training session.

"Watch closely now," Chiun said.

"I am watching. Is this a test to see how long I last before I collapse of boredom?"

"Enough," Chiun muttered.

They stood on the beach of a deserted inlet on the undevloped side of the island. There were no buildings or people, no pleasure boats to smudge the umblemished line of the distant horizon. A strong southwest wind rippled the surface of the crystal blue water and tempered the heat of the midday sun.

Chiun walked to the edge of the water, glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Remo was watching, then stepped toward the frothy bubbles of the spent surf. As he took his first step, he began to wave his arms back and forth alongside his body, his fingernails pointed downward.

He walked out five steps, his arms still moving, then five more. Then he turned and walked back and stood before Remo.

"Well?" he said.

"That's the lesson for today?" Remo said. "Watching you take a walk in the water?"

"No, the lesson for today is the same as the lesson for every day: that you are truly an idiot. You saw me walk into the water?"

"Of course. I told you I was paying attention."

"Then look at my sandals," Chiun said. He raised one thin yellow leg toward Remo. His thin yellow shin peeked out from under the lifted edge of his dark red kimono.

Remo looked at the offered sandal, then leaned over to touch it. It was dry, bone dry. And yet he had just seen Chiun walk ten paces out into the ocean.

"How'd you do that?"

"If you were truly paying attention, you would know the answer," Chiun said. "Now this time, watch again. But with your eyes and mind open and your mouth closed, please."

Chiun repeated the stroll into the water and this time Remo saw that the back-and-forth motion of Chiun's arms at the sides of his body was setting up a pressure wall that literally pushed back the water from alongside him.

When Chiun came back, he said, "Did you see?"

"I certainly did," Remo said. "Do you know that Moses did that and he got five books in the Bible?"

To Chiun's unamused look, he quickly added, "Okay, Chiun, I liked it a lot. It was real nice."

"Nice?" Chiun shrieked. "A walk in a garden is nice. A cup of warm tea is nice. Clean underwear is nice. This? This is spectacular." His wispy white hair fluttered in the wind as he shook his head toward Remo.

"All right, Chiun. It's great," Remo said. "It must be terrific at beach parties."

"Do not patronize me, white thing," Chiun said. "This is a tool, not a source of amusement. With this, Wo Lee, the Nearly Great, once escaped an evil king by running through a pond of man-eating fish."

"Hold on. Wo Lee, the Nearly Great?" Remo asked.

"Yes. None other."

"Why was he 'the nearly great'?" Remo asked.

"Because he had the misfortune to select a pupil who did not pay attention."

"All right, enough. I'm paying attention. I just don't see a lot of practical value in being able to part the waters," Remo said.

"I thought it might be particularly helpful to you now that you've taken to loitering in damp caves with strange women," Chiun said. "Now you do it."

Just as Remo walked to the edge of the water, he heard his name called in a soft, pleasantly familiar voice. He turned to see Kim Kilev standing on one of the grass-capped dunes. Her aquablue swimsuit emphasized every curve of her fullbreasted supple body.

"I've been looking for you everywhere," she said. "What are you two doing over on this side of the island?"

"Nothing," Chiun muttered. "Especially him."

"Let's go swimming then," Kim said with a smile. "The water looks beautiful."

"Good idea," Remo said. "Chiun, I'll practice later. I promise."

"Let us hope that later is not too late," Chiun said.

Kim Kiley said, "I brought a surfboard along. We can take turns on it." She pointed up to the tall saw grass where a long blue-and-white fiberglass board was lying.

"I'll go first," she said. "I want to get the board back by four."

"Go ahead," said Chiun. "You can take my turn too. Also Remo's."

"You're sweet," Kim said.

"Just what I was going to say," Remo agreed. Kim got the board and launched herself gracefully into the surf. After she cleared the crest of an incoming wave, she jockeyed herself into a sitting position and began to paddle farther out.

"This is impossible," Chiun said. "How can we accomplish anything with all these distractions?"

"This is a vacation," Remo reminded him. "Distractions are what vacations are all about. And anyway, Kim isn't 'all these distractions.' She's the only one."

"It only takes one for you to neglect your training," Chiun said.

Remo's reply was cut short by a cry for help. It was Kim's voice, raised in a thin plaintive wail as the wind carried it across the water. Remo shaded his eyes and spotted her, a tiny speck in the distance. Her head was just above the ocean's surface. Her arms were wrapped around the slippery surface of the board as it bucked and fishtailed, buffeted by the choppy wind-whipped waves.

Remo dived into the surf and swam toward her, his smooth powerful strokes eating up the distance between them. He felt a sense of exhilaration, of breaking free. He had not been able to concentrate during the brief training session; it was all part of that restless feeling that he kept thinking would go away but which he had not been able to shake for the last two weeks. But this, this now felt right.

Raising his head, Remo peered above the white-foamed waves to catch a glimpse of Kim as her hands lost their tentative grip on the board and with one more cry for help, she slipped beneath the surface.

Remo glided across the water now, moving through it not like a man but the way Chiun had taught him, like a fish, being in the water and of it. When he reached the spot where Kim had gone under, he kicked his legs back, twisted and dived. Even this far out, the water was crystal clear.

But he saw no sign of her. Where was she? He started to dive deeper when he felt the slight pressure of movement in the water behind him. He turned, expecting Kim and instead found himself suddenly entangled in a vast net. It closed around, covering him on all sides as if he were some kind of insect who had mistakenly strayed into a spider's waiting web. He struggled to break free, but the more he struggled, the more his twisting body became tangled up in the net. It clung to his arms and legs, and wrapped itself around his body and head. His vision was obscured by the fine, metal-reinforced mesh. Every move he made only bound him tighter.

Remo felt a flash of panic, not for himself but for Kim. She needed him. This was only a net, a simple fisherman's tool, he told himself. Nothing to get worked up about. He would break the net and then continue his search.

Back on the beach, Chiun watched the shadow cast by a ragged-leaf palm tree. Its length told him that two minutes had passed since he had seen Remo's head duck under the waves. Chiun thought he would head back to the condominium soon. It had been a trying day and a cup of tea would be soothing.

