The Seventh Stone, page 17
“Gentlemen,” began Smith. “What do you know about fluorocarbons?”
“They are evil, O Gracious Emperor, and were probably behind the desecrators of your glorious name, this very morning sent to their righteous doom,” said Chiun.
“They’re the things in spray cans, aren’t they?” Remo asked. “They make them work.”
Smith nodded. “Fluorocarbons are a manmade chemical propellant. Their industrial use was severely restricted almost ten years ago.”
“He who would make noise during transcendence,” observed Chiun, “would make a fluorocarbon that the whole world despises for its ugliness.”
“High in the stratosphere lies a layer of ozone gas. It’s only about an eighth of an inch thick, but it performs the critical ecological function of filtering harmful solar radiation so it doesn’t strike the planet’s surface. Unfortunately, these fluorocarbons rose to the stratosphere and began to eat away at the ozone layer faster than new ozone was being produced up there.”
“Our gracious ozone,” said Chiun. “The swine.”
And to Remo, in Korean:
“What is this man ranting about? Is he afraid of hair sprays?”
“Will you listen to him, Little Father? The man’s talking,” Remo whispered back in the Korean dialect of the northwest province in which the village of Sinanju, Chiun’s village, was located.
“Hair sprays today, poems about people’s rights yesterday. What will it be tomorrow? I say now, as I have said before, let us leave this lunatic’s service. The world has never had more despots and tyrants, rulers who would not only pay more, but would properly honor a professional assassin with correct employment.” This from Chiun, also in Korean.
“Will you listen?” said Remo.
“Yes,” continued Smith. “It is a major problem once more because someone, some lunatic, is shooting holes in the ozone layer on purpose.”
“What can you expect from violators of transcendence?” said Chiun. Remo gave him a dirty look. Chiun ignored it. If Remo had a flaw, Chiun knew that it was his lack of expertise in dealing with emperors. Remo followed this Smith, still not realizing that emperors came and went, but the House of Sinanju, of which he was now a part, went on forever. To avoid being an emperor’s tool, one should never let him know that he, the emperor, was the tool. One did this by pretending loyalty beyond loyalty.
Smith, who had never looked excessively healthy, appeared even more haggard now. His words were heavy as he spoke, almost as if he had given up hope. And Remo did not know why.
“We have not determined who is doing this, but NASA satellites have detected a stream of concentrated fluorocarbons, obviously manmade, collecting through the atmosphere above the Atlantic Ocean. This stream appeared to open an ozone window above central Russia. We are not sure where it originated but we believe it came from somewhere on this side of the Atlantic. Maybe North America. Maybe South America. In any case it opened up that window.”
“Of course,” cried Chiun. “This is your chance to destroy your archenemy. Find the wicked fluorocarbons, place them in righteous hands, and then conquer the world. Your wisdom transcends Genghis Khan, O Emperor. They will sing of you as they have sung of the great Attila. Praise be that we are at the birthing of this glorious day. ‘Sack Moscow!’ is the people’s cry.”
Smith cleared his throat before continuing. “There are two reasons we must locate that fluorocarbon source. One, it may ultimately rupture the ozone shield. Ground radiation levels under the Russian window indicate that the shield closed itself off in less than a day. Provided that atmospheric ozone levels haven’t been seriously strained, it will probably be replenished.”
Chiun raised a single finger to his wisp of a white beard and nodded sagely. Remo wondered what he was thinking about.
“The second reason is that when we offered to help the Soviets analyze the damage to the ozone over their country, they acted like nothing had happened. And then we picked up the strangest sort of activity. The building of an entire separate missile command. These missiles are unlike anything we have seen before. And we are afraid these new missiles have only one purpose. A first strike.”
“How do you know? I mean, how can you tell what’s going on in their minds?” asked Remo.
“Our satellites have photographed the new missile bases, so we know they exist. But we haven’t picked up any trace of a response mechanism. That’s a system that has several layers of checks and counterchecks built into it, so that the missiles are fired only after certain preconditions are met, including a determination that the country has been attacked. It’s fairly easy to read from outer space. All we have to do is pick up the electronic signals created by the response mechanism. But this new command doesn’t have any of that. They have one phone line and a backup. It’s what we call a raw button.”
“A what?”
“The only thing you can do with those damned missiles is launch them. There is no waiting for confirmation, no protection against incoming missiles, no launch codes. Nothing. They are already aimed and await the press of a single button. All they need to start World War III is one phone call, and dammit, the way their phones work, a thunderstorm could set off that call.”
“We burn either slow from the sun or fast from the Russians,” said Remo.
