Assassins Play Off

"So this is it, huh?" said Remo as he limped through the shallow rock-bottomed water onto the shore. Behind him, the two sailors in the rubber raft used their oars to push the craft away from the shoreline and to hustle back to the waiting submarine.

Chiun stepped toward Remo, a smile lighting his face.

"Yes," he said. "This is it. The Pearl of the Orient." He waved his arms dramatically right and left. "The Sun Source of the World's Wisdom. Sinanju."

Remo's eyes followed Chiun's arms to the left and right. To the left was barren, rockstrewn desolation; to the right was more barren, rockstrewn desolation. The waves broke white, bubbling, and cold on the shore.

"What a dump," said Remo.

"Ah, but wait until you see the fishing building," said Chiun.

Using his cane for support, Remo hobbled forward again toward Chiun. Water squished from his soaked loafers but he did not feel the cold. Chiun's face squinted up as he seemed to see, for the first time, the cane in Remo's hand.

"Aiiieeee." His left hand flashed sideways, almost glinting in the brittle November sunlight of Sinanju. The broad leading edge of his hand hit the cane. The wood snapped and broke. Remo got his weight off it just quickly enough to avoid falling into the water. He stood there, holding the curved crook of the cane in his right hand, the rest of the cane bobbing in the water behind his back, before seeming to fight its way over the waves and back out toward the sea.

"Dammit, Chiun, I need that."

"I do not know what they have taught you in America while I was gone, but no disciple of the Master of Sinanju will use a walking stick. People will look. They will say, look, there is the disciple of the Master, and how young he is and he walks with a stick and how foolish of the Master to have tried to train such a pale piece of pig's ear to do anything. And they will scoff at me and I will not have it in my own land. What is wrong with you that you think you need a cane?"

"Three attacks, Little Father," Remo said. "Both shoulders and right leg."

Chiun searched Remo's face to determine if he knew the significance of the three attacks. The thin set of Remo's lips showed that he did.

"Well, we must go on to my palace," said Chiun, "and there we will care for you. Come."

He turned and walked away along the beach. Remo, using his left leg to move, and dragging his right leg heavily, hobbled after him. But he could not keep up, as Chiun widened the distance between them.

Finally, Chiun stopped ahead of Remo and gazed around him as if examining the majesty of his kingdom. Remo caught up to him. Without a word, Chiun turned and continued along the path he had taken, but this time more slowly, and Remo was able to stay at his side.

Fifty yards farther along, they stopped atop a small rise.

"There," said Chiun, pointing off in the distance. "The new fishing building."

Remo looked where Chiun pointed. A shanty of old water-logged planks and rolled tarpaper roofing perched precariously atop a deck that itself was perched delicately atop wooden pilings. It looked as if one sardine over the legal limit would topple it into the bay.

"What a dump," said Remo.

"Ahhh, to you it looks like a dump but it is highly efficient. The people of Sinanju have built it just right, to do its work. They are not interested in things for show, for the sake of show. Function is important. Come, I will show it to you. Would you like to see it?"

"Little Father," said Remo. "I would like to go to your house."

"Ah, yes. The American to the end. Not wishing to look and to learn from the wisdom of other people. It would not be right for you to try to learn how to build fishing buildings. That would make sense. Suppose someday you are without work? You could say, aha, but I can build fishing buildings and maybe that would keep you from standing on line for charity. But no, that requires foresight, of which you have none. And industry, of which you have less. No. Fritter your time away like the grasshopper, which finds itself in winter with nothing to eat."

"Chiun, please. Your house," said Remo, who stood only with great pain.

"It is all right," said Chiun. "I am used to your laziness. And it is a palace, not a house," and he turned left and began trudging along a sandy dirt road toward a small cluster of buildings several hundred yards away.

Remo hobbled to keep up with him.

"Didn't you once tell me, Little Father, that every time you entered the village, they threw flower petals in your path?" asked Remo, noticing that the road to the village center was empty of people and that Chiun, for all the so-called majesty of his office, might have been just another golden-ager out for a walk.

"I have suspended the flower petal requirement," said Chiun officiously.

"Why?"

"Because you are an American. I knew you might be misunderstanding of it. It is all right. The people protested but in the end I prevailed. I do not need flower petals to remind me of the love of my subjects."

No one met them on the street. No vehicles were to be seen. There were only a few stores and Remo could see people inside them but none came out to greet Chiun.

"You sure this is Sinanju?" asked Remo.

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Because it seems that a town you support and that your family has supported for centuries ought to pay a little more attention to you," said Remo.

"I have suspended the attention-paying requirement," said Chiun. His manner, Remo noticed, was less official and sounded a little like an apology. "Because…"

"I know, because I'm an American."

"Right," said Chiun. "But remember, even if they do not come out, people are watching. I wish you would walk right and not embarrass me by seeming to be an old man, old before your time, older even than your western dissolution would seem to require."

"I will try, Little Father, not to embarrass you," said Remo and, by an effort of will, he forced himself to put some weight on his injured right leg, reducing the limp, and, even though each motion pained him, he forced himself to swing his arms from the shoulders almost normally as he walked.

"There is the ancestral palace," said Chiun, motioning ahead with a nod of his head.

Remo looked ahead. Into his mind flashed a building he had once seen in California. It had been created by its builder from junk, made of broken bottles and tin cans and styrofoam cups and old tires and broken pieces of boards.

Chiun's house reminded Remo of a house built by the same craftsman, but this time with access to more materials, for in a village of wooden shanties and huts, Chiun's home was made of stone and…

And… glass and steel and wood and rock and shell. It was a low, one-story building whose architecture seemed to be American ranch as seen through an LSD haze.

"It's… it's… it's… really something to see," said Remo.

"It has been in my family for centuries," said Chiun. "Of course, I had it remodeled many years ago. I put in a bathroom which I thought was a good idea you westerners had. And a kitchen with a stove. See, Remo, I am willing to take advice when it is good."

