The end of the beginning.., p.1
The End of the Beginning td-128, page 1
part #128 of The Destroyer Series
The End of the Beginning
( The Destroyer - 128 )
Warren Murphy
Richard Sapir
HOW DOES A BEAT COP BECOME AMERICA'S SECRET WEAPON AGAINST EVIL?
It isn't easy. Especially after being nearly fried in the electric chair, plunged into a secret crime-fighting organization called CURE, then handed over to a Korean killing machine called Chiun, the reigning master of Sinanju.
But every prophecy -- even one that foretells Remo Williams's future with the ancient house of assassins -- has a downside, and for Chiun, it's an explosive family secret so devastating, it could spell doom for the House of Sinanju. Someone's got a plan for vengeance that's a real doozy and is selling their services to the mob-racking up the body count with capo and congressmen alike.
Ready or not, Remo's got his first assignment. With Chiun along to make sure he doesn't screw up, Remo's about to stop an enemy from putting Congress out of session. Permanently.
Destroyer 128: The End of the Beginning
By Warren Murphy and Richard Sapir
PROLOGUE
"He does not belong. No matter what lies he tells you."
Ancient fury sparked in the depths of his mother's almond-shaped eyes. Beyond her crooked shape, orange flames crackled in the stone fireplace.
The small house was warm through no effort of those who lived there. The same was true for all the homes in the village, for as far back as anyone could remember.
The firewood was always there in the warm house with the solid roof that kept out the driving spring rain and winter wind, all because of him. The Impostor.
Those who thanked him didn't know the truth. He was a fraud masquerading as their protector. There were no thanks for the Impostor in this house. So what if he kept fires burning and bellies full? In this tiny house, the hatred was worse than the cold. Ancient malice gnawed bellies far worse than any hunger pangs.
"Learn well what he teaches you," his mother said to the boy. "But know that he does not belong. He is a fraud, as was his father before him, all down the line to the first."
The boy had learned early in life that members of his family alone were not frauds. The only exception was his own father. A soft-spoken man, the husband of his mother was not blood of their blood. Worse, he was brother to the tyrant who fed the village. The boy's mother had married the fool in order to get close to him. To her brother-in-law, the Impostor.
A moan came from the corner of the room.
The boy's grandfather. A portly shaman, he sat on a stool, wrinkled eyelids closed tight. The old man spent most days sitting in the corner of the main room. The boy's mother said the old man could speak with the dead. His powers went beyond even that.
Near the shaman, a young woman was preparing the evening meal in a cast-iron pot.
The shaman's other daughter was called Sonmi. Sister to the boy's hectoring mother, she spent her days studying the black arts at the feet of her father. The food the boy's aunt was cooking-like everything else in the village-had been paid for by the Impostor.
Although all this was about to end. There was no more work.
Gone were the days of pharaohs and kings. The world was ruled by presidents and dictators, locked in the bloodless, twilight combat of the modern age.
Even war was different. At the moment, there was one being fought to the south. At night the villagers would climb to their roofs to watch the explosions of artillery shells. Like all the other wars of the twentieth century, it was all about machines and guns and men on foot advancing and retreating until one side thought it had captured a prize. The artistry of assassination was lost. The world was big and clumsy and dismissive of the old ways.
Because the rules had changed, the Impostor couldn't find work. Who needed a scalpel when he could use a club? Why remove a king's head when a single bomb could obliterate his entire kingdom? The work had gone away, and the desolate shadow of death had descended over the small village.
If the food they ate and the wood they used to cook it came courtesy the Impostor, it would not be so for much longer. When the money he had earned was gone, he would have to draw on reserves bequeathed to the village from those who came before. And one day it, too, would all be gone.
The Impostor's only hope-the only hope for the future of the village-was the young boy sitting on this dirty floor, bathed in the dancing fires of hate carefully stoked and tended by his bitter mother.
"He thinks you will save his family," his mother said as the warm fires burned and the wispy smoke rose in ghostly black threads up the chimney. Drawing up a deep ball of phlegm, she spit on the stone floor. "That is all his family is worth. You are the hope of our future, not his. Bring him to ruin. Do it for your family. Such has it been foreseen, such it will be. It is our destiny, and yours."
And the fire of pure evil from his mother's eyes reflected full in the young boy's hazel eyes.
Chapter 1
His name was Chiun and he was the Master of Sinanju and he was leaving.
Although it was late spring, winter refused to release its grip on the Korean peninsula. Despite the cold morning, the village of Sinanju was alive with celebration. There was rice wine and cakes, cured fish and dried fruit. There was singing and dancers and the laughter of children. All taking place under a sky of perfect white-streaked blue.
Such it was when a Master left. Such had it always been. Tributes and laudations came from those whose needs were sustained by the Master's toil.
The tiny fishing village of Sinanju in North Korea had seen many such celebrations. For five thousand years it had been home to the most feared assassins in human history. The discipline that had risen from the rocks near the shore of the West Korean Bay was the source of all the lesser martial arts. They were but rays, pale reflections of the blinding glory of the sun that was the discipline known as Sinanju.