“Exactly,” said Smith.
“So what do we do? Where do you want us to go?”
“You wait. Both of you. The entire world is watching the skies for those crazies to try streaming fluorocarbons again. If they do, we’ll get a fix on them, and then you two move in. No holds barred. Don’t wait for anything. There aren’t two people I would rather have between the human race and extinction than you. The President feels the same way. I just hope another incident won’t set the Russians off. I never have understood them, and I understand them even less now.”
“Of course,” said Chiun. He always understood the calculated moves of the Russians, but could never remotely fathom Smith and his democracy.
“I do. You know,” Remo said slowly, “sometimes I think what we do doesn’t matter. Not as much as I’d like it to matter. But this does. You know, it makes me glad to be alive to do this. It’s saving the world, I guess.”
“Don’t guess,” said Smith. “It is.”
“And it shall be recorded that the great Emperor Harold Smith did perform the wondrous act of saving the world through a trainee of the House of Sinanju.”
“I am glad you feel that way, Master of Sinanju,” said Smith. “By the way, there was a small problem with your gold tribute. But we will reship it.”
“What? What problem?” asked Chiun. His delicate head cocked so suddenly that the wisps of white hair at his ears and chin quivered.
“The submarine carrying your gold surfaced five miles off Sinanju, in the West Korean Bay, as always. On the same day and at the appointed hour, as always. In agreement with the North Korean government, as always.”
“Yes, yes,” said Chiun eagerly.
“Would you like some water, Smitty?” asked Remo. He looked as though he could use some. The tribute to Sinanju would only pile up in that house above the village, so it was not of great importance to Remo that there was a delay of sorts. Smith did look especially worried by this, but they would be able to reship, of course.
“Shhh, fool.” Chiun to Remo.
Smith said he didn’t need the water.
“The gold. The gold,” said Chiun.
“We have tea,” suggested Remo.
“The gold.”
“Well, it’s nothing serious,” said Smith. “Usually someone from your village rows out to meet the sub and collect our yearly tribute to the House of Sinanju which pays for your services as Remo’s trainer. This time no one came.”
“They must,” cried Chiun. “They have always done it.”
“This time, they didn’t. But we will reship.”
“Reship? My loyal villagers did not appear to claim the tribute that has sustained Sinanju for centuries, and you will reship?”
“What’s the big deal, Chiun?” said Remo. “You’ve got so much tribute in that place that one year’s gold isn’t going to make much difference.”
“The village starves without the tributes earned by the Master of Sinanju. The babies will have to be sent home to the sea by their weeping mothers, as it was done in the days before the Masters of Sinanju hired themselves out as assassins to prevent that very thing.”
“That hasn’t happened since the House worked for the Ming Dynasty in China. They can live off that treasure alone for a thousand years.”
“We’ll reship a double payment,” said Smith in an uncharacteristic gesture of generosity. That told Remo more than anything else that Smith really feared for the survival of the planet.
Chiun rose in a single smooth movement, entering the bedroom like the wind.
“What happened? What’s gotten into him?” asked Smith.
“I think he may be upset. That treasure is kinda important to him,” Remo said. “I’ve seen it. Some of it is priceless. Mint coins from Alexander the Great. Rubies. Emeralds. Ivory. Gorgeous stuff. And a lot of it’s junk, too. Things they used to think of as precious that aren’t anymore. Like aluminum, when it first came out, centuries ago before it could be manufactured. They have gobs of aluminum. I’ve seen it right there beside a case of diamonds. Really. The diamonds are off to the side.”
“It’s all right that we’re going to double the shipment, isn’t it? I mean, how could he object?” asked Smith.
Remo shrugged. “Some things even I don’t understand yet.”
But when Chiun reappeared in a dark gray flecked robe, his face grave as a statue, hands folded within his sleeves and thick-soled sandals on his feet, Remo Williams knew that the Master of Sinanju was leaving. This was his traveling robe. But his trunks were not packed.
“Little Father, you can’t leave now,” Remo said in Korean. “The world may go up.”
“The world is always being destroyed. Look at Nineveh. Look at Pompeii. Look at the Great Flood. The world is always destroyed, but gold goes on forever. And the ancient treasure of the House of Sinanju, which has survived catastrophes without number, may well be in danger.”
“I can’t go with you, Chiun,” said Remo. “I have to stay here.”
“And betray your responsibility as the next Master of Sinanju? A Master must protect the treasure.”
“If there is no world left, where are you going to spend it?”