Remo was pleased to hear that, for he had some additional good advice for Chiun—tear it down and start all over. He decided to tether his tongue.

Chiun led Remo to the front door, apparently made of wood. Only apparently, because the door had been totally covered over with shells of clams, oysters, and mussels. The door looked like a section of Belmar Beach four hours after a New Jersey rip tide.

The door was heavy and Chiun pushed it open with seeming difficulty. He looked at Remo almost apologetically.

"I know," said Remo. "You have suspended the door opening requirement."

"How did you know?"

"Because I'm an American," said Remo.

While Remo had considered the building's exterior as ugly, not even that had prepared him for the inside. Every available inch of floor space seemed to have something on it. There were jugs and vases and plates, there were statues and swords, there were masks and baskets, there were piles of cushions in place of chairs, there were low tables of highly-polished wood, there were colored stones in glass jars.

Chiun spun around and indicated his domain with another sweep of his hand.

"Well, Remo, what do you think?"

"I am underwhelmed," said Remo.

"I knew you would be," said Chiun. "These are all the prizes of the Masters of Sinanju. Tribute paid us by rulers from all over the world. From the Sun King as you call him. From Ptolemy. From the shahs of those countless countries that make grease. From the emperors of China when they remembered to pay their bills. From tribes of India. From a once-great nation of black Africa."

"Who ripped you off giving you a jar of colored stones?" asked Remo, looking at a jar which stood in the corner of the room, a foot and a half high, filled with dull stones.

"How American you are," said Chiun.

"Well, I mean one of your ancestors got hustled."

"The jar was the agreed-upon price."

"A jar filled with rocks?"

"A jar filled with uncut diamonds."

Remo looked at the jar again. It was true. It was filled with uncut diamonds and the smallest was two inches across.

"But I would not expect you to understand that," said Chiun. "For you, for the western mind, all the world is divided into two categories: shiny and not shiny. For you, a piece of glass. But for a Master of Sinanju, diamonds. Because we can look under the dullness and see the value of the core."

"Like you did with me?" said Remo.

"Even Masters of Sinanju sometimes get fooled. Something that is supposed to be an uncut diamond may turn out to be just a rock."

"Chiun, I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask me anything."

"I wanted to know," and then Remo felt the strength draining from his limbs and he knew that his muscles had been extended beyond the point that they could be extended, and his right leg started to cave, and suddenly the effort of will ended, and his shoulders were blazing with pain. He opened his mouth to say something more, but he couldn't, and then he was falling toward the floor of the room.

He did not remember hitting the floor. He did not remember being lifted.

He only remembered waking up and looking around. He was in a small sunlit room, lying on a pile of cushions, naked, covered only with a thin silken sheet.

Chiun stood by his side and when Remo's eyes opened, he knelt. Carefully but quickly, his hands began to remove the bandages from Remo's shoulders.

"The doctor put those on," said Remo.

"The doctor is a fool. No muscle is helped by being strapped. Rest, yes. Imprisonment, no. We will make you well soon. We will…" but his voice trailed off as he saw Remo's right shoulder, as the last strand of bandage fell off.

"Oh, Remo," he said in a sad, pained voice. He said nothing further as he unwrapped the left shoulder and then he said it again, "Oh, Remo."

"The one who hit the leg was the best of all," Remo said. "Wait until you see it." He paused. "Chiun, how did you know I would come here?"

"What do you mean?"

"When you said goodbye to Smith, you said I would be here."

Chiun shrugged as he bent toward the bandage on Remo's right thigh. "It is written that you would."

"Written where?" asked Remo.

"On the men's room wall at Pittsburgh Airport." said Chiun nastily. "In the books of Sinanju," he said.

"And what does it say?" asked Remo.

Chiun deftly removed the bandage from Remo's thigh. This time he said nothing.

"That bad, huh?"

"I have seen worse," said Chiun. "Although not on anybody who survived."

He took a bowl from a small table near Remo's sleeping mat. "Drink this," he said. He lifted Remo's head and brought a cup to Remo's lips. The liquid was warm and almost tasteless except for what seemed to be a trace of salt.

"Awful. What is it?"

"It is a mixture from the seaweed that will start making you well again."

He let Remo's head down slowly. Remo felt tired. "Chiun," he said in a questioning voice.

"Yes, my son."

"You know who did this to me, don't you?"

"Yes, my son, I know."

"He is coming, Little Father," said Remo. His eyelids grew heavier as he spoke. It seemed as if his words were being spoken by someone else.

"I know, my son. He is coming."

"He may try to hurt you, Little Father."

"Sleep now, Remo. Sleep and heal."

Remo's eyes closed and he began to drift off. He heard Chiun's voice again. "Sleep and heal, my son."

And then Chiun's final words. "Heal quickly."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

And thus it came to pass that the Master of Sinanju did walk along the path in the village where he had once been of such honor.

His feet were heavy, as was his heart, because he knew that powerless, unprotected was the young disciple from the land across the sea, and because he knew that the evil force that would destroy that disciple would soon make its appearance on the rocky soil of Sinanju.

And the Master thus had no patience with the tongues of fools, and when people approached him on the path, to talk about the young disciple, about the leadenness of his step, about the infirmities that seemed as if they were of age, the Master had no patience with them and flailed about and scattered them as the barking dogs scatters the goose. But he did not harm the people who gave him such aggravation, because it has always been written, since the dawn of writing, that the Master must not raise his hand in anger to harm a person from the village.

And it was this very command that gave the Master such pain of spirit. Because the one who was coming to destroy the young disciple was of the village of Sinanju, yea, even of the blood of the Master, and the Master could find no way in which he might violate his ages-old vow and inflict upon that one the death he deserved.