Calming himself, concentrating, Remo grasped the net in his hands and felt it slip away. He tried again and again missed. Whipped by the strong current, the fine-meshed webbing kept moving out of reach, and his efforts had only served to draw the net tighter around him. It surrounded him completely now, as tight and clinging as a newly wrapped shroud.

Chiun sighed. He glanced to his right and saw Kim Kiley come running out of the surf and then across the sand back toward her condominium building. Even that woman had sense enough to come in out of the water. It was six minutes now according to the ever-lengthening shadow of the palm tree. Chiun wasn't going to sit here all day while Remo frolicked in the sea. He would wait only a bit longer and then return to the condo alone if Remo didn't get back. If Remo wanted to splash around like a fool all day, that was his business. But Chiun wanted a cup of tea. Was that too much to ask?

Remo felt a tiny trace of light-headedness, the little warning indicator that his thrashing around had begun to use up his air. As the tight-woven netting slipped across his face, he caught a glimpse of a figure in the distance swimming steadily toward him.

Kim, he thought. He had come to save her and now she was going to rescue him.

But as the shadowy figure approached and came into sharper focus, Remo saw that it wasn't Kim. It was a man in frogman's gear.

And he carried a sword in his hand.

* * *

Twelve minutes. Did Remo expect him to loiter around here the entire afternoon like some lavatory attendant hoping for a tip? No. He, Chiun, had better things to do and very soon now, Remo or no Remo, he would depart to do them. He could almost smell the fragrant aroma of fresh tea.

The frogman circled Remo, maneuvering for position. The clear blue water rippled as the thin blade struck out. It poked through the net, straight at Remo's unprotected chest. Remo threw himself sideways, barely out of its path as the blade passed within a quarter-inch of slicing open his rib cage.

The frogman withdrew the blade and quickly struck again. Remo whooshed out of the way but not quickly enough and this time the razor-honed blade had nicked his shoulder. It was nothing more than a scratch but there was a little blood and sooner or later it would draw the sharks.

This was not, Remo decided, such a great vacation after all.

Both hands on the sword this time, the frogman lunged at Remo from above. Fighting the constrictions of the net, Remo fell backward. He could feel the cold smooth steel, even colder than the water, as it passed over his cheekbone like a lover's caress, a foretaste of what was soon to come. He knew he could not last much longer. His head felt as light as a circus balloon.

When he had to, Remo could live on the oxygen stored in his body for hours. But that required stillness, a shutting-down of the body's oxygen needs. He was not able to do that here because of the frogman's attack and he felt a tingle in the lower part of his lungs. How long had he been underwater? It seemed a lifetime. No. Nineteen minutes. He could hang on, he told himself grimly.

Twenty minutes and Chiun couldn't understand what was keeping Remo. Maybe he had slipped out of the water without Chiun seeing him; maybe he was back at the condo, already having put the tea water on to boil.

Remo twisted his body but the blade nicked him again. It had taken almost all his strength to avoid a direct hit, and the net continued to draw tighter around him, restricting his movements further. His lungs were ready to burst; his head was filled with white light. It would all be over soon. He could see the frogman's carnivorous grin, distorted by the Plexiglas face mask. Remo had always wondered what death would look like when he finally met it face to face. He had never expected that it would be an idiot's grin under glass.

The frogman yanked the blade free of the mesh and raised it once more. Remo tried to will his body to move, but nothing happened. His body wasn't listening to him anymore. It knew when to give up. You give up when there is no more air left; you give up when there is no more strength left to fight. Your mind might tell you other things, but your body always knew when it was time to surrender.

It was all over. Good-bye, Chiun.

The long slender blade flashed through the water. Remo stayed motionless, his mind already accepting the steel, anticipating the first contact as it sliced through layers of flesh and muscle to burst the fragile bubble of his heart.

As the blade pierced the netting, a yellow hand streaked bubbling through the water, the extended forefinger poking a hole in the frogman's throat. Red bubbles gushed toward the surface like pink champagne as the sword slipped from the frogman's grasp and he sank, limp and lifeless, toward the bottom of the sea.

Remo felt strong hands grasp the net and simply yank it apart. Then he was being pulled upward. His head broke the surface and his lungs greedily gulped in deep drafts of sweet, saltscented air.

"Always nice to see a friendly face," he said.

"Do you know how long you kept me waiting?" Chiun asked. "And this kimono is ruined. This awful water smell will never leave it."

"Where's Kim?" Remo asked, suddenly panicked.

"She is all right. She had the sense to come out of the water before the games started," Chiun said.

"How did you know I was in trouble?"

"One can always expect you to be in trouble," Chiun said. He brought his hand up from under the water. The long slender blade of the sword glittered in the sunlight. Chiun's dark eyes narrowed as he read the simple inscription etched on the blade just below the handle. It consisted of only two words, the ancient Indonesian symbols for "Wo" and "son."

As they walked out of the water onto the shore, Remo said, "Little Father, I think I'm better now. I think the hiding time is over."

"Good," said Chiun. "Because it is time that I told you of the Master Who Failed."

Chapter Twelve

After Chiun brewed tea and Remo put on a dry T-shirt and chinos, they sat facing each other, cross-legged on the floor. It was late now and the setting sun filled the airy room with a warm glow.

"I tried to tell you this story the other day but you did not listen."

"Is this the one about the guy who didn't get paid?" Remo asked.

"You might say that," Chiun allowed.

"See? I was listening. I told you. I always listen."

"If you always listen, why don't you ever learn anything?" Chiun asked.

"Just lucky, I guess," Remo said with a grin. It felt good to be back; good to be Remo again. "The prince of whom I spoke was Wo and he had a brother with his eye on the throne, a brother massing a large army far greater than he needed to defend his own lands."

"This sounds like where we come in," Remo said.

"It is, but not if you keep interrupting." He glared at Remo and took a sip of tea. "Prince Wo wished to rid himself of this scheming brother and yet did not wish to have the death laid at his own doorstep, so Prince Wo sent for Master Pak and a bargain was struck. The very next day, the Prince's brother died, by falling from the parapets of his own castle."