"Hail, Master of Sinanju, who sustains the village and keeps the code faithfully," called the villagers as Chiun passed by. "Our hearts cry with joy and pain at your departure. Joy that you undertake this journey for the sake of we, the unworthy beneficiaries of your generosity. And pain that your toils take your beauteous aspect from our midst. May the spirits of your ancestors journey safe with you who graciously throttles the universe."
As Master of the village, Chiun accepted the words with a stoic face. The praises continued to fall on his proudly erect back as he passed through the crowd.
Of course he knew the hymns of honor that trailed him were hollow. There was more beneath the smiling faces. Here the hint of a frown, there the beginnings of a scowl. Facial muscles ached from frozen smiles. They lied to him now because none dared express his true feelings.
It had always been this way. The people of Sinanju always walked uneasily when the Master was in residence. Although tradition dictated that every Master take the pledge not to raise a hand against a member of the village, one never knew. Especially in these days of uncertainty. This Master who walked among them would be the last. All gathered there this day knew it was so.
Chiun. That was all he would ever be. Not Chiun the Great or even Chiun the Lesser, for honorifics like "great" or "lesser" were bestowed only on those who did not fail. And this Chiun-Who-Would-Have-No-Title had failed like no other Master before him.
"Cursed are we to live in this time, with this Master who has failed us," the women said in hushed voices when they thought the failed Master Chiun was out of earshot.
"Silence," the fearful men insisted. They cowered at the edge of the crowd, behind the women and children. "Yes, he has failed. But even in failure he is strong."
"Not strong enough to find a suitable heir. Not strong enough to protect the village of his ancestors. His strength has waned. The time of the great Masters of Sinanju is over."
Although whispered, their words still carried. Chiun did not let them know he could hear every barbed word.
Such it was for a Master of Sinanju. The ability to detect a lone truthful whisper in a chorus of joyful lies was but a single skill in the arsenal of Sinanju.
He left the crowd to their fraudulent celebration. He spurned the main road from the village, taking the path that led into the rocky hills above the shore. Chiun skittered along the treacherous path in seeming defiance of the force of gravity. His surefootedness would have seemed miraculous to many, given his apparent age.
Chiun was old. He did not yet appear ready for the grave, but he was long past the middle of his life. Twin wisps of white hair floated gently at the sides of his head. A thread of matching beard quivered at his proud chin.
Although his outward appearance was that of a man surrendering to the inevitable march of time, in the case of the Master of Sinanju, looks were deceiving.
Looking closer, one could see a man possessed of a powerful inner strength. His hazel eyes were youthful, as was the certain stride that carried him swiftly along the rocky promontory.
The Horns of Welcome rose above the bay. Two great curving arcs of stone that had for countless centuries acted both as welcome and warning to those who dared visit the Pearl of the Orient. Framed between the horns; far out in the black waters of the West Korean Bay, the oblong blot of a submarine sat like a steel island amid the rolling waves.
The USS Darter had surfaced at dawn.
When it first broke through the frigid whitecaps, alarm had registered in the highest corridors of Communist North Korea. Patrol boats that
But no shots were fired.
It was learned that the American submarine had come to pay tribute to the legendary Master of Sinanju.
Kim Il Sung, Leader for Life of North Korea, knew well of Sinanju and its Masters. Assassins who could hide in shadow and kill in the time it took a man to draw breath. If the sub was here on Sinanju business, it was no business of his. North Korea's premier ordered his boats to stand down.
The patrol boats sped away into the Yellow Sea, leaving the submarine alone in the bay.
Only when the communist boats had gone did the hatch open. A lone man left the submarine and found his way into the village to the Master's house, there to seek an audience with the Reigning Master. Hours later that same man now waited at the shore for the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun would go to him shortly. But there was one stop he had to make first.
The hillside became a plateau. At the top yawned the mouth of a deep cave. Around its entrance grew three trees-a pine, a bamboo and a plum blossom. Moving among the trees was a lone figure. Although Chiun had seen nearly eighty summers, the old man on the hilltop had obviously lived many more than that.
He was heavyset and bald. Age had whitened his skin. The flesh was pulled taut over knots of fragile bone.
He didn't incline his head Chiun's way. His back to the bay, the aged figure seemed oblivious to his visitor. Yet as Chiun approached, the ancient man spoke.
"There is no beauty to that sailing vessel," the old man said. His voice was thin and quavered with great age. With yellowed fingernails he clipped a sucker from the plum tree.
He nodded back over his shoulder. Only the very tips of the Horns of Welcome were visible this high up. Pincered between the tops of the curved rocks was the submarine.
"A ship should have sails," the elderly man said. "In my day some still had them. Now none do. It is sad that you live in this age without having experienced at least some of the last, young Chiun. It was a magnificent time."
At this the old man finally turned.
When he beheld the ancient man's face, Chiun was forced to mask his deep sadness.
Once bright eyes were clouded with puffs of white. The blindness was recent and had come on rapidly. It grew worse with each passing day. It would only be a matter of months before he was completely blind. If his failing vision bothered the older man, it didn't show. The heavy man offered Chiun a knowing smile.
