Bidding War

"Triple gold?"

"Triple everything. And a private jet."

"A private jet is out of the question. A private jet would require a full-time maintenance crew and could be traced back to the organization if it is seen near operational zones."

"Good point. Okay, skip the private jet. Let's talk about triple the gold and other incidentals. I want a car."

"What make?"

"A Tucker Torpedo."

"Ridiculous! There are not a handful in existence. It would call attention to the owner."

"As opposed to Chiun prancing about in those ridiculous kimonos of his?"

"I cannot control the Master of Sinanju's choice of attire."

"And I want a car no one else has," Remo insisted.

"Something more inconspicuous might be arranged."

"Inconspicuous may be acceptable. As long as it's metallic cherry red."

"Why red?"

"Why not?"

Smith closed his eyes in evident pain and said, "Triple the gold is out of the question. As you know, we siphon the funds from another federal agency, convert it to gold and ship it to Sinanju by submarine. Triple gold, if I am not mistaken, might sink the nuclear submarine we use for transport."

Remo blinked. "It would?"

"If we can't ship it, we can't deliver it."

"Make two trips."

"Impossible. Last time the submarine was captured by the North Koreans. They are still extremely touchy up there."

"Tell me about it. I gave Kim Jong II his first swirlie. There are probably Wanted posters all over Pyongyang with my face on it."

The look of horror in Harold Smith's eyes was absolute.

"Don't sweat it, Smitty. Jong's supposed to be dead."

Turning in his cracked leather chair, Smith fussed with the water dispenser by his desk and drew a paper cupful to wash down three pink antacid pills.

"I thought your stomach settled down about the time the AMA discovered that ulcers can be cured by antibiotics?"

"My ulcer is under control. My reflux is not."

"Then you'd better come around to my point of view, or it's gonna to get worse," Remo said with a cocky smile.

Smith winced. "I could consider half again as much gold."

"Double the gold."

"Double is not in your long-term interest."

"What do you mean?" said Remo. "The more I pull down, the bigger it'll impress Chiun. Gotta make a good first impression."

"If I pay double this year—and I may not by any means guarantee I can—further raises will be impossible."

"So?"

"On the other hand, if we can agree to half again as much gold this year, I might be able to match that raise next year or the year after."

"How come you can't do it now?" Remo asked.

"I will need time to prepare the President for such a giant increase. This way it is doable over time, and you can impress Chiun with your ability to get multiple raises from me."

Remo frowned deeply. "I dunno, Smitty."

"What is more important to you—the best deal you can obtain or an opportunity to impress Chiun with your negotiating skills two years running?"

Remo rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Well, the gold just sits in the treasure house. Chiun won't let anyone spend it."

Smith suppressed a groan. He had always suspected it from the way Remo and Chiun ran up lavish expense bills.

"So no one'll be hurt if I play it cagey," Remo muttered.

"Then it is a deal?"

"Okay," said Remo, "it's a deal."

Smith stood up and hastily put out his hand.

Remo hesitated. "Do you shake with Chiun?"

"Not usually. But I think it appropriate here. You have always been a man of your word."

Remo came out of the chair and shook Smith's hand. It was like shaking hands with a gloved skeleton.

"It's a deal, Smitty," he said, grinning.

"I am glad we could come to swift understanding. It saves us time. Now, you must convince Chiun to take the services of the House off the international market."

"Was that in our contract?"

Smith said angrily, "It was an unspoken assumption."

Raising his hands, Remo backed away from Smith's cold glare. "Hey, hey, I was just kidding."

Smith relaxed. "Shall I make arrangements for the gold now?"

"Don't we need a contract?"

"We have done business for over twenty years now. A contract is a formality. Have Chiun draw one up, and once I have seen it I will release the gold. But I would like to get it moving through the pipeline as soon as possible."

"Sure. Why not?" Remo started for the door. "I don't know why you and Chiun would lock yourselves in for hours wrangling over this stuff. It's easy. Just state your position from the start."

"One moment," said Smith, bringing his hands up to the desktop. The capacity keyboard lit up. He input computer commands with practiced ease.

Remo looked interested. "What are you doing? Making a withdrawal?"

Smith nodded.

"Nice to have your own bank. Where are you withdrawing from?"

"The Federal Emergency—" Smith's voice broke off. He froze in his chair. His gray face paled to a kind of ghost gray. "My God…" he croaked.

"Don't tell me you're overdrawn."

"In a manner of speaking," Smith said hoarsely.

"Hey. I was kidding."

"And I was not," Smith said grimly. "According to my screen, the Federal Emergency Management Agency operating fund was frozen not two hours ago by executive order."

"What idiot did that?" Remo demanded.

"The President of the United States."

"Can he do that?"

"Excuse me," said Harold Smith, reaching for the red telephone.

In the Situation Room of the White House, the President was listening to a tactical briefing. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was doing the honors.

"We have a division-strength unit at El Paso," he said, flicking a collapsible metal pointer so its end telescoped out and tapped a red triangle below El Paso, Texas.

The President said, "Division. How many men is that?"

"About fifteen thousand."

The pointer flicked north to a blue dot. "And a regiment in reserve."

"That's how many soldiers? Exactly."

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs rolled his eyes as the President held his pen poised over a memo pad.

"Over two thousand, but these numbers are unimportant."

"I'm Commander in Chief. I should know how many troops are in the field. Shouldn't I?"

The chief of naval operations looked to the JCS chair, and the unspoken thought between them was, the Commander in Chief should have taken time to memorize a military table of organization. Preferably before his inauguration.

The door was suddenly flung open in the unmistakable style that telegraphed a typical First Lady's hurricane entrance. Everyone stiffened. Especially the President.

"It's the telephone," she hissed.

"Can't it wait? I'm conducting the defense of the nation here."

"This phone needs answering."

"Take a message."

"I tried. Smith hung up."

"Smith?"

"Exactly."

The JCS absorbed this byplay with growing interest.

"Gentlemen," said the President, pushing back his chair, "you must excuse me."

"Of course, Mr. President."

After he had left the room, the Joint Chiefs of Staff huddled.

"Who's this Smith?"

"I think there's a Smith over at State."

"Don't we have an Admiral Smith, Admiral?"

"I believe we have three."

The door opened and the First Lady shoved her blond head in. Her blue eyes seared them like angry lasers. "That conversation never happened."

"Yes, ma'am," said the Joint Chiefs of Staff, quietly folding their hands as they waited for the President's return.

In the Lincoln Bedroom, the President of the United States sat on the immaculate bedspread and lifted the ringing red telephone from the rosewood nightstand. He took up the receiver and spoke into it, his voice hoarser than usual.

"Smith?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"The line is fixed?"

"As of yesterday. I regret it took so long."

"Glad to have you back. Have you been monitoring the Mexican situation?"

"I have. I also have a matter of grave urgency to place before you."

"What could be more urgent than a U.S.-Mexico showdown?"

"The organization has come to the end of another contract, and I must meet the demands of my enforcement people."

"Is there a problem?" the President asked.

"This is black-budget money, as you know."

"Yeah. I know. My people have gone over the budget with a fine-tooth comb. I could never find you."

"That is the point. The agency that funnels money is out of funds."

"What agency is that?" asked the President, noticing the door to the Lincoln Bedroom slowly easing open.

"The Federal Emergency Management Agency."

The President pounded his knee with a fist. "Damn. My wife made me freeze their money."

"It could not have come at a worse time. You must release those funds at once."

"That's easier said than done, Smith. People are going to ask questions. Can't we put your people on retainer?"

"Unlikely."

"Maybe we can scrounge up the money from other agencies. The CIA, DARPA, those kind of places."

"I am willing to go along with any solution that does not expose the organization to public scrutiny, Mr. President."

"Good. How much are we talking about here?"

Smith named a figure.

And the President of the United States suddenly felt like lying down. He did. Staring at the ceiling, he restated the question in a thin, faraway voice. "We pay how much?"

"A raise was in order this year," said Smith.

The President sat up. He kicked off his shoes. "Forget it. No raise. In fact, you're going to have to slash that sum. Who do those people think they are anyway?"

"You have seen them in action. They saved your life."

"I know that. But they're bankrupting the treasury with their demands."

"Mr. President, these people have put out word that they are available to other nations. I have reason to suspect this knowledge, or—more to the point—the knowledge that they may no longer be in our employ, has emboldened the Mexican government."

"Are you saying—you can't be saying—that the Mexicans see us as vulnerable because they don't work for us? What about our nukes?"

"How likely are we to deploy nukes?" Smith countered.

"They're a last resort. The political fallout would be horrendous. Not to mention what would blow our way if the Gulf Stream picks up the radioactive dust."

"Exactly. On the other hand, if the Mexican government—or any other government—should acquire Sinanju capability, you might die in your sleep of natural causes and there would be no retaliation because no one would ever know or even suspect you were assassinated."

"I see your point. But what can I do? The budget's a mess."

"That money must be found."

"I'll get back to you," said the President, and hung up.

The President jumped from the bed and crossed the room in his stocking feet and took hold of the doorknob. He gave a sharp yank. And the First Lady came spilling into the room.

"Because of you," the President said sternly, "we just lost our ultimate defense."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said the First Lady, scrambling to her feet. Her cheeks glowed red in her anger, and that gave the President an idea.

"You're overdue," he said.

"For what?"

"For this."

And the President grabbed his wife around the waist and carted her over to Lincoln's rosewood bed.

"Not now! We're in the middle of a crisis," the First Lady countered.

"That's not what I had in mind," said the President, sitting down hard with the First Lady draped over his lap.

He began to apply his big right hand to her backside with stern enthusiasm, saying, "Stay out of my business. Stay out of my damn business."

Chapter Sixteen

Night had fallen when Remo returned home. He tipped the cabbie who had brought him from the airport a hundred dollars, and on his way to the front door, found a drunk sprawled on the front steps, a huge green bottle of vodka clutched in one insensate hand.

"Oh, great," said Remo. "This is all I need."

The drunk was out cold, but when Remo grabbed the back of his black coat in one hand and the bottle of vodka in the other, he stirred.

Lifting the hand that still thought it clutched the vodka bottle, he mumbled, "Do svidaniya."

"Same to you, buddy," said Remo.

"America good," he said.

"Yeah, it's great. I just hope I'm still living here this time next month."

Dragging the man up the street, Remo dumped him in the bushes fringing the high-school quadrangle. The police usually patrolled this area. When they found him, they'd slap him in a cell to sleep it off.

"I am not clown," the man mumbled.

"That's a matter of opinion," said Remo, who emptied the vodka bottle preparatory to tossing it into the bushes.

He noticed the label. It showed a man with a pugnacious face wearing a black-billed cap like that of an old-fashioned streetcar conductor. Remo noticed the drunk had a similar black-billed cap sticking out of a pocket. Then he noticed the drunk wore the same pugnacious face as the label, only looser. He also drooled.

"You have your own vodka?" Remo blurted.

"Da. I do."

"Then you won't miss this one when you sober up," said Remo, tossing the bottle and walking away.

"I am not clown," the drunk burbled thickly after him. "I will make scorched desert where I go. You will see. I do not need you."

"Likewise."

"I do not need bodyguard. I do not need advisers. I do not need Sinanju."

Remo reversed direction. "Did you say Sinanju?"

"I said Sinanju. But I do not need it."

"Why do you need Sinanju?"

"I do not."

"But if you did, why would you need Sinanju?"

"To conquer world, of course."

Remo knelt at the man and turned his face so the streetlight hit it squarely. The loose, pasty face was starting to look familiar. But it kept swimming like putty so the lines were indistinct.

Remo fished the vodka bottle out of the bushes. The face on it rang a bell. And it wasn't because Remo had the real face sprawled at his feet, either.

"What language is this?" Remo asked.

"Engleesh. I talk exshellent Engleesh."

"No. I mean on the label."

"You are ignoramus. I may be clown. But you are ignoramus not to know Russian. When I annex USA, you will be hung by thumps and forced to kiss the boot that crushed you."

"You're—"

"Yes. Exactly. You know now."

"I don't remember the name, but you're him."

"Zhirinovsky," slurred the drunk, reaching for the bottle. And on the label, in Cyrillic letters, many of them seemingly formed backward to Western eyes, appeared to be an approximation of the name Zhirinovsky.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Remo asked.

"What I do everywhere. Being kicked out. Everyone love Zhirinovsky so much they kick him out. Been kicked out of Poland. Serbia. Constantinople."

"Constantinople doesn't exist anymore."

"When I conquer world, I will rename America Constantinople. Now surrender bottle if you value thumps."

Remo compressed his hand, the bottle broke and the man on the ground was so devastated by the awful sight that he fell backward.

"It's thumbs."

"I am not clown."

Remo decided if this was who he thought it was, dumping him in the bushes wouldn't cut it. So he dragged the man to the subway station and dumped him in the back of a waiting cab.

The cabbie was firm. "Hey, I don't haul drunks."

"Here's six hundred dollars. Cash," Remo told the driver. "Take him home."

"Where's home?"

"Bismark, North Dakota. Six hundred bucks get him there?"

"Can I stop for food and lodging?" the cabbie asked.

"You bet."

The cabbie folded the wad of cash, kissed it and stuffed it into a pocket. "In that case, tell his folks to expect him home sometime next week. I know a short cut to Bismark via Atlantic City."

"You're the professional."

As the cab took off, Remo ran back home, hoping what he feared wasn't true.

The second he opened the front door, the metallic smell of fresh blood hit him like an unpleasant wave.

There was only one body on the stairs leading up. That was good. One body was easily disposed of. Maybe if Remo broke it into small pieces, it would slip down the garbage disposal.

A second body occupied a toilet on the second floor. Remo knew he was dead without listening for a heartbeat because heads immersed in toilet water for long periods of time usually belonged to the deceased.

Outside the tower room, there was a stack of bodies, very neatly arranged. It was hard to tell exactly how many bodies there were, the stacking was so professional. In some cases more than one arm was jammed into a coat sleeve, and other limbs were interlocked so that rigor mortis setting in would make it easier for Remo to pick up the bodies as a unit.

That was Chiun. In the old days, when the Master of Sinanju was addicted to American soap operas, anyone who interrupted them was subject to his instant death penalty. Many times Remo returned home to find a similar pile of corpses needing disposal.

The sight of these made Remo feel almost nostalgic.

Letting the dead decompose in peace, Remo entered the meditation room. "Chiun?"

"I have been awaiting your return," Chiun said.

"Well, I'm back."

"In time to take out the garbage."

"Who were they?"

"Russians."

"Yeah?"

"Lying Russians. I would have accepted truthful Russians, although it was a grave breach of decorum to send emissaries when first contact should be through a letter or simple message. I do not treat with pretenders or their bodyguards."

"So you killed them?"

"I suffered the loud one to live," Chiun answered.

"I think I know who that was___"

"He claimed to be the new czar, but I know this to be untrue. He is merely a braggart and a drunkard. But since being a braggart and drunkard is sometimes a prerequisite to rule Russia, I allowed him to depart with his internal organs still functioning. Should he ever become czar in truth, he will no doubt be grateful."

Remo cocked a thumb over his shoulder. "These dead guys his bodyguards?"

"No longer," said Chiun. "Dispose of them."

Sighing, Remo got to work. He reached into the pile of interlocking dead, and just as in the old days they came off the floor as a unit, like chicken bones left a long time at the bottom of a garbage can.

Carrying them down to the basement, Remo was confronted with an immediate problem. How to get them in the trash cans, which were man-size at best. He considered the problem while he took the lids off each can.

When all five cans were exposed, Remo decided that since he had seven dead and only five cans, there was no point to separating the dead so each corpse had its own receptacle.

Once that was settled, it was easy. He broke off limbs and other projections. They snapped off clean as dead branches, and he distributed them equally among the five cans.

The body on the steps also contributed to the tossed salad of dead parties. As did the body dunking for oxygen in the toilet bowl. Remo had to pry his dead fingers from the seat, but after that he was no more trouble than the others had been.

Returning to the meditation room, Remo cleared his throat. This was not going to be easy.

Chiun beat him to it. "You have failed."

"How'd you know?"

"I have excellent nunchi for your kibun," Chiun said aridly. "You have lost the greatest client in Sinanju history through your incompetence."

"Not so fast. That's not how it went."

"No? Have you come to terms with Harold the Mad?"

"No," Remo admitted.

"Then you have failed, and the details are unimportant. All that matters is the disaster you have wrought."

"I didn't blow it. Smith did."

Chiun jumped to his feet. "Smith refused our service?"

"No. He was all set to renew. I got double the gold."

"Double?"

"Yeah, double."

"Not triple?"

"Triple—are you crazy?"

"You did not seek triple. Not even to posture?"

Remo made his face still.

"You asked for triple and he argued you out of it."

"Not exactly. Look, can I finish?" Remo said impatiently.

"You have already finished. Because of you, we are finished. To think I threw the next czar of Russia out onto the street like a common inebriate because I put my faith in a redskin mutt."

"Cut that out. Look, Smith was all set to go for double. But the well was dry."

"Well? What well?"

"The golden well. The U.S. Treasury."

"This lunatic land is bankrupt?"

"No. The agency Smith gets the gold from is frozen," Remo explained.

"Because of a frozen well, we are denied more gold than the House has ever known?"

"Look, Smith talked to the President. They're going to try to work something out. In the meantime you gotta call off the open bidding. Okay?"

"Never," Chiun swore.