“One can always spend gold,” said Chiun. “I have taught you strokes, Remo. I have trained you to fulfill the potential of your mind and of your body. I have made you strong, and I have made you quick. Most of all I have made you an assassin, one of a long line of honorable assassins. I have taught you all these things when I should have taught you wisdom. I have bequeathed the power of Sinanju to a fool.” This in Korean. This said with rage.
So angered was he that the Master of Sinanju left the suite without giving a formal bow to his emperor.
“Where did he go?” asked Smith, who did not understand Korean.
“Did you notice that he didn’t give you a proper farewell?”
“Yes, I thought it seemed briefer than usual. Does that mean anything?”
“He just said good-bye,” Remo said quietly. Without thinking, he dropped to a lotus position on the floor, easily and smoothly with the legs joining like petals as he had been taught so many years before.
“I am sorry. I had hoped to use him, too, in this crisis. Well, we still have you and that’s the important thing. When he comes back, we’ll use him.”
“I don’t know if he is coming back,” said Remo. “You just got a good-bye.”
“And you? Did he say good-bye to you?”
“I hope not. I really want to believe not,” said Remo. And with soft, cutting motions, he tore up pieces of the thick pile carpet, not even noticing what his hands were doing.
“I am sure Chiun will return,” said Smith. “There is an emotional bond between you two. Like a father and son.”
“That treasure is pretty important to him. I don’t think it can be that important, because nobody ever spends it. But then again, I am white.”
About the Authors
WARREN MURPHY was born in Jersey City, where he worked in journalism and politics until launching the Destroyer series with Richard Sapir in 1971. A screenwriter (Lethal Weapon II, The Eiger Sanction) as well as a novelist, Murphy’s work has won a dozen national awards, including multiple Edgars and Shamuses. He has lectured at many colleges and universities, and is currently offering writing lessons at his website, warrenmurphy.com. A Korean War veteran, some of Murphy’s hobbies include golf, mathematics, opera, and investing. He has served on the board of the Mystery Writers of America, and has been a member of the Screenwriters Guild, the Private Eye Writers of America, the International Association of Crime Writers, and the American Crime Writers League. He has five children: Deirdre, Megan, Brian, Ardath, and Devin.
RICHARD BEN SAPIR was a New York native who worked as an editor and in public relations before creating the Destroyer series with Warren Murphy. Before his untimely death in 1987, Sapir had also penned a number of thriller and historical mainstream novels, best known of which were The Far Arena, Quest and The Body, the last of which was made into a film. The book review section of the New York Times called him “a brilliant professional.”
Also by Warren Murphy
The Day Remo Died (a prequel)
The Destroyer Series (#1-25)
Created, The Destroyer
Death Check
Chinese Puzzle
Mafia Fix
Dr. Quake
Death Therapy
Union Bust
Summit Chase
Murder’s Shield
Terror Squad
Kill or Cure
Slave Safari
Acid Rock
Judgment Day
Murder Ward
Oil Slick
Last War Dance
Funny Money
Holy Terror
Assassin’s Playoff
Deadly Seeds
Brain Drain
Child’s Play
King’s Curse
Sweet Dreams
The Destroyer Series (#26-50)
In Enemy Hands
The Last Temple
Ships of Death
The Final Death
Mugger Blood
The Head Men
Killer Chromosomes
Voodoo Die
Chained Reaction
Last Call
Power Play
Bottom Line
Bay City Blast
Missing Link
Dangerous Games
Firing Line
Timber Line
Midnight Man
Balance of Power
Spoils of War
Next of Kin
Dying Space
Profit Motive
Skin Deep
Killing Time
The Destroyer Series (#51-75)
Shock Value
Fool’s Gold
Time Trial
Last Drop
Master’s Challenge
Encounter Group
Date with Death
Total Recall
The Arms of Kali
The End of the Game
Lords of the Earth
The Seventh Stone
The Sky is Falling
The Last Alchemist
Lost Yesterday
Sue Me
Look Into My Eyes
Old Fashioned War
Blood Ties
The Eleventh Hour
Return Engagement
Sole Survivor
Line of Succession
Walking Wounded
Rain of Terror
The Trace Series
Trace
And 47 Miles of Rope
When Elephants Forget
Pigs Get Fat
Once a Mutt
Too Old a Cat
Getting up with Fleas
Copyright
This digital edition was published in 2023 by Head of Zeus, Ltd.
If you downloaded this book from a filesharing network, either individually or as part of a larger torrent, the author has received no compensation. Please consider purchasing a legitimate copy—they are reasonably priced, and available from all major outlets. And if you enjoy it, leave a positive review. Your author thanks you.
Copyright © 2023 by Warren Murphy
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Warren Murphy, The Seventh Stone