Yea, as the Master walked alone, he thought that his disciple, injured as he was, defenseless as a babe as he was, that his disciple would be killed, and Chiun, the Master of Sinanju, could not protect him because of his vow never to hurt someone from the village.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Premier Kim Il Sung was at the plain wooden desk in his office in the People's Building in Pyongyang when the secretary entered the room.

The secretary was a young captain of artillery. He affected a gabardine military uniform instead of the rough canvas-textured khaki that was official government issue, but Sung had never held this against him because he was a good secretary.

Communists could come and Communists could go; military styles could come and go; pride even could come and go, but good secretaries were to be nurtured.

Once, years before, Sung had been accused of turning into a reactionary rightwinger after seizing power, and he had explained in what he considered his gentle voice that all revolutionaries become conservatives after gaining power. "Radicalism is fine for revolution," he had said, "but conservatism is what gets the trucks out of the garage in the morning."

He had then displayed his continuing revolutionary zeal by throwing the insulter into a prison for two weeks. When the man was released, Sung summoned him to his office.

The man, a minor official from one of the provinces, had stood before Sung, humiliated, chastened.

"Now you know you cannot judge everything by appearances," Sung had said. "It was an easy lesson for you to learn because you are still alive. Many have not been so lucky."

So it was that Kim Il Sung rated his secretary by secretarial standards and not by any standard of appearance set for soldiers. And so it was that Sung rated the man his secretary ushered in to see him, not by his size or his clothing or his speech, but by a kind of internal fire that seemed to come through the man's eyes and that invested all his words with power.

"I am Nuihc," the man said, "and I have come to serve you."

"Why am I so lucky?" said Sung.

He saw immediately that the man named Nuihc had no sense of humor.

"Because it is through you that I can regain the hereditary title of my family. Master of Sinanju."

"Yes," said Kim Il Sung. "I have met the Master. He is a charming old rogue."

"He is a very old man," said Nuihc. "It is time for him to tend his vegetable garden."

"Why do you bother me with this?" asked Kim Il Sung. "Who cares what a small band of brigands does in one tiny village?"

He had chosen his words carefully and was rewarded by a small flash of anger in Nuihc's eyes.

"You know, my Premier, that that is not so," said Nuihc. "The House of Sinanju has for centuries been famed in the ruling palaces of the world. Now it is up to you to decide whether or not you wish the house to be run by a Westerner… an American. Because that is the choice. Who will be the new Master: Me? Or an American who represents the CIA and the other spy agencies of the government in Washington?"

"And again, I ask, why does it concern me?"

"You know the answer to that," said Nuihc. "First, our nation will be a laughing stock if this hereditary house becomes the property of an American. And second, the powers of the House are well known to you. Those powers could be put to use in your behalf, to the benefit of your rule. Not as they are now, working for the capitalists of Wall Street. Do you know, for a certainty, that the power of Sinanju will not be turned against you tomorrow or the next day? Whenever Washington wills it, Premier, you will pass into the pages of history for the dead, killed in office. You can prevent that."

Sung thought about those words for a long while before answering. He had met Chiun, and there had seemed to spring up almost a bond of friendship, but the old man had told him that he worked for the United States. This Nuihc might be right. One day, a word might come and soon Kim Il Sung would be dead.

On the other hand, what guarantee did Sung have that Nuihc would be any better? He looked carefully into Nuihc's face. His blood relationship with the old man was obvious; there were the same lines of face and body, the same feeling of coiled spring tension when the man only stood casually in front of Sung's desk.

"You wonder," Nuihc said, "whether or not you can trust me."

"Yes."

"You can trust me for one reason. I am driven by greed. The leadership of the House will give me power and wealth. Beyond that, I want our nation to rise high in the world; I want it to happen because at the side of Kim Il Sung is Nuihc, the new Master of Sinanju."

Kim Il Sung thought again for a long while, then he said, "I will consider it. In the meantime, you may avail yourself of the hospitality of my house."

It was almost dark when Chiun returned to his home. Remo still slept. The Korean girl who was Chiun's servant knelt by the white man's side, occasionally blotting up the sweat from his brow.

"Be gone," said Chiun.

The girl rose and bowed deferentially toward Chiun.

"He is very ill, Master."

"I know, child."

"He has no strength. Are white people always so weak?"

Chiun looked at her sharply but could tell she meant no disrespect. Yet here she was, Chiun's servant, the one loyal follower in the village, and even she could not hide her disappointment that Chiun had picked a white man to learn the role of the Master for that day when Chiun would rule no longer.

He struggled to keep his temper, then said softly, "Many are weak, child. But this one was strong, a giant among men, until he was brought down by the cunning attacks of a cowardly jackal's henchmen, a jackal too cowardly to attack himself."

"That is terrible, Master," said the girl, her face and voice ringing with the earnestness of someone who wanted desperately to believe. "I wish I could meet this jackal."

"You shall, child. You shall. And so shall he," Chiun said. He looked at Remo as if looking at a faraway cloud and then returned to the present moment and chased the girl from the room.

"Heal quickly, Remo," he said softly in the silent room. "Heal quickly."

Nuihc had not tried to leave the room that Kim Il Sung had provided for him in the palace. He was not worried by the guards he knew were outside the door, but he was waiting for an answer.

At dinner time, there was a knock on the door.

It opened before Nuihc could speak.

Kim Il Sung was there. He saw Nuihc sitting on a chair, looking out the window, toward the east, toward west, toward Sinanju. He smiled.

"Tomorrow we go to Sinanju," Sung said. "To crown a new master."

"You have chosen wisely," said Nuihc. He smiled also.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The caravan arrived in Sinanju shortly after noon the next day.