"C'mon. We got Mexico on the border. Next it'll be the Canadians in Maine. Before we know it, the Russians will want Alaska back."

"Good. This will prod Harold the Mad and his puppet, the glutton, into putting forth their most strenuous efforts."

"You don't understand."

"No. It is you who do not understand. We have the upper hand. We must not relinquish it. Perhaps if we play our cards correctly, triple gold will yet be ours. Show me how you narrowed your round eyes at Smith."

Remo rolled his eyes, and Chiun grabbed at the puffs of hair over each ear. "No, no. That is not how I taught you."

A phone on a corner stand rang, and Remo started for it.

"Let it ring," said Chiun.

"What if it's important?"

And before Chiun could reply, the answering machine began speaking in his voice:

"Greetings, O seeker of perfection. The glorious House of Sinanju hovers eager to hear your every syllable. State your throne, rank of rulership and needs, and the glory that is Sinanju will reward you by considering you for future employment. Begin speaking at the sound of the gong."

A brass gong rang discordant and brash.

And in a language Remo didn't recognize, someone began chattering excitedly. Chiun hovered close, listening.

When the message ended, Remo asked, "What was that?"

"Nothing."

"It didn't sound like nothing to me. Nothing is silence."

"It was less than nothing. A mere sultan. We are above sultans. Nothing less than an emperor will do."

"Isn't that your 800-number line?"

"Of course. I have given it out for the entire world to cherish."

"Oh, great," groaned Remo.

Remo sat down and faced Chiun, his face and voice earnest. "I said I'd do anything you say and I will."

"You should," Chiun sniffed. "For you have much to atone for."

"But I think we should do everything we can to continue working for America."

"If their gold flows anew, I will consider it, but my feet yearn to feel the sweet dust of the Silk Road, where wonders upon wonders may be found. Not to mention treachery and sudden death."

Remo stared.

"Yes, those were the good days. Not like now. When was the last time we awoke in our beds to fight for our lives?"

"Here, never. No one knows we live here."

"This has changed. I have provided our address, as well."

"Oh, man," groaned Remo, taking his head in his hands. "I should have never left the reservation."

Chapter Seventeen

When the first intelligence reports crossed the desk of the duty officer of the Central Intelligence Agency, Ray Foxworthy's first impulse was to burn them.

If he didn't burn them, he would have to get on the NOIWON line and do confidence polling of the other U.S. intelligence agencies. NOIWON stood for National Operations and Intelligence Watch Officer Network. The duty officers of the main U.S. Intelligence agencies were obliged to place a conference call to exchange views whenever overnight developments warranted it.

But if Foxworthy did trigger a NOIWON and one of the other Intelligence agencies had developed superior intelligence, they would be the ones to take it to the Pentagon. And get the credit.

In these days of shrinking budgets, everyone wanted credit, but no one wanted to take unsubstantiated intelligence to the Pentagon. Not the NSA, which a year ago had reported a coup in North Korea only to have it evaporate into a false alarm. Not CIA, which was on notice to get its act together. Not the Defense Intelligence Agency or the National Reconnaisance Office. Not anyone.

The stakes were huge. To be Johnny-come-lately made your agency look bad. To promulgate bad intelligence, however, was worse.

There was no winning in the post-Cold War intelligence game.

CIA duty officer Ray Foxworthy picked up the phone and dialed an in-house extension. "Roger, this Intel report that just crossed my desk. Uh, how solid is it?"

"It wouldn't have crossed your desk if it's not confirmed," a laconic voice replied.

"That's not what I asked. Are you willing to back it up?"

"I'll get back to you on that." And the other party promptly hung up.

So did CIA duty officer Foxworthy, muttering, "Damn, damn, damn. Why do the hot potatoes always fall on my watch?"

He read the report again. It was short, concise and very, very clear.

CIA ground assets in Kuwait were reporting troop movement on the Iraq-Kuwait border.

"That damn Hussein. Why doesn't he rent a clue?"

Chewing his lower lip, Foxworthy glanced at the text as if trying to intimidate it by mental telepathy.

Then he noticed something odd. He picked up the phone again. "Roger, sorry to bother you."

"I'm still in the process of getting back to you, Ray."

"I know. Just clarify—"

"A clarification will be included in the return call, I promise you."

"Just listen a goddamn minute. This report. It says our assets in Kuwait report movement."

"If that's what it says, that's what it says."

"Our Kuwaiti assets are under strict orders to stay clear of the DMZ, aren't they?"

"Yeah."

"So if Iraqi troops were on the border, they couldn't see them."

"That's right," Roger said guardedly.

"How could these be Iraqi troop movements if that was the case?"

"I'll get back to you on that," said Roger, then hung up.

Ray Foxworthy was still purpling the air with a colorful string of curses when the NOIWON line rang. He grabbed it, heart pounding.

"CIA. Foxworthy."

"NSA. Woolhandler."

"What've you got, Woolhandler?"

The NSA man dropped his voice. "Tell me what CIA's got, and I'll tell you what NSA has."

"What makes you think we have anything?"

"Just checking. Have you?"

"Maybe."

"Does it possibly concern Russia?"

"No," Foxworthy admitted.

"Hmm. Maybe I'd better get back to you later."

"Look, we can't play games. This is national security. Let's just lay our cards down."

"You first."

Foxworthy made a face, then plunged in. "Reports out of Kuwait suggest border massing."

"Impossible. Our satellites show no Iraqi troop movements. The Republican Guard's safely holed up in Basra."

"That's a relief," said Foxworthy, crumpling up his notice and tossing it onto the trash. "What have you gat?"

"There's secret-weapon talk out of Moscow."

"Again?"

"Again."

"Not the—what was it called?"

"The elipticon."

"Yeah. Ever figure out what that was?" Foxworthy asked.

"High confidence is it's an explosive mixture of Russian hot air and vodka."

Foxworthy grunted a laugh. "That's our take, too. So what is it this time?"

"The duma is awash with rumors that Zhirinovsky has gone abroad to cut a deal for a secret terror weapon."

"Where'd he go?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

"Give me a sec." Putting the NSA on hold, Foxworthy called downstairs. "Roger. It's me again. Get me the whereabouts of Vladimir Zhirinovsky."

"The Russian ultranationalist?"

"If there's another Vladimir Zhirinovsky, give me his whereabouts, too," he said dryly.

A moment later the word came back.

"Subject left Moscow approximately twenty-eight hours ago. Flew to Budapest, changed planes for Zurich and is currently assumed to be in Switzerland."

"Assumed?"

"We have no record of further movements by subject."

"That doesn't mean anything and you know it."

"It's all I have."

"Thanks," Foxworthy said, his voice dripping bitterness. He stabbed the outside-line button. "Wool-handler. We can confirm Zhirinovsky departed Moscow yesterday. We tracked him to Zurich, after which he disappears."

"Hmm."

"You think he's trying to become a one-man nuclear power?"

"I don't think anything. I operate on hard intelligence these days."

Foxworthy sighed painfully. "Yeah, so do we. Man, I hanker for the days when you could tote up points for passing on every stray rumor, and if it fell apart, you were just seen as doing your job."

"Same here. Well, I guess we sit back and await developments. Keep me informed on this Iraqi thing."

"And you keep me up on Russia."

"Done."

Hanging up, Ray Foxworthy allowed himself to hum. If Russia continued destabilizing at this rate, maybe the good old days weren't far off after all.

It was a happy thought.

Chapter Eighteen

Remo woke with the dawn. As soon as his brain clicked into wakefulness, he tasted corn on his tongue. He realized he had been eating corn in a dream. He didn't remember the dream, but he could still taste the sweet flavor of corn.

Going to his private bathroom, he cleared his mouth with a half glass of cold tap water.

"Blah," he said, spitting out the trace metals his sensitive tongue had sponged up from the city water.

When he straightened up, his mouth felt as if it had been brushed with copper, zinc and fluoride, but he no longer tasted corn. And if he didn't taste it, Remo hoped he wouldn't crave it.

The Master of Sinanju was waiting patiently for him in the downstairs master kitchen. Every unit in the building had its own kitchen, but most were unused. They had converted a downstairs apartment into a gigantic kitchen with a restaurant-size stove, a Western-style oak table that seated twelve and a low lacquered taboret for intimate Eastern-style dining.

The floor was warm against Remo's bare feet. Chiun had insisted on installing Korean-style ondol floors, which covered heated water pipes that created a perfect indoor climate.

Now Chiun was insisting on breakfast. "I will have ginseng tea and steamed jasmine rice," he said loftily from the taboret, where he sat in his golden morning kimono.

"You know I'm not good at steaming rice."

"You will learn. I cannot abide boiled rice. You are forever boiling the goodness from rice, leaving only its soft, impure heart."

"Okay, where's the rice steamer?"

"I am the Master of Sinanju, not a scullery maid."

"I'll find it."

"When you put on the rice, you will prepare a double portion for yourself."

"I'm not that hungry, Little Father. Thanks."

"Thank me after you have consumed a double portion of rice and the lurid taste of corn has left your tongue."

"My tongue is my business," said Remo, rummaging through the cabinets.

"I will not have you succumbing to corn craving, for you have a busy day before you."

"Doing what?" Remo inquired.

"You must prepare a list of rulers that I may consult when the mail begins to arrive from thrones the world over."

"Can I write it in English?"

"No. Hangul."

"As long as it's not that pig Chinese you use."

"That the early Masters adopted Chinese ideograms for their writing is no reflection upon them, but on the lazy Koreans who had not bothered to create writing of their own."

"Okay, I'll make a list."

"It must be done by ten o'clock."

"Why's that?"

"Because that is when the Federal Express makes its earliest deliveries, the laggards."

"Ten a.m. is considered pretty good for overnight mail."

"In the days of Belshazzar, a messenger would pelt all night barefoot through cold and snow in order to arrive before the dawning sun, for he knew he would be beheaded if he failed to better the appointed hour."

"Sometimes if he brought bad news, too."

Chiun sighed. "Those were—"

"Yeah. I know. The good old days," said Remo, who realized the stainless-steel domed thing beside the stove was not a trash can, but a restaurant-style rice steamer he'd never seen before. He realized this when his foot failed to find the lid-popping pedal and, once he threw the dome open by hand, there was a white plastic rice bowl inside.

Remo got busy steaming the rice. It was supposed to be foolproof. Put the correct amount of water in the base of the steamer, an equal mixture of rice grains and cold water in the bowl and place the bowl in the cylinder. Cap, set the timer and wait.

That last part Remo got right every time. The trick was, the correct mixture of water and rice was never the same. Different rice grains absorbed moisture at different rates. Japanese Koshinikari required more water. Thai jasmine less. And Basmati rice was sometimes adultered with less-absorbent Texmati grains.

Thirty-two minutes later Remo was setting a steaming bowl of fragrant jasmine rice before the Master of Sinanju, who hadn't arisen from the warm floor.

"I think it's ready."

"A true Korean would not think—he would know. But you come from a desert tribe where rice is unknown, so I will overlook your ignorance."

"Look, I'm trying to be cooperative here."

"Cooperate by eating every corn-nullifying grain."

Squatting, Remo went to work. He used silver chopsticks to shovel the steaming rice clumps into his mouth. It was just right—sticky and not too dry. He chewed each mouthful to a liquid before swallowing in the prescribed Sinanju way.

"Not bad," he said.

"Eat. I smell corn on your breath."

"Haven't touched the stuff."

"You tasted it in your dreams," Chiun accused.

"That doesn't count."

"Did the nuns who raised you not instruct you that the thought was equal to the deed?"

"Yeah, but I don't believe that stuff."

"Believe that to think of corn, to yearn for it in the carnal way you do, is a sin in the eyes of Sinanju," said Chiun, using his long curved fingernails in lieu of chopsticks.

"If you stopped talking about it, I could forget the stuff."

"Temptation is everywhere. When you think you are inured to the siren allure of maize, I will set a bowl of it before you and we will see."

Remo groaned. "Don't do that, Chiun. I don't think I'm ready yet."

"Eat. Eat. And do not forget to fill your lungs with the purifying fragrance of the one true grain, rice."

When the first Federal Express truck arrived, Remo signed for forty-two letters. Individually.

"Why do they call them letters when they're the size of file folders?" Remo asked the driver as he started on his second pen.

"Same reason they call it Federal Express when it has nothing do with the government."

"What's that?"

The driver grinned. "Because they can."

Remo handed the man back his pen and started carrying the letters up to the tower.

"Mail call," he announced at the top of the stairs.

Chiun eyed the stack. "That is all?"

"That's all I could carry this trip. There's more downstairs."

"Make haste. I wish to know who courts our favor."

"Coming right up," said Remo, ducking back down the stairs.

Remo had just filled his arms when a second FedEx truck pulled into their parking lot.

He zipped up the stairs, laid the packets down and called to Chiun as he zipped back down, "Second batch coming in."

At the front door Remo asked the driver, "How many?"

"I don't count them when they get this high," the FedEx driver said happily. "But when we empty my truck, I can go home for the day."

"Figures," said Remo. "Tell you what, open the door and back up. Save up some steps."

The driver obliged and hunkered down at the tailgate as he passed stack after stack of cardboard mailers to Remo, who made four neat piles in the foyer.

"I don't suppose I can sign my name really big in one spot instead of individually?" he said after laying down the last stack.

"That's a great idea. I'll put it in the suggestion box and let you know next time."

"Don't mention it," Remo said sourly as he accepted the stack of airbills for signing.

Twenty minutes later he dropped another stack in front of Chiun. "This would go quicker if you helped," Remo said.

"Masters of Sinanju are not help. Now, make haste. There is much mail to be read."

Remo noticed not a mailer had been disturbed. "Wait a sec. You haven't opened a single letter."

"And I will not. That is your duty."

Remo considered Tahiti, Hawaii and Guam as viable options while going back downstairs. But he knew no matter where he hid, Chiun would find him and haul him back.

Two stacks remained when a drab UPS truck pulled up, parking nose to nose with a DHL worldwide courier van.

Remo called upstairs.

"Better throw on an old soap opera on the VCR. We're a long way from opening any mail."

By noon the incoming mail had died down, and Remo dropped onto his tatami mat facing Chiun. Mail stood stacked around him like cardboard sandbags.

"Where do we start?" Remo asked.

"With favorite clients."

Remo reached into a stack. "This one's got the lion of England on it."

"Place it in the favorable stack," directed Chiun, his face beaming.

"Here's one with a funny flag."

"What flag?"

"Looks kinda like the American flag, except instead of stars there's a white cross. The stripes are blue and white."

Chiun nodded. "Greece. Place it in the favored stack."

"What nation has a two-headed phoenix for its official bird?" asked Remo, looking at the label of the next mailer.

Chiun wrinkled his tiny nose. "None."

Remo held up the label. "Then what's this?"

"An eagle."

"With two heads?"

"It is not a living eagle, and the language says the nation is Bulgaria."

"Unfavorable?"

"Of course. Not."

Remo added it to the favored stack. "How do you feel about Peru?" he then asked.

"Who rules?"

Remo thought a moment. "Last I heard, a Japanese guy."

"A Japanese emperor sits upon the throne of Peru?"

"No, he's president or something."

Chiun made a face like a golden prune. "We do not work for presidents anymore. They are too unstable. Presidents are not true rulers, for their sons do not succeed them. This fad will pass, mark my words, Remo."

Remo scaled the letter into the unfavorable pile.

Three hours later Remo had seven letters in the unfavorable stack. The favorable stacks threatened to swallow him.

"This isn't much of a sorting process," he said ruefully.

"We have weeded out the weak, the unfit, the transgressors—"

"What did the Turks do to the House?"

"Turkish soldiers defaced the Great Sphinx with their bullets, desecrating the proud visage of the Great Wang."

"Oh. So they're on the permanent shitlist?"

"We will never work for Turkey so long as we honor the memory of Wang, whom the pharaohs saw fit to honor in the form of a stone lion wearing the face of he who discovered the sun source."

Remo took up another mailer. "Here's Iran. I guess we can add that to the unfavorable pile, right?"

"They still persist in misnaming themselves?"

"Yeah. The mullahs still rule."

Chiun closed his eyes and seemed to be sniffing the air. "The melons of Persia haunt my dreams," he breathed.

"It's not Persia anymore, and I'll bet the melons are as bitter as the people these days."

"Place their entreaty in the undecided pile."

Remo frowned darkly. "No way will I work for Iran."

"Perhaps they can be persuaded to go back to the old ways."

Reluctantly Remo made a new pile and a mental note to shit-can the message from Iran the first chance he got.

"Do I have any say in this?" he asked, reaching for another mailer.

"Yes."

"Good. I don't think I could be happy in a country where English isn't spoken."

"You also speak Korean."

"Okay, I could live with South Korea."

Chiun scrunched up one eye while the other regarded Remo coolly. "North Korea would be preferable. For did not Kim Jong II offer to employ us only last year?"

"Where's that letter from England?" said Remo, looking around hastily.

"England is cold and damp. It is not good for my aging bones. But I will consider England."

"How about Ireland?"

Chiun shook his head gravely. "A vassal state. We cannot lower ourselves, although it is said that the Celts are the Koreans of Europe. I will allow it to be placed in the undecided pile."

"I didn't notice anything from Canada."

Shrugging thin shoulders, Chiun said, "We have never worked for Canada. They may not know of us."

"Damn. How could the Canadians forget about us?"

"They are too new. They have no history, being merely another vassal state of Great Britain."