"And when the assassin came to be paid?" Remo said.

"He was dismissed. Prince Wo insisted that his brother's death had been a true accident and he would not acknowledge the Master's work. He refused to pay the tribute that was agreed upon."

"This is getting interesting," Remo said, trying to please Chiun.

"It is getting long because you keep interrupting me. Anyway, the following morning the prince's concubine was found dead. The news and manner of her death spread quickly throughout the kingdom and soon everyone knew that the prince's brother had not died by accident. Master Pak had sent his message. He wanted to be paid."

"It's a great way to send a message," Remo said. "A lot more zip than Federal Express. And the prince still refused to pay?"

"No," said Chiun. His thin lips turned up in a wintry smile. "Prince Wo realized his error at once and sent a courier to the assassin with double the payment, one part for the assassination and another to ensure Master Pak's silence."

"All that extra gold. Sounds like a happy ending to me. They must have broken out the party hats back in that mudhole by the bay."

"What mudhole?" Chiun asked.

"Sinanju," Remo explained.

"Silence, you nincompoop," Chiun snapped. "The payment was only part of it. More important than the payment is the manner in which it is made. Prince Wo did not wish to be seen by his subjects as having been forced to pay the assassin, but Master Pak could not let this happen. If one prince refused to pay him, others might try the same. It was no longer enough to be paid; he had to be paid publicly, in tribute, as was his right."

"So he sent the gold back," Remo said.

"Of course not."

"Right."

"He sent back the empty sacks requesting that they be filled again and payment made again where all could see it. Prince Wo refused, for his own pride was so great that he did not wish to be seen bending to any man's will. Instead, he summoried his warriors and mobilized an entire army to pursue and kill a single man."

"I bet it didn't work," Remo said.

"It did not. Prince Wo's oldest and wisest general devised a plan called the seven-sided death. Each manner of death was inscribed on a separate stone. Death by sword, by fire and so forth. But none of the ways worked and Prince Wo's army was decimated and each of the first six stones was shattered.

"The great army had dwindled down to a handful of men and the only way left was that of the seventh stone. It was said to be ultimate, invincible, the one way that would work when all the others had failed."

"So that's why Pak is known as the Master Who Failed?"

"No, that's not why. The seventh stone was never used. Prince Wo and his remaining followers put out to sea and finally disappeared from the known world. And when they vanished, the seventh stone vanished with them."

"Well, what happened to Pak?" Remo asked.

Chiun sighed. "He spent the rest of his days searching for Prince Wo. Finally he was so overcome by disgrace and his own inability to find the prince that he retired to a cave and took no food or water until finally he died. He had a vision though in the very last moments of his life. He foresaw a future time when the descendants of Wo would try to wreak vengeance on another Master of Sinanju. With his dying breath, Pak left a cryptic message, a warning that the seventh stone spoke truth."

He looked up to Remo for comment. Remo shrugged. "Interesting story but that's two thousand years ago. Maybe they wanted to get even once, but, come on, it's a long time ago."

"As long as the bloodline flows unbroken, the memory does not die," Chiun said. He drained his teacup. "Remember when we first came down here? That little article you told me about, the one that described the big stone that they had dug up on this island?"

"I remember mentioning it," Remo said. "Are you telling me that was the seventh stone?"

"It may be," Chiun answered solemnly. "Emperor Smith has pictures of it and he is trying to find out what it says."

"Hold on, Chiun," said Remo. "You speak every language I ever heard of. You can't read this writing?"

"The language is long dead," Chiun said, "and Pak left no instructions in its use."

"It's probably not the same stone at all," Remo said.

"It probably is," Chiun said. "Here is proof." He held up the sword he had taken from the frogman and ran his fingertips over the etching on the blade. "In ancient Indonesian, this says 'Wo' and 'son.' I think the men of the seventh stone are after us."

"And Pak says the seventh stone knows the true way to kill us?" Remo asked.

"So says the legend," Chiun said.

"Then we'd better hope that Smitty finds out what the stone says," Remo said.

"That would be nice," Chiun said agreeably, as he finished his tea.

Chapter Thirteen

Harold VV. Smith sat in front of the computer watching the little lights blink on and off as if someone inside the silent machine was trying to send him a message in code.

Smith loved the computer because it was able to do in seconds or minutes what might take humans days and months. But he hated it too because once it started working, there was nothing to do but sit and wait for it to finish. That made him feel guilty. Technically he might be working, but he really wasn't doing anything at all, except drumming his fingers on the console. After too many years with the government, he still got anxiety pains from not working, a tight little knot in his stomach that felt as if he'd swallowed a hard rubber ball.

He headed his own organization and was answerable to no one but the President himself. Yet he had a recurring nightmare, a dread dream of a day when someone would breeze into the CURE headquarters in Rye, New York, look at him, point a finger and say: "There you are, Smith. Goofing off at the computer again."

He felt a slight loosening of the knot in his stomach as a message took form on the computer's monitor screen. The machine had managed to decipher the first part of the message on the stone found in Little Exuma, although why Chiun thought it was important was beyond Smith.

"The two plums," the computer tapped out. Smith said it aloud just to hear the sound of it, but it sounded no better than it read. That was the trouble with ancient languages. They tended to relate things in terms of fruit and stars and trees and birds and entrails. Everything meant something else because the ancients lacked the gift for direct prose.

The machine had hesitated but now it tapped out two words from the end of the inscription. He now had:

"The two plums ... are bereft."

Not exactly enlightening, Smith thought with a frown. Without the middle, the message made no sense at all, and he had a sinking feeling that even when the computer finally figured out the middle part, the message still wouldn't make much sense.

Still he should let Chiun know what the machine had learned so far. He telephoned Little Exuma and Remo answered on the first ring.

"I've got some information for Chiun," Smith said. "The inscription on a stone he wanted me to translate."

"Terrific. What does it say?" Remo said.

"Well, I don't have the entire inscription yet. Just a sentence and just the beginning and the end. There's some stuff missing from the middle that the computer still has to figure out," Smith said.

