He plugged it hissing-fuse-first down the man's throat. Grabbing the cabbie by his dirty pajamas, he heaved him out the window and over the bridge. The gagging driver couldn't even scream. He was halfway to the Thames when his fuse burned down deep in his gullet and his body went boom.
Afghan meat splattered silvery waves.
Up on the bridge, Remo scrambled up over the seat and dropped in behind the taxi's wheel.
He hit the gas and pulled away from the honking truck. Swerving through traffic, he left the truck and its angry driver in their wake.
"What the hell just happened?" Remo demanded over his shoulder as he sped off Westminster Bridge.
"You killed our driver, that's what happened," Chiun clucked unhappily. "What is wrong with you?"
"He tried to kill me first," Remo snarled.
"Yes, but he had not taken us to the airport yet. You could have waited until then to remove him. Now we will need to find another. Pull over."
"Like hell."
"Remo, in this country they drive on the other side of those little lines in the street. I do not trust that you will stay on the proper side of the little lines in a coloring book, let alone on the streets of a foreign land."
"Screw the lines," Remo said. "I want to know why that guy just tried to blow my head off."
Chiun's weathered face grew annoyed. "Apparently the British learned from you Americans how to keep a secret, that's why," he muttered. "And now, thanks to their loose lips, we need to find another taxi. Stop the car."
"No. And for the record, U.S. security only started to suck once we turned over all our national secrets to the ACLU and People for the American Way for safekeeping. What did that guy learn from the British?"
Chiun folded his arms, irritated. "That you were going to be here, obviously." He released a long, weary sigh. "You are going to make this difficult for me, aren't you?"
"If you mean am I going to go tra-la skipping along like nothing happened after two attempted murders in less than a half hour, no, I'm not."
And because he saw now that his intransigent pupil would not be persuaded to continue without an explanation, the Master of Sinanju reluctantly agreed to offer one.
"Although it is against my better judgment to betray one of our most beautiful traditions," the old Korean warned.
"Nothing beautiful about people trying to kill me."
"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder."
Chapter 9
Chiun instructed Remo to turn the cab around. They headed back over the Thames into the tourist heart of the city. Remo ditched the cab near Hyde Park. It was just as well. After the incident on the bridge, the car had probably been reported to the police by now.
The two Masters of Sinanju strolled along the paths of Hyde Park, sitting in the brown grass in the shadow of a great spreading ash. Children played in the sun.
As he sat cross-legged on the ground, Chiun fussed at his silk kimono, smoothing it at the knees.
"As part of your training in the awesome magnificence that is the art of Sinanju, I have taught you the lessons of the Masters who have come before us," the Reigning Master of Sinanju began without preamble.
Remo felt an involuntary chill. For years Chiun had hammered home the legends of his ancestors. A lot of the information Remo had been forced to memorize had to do with who begat whom, what they ate for lunch, as well as every little niggling detail about how they managed to score an extra denarius from a certain emperor of Rome. Because of this, Remo had become expert in avoiding listening to the tales. But it was different this day.
Those men were with him now, in death forming the Masters' Tribunal. The eyes that had been with him for the past year crowded around him in Hyde Park. The Masters who had bequeathed their hard-won lessons to the ages watched from some other realm. In the heart of London, Remo Williams felt the history of Sinanju all around him.
Feeling the weight of hundreds of disapproving stares, all Remo could do was nod.
Chiun accepted the silence with understanding. "Of all the tales you have learned, most important is the tale of the Great Wang," the old man said. "For though other, lesser Masters preceded him, Wang towered above them all. The truth of the Sun Source was his to discover and explore, and so he is remembered as the first. Know you, Remo, the tale of Wang?"
Remo was surprised to even be asked the question. "Of course I do, Little Father. You've drilled it into my head over and over practically since the day we met."
Chiun raised his chin, stretching his wattled neck. "Tell it to me," he commanded.
There would be no argument. Remo knew his teacher thought it important for him to speak the words. Feeling self-conscious about his invisible audience-one member of which was doubtless the Great Wang himself-Remo began.
"Wang lived at a time when there were many trained in the art of early Sinanju," Remo said. "These were called night tigers, the soldiers of Sinanju. Now, even in that age of many students, there was still only one Master who was head of the village. When the time came for him to retire, he would choose from the night tigers the one who would succeed him as Master. One day the older Master died before choosing a successor. There was fighting among the night tigers to see who would assume the mantle of Reigning Master. As the others fought, Wang went off to the wilderness to seek guidance from his dead ancestors. While there, legend says that a ring of fire descended from the heavens and, in an instant, gave Wang enlightenment. With a new vision and strength, Wang returned to the village and slew the quarreling night tigers. Afterward he assumed the title of Reigning Master, establishing the tradition of one pupil, one Master that has survived for millennia, all the way down to the modern age. Which brings us to this afternoon, Hyde Park, London, 5:17 p.m. Greenwich mean time."
Chiun had listened to his pupil's recitation in silence.
"Is that all?" he asked once Remo seemed finished.
"Pretty much. That's the Reader's Digest version. I can give you the director's cut if you want."
The old Korean shook his head. "For the time being I will forgive you the glaring omissions, for you have gotten the basic elements of the story. However, in the near future we must go over that lesson again, for it is likely your wandering mind needs to be refreshed. Remind me."
"I'll make a note of it," Remo promised, swearing silently to himself to never bring it up again.
"Very well," Chiun said. "Now, while it is plain you know some of the beginnings of Wang's masterhood, you do not know all of what followed his ascendancy to his lofty position as first Master of Sinanju of the New Age. It is true that Wang was given in an instant the knowledge of true Sinanju, knowledge that took the remainder of his life to master. But not everyone believed in his newfound gifts."
The old man's singsong voice settled back into the familiar cadence of teacher.
"Not long after Wang had slain the lesser night tigers, an adviser to a Japanese shogun did come to the village to seek the counsel of the Master of Sinanju. He was greatly disappointed to find that the old Master had died and that Wang had taken his place, for he had dealt on several past occasions with Wang's predecessor. Still, Sinanju's reputation was already old by this point, and so the adviser did explain his master's problem to the young Wang.
"According to the Japanese, his master, the shogun, had three wicked sons whom he had recently learned were plotting against him. The father was concerned, for all three sons had been tested in battle many times. All three were possessed of great physical strength, all three had powerful armies and all three were popular in the lands over which they ruled, lands given them by their father. Even after dividing his land among his sons, the father's kingdom remained the largest in the region, and was thus coveted by his heirs. They planned to kill their father and divide his land between them. To neutralize the threat to his kingdom and regain the land he had mistakenly turned over to his ungrateful offspring, the shogun wished to hire ten of Sinanju's greatest night tigers.