"Still, I could live with working for Canada. That is, if America doesn't come through."

The phone rang and Remo's eyes went to it. It was the house phone, not Chiun's 800 line.

"Must be Smitty," Remo said, jumping to his feet.

"Remo! Do not rush to answer. It would be unseemly. Allow the bell to sound twenty times before touching the device."

"Twenty? Who'd hang on the line twenty rings?"

"Emperor Smith," said the Master of Sinanju.

Remo waited, counting twenty-one rings. Then Chiun signaled him to answer.

"Smitty, any good news?"

"No. We are having trouble locating the funds. I do not suppose a five percent down payment would seal our contract?"

Chiun made a negative shake of his head.

Into the phone Remo said, "Sorry. You know how it is. Cash and carry. No checks. No IOUs. No credit."

And to himself the Master of Sinanju smiled. His pupil was not hopeless, merely slow.

"The Mexican situation has developed into a standoff," Smith was saying.

"That's appropriate. A Mexican standoff with Mexico."

Smith cleared his throat. "We also have a diplomatic problem with Russia."

"How's that?"

"Their duma member Zhirinovsky is missing. Early reports say he slipped into this country via Toronto, but there is no sign of him."

"Try looking in the back of every parked taxi in Atlantic City," Remo suggested.

"Excuse me?"

"If you don't find him there, check out Bismark, North Dakota."

"What do you mean?"

Remo lowered his voice. "I found him drunk on my doorstep. Had to get rid of him somehow."

"Remo, that is not funny."

"Tell me about it. He and his entourage tried to bull their way in and con Chiun into backing their next coup. They didn't get very far."

Smith hissed, "Where is Zhirinovsky?"

"I dumped him into the back of a cab."

"And his entourage?"

"Consider them dumped, too. That reminds me, can you give me a hand, disposal-wise? If I leave them out for the trash, it might blow our cover."

Smith groaned.

"The good news is that the House of Sinanju won't be working for him anytime soon."

"Unless he is elevated to czar," said Chiun in a loud voice.

"May I speak with the Master of Sinanju?" Smith asked suddenly.

Chiun shook his head.

"He's reading his mail," Remo told Smith.

"This is important."

"The mail is important, too," Remo said airily. "We have stacks and stacks of it. All from foreign countries, if you know what I mean."

Smith's voice quavered. "You have accepted no offers?"

"We're in the consideration stage. Only seven rejects so far. That leaves about six-hundred-plus thrones to consider."

"I will be back to you as soon as I can," Smith said hoarsely, and hung up.

"I know you will," said Remo.

As he settled back onto his tatami mat, the Master of Sinanju gave his pupil a rare compliment. "You are learning."

"I am hoping to remain in America. But I'll settle for Canada."

"Just as long as you remain by my side, you need neither hope nor settle for anything less than perfection," said the Master of Sinanju in a tone that suggested his pupil was fortunate to bask in the glory of his awesome magnificence.

Chapter Nineteen

This time the report came from FBIS—the CIA's Foreign Broadcast Information Service—which always made duty officer Ray Foxworthy laugh when he read the title.

The foreign-broadcast information service was a glorified term for a bunch of overpaid couch potatoes. They sat around in apartments and hotel rooms throughout the world watching local TV and taping foreign news broadcasts.

The watch officer—even that title made Foxworthy smirk—was reporting that Iraqi TV was boasting of a new superweapon called Al Quaaquaa.

Foxworthy got language and translation services on the line. "Arabic," he snapped.

An Arabic-speaking translator came on.

"Al Quaaquaa," Foxworthy said. "What's it mean?"

"Spell it."

Foxworthy did.

The translator's voice was thick with doubt. "Hard to say with the transliteration problem. But the closest translation might be 'the Ghost.'"

"The Ghost? You're sure?"

"No. That's just the most likely. Could be an acronym. Is it an acronym?"

"That's not how it's being reported to me," Fox-worthy said.

"Then I'd go with 'the Ghost.'"

"What kind of secret weapon could the Iraqis have that might be code-named the Ghost?"

"That's out of my domain, but it sounds like a stealth-technology thing."

"Good point. Except for one thing."

"What's that?"

"If the Iraqis grabbed off a stealth fighter, they still wouldn't know how to fly it. Their pilots are thumbless."

Hanging up, Foxworthy decided to try NSA again.

"It's called Al Quaaquuaa, the Ghost. Know anything about it?"

"Not a thing," Woolhandler said. "Where'd you get it?"

"Off our FBIS people."

Foxworthy could almost hear the NSA duty officer wince. Their job was to vacuum foreign official and commercial transmissions for raw intelligence. They once reported the deposing of Kim Jong II based on nothing more sensitive than a single Hong Kong TV report, later retracted.

"I wouldn't run with it," Woolhandler suggested.

"I won't. So, what have you got?"

"Macedonia."

"I hate that name. Macedonia is my worst nightmare," Foxworthy said.

"They're making belligerent noises against Greece and Bulgaria, too."

"Are they crazy? They're a tiny little speck. Either country could overwhelm them with their meter maids."

"Well, they're acting like they have an ace in the hole."

"Big talk from a small mouse. You think this is something to run with?"

"Not yet. You want to NOIWON the Iraqi matter?"

"Not a chance in hell. I can't go to the Pentagon over loose talk about an Iraqi ghost," Foxworthy answered.

"Glad you're being civilized."

There was a pause on the line, and when the NSA duty officer spoke again his tough tone softened. "So whaddya hear about that imbroglio at the UN the other day?"

"Scuttlebutt is old Double Anwar can't control his diplomats."

"I hear that, too. Maybe we should have moles in the UN."

"You mean you don't?" Foxworthy said.

"You mean you do?"

"Sorry. Can't talk about operational matters. Talk to you soonest."

"I hope not," Woolhandler said sincerely.

Chapter Twenty

By early evening Remo was feeling as if the walls were closing in on him. And while the walls might have been constructed of purple-and-orange cardboard FedEx mailers, they were as threatening to his future as poisoned spikes.

The Master of Sinanju had entered the weeding-out process in earnest. Now the seven unsuitable thrones had grown to a whopping eight unsuitable thrones, prompting Chiun to express great pleasure in their swift progress.

"Now," he said happily, "we throw ourselves into the task of separating the rich thrones from the richer. After which we shall winnow out the lesser rich from the most rich, thereby isolating only the richest thrones."

"How about we throw them up into the air and those landing facedown get tossed?" Remo suggested.

Chiun wrinkled up his nose. "You have no understanding of the joys of ritual."

Meanwhile the mail kept straggling in. FedEx continued depositing pouches, and Chiun's interest waxed with each new arrival.

"What word from Fondustan?" he asked as Remo laid down a stack.

"I never heard of Fondustan." Remo consulted his list. "So far, we've heard from Afghanistan, Pakistan, Uzbekistan, Baluchistan, Tajikistan, Turkestan, Turkmenistan, Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan and Trashcanistan, but no Fondustan."

"Fondustan was once great. If we elect to stand beside the Cockatrice Throne, it will be great again." Chiun abruptly frowned. Looking around he said, "I do not see the seal of the mansa of Mali before me."

"I don't think Mali has a mansa anymore, Little Father."

"And the king of Cambodia?"

"A lot of those old thrones closed up shop a century back."

"And the White Chrysanthemum Throne?"

"Which one is that?"

"Pah! You know nothing of the ancestors you have shunned. No less than the emperor of Japan sits upon the White Chrysanthemum Throne. Once they employed us for an entire of your centuries."

"Look, how about we break for lunch?"

"Ah," breathed Chiun, selecting a red mailer from the latest stack. "Word from England."

"We already heard from Great Britain," said Remo.

"That was the queen. We have not yet heard from the Queen Mother, a sterling woman. Perhaps she has grown weary of dwelling in the shadows and seeks our assistance in restoring her to glory."

Taking the cardboard letter container, the Master of Sinanju ignored the paper zipper and, employing a long fingernail, slit one end. Out slid a cream-colored letter. He glanced at it and his papery features constricted in disgust.

"Pah!"

"What is it?"

"Merely a request from the wayward Prince of Wales. We do not treat with mere princes. They control no purse strings."

"Think again. They discovered oil under both Windsor and Balmoral castles."

"You may read the wretch's entreaty, Remo. I will not sully my eyes with the scribbling of unfaithful princes."

The letter sailed in Remo's direction. He snatched it from the air and looked at it. Under a magnificent embossed letterhead declaring this to be a true communication from HRH the Prince of Wales was a short text full of flowery praise and oblique language.

Remo frowned. "Unless I'm reading this wrong, this guy's looking for a one-shot hit."

"We seek a long-term relationship. Who does he desire freed of the burden of life?"

"I could be reading too much between the lines, but I think it's the Princess of Wales. We don't do princesses, do we?"

"Not for filthy oil. Gold is our coin. You will pen a response offering regrets and earnest hopes for a mutually rewarding relationship at some future time."

"You know my penmanship isn't that good."

"You will improve. We will accept only one client. The other—"

"One hundred thirty-two."

"Yes, that number. You will pen sincere regrets to all, so as not to prejudice future employment."

Remo groaned. "Look, Chiun. I'm starved."

Chiun clapped his hands together. "Yes. Let us put off this wonderful task and eat."

"Takeout okay?"

"No. This is our first supper since you have returned groveling."

"I did not—"

"So we will have fish and you will cook it."

"What's in the fridge?"

"Nothing. Thus, you have the double pleasure of shopping at the local fishmongers and preparing the meal that will fortify our bellies for the delightful task to come."

"Carp okay with you?"

"I would prefer sea bass. If sea bass is unavailable, carp will suffice. But take careful note of the fish's eyes. Do not purchase a fish with bad eyes. Bad eyes mean a fish with an evil mind. And evil-minded fish taste bitter."

"I'll be back as soon as I can," said Remo.

"And do not dare bring into this house dogfish or mackerel. Dogfish is suitable only for a dog, and mackerel have too many bones."

"Count on it," said Remo, who thought dogfish tasted mealy and mackerel oily.

At the local Stop & Shop, Remo had to settle for salmon.

"It's fresh," the clerk told him, laying the largest salmon on the counter for inspection. "Caught just this morning."

Remo frowned. "The eyes look a little strange."

"What do you want? It's deader than a mackerel. If you'll excuse the expression."

"How about this one?" asked Remo, pointing to another salmon in the glass case.

"That one's not as fresh."

"The eyes are clearer, so it won't matter."

"You're the customer. But we don't recommend you eat the eyeballs."

Remo decided to walk back home even though it was more than a mile. The thought of reading and sorting all those stacks of mail—never mind answering them—made him shrink inside.

Night had fallen. It felt funny to be back in a city after so many months in the desert. Even the hard pavement was strange under his feet. Remo was more aware of the pollutants in the air, the rush and hum of traffic than ever before. Overhead, a descending jet screamed out its presence. Desert living had spoiled him. Not a helicopter had flown over the Sun On Jo Reservation in all his months in Arizona.

On the rooflines grackles were visible in silhouette, perched on the chimneys, enjoying heat from furnaces that were only now kicking in after a long dormancy.

Just before Remo turned onto East Squantum Street, he noticed the black sedan roll around the corner. He especially noticed the hunkered shadowy figures bringing up their weapons.

Ditching the fish in the bushes, Remo broke into a run.

"Don't tell me this is what I think it is," he muttered.

It was. As the sedan drew near his house, it slowed. A battery of gun muzzles poked out on one side and began vomiting flame and noise. Windows broke with harsh jangling sounds. Dust puffed up from the field-stone facade. Wood squealed and splintered like rats having their bones broken.

The car spun at the next intersection and came back around, trailing acrid rubber smoke. This time the gun muzzles protruded from the opposite side. They stuttered, breaking more windows and chewing up a doghouse dormer along the roofline.

"Damn it," Remo said, stepping off the curb. The car was tearing toward him, the driver's eyes wide as saucers. Remo crouched, released his coiled leg muscles and spun up into the air.

The car slithered under him. Remo reached out, snagged the chrome windshield trim with one hand and let his body become one with the machine's hurtling speed.

Like a human suction cup, Remo lay flat against the roof when the sedan took the corner onto Hancock, tires complaining, straightening out for the dead run toward nearby Boston. And he wasn't unnoticed.

Gun muzzles started angling up from the open windows to nail him. Remo stayed flat. Two wild shots passed over his dark hair. Through an ear pressed to the roof, he could hear the snap and snarl of excited voices. He didn't recognize the language, but it sure wasn't English.

With casual kicks he thwarted the aiming guns. He didn't need to understand their language to know they were cursing him in their frustration.

As the car whipped around the approach to the Neponset River Bridge, Remo decided everyone needed a bath except him.

Pulling forward, he slapped the windshield with one palm. It starred, spiderwebbed and became as opaque as frost. The car began weaving. The passengers tried to nail him again. One opened the door and pulled himself half out of the interior. Someone held on to his waist to keep him from falling.

Remo knocked him out with a snap-kick to the temple.

The gunman's limp form was hauled in, but not before the impact of his wobbly-necked skull on the moving road painted a new dividing line with the greater portion of his brains.

At that point the gunmen had had enough. They braked the car and all four doors opened. Remo batted back every head that popped out, dropped to the ground and cold-welded every door shut by a hard, sudden application of his bare hands to the locks.

Then he went to work on the roof. It was hard metal, but under Remo's jackhammer hands it began to cave in and flatten. At that point the gunmen started feeling the roof bang the tops of their skulls and realized that getting the doors open was more important than they had thought.

But it was too late. Remo had the roofline down to the level of their shoulders, and exiting the vehicle became a lost opportunity.

There was a brief burst of gunfire. A few ugly holes appeared here and there, but mostly the bullets ricocheted, producing interior screams.

Someone yelled what sounded like "Fang Tung!" And a distinct slap of reproach came.

By then, Remo was feeling around the battered roof to home in on any sensation of warmth. When he sensed a head, he brought his fist down until the coconut-cracking sound told him he hadn't missed. He did this four times.

When all was still inside, Remo bent and took hold of the chassis with both hands. He heaved upward.

The sedan rolled onto its side and landed on the walkway of the bridge. A simple push set it to leaning against the concrete buttress.

It was a simple matter after that to work it up on the buttress until it was poised precariously, and the exertion of Remo's pinky finger tipped it into the water, where everyone could enjoy a final bath. Except Remo.

The police were pulling up as Remo walked away, trying to look casual and hoping no one had grabbed his fish.

Chiun met Remo at the door, whose glass now lay broken on the walk. But Chiun was dancing.

"This is terrible," Remo said, surveying the damage.

"It is wonderful," Chiun squeaked, clapping joyous hands together.

"What's so wonderful about a drive-by shooting?"

"It means we are feared."

Remo blinked. "You think those guys were out to nail us?"

"No. They obviously sought the life of the Master of Sinanju. They do not know or care about you."

"Thanks a bunch. What I meant was, what the heck was that all about?"

"The word has gone out to every keep and castle, Casbah and redoubt. Sinanju seeks a new emperor. Many are the nations that covet my services, few are they who can afford these services. Those who cannot bid know they will not sleep safely in their bedchambers should their enemies succeed in securing Sinanju for their own. We are feared, Remo. Just as in the old days." The old Korean grabbed Remo's thick wrist eagerly. "Quickly! Did you see their faces?"

"No. But they won't be coming back."

"Why not?"

"I turned them into sardines."

Chiun looked aghast. His hands clapped together in concern. "The fish! My bass was not injured?"

Remo lifted the white-wrapped packet. "Not a scratch. And it's not bass. I got salmon."

"I will accept salmon if the eyes are not evil."

"Check it out. Meanwhile, we gotta do something about those windows. Half our glass is shot out."

"A small price to pay for the compliment rendered."

"At least they won't be back."

"Never fear," Chiun said happily. "There will be more just like those. This is a joyous day, for Sinanju has not been forgotten. We are feared, therefore we are coveted. More, we are needed."

An hour later repairmen were finishing tacking the temporary plastic covers over the windows, and Remo was explaining for the millionth time to the Quincy police that it was a random drive-by shooting and not targeted at them specifically.

"We don't have drive-by shootings in this city," an officer said. "Random or not."

"Look, there's just the two of us living here. Only my—" Remo groped for a plausible word.

"Master," Chiun called from the other room.

"Master?" said the cop.

"He's a martial-arts instructor. He's teaching me stuff."

"Can you break a board with your hand?"

"He has not progressed that far," Chiun called out. "Only in breaking windows with his thick head." And the Master of Sinanju cackled loudly at his own jest.

"So it had nothing to do with us," Remo finished. "Okay?"

The cop put away his notebook. "Until the bodies are identified, that'll have to be it. But we'll be in touch."

"Thanks," said Remo, showing the officer out.

When he returned to the kitchen, Chiun was patting his papery lips with a linen cloth.

"How was the salmon?" asked Remo.

"Acceptable."

Remo looked at the low taboret that served as a table. The entire salmon skeleton lay on a silver platter, picked clean.

"Where's mine?"

"Consumed."

"You ate my fish!"

"You were otherwise occupied. I knew you would not wish to eat it cold. Rather than see it go to waste, I finished the unfortunate salmon."

"What about me?"

Chiun's eyes twinkled. "There is rice aplenty. Eat your fill."

"Cold rice."

"Steamed rice can be steamed back to life. You will suffer no hunger pangs this night, for you are fed by the bounty that is Sinanju."

