He also knew of Sinanju. Dilkes had hosted him several times in the 1990s when work brought the French assassin to Africa. Talk inevitably turned to the reason Dilkes had left the United States years before. They talked of Sinanju.
The Frenchman was disdainful of most in his profession, but, like Dilkes, he held the House of Sinanju in high regard. He had heard of what was to come. Unlike Dilkes, the Frenchman looked forward to this time. Hoped he lived long enough to see it. Sevigne saw it as the ultimate challenge. He knew that he could not hope to best the greatest assassins in the world with weapons or brawn. He insisted that it would be cleverness, trickery, not guns or gadgets, that would finally overcome the vaunted assassins from the East.
His greatest fear was that he would falter. That he would somehow tip his hand.
"In no circumstance have I ever been nervous. Not in my entire career," Sevigne had said one lazy summer evening in the gazebo of Dilkes's Zimbabwe ranch.
The two men sat with their brandies and watched the African sky burn away to smoldering ash.
"But these men from Sinanju," Sevigne continued, shaking his head in awe. He took a deep, thoughtful breath. "There was a young American performer a few years back. He wanted nothing more than to sing in front of his idol, Frank Sinatra. It was his lifelong dream. If and when the moment came, he thought it would be magical. He became successful and, as fate would have it, ended up performing on a stage in front of Sinatra. It was not a magical night, Benson. He forgot the words. He stumbled, he stammered. He made a nervous fool of himself. That is my greatest fear. I am not afraid of meeting the men from Sinanju. I am afraid I will make a fool out of myself when I do."
Dilkes had dragged on his pipe, blowing a lazy smoke ring to the warm gazebo ceiling.
"Your fear is misplaced," he warned. "Fear them, and not what you'll do to embarrass yourself in your dying moments. Because if this legend comes to pass and we're all forced to meet them, there's no doubt that they will be your dying moments."
In the end Dilkes was right.
Jean-Pierre had tried being clever. But all clever got him was a belly full of acid and a thumbtack stuck in a shopworn corkboard map.
The futility of cleverness had already been proved to Dilkes months ago. Olivier Hahn had been particularly clever. The high-tech Swiss assassin was a Dilkes protege. For a time he was like a son to Benson Dilkes. The younger man loved to build elaborate traps for his prey.
Hahn's thumbtack was stuck in the Swiss Alps where his frozen body had been discovered in a remote cabin.
Clumsy, low-tech didn't seem to have an effect, either.
Dilkes had gotten a report out of London a few hours after England's two Source agents were killed. A third body. Killed by an explosion over the Thames.
Although most of the thorax had been blown open, the head and one hand had stayed intact. They had landed on the deck of a pleasure boat. The police had identified the dead man as Amwala Mohtat, an Afghan national.
Dilkes went to his computer. He found Mohtat in his detailed files of the shadow world. At the moment, there was no confirmation from his sources that this had to do with the contest. None was needed for Benson Dilkes. He just knew.
Another thumbtack. This one in the Thames River. Four dead in a matter of hours.
Still standing at the Europe map, Benson Dilkes suddenly wondered if he had enough thumbtacks. He might have to run out to an office-supply store to pick up some more.
He glanced absently over at the nightstand where the open case of tacks sat. It was only then that he noticed the man standing in the bedroom with him.
A sliver of shock. Quickly overtaken by instinct honed from years of experience.
Dilkes didn't panic, didn't run. His gun was on his bureau.
Duck, slide, grab. Out of a crouch, his fingers closed around the butt of the automatic. Spin. The gun was up. Smoothly, efficiently. Aimed squarely at the narrow chest of the small man who stood in his bedroom doorway.
"How did you get in here?" Dilkes demanded. The man in the black business suit didn't react to the gun. His eyes remained locked on those of Benson Dilkes. A spider eyeing a twitching fly.
"Your defenses are elaborate," the intruder admitted. "However, doors are made to be opened. If there is a right way and a wrong way, one merely has to use the right way."
If Dilkes was the sort of man who made mistakes, he would have been racking his brain to think of what he did wrong.
Maybe he left the door ajar, maybe he hadn't flipped the switch when he came home, maybe he hadn't wired the damn thing up right. But the door had been wired perfectly, he had closed it tight and he had made certain to reset the charges when he entered the apartment.
This man couldn't be here. Yet here he was. And that face. It couldn't be.
Benson Dilkes began to get a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. His bowels turned to water.
The stranger seemed to sense his apprehension. "Yes," the intruder said, nodding. "You are wise, Benson Dilkes. You understand that all doors yield to me."
It was true. It had to be.
Benson Dilkes was shaking. He lowered his gun. If he was right, it was pointless to even try to aim it. "Are you-?" Dilkes began weakly. "That is, who are-? I thought you were ...older. "
The intruder smiled a smile devoid of warmth. His hazel eyes remained as flat and lifeless as his Asian face.
"I am what you think I am, yet not who," he said. "Names are but air formed by lips that inevitably turn to dust. They are fleeting, forgotten things. However, if you must call me something-" the Asian smiled, this time with wicked pleasure "-you may call me Nuihc."
Chapter 15
Mark Howard was waiting anxiously by the window when he finally spied Dr. Smith's station wagon turning through Folcroft's main gates. Mark rushed down to the fire doors. When the CURE director came hustling upstairs a few moments later, his office keys were already in hand.
Smith didn't stop. "Did you trace the call?" he demanded as he hurried down the hall.
"Yes," Howard said, falling in beside his employer. "You were right."
Nodding crisply, Smith ducked into his office suite. Mrs. Mikulka's desk was empty.
"You are certain it was Chiun's number in Sinanju?" Smith asked as he unlocked the inner door, ushering his young assistant into his Spartan office.
"Double-checked," Mark said. "It was his. A clean line. No one tapped it. How did you know?"
"This is not without precedent," Smith explained. He shut the door tightly and hurried across the room, settling in his cracked leather chair. He booted up his computer.
"Should I have called back?"
"No, I'll handle this," Smith insisted.
Mark sighed relief. "Just as well," he said, taking up a post beside Smith's desk from where he could better see the canted monitor. "It sounded like she didn't speak English. I couldn't understand a word she was saying."
"That in itself is odd," Smith said. "Not the fact that you couldn't understand the language, but that it was a woman. I was led to understand that Chiun's caretaker is the only individual with access to the village phone line."
"She sounded like she was in hysterics," Howard said.
Frowning, the CURE director attacked his keyboard with certain hands. Amber letters burst soft in the trailing wake of his drumming fingers.
"After we spoke I tried tracking down Remo and Chiun," Howard offered as Smith typed, "but they're missing in action right now. Remo used his Visa card at a restaurant about two hours ago." He snapped his fingers. "Oh, I forgot. The French assassin is gone."
"That isn't unexpected," Smith said as he worked. "Master Chiun told me that this trial Remo is undergoing is merely a formality. Historically there is no real risk to the Apprentice Master of Sinanju. Remo shouldn't have any problems with any of the assassins he is scheduled to meet. It is more a demonstration of technique to potential employers, as well as a reminder that Sinanju is in the world. It is also a nuisance I could do without at this point in my life. But I learned many years ago the futility of arguing with the Master of Sinanju. As long as their activities remain below the world's radar, that is the best I can hope for." He finished typing. "There, we're tied in."