There was a lead car in which sat Kim Il Sung and Nuihc, followed by a car containing the governor of the province and Sung's adviser Myoch'ong. Lesser party officials followed in other cars, and while their mission was to drive the hated American influence from the history of Sinanju, none of them thought it incongruous that they drove in Cadillacs and Lincolns and Chryslers. The motorcycle escort of soldiers, six in front, six behind, six on each side, drove Hondas.

The caravan was spotted more than a mile outside the city, on the paved road leading to the town which had grown up around the old village of Sinanju. Within minutes, word had reached the old quarter that the premier was coming, along with the real Master of Sinanju, and in only moments word was at the home of Chiun.

"Master," said the granddaughter of the carpenter to Chiun, who sat on a mat staring through one of the house windows toward the bay, "many men are coming."

"Yes?"

"The premier is with them. And so, they say, is one of your blood."

Chiun turned slowly on the mat to look at the girl.

"Know one thing, child. When trouble comes, it comes at its own time, never at yours. Even now, how quickly comes the day of darkness."

He turned back toward the sea and folded his arms and seemed to gaze beyond the bay, as if searching for a land where the sun might yet be shining.

"And what shall I do, Master?"

"Nothing. There is nothing we can do." Chiun's voice sounded old and tired.

The girl stood for a moment, waiting for more, then walked slowly away, confused and not really understanding why the Master was so deeply depressed.

The caravan of cars skirted the main city of Sinanju, turned toward the shoreline, then followed a dirty sand road that led into the heart of the old village.

They halted in the square in the center of town, and Nuihc and the premier stepped out onto the street. The premier wore his military tunic, Nuihc a two-piece black fighting costume. In the custom of Sinanju, it was unbelted. Fighting uniforms were belted for demonstrations; for fights to the death, no belts were worn. This tradition dated back four hundred years when two of Chiun's ancestors had fought for the vacant title of Master of Sinanju. One of the contenders wore a uniform with belt. Five minutes later he had been strangled with the belt. Since that time, no Master had worn a belted uniform except in exercise, practice, or demonstration. But never in combat.

Nuihc looked up and down the streets. He could see people peering through their windows but afraid to come out onto the street until they knew more about this caravan and its meaning.

"It has been many years since I walked this ground," said Nuihc. A heavy breeze blew off the bay and swirled his long, shiny black hair about his face. His eyes were narrowed into slits that looked like knife-cuts in smooth yellow flesh.

Kim Il Sung saw Nuihc's eyes and the blood lust in them, and it was there as if it always belonged there, and for just a moment Sung again wondered if it were not just a matter of time before that lust was turned upon him.

Chiun's palace was at the end of the street, thirty yards from the square, and now Nuihc looked at it and his face broke into a smile.

"Let us do it," he said.

Without waiting for an answer, he stepped off through the dust and sand toward the house of the Master of Sinanju. Kim Il Sung remained standing alongside his vehicle. Purposefully, conscious of the eyes watching him, Nuihc strode to the front door of Chiun's home and pounded on the door with his fist. Under the hammering, shells cracked and broke loose and powdered the wooden step in front of the door.

"Who is there?" answered a young woman's voice after a long pause.

"Nuihc is here," said the long-haired man in a loud ringing voice. "Descendant of the Masters of Sinanju, himself the new Master of Sinanju. Send out the American weakling and the senile traitor who has given him our secrets."

There was a long pause.

Then the woman's voice again.

"Go away. No one is home."

Nuihc pounded upon the door again. "There is no hiding for you, old man, not for you or for the white lackey you would impose upon the people of this village. Come out of there before I come in and drag you out by the scruff of your scrawny neck."

Another pause.

The woman's voice again.

"It is not permitted to enter the Master's house without the Master's permission. Be gone, urchin."

Nuihc paused as it seeped into his head what Chiun's game was. Nuihc was protected in anything he said to Chiun because the old man, as Master of Sinanju, was not permitted to raise a hand against another from the village. But that protection ended should Nuihc enter Chiun's home uninvited, and Chiun could have the right to deal with him as just another burglar. Nuihc did not like the prospect. Still, how to get the old man and the American out of the house?

He walked back, jauntily, toward Kim Il Sung. His mind was clicking and he knew the answer.

He spoke to the premier, and then Sung and his entourage followed Nuihc back to the house.

Again Nuihc pounded on the door. Again the woman answered: "Go away, I told you."

"The premier is here," said Nuihc, raising his voice to be sure both Chiun and the villagers heard.

There was a pause.

The woman's voice again.

"Tell him he is in the wrong place. The nearest brothel is in Pyongyang."

Nuihc spoke out crisply. "Tell the old man that unless he and the imperialist white swine come out, the premier will order this house destroyed by explosion for being what it is: a spy's den giving comfort to an enemy of the state." He turned and smiled at Sung.

Another pause. Longer this time.

Finally the woman's voice again: "Return to the village square. The Master will meet you there."

"Tell him to hurry," ordered Nuihc. "We do not have time to waste on the doddering of the ancient." He turned and walked alongside the premier, back the thirty yards to the village square, where they waited by the premier's Cadillac. Now they were not alone. The people of Sinanju, who had been watching and listening from inside their homes and shops, now stepped out onto the old wooden sidewalks and, as the premier and Nuihc passed, they cheered.

Inside his home, Chiun had heard Nuihc's final ultimatum and now he heard the cheers and knew what they were for. He stared out toward the bay. After all these years, after all his service, after all the centuries of tradition, it had come to this: a Master of Sinanju, humiliated in his own village by one of his own family, with the village citizens cheering the intruder.

How pleasant it would be to do what should be done. To step out into the square and to reduce Nuihc to the pile of flesh and bone chip that he should be. But the centuries of tradition that had given him pride also gave Chiun responsibility. He was disgraced now before the villagers, but he would be disgraced in his own eyes if he should strike Nuihc.

The younger man knew that, and the knowledge of his freedom from attack had emboldened his tongue.