As he dumped the rice back into the steamer and added water, Remo said, "What happens if more killers blow into town?"

"They will fail, of course, striking fear into their masters. It will be excellent advertising."

"I don't mean that. How many times can this place be hit before the police figure out we're not just ordinary citizens?"

"It does not matter, for tonight we depart."

"For where?" Remo asked.

"Rome."

"Rome?"

"Rome was the America of its time. We have had an intriguing communication from Rome."

"Italy has had something like fifty governments since World War II. They're broke, unstable and I don't speak the language."

"The throne that has requested our presence is one of the richest in the modern world."

"Are we talking about the same Italy?"

"No, we are not."

And for the rest of the evening, the Master of Sinanju would say no more. He sat in his tower meditation room poring over the letters from all over the world that praised Sinanju and pleaded for its protection. His thin lips were wreathed in joy.

Chapter Twenty-one

When no one picked up the telephone after eighty-seven rings, Harold Smith began to suspect the very worst.

It was already bad. There was no good news from the President of the United States, and with only silence out of Mexico City, no one knew which way the flea might jump.

Logging on to his computer, Smith entered the system that tracked credit-card credit checks. A low groan escaped his lips when he came upon a Visa charge for a Boston-to-Rome flight. One-way.

That in itself wasn't so terrible. Should Chiun decide to go to work for the Italian government, it wasn't the worst-case scenario.

What made Harold Smith reach, trembling, for a bottle of aspirin was the knowledge that foreign intelligence services were undoubtedly on the highest state of alert, watching airports and rail stations for signs of the Master of Sinanju.

The bidding war had begun. Ironically, who won was less important than the sure knowledge that the leaders of the losing nations could no longer sleep safely in their beds once the House of Sinanju made its choice.

Their reaction was the one to be feared.

Glancing toward the red hot-line telephone, Smith began to bitterly regret restoring the dedicated line. There was no way to explain this to the President. No way at all.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, Intel reports of troop movements on the Kuwait-Iraq border crossed Ray Foxworthy's desk. He could ignore it no longer.

Picking up the NOIWON phone, he called Wool-handler at NSA. "Steve. Ray here. I have another report from the Iraqi DMZ."

"Don't know what to tell you."

"I think I have to go with this."

"Done. This is an official NOIWON call now. Do you want to punch up the others or shall I?"

"I'll do it."

A moment later the duty officers of the DIA and NRO came on the conference line.

"I'm alerting you all of continual but unconfirmed reports of Iraqi troop movements along the DMZ," Foxworthy stated.

"Those reports are flat-out wrong," snapped a metallic voice.

"Is that DIA talking?"

"No," said the voice. "NRO. We heard a whisper ourselves, juggled a Keyhole satellite and found the Republican Guard right where they should be. In Basra. On stand down."

"Did you check the DMZ?"

"Why should we? If Iraqi forces are accounted for, there's no problem."

"Well, I can't ignore two consecutive confirmed sightings," Foxworthy argued.

"Maybe these are UN troops."

"UN troops wear blue helmets and ride white tanks," the DIA duty officer said dryly. "It's hard to mistake them for the Republican Guard."

The line fluttered with the constrained laughter of professionally sober men.

"I feel I have to alert the Pentagon," Foxworthy said stubbornly.

Nobody laughed at that. Someone whistled a walking-past-the-graveyard whistle, and another voice essayed a muted "Good luck."

"Nobody wants to support me on this?"

The silence of the phone line was Ray Foxworthy's answer.

"Okay, gentlemen. Your reservations are duly noted. Thank you for your time."

Hanging up, Ray Foxworthy let out a breath that made his lips vibrate unpleasantly. His hand was still on the phone receiver, and his dialing finger was poised over the speed-dial button marked Pentagon.

Then a better idea hit him. He called the United Nations instead.

After a brief runaround he got the under secretary for peacekeeping operations.

"This is Foxworthy. CIA. We have some low-level intelligence here of Iraqi troop activity along that DMZ you're guarding."

"I have just this hour received a communication from the UNIKOM commander. No such details are to be found in his report."

"No military activity at all?"

"No. Not unless one considers routine Royal Kuwaiti Forces desert maneuvers."

"No. I don't think that's the problem. But I thank you for your time."

Foxworthy hung up, frowning. Maybe he'd table that Pentagon call after all. Obviously there was nothing to it. The Kuwaitis could maneuver all they wanted. They weren't a threat to anyone. Unless it was to themselves.

Chapter Twenty-two

There was a red carpet waiting at the foot of the Air Italia jet air stairs as Remo and Chiun stepped out into the cool Roman air. At the bottom was a crest showing a three-tiered crown.

At the end of a carpet sat along white limousine and a liveried footman standing stiffly, his hand on the back door.

When Chiun's black-sandaled foot touched the carpet, brass trumpets blared and the footman opened the door smartly. Pennants fluttered atop raised poles.

"What's this?" Remo whispered as they approached the limo.

"I asked for a restrained reception," said Chiun. "We are here to entertain an offer, not strike a bargain. To be received as the royal assassins would be unseemly and possibly discourage other suitors."

Gleaming like a bar of white chocolate on licorice wheels, the limo wended its way through Rome's choked and difficult byways. Rome was dirty. All of Europe looked dirty to Remo's eyes. He never understood the fascination American tourists had with European cities. Every time he visited a European capital, his skin pores clogged up. Sometimes the instant he stepped off the plane.

"Isn't that the presidential palace?" Remo asked, indicating a great brownish marble structure that needed sandblasting if not demolition.

"It does not matter," said Chiun. "Oh, look Remo, there is the Colosseum."

"I see it. It's hard to miss. Not many two-thousand-year-old buildings look like crumbling wedding cakes."

"Take note of the course of the River Tiber. Rivers are important. I will explain why later."

"Right, right. But what about the presidential palace?"

Chiun dismissed it with a flutter of fingernails. "It is new. It is nothing compared with the faded glory of the Rome of Caesar."

"Aren't they expecting us?"

"No. He is expecting us."

And through the windshield, Remo saw a sight that made his mouth go dry. An ornate dome.

"Oh, tell me it isn't true," he moaned.

"It is true."

"It looks like the Vatican. Tell me it's not the Vatican."

"It is," the Master of Sinanju said joyfully, "Rome."

Chapter Twenty-three

The chief of staff of the United States Army was attempting to explain the disposition of CONUS forces to his Commander in Chief.

It was day two. They were in the Situation Room in the White House basement. The President was squinting at a big map of the continental U.S. The more he squinted, the bigger his nose seemed to get. But he was trying. He was really trying, so the Joint Chiefs of Staff were determined to walk him through the briefing no matter how much Excedrin was involved.

"The Mexican forces are arrayed exactly where they were yesterday," the Army chief of staff was saying as he tapped a series of green triangles wavering just under the southern U.S. border.

"They're waiting for something!" the President suggested.

In a corner the chairman of the JCS stifled a groan. He had started the briefing three hours earlier, continuing until the President's stultifying thickheadedness had worn him down.

The Army chief of staff cleared his throat and swung the pointer upward. "They are not a threat, Mr. President."

"Not an immediate threat."

"Not a threat at all," the Army chief repeated firmly. "Let me direct your attention to our disposition of forces."

The President looked interested. Or astigmatic. Possibly both.

"This map shows the CONUS—"

The President lifted his hand as if in school. "Who renamed the nation?" he asked.

"No one. CONUS stands for Continental United States."

"Oh."

"Now, as I was saying, this map is broken down into CONUS armies."

"We have more than one?"

"If you'll read the legend, you'll see we have four entire armies headquartered in the nation. The First Army, headquartered in Fort George G. Meade, the Second in Fort Gillem, the Fifth is quartered in Fort Sam Houston and the Sixth is presently based in Colorado."

The President looked troubled. "Where are the Third and Fourth armies?"

"The Fourth, Mr. President, is inactive."

"Well, activate them. We may need every jackboot."

"That's 'man jack,'" the commandant of the Marine Corps muttered under his breath.

"You don't understand, Mr. President," the Army chief of staff resumed with an angry glance at the Marine commandant. "There's is no Fourth Army. They were—"

"Decommissioned?"

The secretary of the Navy began dry-washing his face with his red hands.

"'Deactivated' is the Army's preferred terminology. They don't exist anymore. Forget I brought them up."

"Wait a minute. Why don't we—"

"Reconstitute?" the Army chief said hopefully.

The President quietly scribbled down the new word. He had a five-page list now. He also knew the difference between a brigade and a division. Although he much preferred the sound of brigade, it was actually a smaller, less formidable force than a division.

"Yeah. Reconstitute."

"No time. Not enough volunteers, and I don't think you want to talk about a draft, do you?"

"Definitely not," the President said.

"Thought not."

Around the room smiles were suppressed, producing extremely grave expressions that the President personally admired and reminded himself to practice before the mirror next chance he got.

"Now, for our purposes we are concerned only with the Sixth Army, whose—"

"Domain?"

"Let's say 'domain.' I like that. Their domain is the far western CONUS, and they will have the responsibility for safeguarding California and Arizona."

"Can't lose those. Think of the electoral votes."

"The Fifth Army, which is responsible for those areas extending south from Nebraska to include the border states of New Mexico and Texas, will of course guarantee the sanctity of those border states."

"I still think we need another army___" the President lamented.

"And you're right," the Army chief of staff said, bursting into a great big smile. "Isn't he right, men?"

The JCS agreed the President was right.

"Let me direct your attention to the red circle down here in Panama. That, Mr. President, is the U.S. Army South."

A confused twinge tweaked the President's face. "No number?"

"No, sir. The U.S. Army South. Our Southern Command, as we like to call it. Basically, with the Fifth and Sixth perched above the Mexicans and the Southern Command roosting on their back doorstep, we have them surrounded from the git-go."

The President grinned. He was not only right, but he knew what git-go meant without having to ask. He was starting to get the hang of all this military stuff and decided to venture a solid suggestion. "I propose for the duration of this engagement—"

"Operation."

"Operation. I meant to say that. It's not an engagement until we actually engage, is it?"

"No, sir. And even then it will be a war. But you had a suggestion?"

"Yes. For the duration I propose we rename the Southern Command the US. Seventh Army so there's no confusion."

The faces of the JCS fell like crumbling outcroppings.

"Can't. We already have a Seventh Army."

"I don't see them on the map___"

"That's because they're headquartered in Germany."

"Maybe we should call them back."

"Not a good idea."

"Okay. Then the Southern Forces will be the Eighth Army."

"They're hunkered down on the Korean DMZ. We pull them out, and I guarantee you Seoul will fall in two days flat."

"Damn," said the President. "Is there a Ninth Army?"

"Not in name."

"Then who's protecting Alaska and Hawaii?"

"That would be the U.S. Army Pacific."

"Why aren't they on the map?"

"Because for the purposes of this briefing, we assume no Mexican military threat to Alaska and Hawaii, Mr. President."

"I think I follow you now."

"So in conclusion—" the other JCS members perked up at the welcome word, conclusion "—I submit to you that our borders are secure."

The President beamed. "I can see that now."

"Great."

The phone shrilled. It was the direct line to the Pentagon.

The JCS chair picked it up and said, "We're briefing CinC CONUS here."

"That's you, Mr. President," the secretary of the Navy said to the President. "It's short for Commander in Chief CONUS."

The President positively beamed. He had a new title.

"What's that?" the JCS chair said into the receiver. After listening a moment, he said, "I'll pass the word." And he hung up.

The JCS chair adjusted his glasses and said, "That was the Pentagon. We have word from our Marine air base listening post in Yuma that the Mexicans are announcing to the world they have a secret weapon."

"What's it called?"

"El Diablo."

"Isn't that Spanish for 'the Devil'?"

"That's what they're calling it."

The President looked shaken. "This sounds serious. Can they have a secret weapon with a name like that?"

"If they do, it's their secret weapon. They can call it whatever they want."

"I don't like the sound of it…"

"Propaganda."

"What if it's not? What if American cities are at risk?"

The Joint Chiefs of Staff exchanged doubtful, worried glances. For once they didn't know what to tell the President of the United States. They had never heard of any weapons system like El Diablo, but the very name made them fidgety.

Chapter Twenty-four

"No matter what happens," Remo Williams was saying, "I'm kissing nobody's ring."

The Master of Sinanju made no reply. He had held his silence since the white chocolate limousine had conveyed them through one of the three gates to the walled city-state in the heart of modern Rome called the Vatican.

"You hear me? I don't kiss rings."

They were following the ramrod figure in the crimson vestments who had greeted them as they exited the limousine.

He had announced himself in heavily accented English as the cardinal secretary of state. Chiun had said nothing then, only inclined his head politely toward the cardinal, who gestured them to follow.

Now Chiun spoke, his voice sounding faraway. "On these grounds good Nero had his gardens and his circus. Christians were put down in wonderful numbers."

"I don't give a novena," said Remo.

"Lower your rude voice, and banish from your mind that we are about to meet the supreme pontiff of your childhood religion. For this pope is also the head of this state, and we must treat him as we would treat a ruler whose favor we court."

They were escorted through a green-grown path and after turning a corner found themselves in the verdant splendor of the Belvedere Courtyard.

Remo saw the stooped man in dazzling white, flanked by two medieval figures following with raised pikes. The pontifical Swiss Guard.

The pope's kindly eyes brightened at the sight of the Master of Sinanju. He came forward, his white vestments floating about his legs. He walked with a cane now, Remo saw. But his step was confident. A gold crucifix as long as a child's forearm gleamed on his immaculate white breast.

Only when he was very close did Remo detect the fragility of age again. The kindly eyes skated past him momentarily and it was like a kick in his stomach.

The Master of Sinanju ceased his forward glide, pausing expectantly. The pope halted. Only three feet separated them. Their ancient eyes locked. Held. And an arduous minute passed.

"What's going on?" Remo asked Chiun in low Korean.

"Kiss his ring," Chiun hissed. "Quickly."

"Not a chance. What's the freaking holdup?"

"This upstart is waiting for me to bow to him."

"So, bow. It won't kill you."

"I kissed his ring last time. It is your turn," Chiun declared.

"Fine—just say something."

"I cannot. I am waiting for him to bow."

"The pope isn't going to bow to you."

"That is why you must kiss his ring. To dispel the awkwardness of this difficult moment," Chiun explained.

"I am not kissing his freaking ring!"

Standing to one side, the cardinal secretary of state whispered low words in Latin. Chiun replied in the same tongue.

The cardinal then whispered into the Pope's tilted ear.

The careworn face of the supreme pontiff brightened, and he turned to Remo to say in English, "My son, my son. It is good to make your acquaintance."

And when the pope's heavy gold ring came up, Remo couldn't help himself. He half knelt and kissed it.

After that the ice was broken.

The pope and the Master of Sinanju drew off to one side to confer in low whispers. From time to time the pope beamed in Remo's direction. For his part the Master of Sinanju was animated. His arms flapped frequently, his deadly nails orbiting the Pope's still form so tightly Remo began to fear Chiun would slay him with a careless gesture.

Feeling left out, Remo struck up a conversation with the portly cardinal secretary of state. "What did Chiun say to you?"

"The Master conveyed the happy news that the next Master of the House of Sinanju was a Christian."

"He told the pope that!"

"His Holiness was quite pleased. For it has been too long since the House stood beside the Holy See."

"We worked against Rome, too," Remo argued.

The cardinal secretary of state paled slightly and excused himself, hurrying away like a frightened red robin.

That left Remo alone with the Swiss Guards, who stood sentinel with their pikes at rest.

"Lot of good those frog-stickers will do you against nutomatic weapons," Remo told them.

The Swiss Guards stood staring into infinity and said nothing. In their striped pantaloons and felt hats, l hey reminded Remo of the Buckingham Palace Guard, except the latter had better uniforms. These guys looked like ballerinas with a pantload.

After a few more boring minutes, the pope and the Master of Sinanju bowed to each other respectfully, and with a final wave in Remo's direction, the pope signaled to his Swiss Guard to follow.

"Now what?"

"We must depart," said Chiun, his face pleased.

"You cut a deal?"

"No."

"You going to cut a deal?"

Chiun switched to Korean. "I merely reiterated the long-standing treaty the House has with Rome never to accept work which will harm Roman interests. Thus, whatever gossip he hears regarding future service will not be misconstrued."

"So we're not working for the Vatican?"

"Not unless absolutely necessary."

"You tell the pope that?"

"There was no need to injure his sensitive feelings."

They entered the white chocolate limousine. It took them away and back into the din and congestion of Rome traffic.

"So what's the point?"

"The point is to encourage better offers," Chiun explained.

"How?"

"By being seen here, it signals to the pope's enemies that Sinanju looks with favor upon the Vatican. The enemies of the Vatican will in turn recount their coffers and consider increasing any contemplated offers."

"What enemies does the pope have?"

"His Holiness is currently vexed by rival pontiffs. Mullahs and ayatollahs would like to extinguish the candle that is Christian Rome."

"I could stand guarding the pope," Remo allowed.

Chiun waved the comment away. "The pope expressed great confidence in his Swiss Guards. No. He asked the House if it would consider extinguishing rival candles."

"The pope asked you to off his enemies!" Remo exploded.

"Must you be so crude? Not in so many words, of course. Certain delicate words were spoken like rose petals strewn on cobbles. A gesture here. A regret there. The meaning was conveyed even if the words were oblique."

Remo folded his arms defiantly. "I don't believe it."