"Just give me what you've got so far," Remo said.

Smith cleared his throat. " 'The two plums,' that's the first part. And then there's a blank. 'Are bereft,' that's the last part." Smith listened to fifteen seconds of silence from the other end of the line. "Did you get that, Remo?" he asked finally.

"Yeah. I got it," said Remo. "The two plums are bereft? That's the great message."

"That's what I have so far."

"What does 'bereft' mean?" Remo asked.

"Destitute, saddened, heartbroken," Smith said.

"Good. And what's the 'two plums' about?"

"I don't know," Smith said.

"Gee," Remo said. "Be sure to call us right away, Smitty, if you get any more exciting news like this. Wow, I can't wait to tell Chiun that the two plums are bereft. He'll be real excited."

"I don't really need your sarcasm," Smith said.

"And I don't really need you," Remo said as he hung up.

* * *

It was a wonderful night for a funeral. Overhead the sky was clear, dusted with a million twinkling stars. There was a steady cooling breeze off the ocean, stirring the flowering vines along the garden wall and filling the night air with their lush sweet fragrance. The weatherman had guaranteed no rain and as if he were comforted by this meteorological perfection, the corpse appeared to be smiling.

The vast emerald-green expanse of Reginald Woburn's back lawn was crowded with the gathered descendants of the Wo clan. Clothed in flowing silk robes, leisure suits, loincloths, they filed past the grave of Ree Wok, their fallen kinsman. He had made the ultimate sacrifice, paid the price that can only be paid once. He had died in battle, the only true way for a Wo warrior to die. In every mind was the thought that there was no greater honor, no greater nobility than that which was now Ree Wok's.

The cool night air was filled with wailing, keening, whispered prayers and warbling chants for the safe swift passage of Ree Wok's departed soul, a symphony of grief played on dozens of different linguistic instruments.

Ree Wok's beautifully appointed satinwood coffin was covered by a thick carpet of flowers, some of species so rare that they had never before been seen in the western hemisphere.

Other descendants of Prince Wo left a variety of objects at the graveside, each a mark of how a great death was honored in their own native culture.

When the last of the mourners had paid their respects and the grave had been filled in, the tall French doors of the mansion parted and Reginald Woburn III emerged atop a sleek black stallion, its head capped by a coronet of three fluttering plumes, its glistening flanks festooned with jewel-encrusted ribbons.

Reggie said nothing. He looked not right or left. All the kinsmen of Prince Wo could see the grave, solemn set of his handsome features and they knew that for this one moment they did not exist for Reginald Woburn III. Each was sure that his grieving was so pure, so intense that his mind held no room for any other thing. In his overwhelming despair, they knew his soul was as one with that of his departed brother, Ree Wok.

It was a beautiful moment, a time, an event that would live in story and song, a treasured memory passed down from one Wo generation to the next.

Reginald Woburn III gigged the jeweled stallion forward. His face solemn, he rode slowly, regally to the graveside.

Overwhelmed by the magnificent sight, the descendants drew a collective breath. They might speak dozens of different tongues, live dozens of different creeds and cultures, but each at last saw Reginald Woburn III as a true prince, the true leader of his flock, heartbroken by the death of one of his own.

Reggie reached the grave site and carefully backed the noble stallion up so that the animal was standing directly over the rectangle of freshly turned earth. Only then did he acknowledge the presence of others. Sitting ramrod straight in the saddle, he turned his head slowly, his clear blue eyes sweeping the crowd.

Then he reached out and slapped the horse's neck.

"Okay, Windy," he yelled. "Do it for Daddy." There was a loud whooshing sound like a balloon bursting as the black stallion broke wind. And then took a long, giant dump atop the grave. The rancorous smell of the manure overpowered the sweet scent of the thousands of flowers and blocked out the delicate smoke of the burning incense. The odor of the horse excrement hung heavy on the cool night air, as thick as the smell of death itself.

"Good boy," Reggie said, clapping the horse's throat. He glared around and said, "That's how we reward failure. What the hell good is trying if you don't succeed? I'm fed up with this family and all its failures and I'm glad this son of a bitch is dead and the next one who fails I may just hang from a tree to rot. Now. Who's going to be next?"

Nobody moved. No one spoke. The silence was so thick it could have been spread on a cracker.

"Well?" Reggie demanded. "Who's next?" After a long minute, there was a stirring in the shadows. A beautiful woman emerged, the reflected moonlight silvering her lustrous black hair.

"I will be next," Kim Kiley said quietly.

Reggie smiled. "Why have you finally deigned to join us?"

"I was researching the subject," Kim responded calmly. "I am ready now."

"How will you kill him?" Reggie demanded.

"Is the white man the important target?" Kim asked coolly.

For a moment Reggie was flustered, then said. "No. Of course not. The Korean is the real goal."

"Correct," she said. "You asked how I will kill the white man," and she shook her head. "Not I alone. That way will lead to only more failure. We will kill him. All of us."

"In what manner?" Reggie said.

"In the manner described by the stone," Kim said with a smile. "And that will bring the old Korean into our grasp too." She paused and stared directly at Reggie, who fidgeted in his saddle. "It was there all the time," Kim said. "You just had to see it. You see, Remo's only weakness is the old man, Chiun, the Korean. And Chiun's loyalty is to Remo. They are two of a kind. They are the plums of the stone."

"But how do we kill them?" Reggie asked.

"The old man is the first plum," Kim said.

"And the way to kill the first plum . . ." She hesitated and smiled. " . . . is with the second plum."

"And how do we kill the second plum?" Reggie asked.

"With the first plum," Kim said softly.

Chapter Fourteen

"There's something outside the door, Chiun," said Remo.

"Of course there is. All through the night, I heard herds of people throwing things against our front door. I didn't sleep for a second," Chiun grumbled.

"It's only an envelope," Remo said. He turned the buff-colored square of paper over and saw his and Chiun's name written on the front in a bold flowing hand with lots of curlicues and swirls.

The note inside carried a lingering trace of familiar perfume.