It should have been Remo, Chiun knew. It was for Remo to meet this challenge, to destroy Nuihc for once and all. So it had been written in the books ages before. But Remo lay asleep, his muscles unable to work, more helpless than a child.

And because neither Remo nor Chiun could raise an arm against Nuihc, the title of Master of Sinanju was going to pass, for the first time in unremembered centuries, into the hands of one who would not wear it with pride and honor.

Chiun rose from his mat and went into the main living section of the house and he lit a candle. From a chest, he took a long white robe, the robe of innocence, and a black fighting uniform. He fingered the black uniform fondly, then dropped it atop the chest. He would wear the white robe, the color of the unspoiled. The color of the chicken.

He donned the robe quickly then kneeled before the candle and prayed to his ancestors. In that moment was crystallized all the training of Sinanju, because its root was: to survive.

And Chiun had made his decision. He would give up the title of Master. He would trade it for Remo's life. And then one day, when Remo was well, there might be a chance for Remo to reclaim that title.

It would do Chiun no good. He would, by that time, have been marked in history as a disgrace, the first Master ever forced to give up his title. But at least the title might one day be wrested from Nuihc, and that was some small measure of consolation.

Chiun reached forward a delicate long-nailed finger and extinguished the candle flame by squeezing the wick between thumb and index finger. He rose to his feet in one fluid movement that left his robe still and unswirling.

"Master?" said the girl, appearing next to him,

"Yes?" said Chiun.

"Must you go?"

"I am the Master. I cannot run."

"But they do not want you. They want the American. Give him up."

"I am sorry, child," said Chiun. "But he is my son."

The woman shook her head. "He is white, Master."

"And he is more my son than any yellow man. He shares not my blood but he shares my heart and my mind and my soul. I cannot give him up." And Chiun touched the girl lightly on her cheek and walked toward the front door.

In the square, the villagers crowded near the car where Nuihc and the premier stood. The motorcycle soldiers kept them at a respectful distance, but their voices spoke out clearly.

"The Master is too old."

"He betrayed us by giving the secrets to the white man."

"Nuihc will restore the honor of Sinanju."

Some felt they should say that Chiun's labors had always supported the village, that it was not given to mere villagers to know what was on the Master's mind, and that the poor did not starve and the elderly were not discarded and the babies were not drowned, sent home to the sea, anymore because of Chiun's efforts. But they did not say these things because it seemed no one wished to hear them, and instead all wished to heap praise upon Nuihc who preened himself and soaked up the adulation as he stood by the premier.

"Where is he?" asked Kim Il Sung of Nuihc.

His answer did not come from Nuihc, The crowd was silent, its humming babble stopped in midword. All eyes turned toward Chiun's home.

Coming down the street slowly, down the thirty yards toward the cars and the crowd and his tormentor, came Chiun, his face impassive, his steps slow but light, his hands folded within each other inside the voluminous sleeves of his traditional white robe.

"Where is the American?" one man called.

"The false Master still protects the westerner," said another in outrage.

"Traitor," screamed another man.

And then the voices rose above the tiny square, "Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!"

Back inside Chiun's house, the young woman who was his servant heard the catcalls and the hoots and her eyes watered with tears. How could they? How did they dare to do such a thing to the Master? And finally she realized the reason. It was not the Master they hated, but the white American. For the white American, the Master was doing this.

It was not fair. The Master's life destroyed because of the American.

The American would not escape the responsibility for his being. She went to the living room and from a pearl-encrusted scabbard withdrew a highly polished knife with a long, curved blade.

Holding it behind her, she went into the room where Remo slept. His eyes were still closed. She knelt down beside the sleeping mat. She raised her eyes to the heavens and offered up a prayer to her ancestors, to understand what she was doing.

She looked down on the hated white man. "Lift the knife up and drive it into his heart," a small voice whispered insistently inside her.

The white man's eyes opened. He smiled at her.

"Hi, sweetheart, where's Chiun?" he said.

She lifted the knife up over her head and willed herself to drive it down into Remo's chest, but then she let it drop from her hands and buried her face against Remo's chest, weeping.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Where is the swine American?" Nuihc's voice was a sneer as he looked across the two feet of space separating him from Chiun.

Chiun ignored him. To the premier, he said: "I see you have chosen a side."

The premier shrugged.

"How like a creature from Pyongyang," said Chiun. "To cast his lot with a trollop."

One of the motorcycle soldiers stepped forward. He raised his pistol over his head to club Chiun for his insult. Chiun did not move. The pistol poised and Kim Il Sung barked: "Cease."

The soldier let his hand down slowly, then with a look of hatred at Chiun he backed away.

"Do not be angry," said Chiun. "Your premier has saved you to die another day."

"Enough," said Nuihc. "Remo. Where is he?"

"He rests," said Chiun.

"I have challenged him. He is a coward not to be here."

"A coward. A coward. The traitor has given the wisdom to a coward," came cries from the crowd.

Chiun waited until the noise subsided.

"Who is the coward?" said Chiun. "Is it the injured white man? Or is it the cowardly squirrel who used three people to have him injured?"

"Enough, old man," said Nuihc.

"Not enough," said Chiun. "You fool these people now into thinking how brave Nuihc is. Did you tell them how you last faced the American? In the museum of the whale? And how he left you tied up, with your own belt, like a child?"

Nuihc's face flushed. "He had help. He did not do it alone."

"And did you tell them how you tried to kill the Master, in the oil fields of that faraway land? And how I left you to dry in the sun like a starfish?"

"You talk much, old man," said Nuihc bitterly. "But I have come here to get rid of the American for good. And then I, not you, am the Master of Sinanju. Because you have betrayed your people by giving the secrets to a white man."

"Traitor!"

"Traitor!" came the voices again.

"You have forgotten the legend of the night tiger," said Chiun. "Of the dead man whose face is pale and who will come from the dead and be trained by the Master to be the night tiger who cannot die. You have forgotten these things."