"You are so naive."

"So that's it. You use the pope to stampede other rulers and he gets the big kiss-off?"

"There was one other matter."

And from the mouth of one kimono sleeve, the Master of Sinanju extracted a heavy crucifix of ornate gold.

"Look, Remo. Solid gold."

"He gave you that?"

"Not knowingly," Chiun admitted.

"You filched the pope's cross!"

"No, I collected an amount past due. For in the days of the Borgia pontiffs, a popish payment was missing a weight of gold. This is equal to that weight. If one calculates three hundred years' interest."

"What will he think when he finds his crucifix missing?"

"That his vaunted Swiss Guard are insufficient for his needs," purred the Master of Sinanju as he restored the trophy of the modern pontiff of Rome to his kimono sleeve and fell to enjoying the sights of the Rome of his ancestors as he was conveyed to Leonardo da Vinci Airport.

It was good to treat with true rulers again, as his ancestors had.

Chapter Twenty-five

When Lieutenant General Sir Timothy Plum was assigned to command UNIKOM, everyone said it was the end of his career.

He wasn't the first UN commander to fail magnificently in Bosnia. There had been a Belgian general before him. Much lauded by the poor beggars of Bosnia, he had been all but adopted by them. But he had gotten out before the Serbs had solidified their battlefield gains.

While Lieutenant General Sir Timothy Plum had commanded UNPROFOR, the UN Protection Force in the former Yugoslavia, United Nations personnel were routinely sniped at, deprived of their weapons, and held hostage while the power and international authority that backed him was routinely flouted.

Not that there was any help from the Security Council, NATO or, God forbid, Generalissimo War-War himself. The sodding bastards had made speeches while the Serbs cut the so-called blue routes to beleaguered Sarajevo, commanded UN relief trucks and APCs and made a mockery of civilized norms.

Seeing the nature of the game, Sir Timothy had decided two could play both ends against the middle. So when Serbian fire inflicted atrocities against helpless civilians standing in bread-and-water lines, Sir Timothy publicly blamed the victims for taking foolhardy risks for small reward. When the Bosnians defended themselves, he branded them as warmongers determined to prolong the conflict the rest of the world had tired of merely to prolong their lives.

These pronouncements garnered him no friends, except in Belgrade. But they did serve the very important PR purpose of lowering UN expectations.

So it came as a relief of sorts when, his tour completed, Sir Timothy—as his loyal troops affectionately called him—received orders to take command of UNIKOM on the disputed Iraq-Kuwait border.

It had been a peaceful border these past few months. The weather, while hot, was pleasant—if one discounted the odd dust devil stirring up the sand and dried goat dung. And best of all, there were no bloody Serbs with doubtful names like Ratko and Slobodan along with disagreeble manners to get up his nose. Or shoot at him, for God's sake.

Yes, the Kuwaiti desert was actually pleasant even if sand did fill one's boots and the outside world had all but written him off as an utter and complete nincompoop.

After two years in Bosnia, Lieutenent General Sir Timothy Plum had redefined his measure of success or failure. Success didn't include saving assorted Serbs, Bosnians and Croats—whatever they were—from one another, and failure wasn't a function of career advancement.

No, the simple, elementary truth was if one survived, one succeeded. Failure was lying facedown in the muck and slush of Eastern Europe with one's spine snapped in two by a .50-caliber round. That was failure.

Thus, a posting in Kuwait constituted an extended furlough.

"If one only didn't have to put up with these infernal wogs," he was telling his attaché in the cool shade of his pup tent not two miles from the Iraqi border, "I should say this was a sort of extended holiday. With scorpions."

"More tea, Sir Tim?"

"Thank you. Is it still hot?"

"Decidedly."

"Excellent," said Sir Timothy, holding out a blue china cup that had survived the Falklands, Northern Ireland, Sarajevo and would surely survive a quiet observer mission of indefinite duration.

"I say, does it ever rain in these parts?"

"Hardly ever."

"Dash it, I should enjoy a good rain now and again."

"Perhaps we might arrange one somehow."

"Oh?"

"We have pumps and hoses. And strong-backed men."

"If you consider Bangladeshis and Pakistanis men."

They laughed with polite restraint. There was no point in really enjoying their superiority, obvious as it was.

"Why is it, Sir Tim, that every one of these missions is oversupplied with wogs of all types?"

"Think about it, man. If there is to be a fight, it is better to command men one shan't miss if matters go awry. And if not, who better to do the donkey work than men entirely unfit for civilized soldiering?"

"I never thought about it that way. Oh, I say, I do believe this cream is a trifle sour."

"Hazard of war, Colin. Buck up. A bracing cuppa tea is far jollier than a Serbian mortar shell mucking up one's bivouac."

" 'Bivouac' Is that an American word?"

"Yes. I thought I'd try it on you. With all these Yank chaps tramping about, we shall have to learn their confounded tongue, will we not?"

"That's sensible. And what is the name of that unit who careened through here the other day?" the attaché asked.

"I can't say I rightly recall. They all sound so numbingly alike. The Bloody-Taloned Screaming All-American Eagles and all that macho rubbish. Whatever possesses them to embrace such deafening coinages?"

"I imagine it's a way for them to keep their peckers up when the going turns frightful, wouldn't you say?"

"Right." Sir Timothy drained his cup. "My good man, I never asked which of Her Majesty's regiments enjoyed your service, now have I?" he continued. "Why, the First Ptarmigans."

"Is that right? Now, there's a noble bird, the ptarmigan. Knows when to seek cover. Just like the infantry."

Lieutenent General Sir Timothy Plum enjoyed a hearty laugh with his aide. When it had subsided, he remarked, "Do you know what I heard this morning? Rumors of troop movements near the DMZ."

"Imagine that? I wonder whose?"

"I think the American spy satellites have some novel bugs in them if their lenses detect troop movements from on high."

"Perhaps they are soldier ants. Or Goliath beetles, which rather resemble tanks."

The tent shook with laughter in the windless desert, and when it again died away, the roar and growl of approaching tanks came clearly through the tan-colored canvas.

"I say, hello. Are we on maneuvers?" said Sir Timothy, whipping open the tent flap. His smile froze, cringed and shrank with alarming rapidity.

For he was looking at a line of sand-colored tanks and APCs coming toward them at full gallop.

The aide joined him, a scone crumbling in his half-open mouth. "Those aren't Americans," he said, dripping crumbs.

"I believe they constitute Kuwaiti armor."

"Is there an alert?"

"I do not know."

"We should ask."

"We shall ask," said Sir Timothy, striding out into the open. "Halt. Lieutenent General Sir Timothy Plum here, ordering you to cease."

The line of tanks, which he now saw stretching from east to west, rolled on past them with a determined fury that actually made the Brit's heart quail even though technically it was but a wog maneuver.

Turning their heads north, Sir Timothy and his aide fully expected to see Iraqi forces descending to meet the Kuwaiti countercharge. They did not.

"I do not believe that is a Kuwaiti countercharge that we just witnessed," he told his aide.

"If not that, what then?"

The explanation came a moment later when a limb of the Kuwaiti column broke off and surrounded a unit of white UN Challenger tanks and APCs.

"I do not like the looks of this, Sir Tim," the aide muttered, finishing his scone with nervous bites.

"I think we'd best intervene. This is most unsettling."

They hurried up to the encircled UNIKOM unit and jostled through.

"What is the meaning of this?" Sir Timothy demanded of a Kuwaiti officer in full battle regalia, including bloodred beret and gold-headed swagger stick.

"We are commandeering your armor."

"For what purpose?"

"For the invasion of Iraq, of course."

"Beg pardon. Did I hear you correctly? You fellows are invading Iraq, and not the other way around?"

The Kuwaiti officer flashed teeth like rows of tiny light bulbs. "It is a necessary self-defensive action."

"And pray tell, what necessity necessitates this action?"

"If we do not crush Iraq before they launch Al Quaaquaa, there will be no Kuwait to defend."

Sir Timothy and his aide exchanged blank looks.

"Al Quaaquaa?"

"There is no time to explain. I must have your tanks and your uniforms and your blue helmets."

"I can understand why you might wish to commandeer UN armor—it is done all the time, after all—and it is a matter of supreme indifference to me personally and professionally if you conquer Iraq, but I must object in the most strenuous terms to the confiscating of UN uniforms and helmets. We stand squarely for peace. Not bloodshed."

"You will stand naked for peace or you will taste royal Kuwaiti sand as your last meal."

This seemed quite clear to Sir Timothy, so he surrendered his blue beret and his uniform. They let him keep his underthings, which was jolly decent of them, after all.

And as the newly impressed UNIKOM armor grumbled to life to tear off toward the north, Sir Timothy turned to his aide and shivered under the beating desert sun.

"I say, I shouldn't wish to fight an actual shooting war riding a white charger and wearing a blue bucket on my head, would you, Colin?"

"Whatever could they be thinking, Sir Tim?"

"Who can fathom the wog mentality? Well, I imagine we'll be getting complaints from all quarters after this unhappy day."

"Especially inasmuch as our armor is charged with practice rounds."

"Oh, I say, we really should have warned the blokes, now shouldn't we?" Sir Timothy said.

"Too late now. Shall we see about more tea?"

"I think it a necessity under the circumstances. I fear we are at the very least in for a rough time filling out bloody replacement-armor requisition forms."

"I suppose this means you shall be reassigned once again."

"A bit of a bother, perhaps. But with Generalissimo War-War in charge, we shan't lack for trouble spots to muck about in, now shall we?"

"I hear Haiti is rather balmy this time of year, Sir Tim."

When the NOIWON line rang on his desk at the CIA, Ray Foxworthy knew who would be on the other end before the now-familiar voice announced, "Woolhandler. NSA."

"I'm listening," Foxworthy said guardedly.

"It's called Dongfenghong, or something like that. Translated, it means 'East is Red.' It's Red China's latest secret weapon. We don't know what it is or what it does, we just know that it is."

"How do you know it is?"

"There's a front-page article about it in this morning's Beijing Daily."

"They have a secret weapon and they announce it on their front page?" Foxworthy said. "Why would they do that?"

"Why do we conduct press tours of our nuclear-missile facilities? To let opponent nations know we have them."

Foxworthy said nothing.

"Well?"

"Haven't heard of East is Red."

The NSA duty officer's voice brightened. "Good. I'm going to NOIWON this. It sounds solid."

"Have you heard about the new Mexican terror weapon?"

"What new Mexican terror weapon?"

"They're calling it El Diablo," Foxworthy elaborated.

"El Diablo. Sounds angry. Doesn't it mean 'the Devil'?"

"That's what our linguistics people tell me."

"You NOIWONing it?"

"Don't have to. Our intelligence comes from the Pentagon. By now the President knows about it."

"News to us. What is El Diablo?" Woolhandler asked.

"That's the scary part. Nobody knows. We can only guess."

"Mexico is dirt poor. Can't be a nuke. Or a missile. It's probably a chemical agent."

"Maybe biological," Foxworthy speculated.

"Biological is possible, but I'd go with chemical."

"What the hell's going on? Within the space of days, three different nations are announcing secret terror weapons, and we have Mexico on our exposed asses."

"Something's up for sure."

"You bet. Still going to NOIWON that Chinese thing?"

"Have no choice. It's in print."

Foxworthy sighed. "Let's get the others up to speed, then."

When the National Reconnaissance Office came on the line, the duty officer was breathless.

"This is NRO. Chattaway. I mean Chattaway. NRO."

"Spit it out, Chattaway," Foxworthy said.

"We've been juggling KH-11 satellites ever since the Iraqi troop-movement story got started. And we've confirmed it."

"The Iraqis are on the move?"

"No, the UN."

"Say again?"

"United Nations tanks have crossed the DMZ and are moving toward Basra at full gallop. They appear to be backed by elite elements of the Royal Kuwaiti Armed Forces."

The line was deathly silent for the better part of half a minute.

"Let me have you confirm that," Foxworthy said in a restrained tone. "The United Nations is moving against Iraq?"

"Backed by the Kuwaitis."

"On whose authority?"

"It's too early to tell. But our read is they'll be knocking at the gates of Basra within the hour."

"Oh, sweet Christ. It's Gulf War II. We better alert the JCS chair."

Chapter Twenty-six

In his office at the Secretariat of the UN, secretary general Anwar Anwar-Sadat was working the phones. On his desk was a draft resolution calling for the establishment of a UN peackeeping mission on the disputed U.S.-Mexico border.

All he had to do was convene a meeting of the Security Council. To do that, he needed the presence of the Security Council membership. All fifteen members.

Unfortunately none of those ambassadors was taking his calls.

"But this is quite urgent," he was saying. "I must speak with the ambassador."

"The ambassador is in consultation."

"When he emerges, have him call me immediately," said Anwar Anwar-Sadat, who hung up on the Chinese capital and hit the speed-dial button marked Soviet Union. He had never gotten around to changing the label, and given the state of Russia these days, it was entirely possible any change would be premature. Besides, he could never remember what shrinking Russia called itself these days.

Moscow was likewise unavailable. As was Berlin. A call slip placed on his desk informed him that the U.S. ambassador to the United Nations was waiting on line four. He scribbled "I am out!" on the slip, and the secretary took the slip outside to brush off the permanent member of the Security Council Anwar Anwar-Sadat least wanted to speak with right now.

As she exited, the under secretary for peacekeeping operations barged in, looking startled.

Anwar-Sadat looked up. "Yes, yes. What is it?"

"Urgent call from the ambassador from Iraq, line three."

Anwar-Sadat frowned like a rock falling into shadow. "I have no time for this. I am trying to reconvene the Security Council. Tomorrow is our fiftieth anniversary, and we have no diplomats for the official reception."

"But the ambassador is calling to surrender."

Anwar-Sadat blinked. "Surrender what, may I ask?"

"I do not know. He merely said the word 'surrender.' He is quite agitated, I might add."

"Perhaps," mused Anwar-Sadat, "he means Iraq is now willing to come into compliance with all UN resolutions. I will take his call, thank you."

When he made his connection, the secretary general said "Yes, hello?" in a deliberately neutral voice. If his guess was correct, this would be a great victory for his office.

The thick voice of the Iraqi ambassador said, "We surrender. Immediately. Call off your troops."

"What is it?"

"Do not trifle with me. We know your game. We surrender. We will not fight. We will not be drawn into another crisis just so you may strangle our nation further. We are disinterested in fighting. Thus, we will never be defeated. Now, please accept our surrender at once."

"Are you drunk?"

"I am a Muslim. I do not drink. And my country will not fight. Basra is yours if you wish it. We ask only safe passage for our Republican Guards. They will lay down their arms and abandon their armor. But we will not fight. Do I make myself clear? We will not fight."

The voice of the Iraqi ambassador was tearful, almost pleading. The secretary general, knowing the tenor of the Iraqi leadership these days, could almost envision a cocked pistol at the head of the poor Iraqi ambassador, the hammer ready to fall if he failed to negotiate a successful surrender.

"Very well. I accept your surrender," Anwar-Sadat said. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes. Terms. We must have terms."

"Of course. How careless of me. What is a surrender without terms? What were you thinking of?"

"Withdraw your forces to the DMZ."

"Our forces are in the DMZ."

"They are within thirty minutes of Basra. And closing."

"I will have to get back to you on this matter," said the secretary general of the UN coolly, then hung up.

He placed a call to UNIKOM HQ, and received no reply. There were no replies from any of the support units in Kuwait.

"This is quite strange," he muttered. Hitting his intercom, he said, "My car, please."

"Yes, Mr. Secretary."

"No more. I am General Anwar-Sadat now. Address me properly."

"Yes, my General."

In his war room, General Anwar-Sadat received the telex reports. There was only silence from UNIKOM. Utter silence.

"Get me the Kuwaiti ambassador, then."

The call was placed, and the pale blue receiver was laid in his dusky hand.

"Mr. Ambassador, I am receiving reports that my UNIKOM forces have strayed into Iraqi territory."

"I cannot confirm this. I am sorry."

"You sound stressed, my friend. What is wrong?" asked Anwar-Sadar.

"I cannot talk now. I am needed in the war effort."

"War. What war?"

"The drive to crush the hated beast in Baghdad before he can unleash Al Quaaquaa upon the royal family."

And then the line went dead.

Woodenly, his eyes dull, Secretary General Anwar-Sadat replaced the receiver and said, "It is true. Kuwait has attacked Iraq. It is impossible, unbelievable and not a little insane, but it is nonetheless true."

"And UNIKOM?" wondered the aide.

"We must find out." Anwar-Sadat snapped his fingers impatiently, "Quickly, turn on CNN."

"Immediately, my General."

CNN was in the middle of a special bulletin.

"Repeating, United Nations peacekeeping forces are reported operating on Iraqi soil, and at this hour there is no official explanation. But Baghdad has issued an unconditional unilateral surrender and a call for all forces to pull back to their preinvasion deployments."

Anwar Anwar-Sadat turned to his aide. "I gave no order to attack Iraq. Did I?"

The aide consulted a leather date book and shook his head vehemently. "It must be that abject appeaser, Sir Timothy," he said.

Anwar Anwar-Sadat pounded his fist on the chair armrest. "I will have him cashiered for this outrage. We are peacekeepers, not war makers. He is ruining my grand one-world plan!"

Chapter Twenty-seven

The Air Italia flight had hardly leveled out over the Italian countryside when a dark-skinned man in the back came forward and slapped a stewardess out of his way. At the front of the cabin he turned, held up a bottle of some clear liquid and announced, "This is a hijacking."