Dear Remo.

Sorry about the disappearing act yesterday. But the current finally pulled me and the surfboard back to shore and I wanted to get the board back to the rental place before they charged me overtime. Anyway, I know you're a good swimmer so I knew you were safe. But I still feel bad about leaving you without a word, so to make up for it, I'd like to invite you to a party. It's a kind of family reunion that my people are having. It starts at two this afternoon at the Woburn estate on the northern tip of the island. Please bring Chiun along too. I've told everyone so much about you two and the family is very anxious to meet you both. There'll be a special surprise.

Love, Kim

Chiun padded out of the bedroom and saw Remo in the doorway reading the note.

"Are you finished reading my mail?" Chiun asked.

"What makes you think it's for you?"

"Who would write anything to you?" Chiun said. He snatched the note from Remo's hands and read it slowly.

"It's from Kim," Remo said. "An invitation to a party."

"I can see that for myself. I remember you took me to a party once and people kept trying to get me to eat vile things that were piled up on crackers and buy plastic bowls with lids on them. Do you think this will be that kind of a party?"

"I don't think so," Remo said.

"Wait. Hold. A special surprise, she says," said Chiun.

"Right."

"What is that?" Chiun asked.

"I don't know. If I knew, it wouldn't be a surprise," Remo said.

"It's Barbra Streisand," Chiun said. "I know it. This Kim person has been feeling guilty because she has been keeping you away from your training and now she is going to present me with Barbra Streisand to make amends."

"I don't think any party you're likely to go to is going to make you a gift of Barbra Streisand," Remo said.

"We are going," Chiun said with finality. "I will wear my new robes. Do you want one of my old robes to wear?"

"No, thank you."

"What are you going to wear?"

"A black T-shirt and black pants," Remo said. "Casual, yet restrained. A perfect complement for every occasion."

"You have no imagination," Chiun said.

"Yes I do," Remo said. "Today I'm thinking about wearing socks."

"I'm sure all will be impressed," Chiun said.

"Nothing's too good for Barbra Streisand," Remo said.

They left to walk to the party but were only a few yards along the beach when the telephone back in their condo rang.

"I'll get it," Remo said, turning back toward the front door.

"Get what?"

"The phone," Remo called back.

"Just don't bring it back with you," Chiun said. "I hate those things."

Smith was on the other end of the line. "I have it," he told Remo. "The whole inscription."

"What is it?" Remo said.

"The first part seems to be a listing of weapons. It talks about using spears and fire and the sea and finally it says to use time. It talks about a special killer. Does that mean anything to you?"

"No, but maybe to Chiun. Anything else?"

"But the rest of it, that missing section?"

"Yes?" Remo said.

"The missing word is 'cleaved.' "

"Cleaved?" said Remo.

"Right. Split. Broken. The inscription reads: 'The two plums, cleaved, are bereft.'" He sounded proud.

"What does it mean though?" Remo asked. "It sounds like some whiny housewife's note to a grocery store. 'The two plums, cleaved, are bereft.' Who cares about broken plums?"

"I don't know," Smith said. "I thought you would."

"Thanks, Smitty. I'll tell Chiun."

When he told Chiun of Smith's report, the old Korean seemed more interested in the listing of weapons.

"You say the last one on the list was time?" Chiun asked.

"That's what Smith said. What kind of a weapon is time?" Remo asked.

"The most dangerous of all," Chiun said.

"How's that?"

"If one waits long enough, his enemy will think he has forgotten and relax his guard."

"So you think this was really from the seventh stone of Prince Wo?" asked Remo.

Chiun nodded silently.

"And what is that about 'The two plums, cleaved, are bereft'?" Remo asked.

"I think we will find out soon," Chiun said. The rolling lawns of the Worburn estate looked like the site for the annual Christmas picnic of the United Nations. People in every form of native garb Remo had ever seen milled about. They moved aside silently to let Remo and Chiun pass, then closed up behind them. The sounds of untranslated whispers followed them across the green field.

Remo counted ten long tables draped in white damask and laden with all kinds of food and drink. The mingled aromas of curry, fish and meat competed with steaming cabbage and spicy Indonesian lamb. There were steam tables of vegetables and bowls of fresh fruit, many that Remo had never seen before.

"This place smells like a Bombay alley," Chiun said, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

Remo pointed ahead of them. There was a small linen-covered table. Atop it was a silver pitcher of fresh water and a silver chafing dish heaped to the top with clumpy, mushlike rice.

"For us," Remo said. He thought it was nice of Kim Kiley to remember and he wondered where she was.

He looked but could not see her in the crowd. She had said this was a family reunion and he had expected a couple of dozen people in leisure suits, shorts and funny straw hats, clustered around a barbecue grill. He hadn't expected this.

"I don't see Barbra Streisand," Chiun said.

"Maybe she's going to ride in on an elephant," Remo said.

A man in tweeds stepped up and offered his hand to Remo. "So very glad you could come," he said. "I'm Rutherford Wobley." He nodded politely to Chiun as Remo shook his hand.

"And this is Ruddy Woczneczk," he said. Remo went through the process again with a moonfaced Slav.

"Lee Wotan," the Oriental next to him said and bowed. "And these are. . ." He began to rattle off the names of people standing near. Wofton, Woworth, Wosento and Wopo. All the names sounded alike to Remo and he nodded and smiled and as soon as he could slipped away into the crowd.

The names, he thought. Why did every one of them start with W-O? And it wasn't just the people he'd met this afternoon. There were William and Ethel Wonder, the film people, and Jim Worthman, their photographer. And what about the fanatical Indonesian who tried to kill the President? His name had been Du Wok. It seemed to Remo that everywhere he had gone in the last few weeks, he had run into people whose names began with W-O.

With one bright, shining exception.

Remo sauntered up the bright lawn toward the house. He had left Chiun behind, in animated conversation with a young aristocratic man dressed in an impeccable white linen suit. It seemed that he and Chiun had met on the island before because they were talking like old friends.

Nearer the house was a series of reflecting pools strewn with water lilies and a large latticework gazebo.