"Your legends are for children," said Nuihc with a sneer. "Bring on your American and we will see who cannot die."

"Where is he?"

"The white man… bring him forward!"

The voices raised in a roar and under them, Chiun spoke softly to Nuihc. "You may have Sinanju, Nuihc. Let Remo live. That is my price."

Loudly, so he could be heard by all, Nuihc answered. "I do not deal with the senile and the foolish. Remo must die. And you must be sent home." A hush fell over the crowd. In the old days, before the labors of the Masters of Sinanju had given the villagers sustenance, the old and the weak and the hungry babies were sent home—by being put into the cold waters of the bay to drown.

Chum looked carefully into Nuihc's eyes. There was no mercy there, no pity, no flicker of humanity.

His final offer.

"I will send myself home," said Chum. "But the man with white skin must live."

His voice was a tired plea for mercy for Remo.

His answer was a smile from Nuihc who said, "So long as he lives, Sinanju's secrets are not secrets. He has learned the ancient ways, now they must die with him. Now."

"Now!" came the cries.

"The American must die!"

And then it was that a voice rang over the shouts of the maddened townspeople. And so it was that they turned and cast their eyes toward the palace of the Master and a hush fell over them as there they saw, standing in the dust of the road, the white man dressed in a two-piece black suit without belt.

And his voice rang over the heads of the villagers like an alarm bell and they looked at each other in amazement because the white man spoke in the tongue of the villagers, and his words were the words of that land and its old ways, and what he did say was.

"I am created Shiva, the Destroyer, death, the shatterer of worlds. The dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju. What is this dog meat that now challenges me?"

And the crowd was hushed, for their tongues were coated with the powder of fear.

Chiun was looking at Nuihc when Remo's voice sounded. The old man saw Nuihc's eyes widen with surprise and perhaps fear.

Kim Il Sung looked shocked, also frightened, but fright could be forgiven in one who was not of the House of Sinanju.

Chiun turned slowly. Had the gods heard his prayers and visited a miracle of healing upon Remo?

But the hope faded when he saw Remo, standing there heavily, most of his weight on his uninjured left leg, his hands and arms still hanging awkwardly close to his body, resting on his hip bones to take the pressure of their weight off his damaged shoulders.

When Chiun thought of the pain Remo had endured to dress and to walk down that dusty road to the village square, his heart filled with love, but also pity because now Remo faced Nuihc's murderous vengeance.

Nuihc saw too. He saw the wrists resting awkwardly on hips; he saw the weight resting heavily on Remo's left leg. With a smile that promised death, he walked from the small group of men toward Remo.

Remo stood there, his brain throbbing from the pain of his walk. Nuihc was supposed to deliver the fourth blow to Remo's left leg, the blow that would cripple or kill him.

He had a chance if Nuihc got careless. If he got close enough to Remo, the bigger American might be able to drag him down with his weight and get in some kind of blow. It was all he had. As he looked up and saw Nuihc's eyes meeting his, he knew it would not be enough.

Over Nuihc's head, Remo could see Chiun standing still, his face draped in sorrow. He knew the torment that must be in Chiun's mind now—his affection for Remo, and his refusal to disgrace the House by hitting a villager, even if that villager was Nuihc.

Nuihc stopped now. He was out of Remo's reach.

"So you still walk," he said.

"Get on with it, dog meat," said Remo.

"As you will."

Remo waited for him to come closer, to deliver the fourth stroke, the one to Remo's left leg.

Nuihc did not do it. His right leg flashed out and the point of his foot smashed into the knot of muscles at Remo's right shoulder. Remo screamed as the muscles reseparated.

His wrist dropped from its resting place on his hip. The weight of his arm could not pain any more than the shoulder itself did.

Slowly Nuihc moved around behind Remo, as if the American were a stationary object. Remo could not turn to see the blow coming. He felt it land, inside the muscles in the back of his left shoulder. Again he screamed with the pain, as he could feel the fibers of muscle tearing.

Still he stood.

Nuihc was back in front of him, his face contorted with hatred.

"So you are Shiva?" he said. "You are a weak white man, weak as all white men are weak, corrupted as all Americans are corrupted. How does this feel, night tiger?" he shouted and drove his left foot into the bunch of muscles in Remo's already injured right thigh.

Another scream.

Remo went down. His face hit into the dust. The powder coated his lips. His mind felt each muscle of his body and each one shouted its pain. He did not try to rise. He knew the effort was hopeless.

Nuihc stood over him. "I do not even need the fourth blow for you," he sneered. "I will save it for a few moments. Remember. It is coming."

He turned back to Chiun and Kim Il Sung.

The crowd cheered.

"Hail Nuihc. Hail the new Master. Look at the weak American." And they laughed as they pointed at Remo.

Nuihc walked away. Remo lay in the street, the dust on his lips, and he felt the dirt sticking to his face, and for a moment he did not know why it was sticking, and then he realized it was because he was crying.

And then even crying was too painful for him and he just lay in the street, hoping that Nuihc would kill him quickly.

Nuihc stood next to Chiun and Sung.

"There he is, eating the dirt of Sinanju. This is the one, the outsider to whom the ancient one gave the secrets because he said the white man was strong and wise. Look at him. Do you think him strong now?"

The townspeople looked again at Remo. One laughed aloud. And then another, and another, until all of them were laughing as they looked at Remo, face down in the dirt, not moving.

Nuihc joined in the laughter and when they stopped, he asked in a loud voice, "And what do you think of the wisdom of one who picked that white man for his strength? I say, Chiun is too old. Too old to be your protector. Too old to be the Master of Sinanju. Too old for anything except to go home again as the aged and the weak and the foolish did in the olden times."

And the crowd lifted its voices.

"Go home, Chiun. Nuihc is our new Master. Send the ancient one home."