"Do not waste a moment worrying over me, young Chiun," the aged man said, nodding wisely. "I have seen enough in my many days. Much more than most men. My remembered vision will be enough to sustain me for the time that remains."
Chiun wasn't surprised that the old man had guessed his thoughts. Half-blind or not, there was little that could be hidden from H'si T'ang, the man who had been his teacher.
"Forgive me, Venerable One," Chiun apologized. But his sadness for the man who had given him so much remained. "I have come to take my leave of you."
At this, H'si T'ang nodded once more. "I heard the motors from the government boats and the chanting from the village. When the sun rose full and I saw the shadow of that strange vessel in the bay, I knew." The old man tipped his bald head. "Where do you go?"
"To the West. America's king has summoned Sinanju to his court."
"Ah. And what is the service you are to perform?" At this Chiun hesitated.
He didn't dare lie. Not that he could have gotten away with it even if he tried. But he couldn't tell the truth. Couldn't admit that a legend, an ancient promise, a hope was drawing him to the most barbarian of Western nations.
H'si T'ang sensed his pupil's troubled spirit. Chiun was relieved when the older man interrupted. "Whatever the service, I am certain it will bring greater glory to the House of Sinanju, son of my son," the retired Master said. With a shuffling of feet, he turned his attention back to his plum tree.
Chiun watched his teacher for a long moment. "You do not have to live here, Little Father," he said all at once. "The Master's House in the village-"
"Was home to me in my time," H'si T'ang broke in. "You are Master now. Therefore the House of Many Woods is yours. Besides," he added, waving a hand of bone at the open mouth of the cave, "this place is familiar to me. Three times in my long life have I entered into the ritualistic seclusion, only to have to reenter the world again. It is easier to remain here than to pack and unpack every few decades."
At his words, Chiun hung his head in shame.
"I am sorry to have failed you, Father," he said.
When H'si T'ang turned, his smiling face had grown stern. "How have you failed me?" the old man demanded. "The first time I entered this cave was when your father took you as pupil. For such is it written that the Master should purify his spirit when his successor takes a pupil of his own. When your father, who was my son, passed into the Void I completed your training. As Master and as your grandfather, I was known as Hwa and Yui. As your teacher, I took the name H'si T'ang. The circumstances surrounding my rebirth as teacher could not be blamed on you."
"No," Chiun admitted. "But that was not the only time."
H'si T'ang waved his words away. "Your child who died was a tragedy that you did not cause and that you could not have prevented-despite what you think. As for your second pupil, he was a child of Sinanju the village and student of Sinanju the discipline, but he was never one with the essence that is the Sun Source. The best he could do was mimic what we are. At this Nuihc excelled, but his heart was never ours."
At the mention of his nephew's name, Chiun's back stiffened. The name of his brother's son was unmentionable in the village. Only H'si T'ang would dare speak it.
"As you say," Chiun said quietly. "For now I must go. Take care, Little Father." Bowing deeply, he turned.
He had taken only a few shuffling steps when a voice rang out behind him.
"Hold," H'si T'ang commanded.
Chiun froze in his tracks. "Yes, Venerable One?" The older man motioned with a long, crooked finger.
"Come here."
Chiun did as he was told. When he stopped before his teacher, H'si T'ang reached out with one hand. He took Chiun's chin in a knot of bony fingers.
"This is the last time I will look on your face with these failing eyes," H'si T'ang said. "I want to be sure I remember it."
As he studied his pupil, the translucent flesh of his old, old face pulled into a satisfied smile. When he was finished, his fingers slipped from Chiun's chin. Wordlessly, H'si T'ang turned back to his plum tree.
The ancient man resumed his work. Busy nails clipped another small shoot.
Chiun left his teacher to his pruning. With a troubled shadow across his parchment brow he left the plateau.
Only when his pupil was gone did H'si T'ang stop his pruning. Eyes of milk turned to face the shore. The fuzzy blot of the submarine was barely visible in the bay.
"Have a care, my son," the Venerable One said in a voice so low Chiun's sensitive ears could not hear. "While you are racing off to fulfill one legend, do not allow yourself to be blinded to the second."
Laced with foreboding, his words of caution were carried off on the wind. They were lost in the sounds of celebration that still rose from the squalid main street of Sinanju.
Chapter 2
The American looked up with bleary eyes.
He had waited so long that he had passed out from the cold. The villagers had revived him. Someone started a fire. Sitting on the edge of a rubber raft, he leaned near the flames, arms drawn in tight to his chest.
When he saw the old Korean approaching, he stood. There was a hook where his left hand should have been.
"You about ready to go?" he grunted. The collar of his trench coat was turned up in a futile attempt to ward off the bitter Korean cold.
Padding up beside the big man, Chiun aimed his chin toward the water's edge where three steamer trunks bobbed in the frothy water like colorful corks. The trunks had been lashed together with wire from the waiting submarine.
"Where is the rest of my luggage?"