Next to the house he saw four towering columns, like flagpoles, each of them topped with a cluster of rectangles covered completely with dark cloths.

He slipped into the house and found a telephone in the library. Smith answered on the first ring.

"Look up a name for me," Remo said. "Kim Kiley."

"The movie actress?" Smith asked.

"That's the one."

"Hold on." Smith put the telephone down and Remo heard the click of buttons being pushed and then a muted whirring sound. "Here it is," Smith said as he came back on the line. "Kiley, Kimberley. Born Karen Wolinski, 1953. . . ."

"Spell that last name," Remo said.

"W-o-l-i-n-s-k-i," Smith said.

"Thank you," Remo said. He hung up the telephone and stood there still for a moment, not quite ready to believe it. But it had to be true; there was just too much to be written off as coincidence.

The sounds of the party drifted in through the open window. Laughter, music, the clinking of glasses. But Remo was not in the party mood anymore and he walked out a side door of the mansion and ambled along the beach.

It was all connected somehow. Kim and all the others whose names began with W-O. All the loose threads tied in with the attempts on his life, an ancient stone that spoke the truth, an unbending prince and his descendants and Masters of Sinanju, past and present. They were all bound together by a cord that stretched from this moment back across the centuries. What was it Chiun had said? Remo remembered:

"As long as the bloodline flows unbroken, the memory never dies."

Remo found that his footsteps had carried him to the secluded cove where he and Kim had first made love. That still bothered him. If Kim was a part of some kind of revenge scheme, why had she stayed in the cave with him? They had been making love when the giant wave came crashing in. If she had lured Remo there to kill him, surely she must have realized that she was going to her own death as well. Somehow he didn't believe that.

Kim might be a loyal descendant of Prince Wo but she didn't seem like the kind of woman who would kill herself just to even up a two-thousand-year-old score.

Remo padded into the cave and smiled when he saw the spot where they had lain together on the warm sand. The memory was still vivid, as real as the salt in the sea air.

He wandered back farther into the cavern. He remembered now that when the thundering wail of water had filled the mouth of the cave, Kim hadn't run instinctively toward the entrance. She had turned instead and bolted toward the back of the opening, farther from safety, farther away from the air and the land above.

Remo walked back to the spot where he had scooped her up as she kicked and struck and bit at him. He glanced up and saw a glimmer of light from above. There it was. An opening in the roof of the cave, just big enough for one person to pass through. If a person were standing on this exact spot, the onrush of water would lift him up right to that opening.

No wonder Kim had fought so hard when Remo grabbed her. He had chalked it up to panic but, in truth, she had been trying to break free to save herself, never considering the possibility that Remo would be able to swim against the onrushing water and carry them both to safety.

Just to make sure, Remo clambered up the rocks and boosted himself through the opening. It was a tight squeeze for him, but it would have been easy for Kim Kiley.

He found himself on a rocky promontory above the cave. Even when the tide was highest, someone standing here would have been safe.

There was nothing to do now but to accept the facts. It had been Kim all along, not caring for him at all, but leading him around like a sacrificial lamb. First the cave and when that had not worked, out into the ocean where the frogman had been waiting to finish him off. And she had probably been tied in with the gunmen too, those at the Indian reservation.

What Remo had thought was an affectionate caring woman had turned out to be nothing more than an attractive piece of bait.

Remo made his way back along the beach, through the mansion and out onto the spacious lawn. The party was in full swing. He saw that Chiun was still talking to that aristocratic man in white, as well as a half-dozen others gathered around in a tight circle.

Remo felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Kim there, looking heartbreakingly beautiful in a low-cut blue silk dress.

"Darling," she whispered and threw her arms around his neck.

She held Remo tight, pressing against him. His nostrils filled with the scent of the perfume she wore. It was just as he remembered it from the very first day, rich and exotic. Bitterly he told himself: as primitive and powerful as a carved stone on a tropical beach.

She finally released him but the heavy perfume seemed to cling to his clothes like a constant painful reminder of his own vulnerability.

"Are you having a good time?" she asked with a Hollywood dazzler of a smile.

Remo said nothing. He looked at her once more, then turned and started through the crowd to get Chiun.

Chapter Fifteen

He did not see Chiun and the crowd was already surging up the hill toward the mansion. A young tweedy man stepped up next to Remo and nudged him with an elbow.

"The entertainment's about to start."

"I bet," Remo said.

He caught a glimpse of shimmering green and gold that must have come from Chiun's robes and pushed his way through the crowd until he found the aged Korean.

"They don't have Barbra Streisand," Chiun said. "But they're going to have a circus." He sounded happy.

Remo leaned over to whisper so that no one else could hear. "Chiun, these are Prince Wo's descendants. They're our enemies."

Chiun hissed back. "I know that."

"Then what are we staying here for? Let's book."

"That means leave?" Chiun asked.

"That means leave," Remo said.

"So we leave and what then?" Chiun asked. "Another day, another year and these people who would not pay their proper bill to Master Pak come to us again? It is better that we resolve all this now."

"If you say so," Remo said.

"I say so," Chiun said. "You go stand on the other side and keep your eyes open."

"Is there a leader? Why not just splatter him now?" Remo said.

"Because we do not know what will happen then. To act without information is to court disaster. The other side."

"All right," Remo said, and moved around onto the other side of the rectangular clearing which was marked at each corner by the large columns he had noticed earlier. The black cloths that covered the tops of the columns were still in place.

The young man whom Chiun had been talking to earlier was now standing in the center of the clearing.

He raised a hand for silence, got it, and announced in a clear voice: "I am Reginald Woburn the Third. I welcome you to the Wo family reunion. Let the fun begin."

As he stepped out of the clearing a brass gong somewhere was struck, sounding a deep-throated reverberation. A trio of high-pitched wood flutes lay down a sweet chord of melody. Cymbals crashed and the gong boomed again as a troupe of brightly clad Oriental acrobats came tumbling through the crowd and into the ring.

"The Amazing Wofans," the young man next to Remo said.

"If you're going to be my tour director, what's your name?" Remo asked.