And in the dust, Remo heard the words and knew what they meant, and he wanted to cry out, "Chiun, save yourself, these people aren't worth your spit," but he couldn't say it because he could not talk.

Remo heard the voices and then he heard another voice, a voice he had known for so many years, a voice that had brought him wisdom and had taught him at every step, but now it was a different voice, because all at once it seemed old and tired, and the voice said, "All right. I will go home."

It was Chiun but it didn't sound like Chiun's voice anymore. Chiun's real voice was different. It was strong. Once when he had been dying of burns, Remo had heard Chiun's voice and it had been strong in his head and it had said, "Remo, I will not let you die. I am going to make you hurt, Remo, but you will live because you are supposed to live."

And another time when Remo had been poisoned, through the mists he had heard the voice of Chiun, saying: "Live, Remo, live. That is all I teach you, to live. You cannot die, you cannot grow weak, you cannot grow old unless your mind lets you do it. Your mind is greater than all your strength, more powerful than all your muscles. Listen to your mind, Remo, it is saying to you: live."

That was Chiun's voice, and this old man's voice that had said it was going to allow itself to die, that wasn't Chiun's voice, Remo told himself. It was an impostor's voice, because Chiun would not die and Remo would tell him that. Remo would tell him, Chiun, you must live. But to tell him that he had to be able to move.

His right arm was flung out in front of him. He forced himself, through the pain, to feel the dust under his fingertips. He moved his index finger. He felt the dust and dirt slide up under his fingernail. Yes, Chiun, see, I am alive, he thought, and I am alive because my mind says live, and I remember it, even if you don't, and then Remo made his right middle ringer move.

His left hand was under his head. The pain burned his shoulder like a white-hot poker as he turned his hand a fraction of an inch under his head. But didn't you always tell me, Chiun, that pain is the price one pays to stay alive. Pain belongs to the living. Only the dead never hurt.

He could hear their voices again, Nuihc's loud and triumphant, demanding no delay, demanding that Chiun march now down to the sea and out into the bay until the waters covered him and he went home to his ancestors. And he heard Chiun's voice, soft and sad and weak, the voice of a man who has suffered a great loss, and he was saying he could not go home until he had made his peace with his ancestors.

Remo felt the knot of muscles in his right thigh and he could feel the separate tears in them, the tear that had first been opened by Lynette Bardwell and then reopened by Nuihc who had, in delivering the blow, done some new damage of his own.

Remo screwed his eyes tightly closed. He could feel the muscles, sense their existence, and pressing his lips together so he did not scream, he tensed the muscles and the pain was worse than any pain he had ever felt, but that's it, Chiun, isn't it, pain tells you you're alive.

He heard another voice now, it must have been from the Korean official who stood with Chiun and Nuihc because Remo did not recognize it. The voice said that Chiun could have a few minutes before he would go home and the American would be dispatched any way Nuihc decided, but his body would be sent to the American embassy as a protest against spies infiltrating the glorious People's Democratic Republic of North Korea.

His left leg still worked, Remo found, flexing the muscles from thigh to calf. And the most important muscle of all worked. His mind. His mind was the master of the muscles, the intellect the ruler of the flesh, and he let them talk, he let them babble on, and he knew what he would do. He licked his lips to get the dust off them and he tasted the dirt on his tongue and it made him angry at himself for failing, angry at Chiun for surrendering, angry at Nuihc for always coming at them.

But mostly angry at himself.

He heard the voices talk on but he was not listening any more, he was speaking himself, speaking without sound, but speaking in his mind to his muscles and they were hearing him because they moved.

The crowd stilled, and there was a tiny babble of voices, and over them came Nuihc's voice issuing his final ultimatum to Chiun: "You have five minutes, old man."

And then there was another voice Remo heard and he was surprised because it was his voice. He heard it say, loudly, as if he was not even in pain, and he thanked the mind for making the body work, and the voice said:

"Not yet, dog meat."

And there was a scream from the villagers as they all turned and saw Remo standing again. His black uniform was coated with the dust of the street, but he was standing, and the villagers could not believe it, but he was standing, staring at Nuihc and he was smiling.

When Nuihc turned again to face Remo, he could not disguise the look on his face, a look of shock and terror.

He stood there, death-still, alongside Chiun and the premier. Remo, hurting in every muscle, in every tendon and fiber and sinew, made the only move he had left.

He charged.

Perhaps surprise or shock might stop Nuihc from moving fast enough, and while Remo could not walk to him, his charge might get him to Nuihc before Remo fell down again. And if he could fall with Nuihc under him, then perhaps. Just perhaps.

Remo was lunging forward now, his body moving lower and lower toward the earth, only the will of his forward motion preventing him from falling onto his face.

Three yards to go.

But Nuihc was in control again. He stood his ground ready to deal the final blow to Remo, and Remo saw it. When he was only a yard away, he let his body flip out to the right, and as he fell onto his damaged right shoulder he used all the power that was left in his body and concentrated it on his undamaged left leg and drove his bare left foot into the solar plexus of Nuihc. He felt the toe go in, deep, but he did not feel the crunch of bone, and he knew he had missed the sternum, he had hurt Nuihc but the blow was not fatal, and that was all Remo had left. As Remo lay on the ground, he looked up toward Chiun, in supplication, as if asking for forgiveness, and then he heard a scream and Nuihc's eyes bulged forward and he reached down with his hands to grasp his abdomen, but his hands never got there because Nuihc was pitching forward onto the ground.

He hit open mouth first and lay there, in a kneeling position, his eyes open, staring in death at the dirt of the street, as if it were the thing that interested him most in life and in death.

Remo looked at him carefully and realized that Nuihc was dead, and he did not know why, and he passed out because he didn't care.

Unconscious, Remo did not hear Chiun proclaim that Remo's courage was worth more than all Nuihc's-skill and that Nuihc had not died of the blow but had died of fear and that now the villagers would know that the Master had selected wisely in choosing Remo.