Chiun looked up from a letter he was reading. "Look, Remo. We are being hijacked."

"Damn," said Remo.

"In the name of the Islamic Republic of Iran, I sentence you all to death. Your crime is flying in the same plane as the godless Master of Sinanju."

"Did you hear, Remo?"

"I heard," said Remo, coming out of his seat.

"You! Stand back! This is a hijacking."

"And this is a counterhijacking."

"You cannot counter my hijacking. I have the bomb."

Remo stopped in his tracks. He fixed the Iranian with his eyes and, holding his gaze, kept talking. "Just take it easy. We can talk this out."

"There is no time for talk, there is only time to die. Where is the evil one who dispenses un-Islamic death? Show yourself."

Chiun stood up and stepped out into the aisle. Bowing his head, he said, "I am Chiun, Reigning Master."

"You will never serve the enemy Iraqi."

"I have made no agreement with Baghdad."

"You lie. They call you Al Quaaquaa, the Ghost. And threaten us with your ways of death. But no more. You will die here and now, and I will dance with the houris."

Remo moved his feet in tiny steps that inched him closer and closer to the shouting terrorist but gave the impression of standing still. He was now four feet away, and inch by inch closed the distance.

The hijacker was raving now, in a mix of broken English and Farsi. He seemed determined to milk his hour of glory for all it was worth. Remo decided if the houris gave out Oscars, he was definitely in the running.

"Oh, please do not kill me, O dangerous one," said Chiun, and Remo kept the betraying smile off his face. The old reprobate was setting the guy up, and he didn't know it.

Two and a half feet from the hijacker, who was pounding his chest and shredding his shirt in a last expression of earthly penitence, Remo struck.

One hand closed around the fist that clutched the bottle of deadly liquid, and Remo brought it up to his bearded face. The hijacker was startled to see the bottle moving independent of his volition. He froze in the middle of a round vowel, and his mouth stayed round as his widening eyes saw with disbelief that the cap was no longer on the bottle's neck.

He heard the soft click of the stopper hitting the aisle carpet, and then the bottle neck was in his open mouth and his head was abruptly jerked back by his short black hair.

The contents of the bottle burned as it went down. He coughed. And out came a jet of bluish fire like his soul escaping.

He was dead when his flame-broiled lips hit the carpet.

"Okay, folks. That's it. Nothing to worry about," said Remo, picking up the body and stowing it away in an overhead bin.

He was applauded and took a brief bow.

Returning to his seat, Remo told Chiun, "Word getting around?"

"We will be rich beyond our wildest dreams. Oh, that I frittered the precious years working for Mad Harold."

"So where are we going next?"

From the pile of FedEx mailers on his lap, the Master of Sinanju lifted one emblazoned with a bloodred flag and a yellow sunburst with sixteen points.

Remo frowned. "I can't read the name."

"It is a name steeped in legend."

"Yeah?"

"Macedonia."

Chapter Twenty-eight

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff hadn't slept all night, and now a dangerous new day was dawning over the Potomac River.

He was in his twenty-eighth hour of wakefulness and he stopped counting the coffee cups. He only knew that every time someone dropped a pencil, his gut gave a caffeine jump and another shot of adrenaline coursed through his thick body.

The Mexicans were still on their side of the border. They weren't threatening. They weren't demanding anything. They just stood poised and waiting.

A knock on the door made the JCS chair want to jump out of his tired skin.

"What is it?" he snapped peevishly to the aide who poked his head in.

"We have a NOIWON, General."

"Christ! That is all we need," he said, picking up the telephone.

"This is General Shali. Go ahead," he said.

"It's called Ying Lung, and the Taiwanese are saying it's the counterweapon to the Red Chinese's East is Red!" a breathless voice said.

A second breathless voice interrupted. "Never mind that. The Hungarians—"

"General," a third anxious voice broke in, "our mole in the CSIS reports talk of a new Canadian superweapon called Wendigo."

"One at a time. One at a time, please. CIA. You start."

"Thank you, General. This is Foxworthy. We have reliable intelligence about the Ying Lung. That's Chinese for 'Shadow Dragon.' The Hong Kong press claim it's the counteracting weapon to the Red Chinese East is Red."

"East is Red. Why have I not heard about this before?"

"I have no information on that, General. But we think, based on the name Shadow Dragon, it's some type of stealth weapon. Probably not a plane. Maybe a missile."

" A stealth missile?"

"Our nomenclature analysis suggests this."

"Fine. Next."

"NSA here, General. We have intercepted a communication emanating from Hungary that talks of the Turul, which is some sort of mythological falcon, according to our research. The Hungarians are warning their neighbors that they will not hesitate to deploy Turul if threatened."

"Where did you intercept this information?"

"Hungarian state television, General."

"How secret can it be, then?"

"We don't know what it is. So technically it's still a secret weapon. But the existence of the weapon is no secret."

The general groaned, and drained another cup of cappuccino.

"Next," he said.

"NRO here, General. The South Koreans are also claiming development of a weapon hitherto unknown to the modern world."

"They what?"

"I'm quoting from Seoul Shinmum. That's the chief newspaper in Seoul. Their source is the CIA."

"That's a lie!" the CIA duty officer exploded.

"The Korean CIA," the NRO man clarified.

"Continue," said the general.

"It's called Ch'onmach, which is a kind of flying horse in Korean mythology. We don't know what it is or what it does, I regret to say."

"Damn it, find out!"

"Yes, sir."

• "Sir, this is CIA again. A report just crossed my desk. According to Tokyo Shimbun, the Japanese are announcing a defensive device they call Kuroi Obake."

"What does that mean?"

"We came up with 'Black Goblin,' sir."

"I meant the other word."

"Shimbun? That's 'newspaper.'"

"The same word means 'newspaper' in Korean and Japanese?"

"It's not exactly the same word. It's just similar. Want me to fact check it for you?"

"No!"

"Yes, General."

The JCS chair let out a caffeine sigh. "By the way, does anyone have an update on the Mexican crisis?"

"I do," a helpful voice said.

"And who is this?"

"Chattaway. NRO."

"Go ahead, Mr. Chattaway."

"Our latest satellite imaging shows the Mexicans have not moved in the last twenty-four hours."

"Thank you," the general said in a frosty voice. "I already have that intelligence on my desk."

"Never hurts to reconfirm, as they say over at State."

"That will be all," said the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff before he hung up. A fresh cup of coffee was suddenly at his elbow. He sniffed it before tasting. It smelled like boysenberry fudge swirl, but when he tasted it he decided it was probably cranberry mocha.

Whatever it was, it was going to have to pass for breakfast. There was a lot to do.

Chapter Twenty-nine

If the president of Macedonia—a country referred to insistently as FYR Macedonia by the hostile world and the spineless United Nations—understood one thing, it was the value of a trademark.

Men had gotten wealthy all over the world prior to the emergence of multinational corporations by having the foresight to trademark the name of a famous foreign—usually American—product in the days when American products were confined to America. As the great corporations expanded, they found no serious competition for their colas or their breakfast cereals, just grubby little men who came crawling out of the woodwork bearing legal papers and claiming to have registered the trademark of Pepsi Cola or some such in their native land.

The mighty American companies, having a product and no right to their own name in an alien land, did what their lawyers told them they must do. Buy their own trademark at a dear price or cede rich new market territories to these competitors.

This was the problem the president of Macedonia faced in the wake of the breakup of embattled, fractured Yugoslavia. Suddenly there was no Yugoslavia. Just Croatia, Serbia and Bosnia, all of whom quickly and with great relish began tearing chunks off one another's territories until there was no hope of putting the pieces back together again. Ever.

To survive in this vacuum, the president of what was then the Yugoslavian province of Macedonia understood that he would need a name. One to conjure with. For his patch of the former Yugoslavia lay at the crossroads of the Balkans and was subject to being gobbled up by Greece, Turkey, Albania or Bulgaria, all of whom historically had designs on the area or on their nationals living within it.

And so naturally he chose the name Macedonia, taking the ancient Macedonian symbol of a sixteen-pointed sunburst star—the Sun of Vergina—as its flag.

There seemed no reason not to. No one else was using it. No one had before expressed a problem with a province called Macedonia—even though the historical Macedon of Alexander sprawled over what were today four separate modern nations.

So with the stroke of a pen Macedonia reemerged as a nation once again.

And suddenly a country with untrained conscripts, no tanks or warplanes and no war chest was perceived as a dire threat to mighty Greece and a natural ally of Greece's Balkan rivals, Bulgaria and Albania and Turkey, who themselves didn't get along.

Greece closed it borders. Bulgaria courted Macedonia. Everyone coveted it. To keep order, five hundred U.S. soldiers had to be imported as a protective buffer—which everyone knew might become the tripwire to a new Balkan conflict that could lead to a third great European war.

Applying for admittance to the United Nations, Macedonia was forced to accept the official designation Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia, whose disputed flag was the only member state flag in history ever to be barred from flying before the UN Buildings.

It was a slap in the face. The prince among ancient nations was reduced to being the geographical equivalent of the singer formerly known as Prince.

And with the world nervously eyeing this toothless upstart nation, the President of Macedonia had begun to conclude he might better have taken the name Lower Slobovia. That trademark was no longer in force, he understood.

Until his ambassador called from New York City.

"I am flying home at once. You must recall me."

"Why must I recall you?" the president asked.

"Because the Master of Sinanju has returned to the world stage."

"A Master lives?"

"He lives, breathes, speaks and has offered his services to the highest bidder."

"Which cannot be us, I must remind you."

"Sinanju worked for Philip of Macedon. Possibly Alexander, too. Perhaps a yearning for the old days will entice him to Skopje."

In Skopje the president looked out of his office windows at the running River Vardar and his heart swelled. The nostalgia all Macedonians felt for the old days of glory was more potent than ever.

Surely, he thought, agreeing to recall his ambassador to discuss the matter further, the Master of Sinanju would feel the tug and pull of such days in his noble heart.

Chapter Thirty

When the next NOIWON came, the JCS chair was asleep in his chair, his head thrown back, his mouth open and snoring like a water buffalo.

"General, another NOIWON."

Snorting, the general pulled himself together, fumbled his wire-frame glasses onto his nose and asked the aide, "Does this concern the Mexico crisis?"

"I don't know."

"Ask."

"Yes, sir."

The aide came back saying, "It's not about Mexico, General."

"In that case, you take it."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. And I want a complete summary within the hour."

"Yes, General."

"And don't disturb me again if it isn't Mexico or the President. In that order."

And the JCS chair leaned back, folded his hands over his olive green gut and resumed snorting at the ceiling.

When he awoke two hours later, he was completely refreshed and summoned his chief aide by intercom.

"Coffee and that NOIWON summary. In that order."

"Mocha almond fudge or banana hazelnut?"

"Java. Black."

Sipping the steaming beverage, the JCS chair leaned back in his seat as the aide summarized the most recent NOIWON.

"CIA says the North Koreans have announced development of a new defensive weapon, Sinanju Chongal. 'Chongal' means 'scorpion.'"

"What's our source?"

"Rodong Shinmum."

"There's that word again." The general's face gathered. "Isn't Rodong their top-of-the-line ballistic missile?"

"I believe that's Nodong, sir."

"I seem to recall it's spelled 'Rodong,' but it's pronounced 'Nodong.' I wonder if there's a connection."

"Shall I look into it?"

The general frowned. "Skip it," he grunted, gesturing for the aide to continue his report.

"The Russians have claimed a weapon of their own. Zholti Zarnitsa. It means 'Yellow Lightning.'"

The general frowned more deeply. "Sounds to me like the Russian equivalent of White Lightning."

And the aide allowed himself a faint military smile.

"Goon."

"The British also claim to have developed what they call 'a frightful new weapon that will revolutionize modern warfare.' Their name for this device is the Wissex Vole."

"Wissex Vole?"

"Wissex is a town or county. Vole is some sort of burrowing animal, like a mole."

"The British possess a secret weapon that burrows! Could that be a ground missile? Something with a drill for a warhead."

"Seems unlikely. It might be just a name," the aide replied.

"What else?"

"The Turks call theirs the Whirling Dervish. The Germans, Donar. The Danes, Votan. Macedonia has Sveti Perun. These appellations all seem to be mythology-based code names."

"Is that all?" the general prompted.

"No. There are 121 others, much like the previous NOIWON."

"Do we have anything concrete, anything we've heard about before?" asked the JCS chair.

"Well, there is the Holy Spirit."

The general raised his frosty eyebrows.

"The Vatican has issued a statement that in these danger-fraught times they will rely on the protection of Spiritus Sanctus—which is Latin for 'the Holy Spirit.' It's a Catholic thing."

"I know, I know," said the general, who was Catholic.

"Is there a Polish secret weapon?" he asked, because he was also of Polish extraction.

The aide skimmed the summary. "No. No Polish secret weapon."

"There never is," he said dryly. Finishing his coffee, he stared off into space for a long moment. "I would like to be alone," he said quietly.

"Yes, sir."

As soon as he was alone, the JCS chair picked up the telephone and initiated a conference call with the rest of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. When he had everyone from the secretary of the Navy to the commandant of the Marine Corps on the line, he explained the recent NOIWON alerts.

"Do you gentlemen understand what this means?" he asked in conclusion.

"Damn."

"We are in a new arms race and, not only is the USA out of the running, we are probably the chief target."

"Do we know if these weapons are biological, chemical or nuclear?" asked the chief of the Army.

"We do not. But I believe we can assume one thing—these other nations have acquired a common technology. It is obviously something relatively inexpensive, easily produced and requires no exotic material or resources. For there is no question that whatever this Russian Zarnitsa is, it is identical to the Hungarian Turul, and no doubt the same as this El Diablo the Mexicans are threatening us with."

"If we don't know what it is, General, how can we defend against it?"

"That is the key," said the JCS chair. "Our first priority is to identify these terroristic weapons. Get on it. Get your intelligence people on it. I will coordinate everything from this office."

"What about the President?"

The JCS chair groaned audibly. "There is no time for another seven-hour briefing of the President. We will bring him in when we have facts and a counter-option. Get to work, gentlemen. A new doomsday clock is ticking for the United States."

Chapter Thirty-one

Remo Williams didn't like the looks of Skopje from the air. It looked old, begrimed and a hodgepodge of architectural styles. There were mosques and minarets amid the overly ornate church spires.

"Since when is Macedonia Islamic?" he asked.

Chiun wrinkled his nose at the skyline as the 727 began its descent. "Turks once ruled this land but were driven out."

"Looks like they left their culture behind."

"Turks have no culture. Perhaps the Macedonians have allowed their temples to remain as repositories for surplus grain."

"I see churches, too."

"Carpenter worship has insinuated itself into every land—even Korea. Do not take it seriously."

Remo had a magazine on his lap. "According to this, political rivals assassinated Kim Jong II again. That's the third time he's been reported dead this year. Guess we can take him off the old Christmas list?"

Chiun sniffed and said, "Sinanju does not celebrate Jesus Time, nor will you know that you have truly become my heir in blood, as well as spirit."

But as the plane descended, his hazel eyes narrowed.

"What's the matter?" Remo asked.

"The Vardar does not wind like that."

"Maybe it changed."

"Rivers do not change course. Cities rise and fall, are sacked and rebuilt. A Master of Sinanju recognizes a city not by its buildings, which endure less than common rock, but by its river. For all important cities are built upon the banks of rivers."

A flight attendant happened by, and Chiun asked, "Where are we about to land?"

"Macedonia."

Chiun sniffed doubtfully and said nothing more.

When the plane landed, all the passengers were told to remain in their seats as an honor guard came to fetch the Master of Sinanju.

"Welcome to Macedonia," said one, beaming.

"That remains to be seen," said Chiun, rising and floating up the aisle.

Following, Remo hissed, "What's the matter?"

"That man is a Tartar."

"That's his problem. He should brush his teeth more."

They stepped out into the top of the air stairs and a forty-six-gun salute, with incidental cannon fire, erupted.

"Hit the deck!" yelled Remo, suiting action to Words.

"Do not be ridiculous, Remo. These people only welcome us."

The second volley came, and there was what seemed to be a resounding echo as a stray tank shell struck a French Mystère Falcon 20. Simultaneously a red carpet unforked like a satanic tongue to end at the bottom of the air stairs as if perfectly dovetailed. It revealed a two-headed black bird that Remo thought looked familiar. Where had he seen it before?

Beaming, Chiun began his triumphal descent onto Macedonian soil.

A man in a green uniform that made Remo think of an opéra bouffe spear carrier strode up to greet them.

In heavily accented English he said, "Welcome to Sofia!"

Chiun started, and the wispy hairs on his chin and over his ears quivered once. "This is not Macedonia," he squeaked.

"Ah, but it is. For Macedonia truly comprises the western lands of Bulgaria, which is pleased to greet you."

"I'm not working for the Bulgarians," Remo said.

"Nor am I," snapped Chiun. "We fly to Skopje."

"Phui! Skopje is not Macedonia, but the capital of liars and irredentists. There is nothing for you there. This is the true seat of Aleksandar Makedonski."

"The House never worked for Alexander, and we demand that you convey us to our proper destination in Macedonia."

"But this is Pirin Macedonia—the true Macedonia."