"Rutherford Wobley," the man said.

"I thought so," Remo said.

He looked away in disgust and saw the Wofans spinning around the ring, doing handsprings and cartwheels, back flips and rolls. Their bodies flew through the air like bright blurs of color as they passed over and under each other like whirling tops in constant motion. While the area they had to work in was not large, they managed to sail through a series of interweaving patterns as complex as a spider's web made from pure energy and motion.

The pajama-clad performers grouped in the center of the ring and flipped themselves upward to form a human pyramid. They were good, Remo thought disgustedly, but he'd seen it all before. He wondered when they were going to start spinning plates on long bamboo poles.

The athletes dismantled the pyramid, rolling to the ground, to the applause of the spectators. Remo glanced across the clearing, looking for Chiun, but he could not see him.

The high-pitched piping of the flutes filled the air with a sound like a mournful wail. The cymbals crashed and then the gong again with its deep lingering echo.

The acrobats responded to the music. They flew across the ring, two, three, four at once, speeding smudges of color that seemed to defy the laws of gravity, tumbling over each other, seeming to pause in the air at the top of their leaps, working their way across the clearing. And then a blue-clad acrobat overshot the rest of the performers and came hurtling at Remo like a dive bomber.

It had started. Remo stepped to the side a halfpace and raised a hand. It looked as if he hadn't really done anything, maybe just waved to someone in the crowd on the other side of the arena. But the acrobat's feetfirst dive missed Remo completely, except where the Oriental's shoulder brushed the tip of Remo's outstretched hand. The contact was punctuated by the snapping sound of breaking bone, a whoosh of exhaled air and then a prolonged scream as the acrobat hit the ground. This time he did not bounce up.

Two more came lunging toward Remo. Red and green this time. Remo turned slightly, catching one with his shoulder blade and the second with his knee. He hoped that Chiun was watching because he felt that his technique was really good on the two moves. The acrobats' bellows of pained surprise drowned out the frantic warbling of the flutes. The red-and-green-clad men popped skyward like bubbles in a breeze. Like bubbles, they were broken when they hit the ground. From the corner of his eye as he turned, Remo saw Reginald Woburn yank the cord that dangled from one of the rectangleclustered poles. There was a blinding flash of light as a mirror on the pole picked up and reflected the brilliant intensity of the sun's glare directly into Remo's eyes. Remo blinked in surprise. As he opened his eyes again, he had to ignore the mirror because the remaining Oriental acrobats were coming toward him, with knives they had drawn from inside their clothing. Remo ducked out of their way and as he did there was another flash of blinding light. Then another. And another.

The harsh white light seared his eyes. Remo ducked away from the acrobats, into the crowd of people standing around the performance arena, his eyes screwed shut tightly. He opened them again, but he still could not see. The brightness had shocked his vision for a moment, and behind him, he could hear the yelling of the Oriental acrobats as they tried to get to him.

Remo fled, then stopped as a thin high voice rose above the sounds of a hundred different noises. It was Chiun's voice rising above the crowd. It sounded metallic and strained.

"Remo," Chiun wailed. "Help me. Attack now. Free me. Help."

His blind eyes burning, Remo lunged toward the voice. Eight steps he knew would bring him to it. But when he was there, all he felt was stillness. There were people there, poised and waiting. Remo could feel them, hear their breathing, sense the coiled tension in their bodies, feel the small movements they made even when they thought they were standing perfectly still.

But there was nothing in the spot where Chiun's voice had come from.

Behind him, Remo heard the voices of the acrobats moving toward him. And he caught the scent of perfume, a painfully familiar fragrance that stirred up far too many memories. It was Kim Kiley's perfume, rich and exotic, as individual as a fingerprint when it intermingled with the scent of her own body.

She was there and then there was another scent.

It was the smell of the tiny particles of residue that linger in a gun barrel after it has been fired. No matter how many times the gun was cleaned, the smell always remained for those with the ability to sense it.

Remo felt the air change again, heard the whisper of motion as a slender finger pulled backward slowly on a trigger. He wanted to yell "No" but there was no time, and instead his unspoken word turned into a thunderous roar of despair that shattered the stillness as Remo, sightless but unerring, reached out for the sound and brought his hand down on the white fragrant neck. He heard the dry-stick sound of snapping bone. Behind him, the acrobats were leaping toward him. He could feel the pressure of their bodies moving through the air.

But they never reached him. There was the sound of thump-thump-thump like three heavy stones dropped into a mud puddle. He knew their three bodies had ceased moving.

Suddenly, the air was clamorous with the sound of screams, shrieking and pounding feet as the crowd panicked and ran in all directions.

The searing pain of blindness still burned Remo's eyes. He groped for a moment in a world of white night, until he sensed the tall metal structure nearby. He had to turn off the lights; he had to see again; he had to find Chiun.

On the ground near the pole, Remo found a stone-cut glass tumbler dropped by one of the fleeing guests. He sensed its weight and then tossed it upward in a spiraling are.

He heard the shattering sound as the glass connected with its target. The mirror atop the pole smashed into a million crystalline fragments that rained down from the sky in a magnificent light show.

The other three lights still blinded him, but then he heard the glass of the lights breakpop, pop, pop-and a sudden darkness descended over the lawn. He blinked once and his vision began to return.

The first thing he saw was Chiun, turning away from having blasted out the three other lights with stones.

"You're all right?" Remo asked.

"All in all, I would have preferred Barbra Streisand," Chiun said.

Remo turned around and saw Kim. She lay next to Reginald Woburn III, the two of them stretched out amid a sea of glittering crystals from the broken light reflectors. To their left were the three last Oriental acrobats, their bodies twisted ungracefully in death.

Kim Kiley's perfect face stared skyward, her eyes masked by a pair of dark glasses. A pistol rested on the curled fingers of her right hand. Remo turned away.

"How did you know to kill her?" asked Chiun.

"I knew," Remo said quietly. "How did you know to kill him?"

"He was the leader; if we are ever to have any peace, he must go."

"You waited long enough," Remo said. "I was stumbling around there, not able to see, and you weren't anywhere."