And Remo did not hear the villagers proclaim undying allegiance to Chiun, and praise Remo for having the heart of a Korean lion in a white man's skin.

He did not hear the villagers drag off the body of Nuihc to cast it into the bay to feed the crabs, and he did not hear Chiun order the premier to have his soldiers carry Remo gently back to Chiun's palace, and he did not heard the premier promise that he would never again involve himself in Sinanju's internal matters, and that there would be an immediate end to the graft visited upon the tribute by the thieving governor.

Remo woke for just a fraction of an instant as he was being lifted by the soldiers, and in that fraction of an instant he heard Chiun's voice, strong again and demanding, order "gently," and before his eyes closed again, he saw that the fingernail of Chiun's left index finger was stained red.

Blood red.

And it was wet.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

When Remo opened his eyes again, it seemed as if the entire village of Sinanju had crowded into his bedroom to look at him.

Standing alongside him was Chiun, who was busy pointing out to the villagers that they should not be fooled. "He only looks American. Inside the best white man is a Korean trying to get out."

Remo looked around the room at the flat-faced villagers, who only a little while before had been ready to hand up not only Remo, but also Chiun, who had supported them for untold years, and he said: "I have something to say to all of you."

He looked around the room as Chiun translated his English words. He could see their attention grow stronger.

"I am an American," said Remo.

Chiun said something in Korean.

"I am proud of it, proud to be an American," Remo continued.

Chiun rattled off a string of Korean words.

"The next time you start talking about the weak Americans, perhaps you should think that it was an American who overcame the pain, a white American."

Chiun said something.

"And it was Nuihc, not only a Korean, but of your village, who was cowardly and died."

Chiun said something more.

"And I think his fate is what all of you deserve because as far as I'm concerned, you are a pack of back-biting worthless ingrates who all ought to be sent home to feed the fishes. If the fishes would have you."

Chiun said something and the villagers' faces broke into broad smiles and they applauded. Then Chiun ushered them out of the room and was alone with Remo.

"I think it lost something in the translation," said Remo.

"I delivered to them your coarse words," said Chiun. "Of course, I had to make minor changes to fit the idiom."

"Give me an example of a minor change," said Remo.

"I had to tell them so that they would understand, you see, that you had shown Korean heart, and that Nuihc had been softened by reactionary imperialism and that I would not have picked anyone weak to be my son, even if he was white, and… well, and so forth. It is not necessary to go on because it was all just as you said to say it."

There was a knock on the door and when Chiun opened it, Premier Kim Il Sung stood there.

"You are awake," he said to Remo in pleasantly flavored English.

"Yes. I am glad you speak English," said Remo.

"Why?" asked the premier.

"Because I have several things to say to you that I don't want Chiun to have to translate."

"He is very tired," interjected Chiun. "Perhaps some other time."

"Now will be fine," interrupted Remo. "Pyongyang is a whore city," he started off.

"Don't we know it," said Sung. "If you want to see a good town, you should come to Hamhung, my home town. That's a real place."

"If the people there are like the people here," said Remo, "you can stuff them."

"People are people everywhere," said Sung. "Even here. Even in America, I suppose."

Chiun nodded. Remo found it maddening not to be able to insult Sung.

"I was in Vietnam," Remo finally said. "I wasted a lot of Vietnamese!"

"Not enough," said Sung. "Vietnamese are like bird droppings. As far as I'm concerned, Hanoi is no better than Saigon. I sometimes wonder how the bird droppings tell themselves apart."

"I'd like to wipe out the whole Communist cong," said Remo.

Kim Il Sung shrugged. "It might not be a bad idea. Vietnam is the only country I ever heard of where the population increased during a war. I hope you didn't get too close to any Vietnamese. They're all diseased, you know."

"Oh, shit," Remo said and gave up. He turned his head away and looked out the window at the cold white Korean sky.

"I will leave," he heard Kim Il Sung say.

"You will arrange that the tribute is no longer stolen by your thieving ministers here," said Chiun.

"I will. The tribute now comes under my protection."

Chiun nodded. He escorted Sung to the door and as the premier left, said to him in a stage whisper: "Don't be upset by anything he said. He's really a Korean at heart."

"I know," said Kim Il Sung.

Chiun closed the door and again was alone with Remo.

"Well?" said Remo.

"What well?"

"I'm sure you've got something to say. Say it."

"I am glad you brought it up, Remo. Your stroke against Nuihc was faulty. It was an inch too low to do any real good. In the old days, I would forgive such sloppiness because your improper American attitudes always make you sloppy. But now I can no longer excuse it. As soon as you are well, you must practice. Fortunately the villagers knew you were injured so they would excuse your sloppiness. You did not disgrace the House, but we must be sure you never do that again."

"Is that all you've got to say?"

"What else?"

"Why was your fingernail red?" asked Remo.

"My fingernail?"

"Yes. Your fingernail on your index finger of your left hand."

"In your delirium, you must have imagined it," said Chiun.

"You zapped Nuihc, didn't you?"

"Remo. What a terrible thing to say. You know that the Master is bound never to strike someone from the village. And I am the Master. Oh, maybe for a few seconds there, when Nuihc claimed to be the Master, maybe I was not the Master, but…"

"Don't give me any of that," interrupted Remo. "You were the Master and are the Master and if you zapped him, you shouldn't have."

"If I have done anything wrong, I will answer to my ancestors. But that is all yesterday and today. Now we must speak of tomorrow. Of the day when you, Remo, will become the Master of Sinanju."

Chiun threw his arms open wide, to encompass the entire bedroom with its assortments of pots and jars and vases.

"Just think, Remo, someday this will all be yours."

"Bring back Nuihc," Remo said, and for the first time in days, it didn't hurt to laugh.