"And that was your final breath," said the Master of Sinanju, whose sleeves came apart, birthed a hand like a striking adder and, at the exact moment when the Bulgarian's heart was poised to take the next beat, Chiun's fist struck the correct spot over the heart like an old ivory mallet.

The Bulgarian general noticed that his heart skipped a beat, then began to hammer wildly. His breath came in gasps, then did not come at all. Finally he pitched forward on his face and went into full cardiac arrest, his life and his nationalism leaking out of him in a long, slow, cool breath.

Turning on his heel, the Master of Sinanju returned to the plane.

Remo said to the stunned surviving dignitaries, "Do what he says or it'll be a lot worse."

The honor guard hesitated. Then the escape chutes of the jet popped out, began inflating and the frightened passengers started evacuating, along with the flight crew, some of whom broke windows in their urgent need to exit the plane.

"Don't be too long with the replacement crew, okay?" said Remo, and boarded the plane himself.

The jet lifted off less than ten minutes later. It was a short flight, and since there was no need to pressurize the cabin, no one felt the compulsion to close the emergency exit doors before the aircraft took to the skies.

"This is turning out to be harder than I thought," said Remo.

"That was not the Vardar," Chiun sniffed."It was the Iskur. You should have known this."

"I should have insisted we go to Canada first. I could work for Canada."

Chapter Thirty-two

It was an image-interpretation clerk at the Air Force's National Reconnaissance Office who provided the first key to the problem of the secret North Korean terror weapon.

Walter Clark was an expert on North Korea. During the tense period in the Korean-American relationship, when the DPRK refused to open their nuclear processing plants to international inspection, it was Clark's daily task to analyze oversize satellite images of the various nuclear facilities at Yongbyon and elsewhere.

Relations with North Korea were still in an unsettled state, but everyone agreed they were better off than a year ago, when the two Koreas stood on the precipice of war. Few knew this at the time, but it kept Clark awake at nights.

These days he slept reasonably well for a man whose job it was to spy on the last Stalinist state on the face of the earth.

The call from his superior was tense.

"It's called Sinanju Chongal. It's Pyongyang's secret weapon."

"Is it chemical, nuclear or biological?" Clark asked.

"That's the question of the hour."

"So what do I look for?"

"No one knows. So just look very, very hard, Walter."

As he hung up the phone, in the room where giant photographs and transparencies sat on light tables or hung before backlit wall screens like colorful X rays in a surgical facility, Walter Clark began talking to himself.

"Sinanju. Sinanju. That name sounds familiar…"

He went to his computerized concordance and input the name.

On the green-and-brown 3-D topological map of the Korean peninsula, two red lights winked northwest of the North Korean capital of Pyongyang. There were on the West Korea Bay.

One said Sinanju Eub. The other, simply Sinanju.

And Clark remembered. During the nuke scare—to this day no one knew for sure whether Pyongyang had the bomb or not—he had stumbled upon the bizarre fact that there were two places named Sinanju, virtually next to each other.

Calling up his index, he simultaneously dialed his superior.

"I found it."

"In three minutes?"

"Two-point-five actually," Walter said with restrained pride. "There are two Sinanjus in West Korea. Sinanju Eub is an industrial town. 'Eub' means 'town.' The other is just Sinanju."

"Is it a city?"

"No. That would be Sinanju Si. 'Si' means 'city.'"

"It's an installation, then."

"Just a minute. I'm expanding the picture now." Keys clicked under his tapping fingers, and a red rectangle zoomed in on the twin red dots, expanding the urea within until it filled the screen.

"During the bomb hunt, the dual names were noticed and we conducted deep analysis of Sinanju Eub us a possible nuclear processing center, but they seemed to indicate it was nothing more than an industrial town with no clear military significance."

"But it is a denied area?"

"AH of North Korea is a denied area."

"That's right, isn't it?"

Walter rolled his eyes in silence. Middle managers, he thought ruefully. Aloud, he said, "I have the latest digitized sweep of the area on-screen now, and nothing seems to have changed since last year."

"What about the other Sinanju?"

"As I recall," Clark said, tapping a key, "it was of no importance whatsoever."

The red rectangle squeezed down to the lower red dot, and it exploded into a section of muddy coastline.

"Looks blank. I'm going in tighter."

Keys clicked and the picture bloomed into a close-up.

"Wait a minute," Clark said.

"What have you got? What is it?"

"One minute, sir. This is strange. This is very strange."

"What is? What is?"

"The second Sinanju appears to be a fishing village."

"Can't be."

"I agree. There are two strange configurations here, sir. On the beach there are two—I can only call them formations."

"What do they look like?"

"From above they look like two pieces of giant driftwood, but they cast shadows that show their true nature. They look like fangs," Clark said.

"Fangs?"

"There's one at one end of a section of beach and a matched one on the other. Sort of like curved fangs or maybe horns, except they're quite large and separated by some distance."

"Any supporting facility?"

"Just fishing shacks."

"They can't be fishing shacks."

"I have to agree, sir. If for no other reason than I see a three-lane highway that stops right at the edge of this so-called fishing village."

"Where does it go?"

"Just my question. I'm backing off from the fishing village and—uh-oh, this highway, sir, runs in a direct line from Pyongyang, bypassing Sinanju Eub altogether."

"No one builds a three-lane highway from the capital to a goddamn fishing village."

"I think that's a safe analysis," Walter Clark said dryly.

"Any traffic on that road, Clark?"

"None whatsoever."

"Strange."

"North Korea is chronically low on fuel, private ownership of cars is restricted to less than two percent of the population and in the countryside they're supposedly eating their sandals for want of rice. So it's not strange at all."

"This is super work, Clark. Keep digging."

"Thank you, sir," said Walter Clark a half second lifter the line went dead in his ear. He went back to his screen. This was interesting.

This was very interesting. Why, he wondered, had no one noticed this before?

Chapter Thirty-three

En route to Skopje, two fast Galeb fighter jets appeared and bracketed the passenger jet. The copilot came back to the cabin, where the winds howled and paper scraps flew, and approached the Master of Sinanju, who sat patiently in his window seat.

"We have been warned to divert to Belgrade or we will be shot down," he reported anxiously.

"Who has warned you of this?" Chiun asked.

"Those Serb fighters on our wings."

"There are only two?"

"Yes."

Chiun signaled for Remo across the aisle. "Dispense with those pests."

Sighing, Remo got out of his seat and began collecting pillows and seat cushion flotation devices until he had two bulging maroon armfuls.

"Try to get ahead of them," Remo told the copilot.

"Yes, yes, but do not get us shot down. I have children."

"Don't sweat it," said Remo, moving to the end of the cabin.

The rest room doors banged loudly in the whooshing cabin winds, and the rearmost emergency exit, which led out to the cone-shaped tail of the plane, hung open to frame blue sky.

Remo whistled patiently as the jet's engines spooled up. Briefly it pulled ahead, outpacing the two fighter escorts, which jinked in and out of view in the open tail.

Remo began pitching pillows and seat cushions at them. Tumbling out like funny marshmallows, they were sucked into the Galeb's intakes with big whoofing sounds.

The jets flamed out, first one and then the other, and when the pilots realized there was no restarting their engines, they hit their seat-eject buttons.

Canopies popped, rocket-assisted ejection seats kicked them upward and out of sight. Since he had a few cushions left, Remo waited for the pilots to descend and tossed pillows at their faces. The slipstream provided the velocity. All Remo had to do was calculate the vectors and let go.

Both pilots received big cushy maroon kisses to their unhappy faces and shook angry fists as the passenger jet pulled ahead and out of view.

Returning to his seat, Remo asked Chiun, "Are we there yet?"

"Stop asking that. You sound like a child."

A page of some newspaper careened toward Remo, like a fluttery bird, and he caught it with an unconscious reflex that turned it into a pea-size ball faster than the eye could follow.

"I've had quieter flights, you know," he remarked, flicking the papery pellet out the rear.

"Be grateful there are no stewardesses to perch on your lap and toy wantonly with your locks."

"After three months on the reservation, I've begun to appreciate stewardesses."

"Would that you appreciated me. I am the one you should appreciate. I and no other."

"I'd appreciate you more if you hectored me less."

"I would hector you less if you appreciated me more."

"You first," said Remo.

And when neither thought the other was looking again, relaxed smiles touched their downturned lips. It was just like the old days.

Chapter Thirty-four

In his windowless office at CIA headquarters, Ray Foxworthy was bleary eyed from reading all the Intel intercepts crossing his desk. If half of them were to be believed, America was out in the cold while the rest of the world furiously developed some hitherto unknown technology with significant military applications.

The phone rang. He picked it up, one eye scanning a report out of India noting a weapon called Shiva-Urga. It was said to mean an incarnation of the Hindu deity Shiva in his most destructive form.

"Yeah?" he said absently.

"Chattaway. NRO. I could use some help, linguistically speaking."

"Are we NOIWONing here?"

"We will as soon as I nail down a few facts."

"What language?" Foxworthy asked.

"Korean."

"What do you need to know?" Foxworthy asked warily.

"The North Koreans have code-named their secret weapon Sinanju Chongal. I need to know what that means."

"What'll you trade for it?"

"This is national security!"

"And this is my ass if I don't have something to give the Pentagon—same as you."

"Okay, how about we say you came up with the original report, brought it to me, I went back to you on linguistics and we keep the DIA out of the picture entirely?"

"Sounds good to me. Sinanju, you said?"

"Spelled S-i-n-a-n-j-u. We already know 'Chongal' means 'scorpion.' "

"Back to you soonest." Foxworthy disconnected and stabbed an inside-line button.

A dry voice said, "Linguistics."

"Foxworthy. Korean."

An Asian voice came on. "Go ahead."

"Sinanju. What does it mean?"

"Exact pronunciation, please."

"The way I told it to you is the way I have it," Foxworthy snapped.

"Well, depending on how the syllables break, it might mean New Hors d'Oeuvres."

"Hors d'ouevres! As in canapes?"

"That's the closest English equivalent."

"Hors d'ouevres isn't English."

"The exact translation of 'anju' is 'something tasty to have with drinks. 'Sin' can mean 'new.' Now, if we assume it's not 'anju' as in hors d'ouevres,' but two separate words, then 'ju' means 'far.'"

"And you said 'sin' means 'new.'"

"Right."

"So we get New-blank-Far. What's does 'an' mean?"

"That's a long list, starting with a common Korean last name. Without knowing the exact pronunciation, this is as far as I'm willing to take this linguistic analysis."

"That'll do. No sense getting too deep in."

Hanging up, Foxworthy got back to Chattaway at the NRO. "There's some muddiness here, but 'sin' means 'new' and 'ju' is for 'far,' so we have New-something-Far Scorpion."

"Hmm. This is not good. New-something-Far Scorpion. Sounds long-range."

"Definitely long-range."

"Well, I guess we're on the NOIWON now."

The other intelligence agencies came on the line, and no one had anything to offer to the analysis as the NRO laid it out.

The JCS chair came on the line and said, "Thank you, gentlemen. This is all I need to know."

And everyone wondered what the JCS chair was going to do about the new North Korean threat that made the atomic bomb seem as dangerous as a runaway cheese wheel.

Chapter Thirty-five

Over a city whose airport control tower welcomed them to the true Macedonia, the Master of Sinanju looked down at a shining river and said, "They lie."

"What river is that?" Remo asked.

"The Ishm."

"So where are we?"

"Over Illyria."

Remo consulted a map on his lap. "I don't see any Illyria."

"Country names are transitory. Find the Ishm."

"Right. Oh, here it is. We're over Tiranë. Capital of Albania. I'd better go talk to the pilot."

When Remo came back from the cockpit, he told the Master of Sinanju, "The tower offered him a pile of gold to land us here."

"He has been properly chastised?"

"The copilot can handle things while the pilot's fingers are out of commission."

Finally at the Skopje airport, Remo stepped out first. From the air Skopje looked like Athens. But Chiun had pronounced the river to be the true Vardar.

There was an honor guard, but the uniforms were a different shade of green, though just as bold. A trumpet and drum fanfare began.

When Remo appeared, the artillery salute commenced and a red carpet unrolled like a frog's tongue seeking a fly. When the gold-fringed end reached the bottom of the air stairs, it exposed the sixteen-point golden Sun of Vergina that Remo remembered from the official stationery of the Macedonian government.

Remo called back into the cabin. "We're here!"

Only then did Chiun stride majestically out, his chin up, his hazel eyes agleam.

He took a deep breath that puffed out his chest.

"Yes, this is Macedonia."

"How do you know?"

"The air smells of the Vardar. It smells correct."

"I'll take your word for it," said Remo, who smelled goat cheese and grape leaves and other odors he associated with Greece.

An erect man in a plain business suit wearing a red tie with the Sun of Vergina on it came striding up to meet the Master of Sinanju. His thick silvery gray hair lay close to his skull, as if a flatiron had tamed it.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Chiun eyed him haughtily.

"I am who summoned you," the erect man said.

"No one summons the Master of Sinanju, lackey. Where is the king of Macedonia?"

"King?"

"Yes. I will treat with him and no other."

"But I am he."

"Where are your robes, your crown, your scepter of gold?"

"This is the twentieth century. We have no more of these things. I am the president."

Chiun's face collapsed.

"Democracy," he spit. "If Sinanju is to serve your land, you must appoint a proper king."

"That is all it will take?"

"That and gold."

"We have gold. Some. Yes, if the House requires a king, then I shall be your king."

Then and only then did the Master of Sinanju bow his respects to the ruler of Macedonia.

On the way to the black limousine sporting decals of the Sun of Vergina on the hood, trunk, door panels and hubcaps, the ruler of Macedonia regarded Remo warily and asked, "Are you Greek?"

"No."

"Good," said the ruler of Macedonia.

"He is my apprentice," said Chiun.

"A Westerner? Does he have Macedonian blood in him?"

"Definitely not," said Remo.

"Possibly," said Chiun. "He is unfortunately a mutt. There is no telling what ichor befouls the purity of his Sinanju-blessed veins."

"I resent that," Remo declared.

"Better a mutt than a cur," said the ruler of Macedonia as the limo door was opened for him.

He graciously allowed the Master of Sinanju to enter first. Then he stepped in, closing the door on Remo's hurt face.

Remo took a step back and kicked the rear tire flat. The limousine settled, and amid a flurry of retinue and aides, a backup limo pulled up, looking less like the Batmobile than the first.

This time Remo was allowed to climb in first. Next to the chauffeur.

At the presidential palace the ruler of Macedonia excused himself while Remo and Chiun were seated on plush floor pillows and serenaded with lyre and zither music. Songs were sung. All in praise of Aleksandar Veliki—Alexander The Great.

Chiun sat serenely through it all. Remo yawned a lot.

The ruler of Macedonia showed up within the hour, wearing scarlet robes trimmed in ermine. On his silvery head perched a heavy crown of gold adorned with emeralds. The gold looked like gilt, and the emeralds lacked luster and had collected visible scratches.

On the chest of the newly renamed king of Macedonia glowed the Sun of Vergina. Remo was reminded of Captain Marvel and, for lack of something better to occupy his mind, began wondering if they still published his adventures. Remo had liked Captain Marvel as a kid. He was a lot more fun than Superman, who was stuck with that pesky Lois Lane. Though Captain America had his qualities, too.

"And now we will feast!" proclaimed the king of Macedonia in an expansive voice. And all raised glasses of plum brandy in toast to the return of the Master of Sinanju.

Chiun beamed more broadly. His thin eyes narrowed to happy little walnuts of pleasure. His long-nailed hands came together like an infant applauding himself.

"Did you hear that, Remo? A feast. Smith never so much as invited us to break bread in his home."

"Good. I'm starved."

"Hush. The feast is not for our stomachs, but for our souls."

"Still, I'm eating."

"Remember your pledge. No maize."

"Don't remind me."

When the food came, it was conveyed in steaming pots and samovars. There was much lamb, great hunks of beef and fowl and other dishes that delighted the senses with their vibrant colors and scents.

When all was laid out before them and the king of Macedonia had joined them on the floor of his palace dining room, whose Western-style furniture had been cleared out in deference to the more refined sensibilities of the Master of Sinanju, Remo and Chiun both spoke the same sentence in the same beat.

"Where is the rice?"

"Rice?" said the ruler of Macedonia. "Rice is Greek."

"Rice is Korean," said Chiun.

"Rice is food," echoed Remo.

"Have we rice?"

The chief said, "No. Rice is outlawed as a forbidden Greek foodstuff."

Remo started. "You outlawed rice?"

"Greek rice," the Macedonian king said hastily. "Unfortunately we have no Korean rice."

"Japanese rice will suffice," said Chiun.

"Or Chinese," added Remo.

"Alas, we have no rice of any kind due to an unjust Greek embargo."

Chiun's hands fluttered in annoyance. "No rice? No rice? The first Master of Sinanju was paid in rice."

The downcast king of Macedonia brightened. "Truly? You would accept rice in payment?"

"No. I said the first Master, for in the days of the first Master gold was unknown and the first coins lay in the dirt unminted."

"I didn't know that," said Remo, genuinely interested. "I guess that's sorta like Will Work For Food, huh?"

A slap on his knee informed Remo that he was not to interrupt again.

"It was in the days of Master Kum that the House first knew of gold. When offered gold instead of rice, he instead slew the king who requested service."

"Did he keep the gold?" the Macedonian king wondered.

"Of course. For it was payment," Chiun answered testily.