"I found you though," Chiun said. "I just followed the sound of an ox stomping around and, naturally, it was you."

"I don't understand what they were doing," Remo said.

"They tried to make each of us think that the other was hurt," Chiun said. "We were their 'two plums.' "

"The two plums, cleaved, were bereft," Remo said.

"Correct. They thought if each of us thought the other was in danger, we would lower our defenses and become vulnerable," Chiun said.

"And you weren't hurt? You weren't in any danger?"

"Of course not," Chiun said disdainfully. He leaned over and picked up the fragments of a small black box. "It was some mechanical device, one of those tape-recorder things that does not record a television picture but only noise. I stepped on it when the unrecognizable screeching from it became unbearable."

"So we weren't cleaved and we aren't bereft," Remo said.

"As if any group of barbarians could cleave the House of Sinanju," Chiun said.

Both men paused to look around. The lawns were empty as far as the eye could see. The family of Wo had scattered.

Chapter Sixteen

"All's well that ends well," Remo said when they were back in the condominium.

"Nothing has ended," Chiun said.

"What do you mean? Woburn's dead; the family took off for the hills, what's left?"

"The House of Wo owes the House of Sinanju a public apology."

"Chiun, drop it," said Remo. "It's two thousand years old."

"A debt is a debt."

Chiun was standing by the window, looking out over the ocean. "There is already a new prince of the House of Wo. Let us hope he has the wisdom his predecessors had not."

Chiun stayed by the window until well after dark. Then Remo heard him move toward the front door. He heard the door open and a few whispered words and when he came back into the living room, Chiun was holding an envelope.

The old Korean opened it and read the message.

"It is an invitation," he said.

"You go. My dance card's filled," Remo said.

"It is an invitation for the House of Sinanju to meet with the House of Wo. We will both go."

"I'm part of the House of Sinanju?" Remo said.

Chiun looked up with an innocent expression. "Of course you are," he said.

"Thank you," said Remo.

"'Every house must have a cellar," Chiun said. "Heh, heh. You're the cellar of the House of Sinanju. Heh, heh. The cellar. Heh, heh."

They left at daybreak. Chiun wore a white-and-black ceremonial robe that Remo had never seen before. Emblazoned across the shoulders, in delicate silken embroidery, was a Korean character that Remo recognized as the symbol of the House of Sinanju. It translated as "center" and it meant that the House of Sinanju was the center of the world.

As the two men neared the porticoed front entrance to the sprawling mansion, the arched front doors swung open and four men emerged bearing two stretchers, which held the bodies of Reginald Woburn and Kim Kiley. Remo looked away as they passed and then back again as the island constable followed behind them.

"Ain't no morder," the constable muttered to himself. "Dat's for sure. No arrow in the heart, they be natural causes."

Remo and Chiun entered the mansion. Eerie silence testified that it was empty and Remo said, "I think maybe they're up to something. I don't trust them."

"We shall see," Chiun said quietly. "I am the Master of Sinanju and you are the next Master. This business with the Wos has gone on for too many years now. This day will see it end."

"Sure," Remo said. "We'll kill them all. What's a little carnage as long as it settles a score that nobody's old enough to remember?"

He followed Chiun through the house and then out the front entrance. There, awaiting them on the front lawn, were all the living descendants of Prince Wo. Remo scanned the rows of solemn faces, red, black, yellow, white and brown. No one was smiling.

"Who said big families had more fun?" Remo muttered.

Chiun walked down the steps, his silken robe swirling about him. He halted a few feet from the front rank of men and inclined his head slightly, the smallest of small bows.

"I am Chiun, Master of Sinanju," he said magisterially. "This is Remo, heir to the House of Sinanju. We are here."

A plump Oriental man dressed in a simple crimson robe stepped out of the front rank and bowed to Chiun. "I am Lee Wofan," he said solemnly. "The new prince in the long and illustrious line of the great Prince Wo. I have asked you here to discuss a matter of tribute."

"A tribute denied my predecessor, Master Pak," Chiun said.

"A tribute withheld by Prince Wo as a sign that showed the power of his rule," Lee Wofan said softly.

"And for his arrogance and pride," Chiun said, "Master Pak, one lone man, banished a prince and his army and his court from the face of the civilized world."

"It is so," Wofan agreed. "Here. To this very island Prince Wo came."

There was a sweet sadness in Chiun's voice as he spoke again. "And it was only for words," he said. "A public acknowledgment that the prince recognized Master Pak's performance of his contract." He paused for a moment. The silence was absolute. "And because of that, so many have died," Chiun said.

"It is as you say," Lee Wofan said. "Our legacy has been a curse from Prince Wo the Wanderer. This curse has followed my family in all its branches for two thousand years. Now the curse will be lifted. For we, the family of Wo, now do publicly acclaim the work of the great Master Pak in aiding our ancestor Prince Wo. And we further affirm that the Masters of Sinanju are assassins without equal. In this age or any other."

Chiun bowed his deepest bow. "I, Chiun, reigning Master of the House of Sinanju, accept your tribute for myself and for all Masters, past, present, and yet to come."

"Accept it and more," said Lee Wofan. He stepped to one side and then all the gathered descendants of Wo parted to reveal the stone itself, the stone whose message-to wait until the House of Sinanju had two heads and then to separate and kill them-had failed and brought only more death to the House of Wo.

"Our feud is ended," Lee Wofan said. "Never again will we heed the words written on this stone. We wish to live in peace."

Chiun turned to smile at Remo, then walked through the crowd until he faced the stone.

His voice raised above the crowd, he intoned: "So be our conflict behind us. But never forget Prince Wo or his legend or the Masters of Sinanju who will from this time forward be your friends and allies in trouble. Go back to your lands and remember. For it is only through our memories that the greatness of the past lives on."

With that, Chiun thrust out his hand. Once, twice, thrice. The stone shattered into a million pieces that streaked skyward, wheeling arid dancing, crystal bright under the rising sun.

"Welcome home, children of Wo," Chiun said, then turned and walked off through the crowd. They dropped to their knees as he passed among them.