"Later, a king of Lydia named Croesus created the first coins of gold, and Kum, curious of this, sought service of him. When the coin was proffered, it looked to Kum's eye like a kind of food the Japanese made, ornate and appealing to the eye. When the king attempted to show its purity by making tooth marks on it, Master Kum took the coin and attempted to eat it."

"He slay Croesus?" Remo asked.

"No. But as gold and coin became the currency of greatest value in the ancient world, Masters ever since have demanded gold first and other valuables secondly."

"You will not accept rice?" asked the king of Macedonia.

"As tribute, yes. As payment, no. You have gold?"

"Some. Some. But I must tell you about Macedonia."

"Where's the fish?" interrupted Remo.

"In with the stew."

"I can't eat fish stew."

"It is good."

"It has corn floating in it," Remo complained.

"Pick the corn out."

"He cannot taste any food that has been contaminated by corn," Chiun said loftily. "For he has allergies."

Remo hunted among the arrayed dishes with his dark eyes. "You got duck?"

"No duck. But there are many delightful dishes prepared. Sample any. If you like it, eat your fill."

"I'll have water," said Remo unhappily.

A flagon of water big enough to bathe in was hauled in by two strapping waiters.

Remo dipped a finger in, sniffed and sampled it.

"Brackish."

"It came from the Varda."

"Brackish," Remo repeated.

Chiun spoke up. "Back to the gold."

"This is a proud land," said the king of Macedonia, beating the sunburst on his chest in his deep pride. "The Serbs conquered us. The Turks conquered us. The Greeks conquered us. But we are still here. We are still Macedonians."

Chiun nodded sagely. "Do you contemplate continued service or a single dispatch?"

"We invite the House of Sinanju to bask in the radiance of the Sun of Vergina for as long as you wish, because our houses share such deep historical ties."

"Yes. Very good. Macedonia is eternal," Chiun stated.

"I am glad you think that way."

"But gold is forever. Duration of service equals the weight of gold. In order to speak of the gold, the service required must be known."

"You may have all the gold in our treasury, if only you will swear allegiance to Great Macedonia," the king said magnanimously.

Chiun's small nose wrinkled up. Remo dipped a cup into the brackish water and sipped slowly through his clenched teeth, hoping to strain out the most disagreeable impurities. To the horror of all, he ended up spitting the water back into the flagon.

The Master of Sinanju raised his voice to cover the rude noise.

"Sinanju will consider extended service, then. And the gold in your treasury will suffice—"

The king of Macedonia clapped his hands together. "Excellent!"

"—providing it is equivalent to the gold bestowed upon the House by the Persian, Darius."

The king stroked his chin carefully. "How much gold was that?"

Eyeing the attentive retinue, Chiun said, "Some matters are best not spoken of in the presence of those who depend upon the gold of the emperor for their comforts."

"Ah." The king leaned forward. An amount was whispered in his ear.

The king froze, leaned back on his cushion and went so pale his scarlet robes deepened to crimson.

"That would be acceptable," he said slowly.

"Good."

"—if we had such an amount. But we do not."

Chiun frowned. "How much gold does your treasure house contain?"

The king looked left and right and leaned forward. He whispered an amount.

On his cushion the Master of Sinanju stiffened, hazel eyes widening.

All the color drained from his face. He arose, so perfect he might have been a yellow flower seeking the sun.

"Come, Remo," he said in a cold voice. "We must leave this fraud that dare call itself Macedonia, for they have no gold."

The king of Macedonia leapt to his feet. "Please do not go."

"Forget it," said Remo, opening the exit door for the haughty figure of the Master of Sinanju. "Next time remember the rice."

Remo had to drive the limo back to the airport, and when he got there, the entire artillery complement of the Macedonian army sat waiting. Both cannons.

After a knot of sweating officers finished ramming the iron balls into the mouth and tamping them down with ramrods resembling giant Q-Tips, they fired the powder hole with a Bic lighter.

Remo was just exiting the limo when the cannon-ball began whistling in his direction.

One ball arced high from the west. Remo stepped to the rear fender and slammed the trunk lid with a hand that caused it to spring open.

The ball impacted the vertical armored trunk lid, making a wonderful reverberation. The ball stuck to the lid. Remo smacked it with his hand, dislodging it. It toppled into the trunk, and Remo slammed the lid back. The limo stopped rocking on its springs.

The other ball came whistling from the south and, after it whistled over their heads, went whistling happily to the north.

It landed somewhere in a patch of weeds with a meaty thunk.

Climbing aboard the waiting jet, Remo waved to the chagrined artillery officers and closed the door behind the Master of Sinanju.

There was no problem getting clearance. All Remo had to do was promise the tower he'd stop flinging luggage at their heads if they were cleared immediately.

He was thanked for his consideration. Chiun translated.

"What language was that?" he asked Chiun.

"Bulgar," sniffed Chiun.

"I thought Macedonia was Greek."

"Macedonia," intoned Chiun as the jet's wheels left the ground, "is no more."

"We came all this way to do a little business, and not only did we get rooked on a decent meal, but they try to kill us to boot."

That last thought brought a wistful smile of satisfaction to the Master of Sinanju's papery lips.

"There is at least consolation in that."

Remo just rolled his eyes.

Chapter Thirty-six

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff wore his face like a waxen mask. His mouth moved as he spoke in a mechanical fashion, but nothing else did. His voice was grim. His eyes were lusterless stones.

"Mr. President, we are embroiled in a new arms race."

"With whom?" asked the President.

"With everyone outside of Uruguay and Samoa," he said flatly.

It was like a slap in the face to the beleaguered Chief Executive. The grim tone of the JCS chair's voice carried no accusation, but the harsh lash of his words seemed to say, It is your fault and you must deal with it.

"We do not yet understand the nature of this weapon, Mr. President, but we must initiate a response. We cannot—I must repeat this—cannot and must not allow this first phase to pass by without a stern and uncompromising response."

"To who? Mexico?"

Around the Situation Room the faces of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the secretary of defense paled noticeably. No one spoke. All eyes were locked on the masklike face of the JCS chair.

"I do not advocate a ground war with Mexico," he said.

Pent-up breaths were released in a slow rush. Color returned to the faces in the cramped white soundproofed room.

"Let me show you something," the JCS chair said.

From his black valise case came a sheaf of satellite photographs to which were clipped brief typed reports, one for each man in the cramped room. Their chins dropped as their eyes fell on the documents.

"You are looking at an hours-old high-res satellite photograph of an installation on the west coast of North Korea that appears to house the Korean version of this new wonder weapon. Note the three-lane highway and the obvious attempts to camouflage the site as a fishing village."

Everyone agreed that it was a fishing village with its own three-lane superhighway.

"What are these two curved shadows on the beach?" the President asked.

"That," said the JCS chair, "is the question of the hour. I have here a computer-generated image of what they probably look like from ground level."

A glossy color graphic was placed in the center of the table. The President took it. The others leaned in.

It showed, in the vivid paint-box colors of cyberspace, the beach as seen from the water. There was sand, tumbled rock and in the background a cluster of ramshackle fishing shacks.

At either end of the beach was a half arch of what appeared to be natural rock. The tips of both horns faced one another. Pushed closer together, they would form a natural arch.

"Christ!" said the secretary of defense. "These look like the Horns of Old Saint Nick."

"My thought exactly," breathed the President.

"We didn't know what it is. We don't know what it does. Assuming these new terror weapons are one and the same, we have only to locate similar formations in other hostile countries, target them with our ICBMs and we have our countermeasure."

"Don't you mean counterweapon?" asked the President.

"I do not. I mean countermeasure. A counterweapon presupposes a first strike. I am not advocating a first strike here."

Heads nodded around the table. Nobody wanted a first strike. Especially when no one knew what the terror weapon was.

"On CIA maps of North Korea, this installation is called Sin-an-ju. Inasmuch as understanding Korean syllables requires knowledge of the precise Chinese characters the Koreans used to record the name, we cannot with certainty translate this name. CIA thinks it means 'New-blank-far.' Other possible translations are 'New Peace Sandbank' or 'New Place of Peace.'"

"Doesn't sound very threatening," the President said.

"Neither does brainwashing or ethnic cleansing. Or concentration camp—until you understand the terrible reality the words cloak."

"I see your point."

"And do not forget that North Korea calls itself the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. There are at least two lies in that name."

"Three if you count the fact the real Korea is South Korea," the secretary of defense muttered.

The JCS chair grew intent. "Mr. President, consider this suggestion. We target New Peace Sandbank with a submarine-launched SS-20 missile."

"As a countermeasure?"

"As a warning to North Korea and the world. We quietly inform Pyongyang that we have acquired this Sinanju as a retaliatory nuclear target. And then wait."

The President's forehead wrinkled up in slow grooves. "For what?"

"For a global response. If we assume North Korea and these other nations all acquired this new technology from a single arms source, Pyongyang will communicate this intelligence to their suppliers. These suppliers will in turn report this to their clients. Enemy nations will, of course, understand if U.S. satellites can acquire the Sinanju target we can also acquire—" he consulted a sheet of paper "—El Diablo, Al Quaaquaa, Turul and the remaining threat sites."

"This will—"

"—deter," whispered the secretary of defense in the President's ear.

"—these other nations?"

"Exactly."

"Mutually assured deterrence," the President said firmly.

"Close enough," the JCS chair commented. "It will buy us valuable time while CIA discovers exactly what this brute does."

"Do it," the President said decisively. Then, turning to his wife, he asked. "That okay with you, hon?"

Off in the corner away from the table, the First Lady sat firmly on her pillow and gave her spouse a sheepish thumbs-up sign.

Chapter Thirty-seven

They were welcomed in Athens. Girls danced. Men danced and lyres not sounded since the days of Ho Megas Alexandros were plucked.

At the presidential palace, Remo asked the Master of Sinanju a simple question. "I thought we don't serve democratic rulers."

"We do not serve presidents. This man is a prime minister. It is different."

"It's not that much different," said Remo, ducking to avoid an attempt to kiss him on the lips by a wine-besotted Greek cabinet minister who was overjoyed that the House of Sinanju would return to storied Athens.

The prime minister was overjoyed, too. Rice lay heaped at their feet in the state dining room. There was fish of all kinds, steamed, broiled and prepared with special sauces. Duck was available. As was goose.

Remo dug in.

"The Greeks know how to throw a shindig," he said happily.

"We have yet to see the color of their gold, or sink our mighty teeth into its legendary softness."

"Soft gold is good, right?"

"Soft gold is best."

The prime minister was making a speech in his native tongue. It went in one of Remo's ears and out the other. Food was going into the hole that mattered. But his tongue craved corn.

"With the House of Sinanju with us, Pseudo-Macedon will never threaten Athens."

"Macedonia wouldn't threaten a flea," said Remo. "They have all of two cannon."

"Bah. They are monsters who have stolen our heritage."

"Says you."

Toasts were drunk next. Remo and Chiun declined all wine and entreaties to sample more exotic fare. That it was offered them was enough, Chiun whispered.

As the evening wore on, the alcohol took hold, and the Greeks began telling sad stories of their fallen glory. Alexander was cited often. As was Philip of Macedon. But Alexander was the name that fell from every lip most often.

"Tell us. Tell us what your histories say of Alexander," the Greek prime minister insisted.

Chiun pursed his lips. "The House served Philip, Alexander's father."

"Yes, yes, of course. Philip was a great man, in his way. But he was no Alexander, who was a true Greek. Favor us with tales of Alexander, who was truly great."

"I do not know those stories, I am sorry," Chiun said hastily. "The greatness of Alexander came at a time when the House was preoccupied with the Peacock Throne."

"The Persians were great, but not so great as Alexander, who conquered them," a cabinet minister said loudly. "But surely you have tales to tell us."

"Go ahead, Little Father," Remo prompted. "Tell them."

"I know these tales imperfectly and would not wish to sully the memory of your Alexander with my poor attempts."

Someone pointed at Remo. "You! Tell us stories if you know any."

"He knows nothing, being but a servant of Sinanju," Chiun said quickly.

"I'm a full Master," Remo said hotly.

"A servant full of ambition," Chiun sniffed. "He aspires to head the House."

And everyone laughed at the idea of a white American heading the greatest house of assassins in human history.

"You wouldn't laugh if Chiun told you the true story of Alexander and the House of Sinanju," Remo said.

Chiun's eyes flashed in warning.

"What story?" asked the prime minister. "We must hear this story."

Since he'd eaten his fill and was growing tired of Greek men trying to kiss him with their wine-dyed lips, Remo decided it was time for a little payback.

"When Alexander was trying to conquer the world, the House was between emperors. Alexander brought down the Persian empire, which was the best client the House had in those days, and so when the Master at that time heard about it, he swore to get Alexander."

A hard silk-clad elbow caught Remo in the ribs.

"Silence," Chiun hissed in Korean.

"Go on, go on!" the Greeks urged.

Chiun interrupted. "He knows no more, being only an apprentice Master of Sinanju."

Remo grinned. Score one for him.

"He must tell. We do not know this story. Please."

"It is only a fable," said Chiun.

"We accept fables. Many of the stories we tell are fables. We prefer fables to true stories, for they are truer."

"Okay," said Remo. "The Master sent a message to Alexander by handpicked messenger. When he got it, Alexander threw it away because it was written in Korean. He didn't know Korean."

A sea of Greek faces looked perplexed.

"Yes, continue, please."

"The handpicked messenger had a disease. Alexander caught the disease from the messenger. Then he died."

The faces looked expectant. "Is there no more to the story?"

"Just what the message said."

"Yes…?"

The hard elbow caught Remo in the ribs again, just as—but not before—he said, "Gotcha."

"Gotcha?"

A hushed silence fell over the state dining room.

Whispering began.

"Sinanju slew our precious Alexander," a man whispered in Greek. "It was not a natural death. It was an assassination. All these centuries and we did not know."

"And after all these centuries, we have invited the filthy murderers into our country," said the Greek prime minister in a voice as tight as a violin string.

Hearing this, Chiun groaned aloud.

"Guess it's time to seek our fortune elsewhere," Remo undertoned. "Huh, Little Father?"

Chiun said a steamy nothing.

They were allowed to leave. Their departure was attended by a cold silence and stony regards.

On the way to the Athens airport, their taxi—they were denied use of an official car—was strafed by matched Greek warplanes.

Remo removed the door on his side and, leaning out of the hurtling cab, flung it up into the sky. It clipped off a wing, and that was the end of one plane.

The other followed at a respectful distance, strafing only for show.

Settling back in his seat, Remo said in a contrite voice, "Sorry. You ticked me off back there."

"I will forgive you if you forgive me first," said Chiun.

"Let me think about it. My feelings are really hurt."

"My feeling are more hurt than your feelings, so you must be the first to grovel."

"Groveling is out."

"Then you may go to your grave unforgiven."

"You first," said Remo.

As the taxi careened through the choked streets, evading an intermittent, steely rain, Chiun's mood brightened.

"It is just like the old days where glorious danger lurked everywhere," he cackled.

Remo just rolled his eyes.

Chapter Thirty-eight

The president of South Korea smoked a filtered Turtle Ship cigarette as he listened to the report from the director of Korean Central Intelligence. The Minister for unification sat bolt upright, his features slack with concern.

Seoul traffic hummed and blared outside the conference room of the presidential palace.

"Radio Pyongyang has announced it controls Sinanju," he said simply.

A grave hush filled the smoky room.

At length the president said, "We are all doomed."

"Northern disinformation cannot be ruled out," the Korean CIA director added.

The president slammed his fist on the table. "Why did the Americans let him slip from their grasp! There is no protection from the Master of Sinanju. It is said he can walk through walls, swim underwater for a day without exhaling and in proper light seem invisible."

"Disinformation," the director repeated.

"We cannot assume that! We must know!"

"Our spies in Pyongyang know only what they hear, which is what is coming out of Pyongyang and not necessarily the truth."

"We must know!" the president repeated. "It means my life. All our lives."

The Korean CIA director looked helpless. "What can we do?" he asked.

The unification minister opened his mouth hesitantly. "We could consult a mansin," he said quietly.

The Korean CIA director blinked through the haze of his own Milky Way cigarette smoke. "A fortuneteller?"

"No," the president said firmly. "Better. A mudang!"

Ah, they agreed. A mudang, yes. Much better. Everyone knew that country witches were more far-seeing than city witches.

Twenty minutes later an unmarked black Pony sedan conveyed them from Seoul to the countryside, where they would learn the truth.

Chapter Thirty-nine

In Hanoi, Remo and Chiun were met by generals who offered gold and jewels beyond compare, then escorted them to an armored vehicle that had a steel ring welded to the top.

A giant helicopter dropped out of the sky, hooked onto the ring and lifted the armored vehicle up into the air only to drop it down the mouth of an extinct volcano. When the two victims subsequently climbed into the cockpit with him, the pilot was only too happy to fly them to the destination of their choice. And he got to keep his head.

In Kabul there were more generals with smiling faces and plastic charges strapped about their ample middles. They approached with the helpless stares of living dead men, and before their fingers touched the detonators in their sweaty palms, Remo and Chiun threw themselves into high reverse and outran the flying bone fragments and shreds of human meat.

On an Air India flight, a dewy-eyed stewardess with green fingernails tried to scratch them. But her nails smelled not of enamel but extract of cobra, and Remo caught up her hands while Chiun methodically extracted her nails one by one and made her swallow them.

After that the other dewy-eyed, green-nailed stewardesses sat very still in their seats and offered them no food or drink.

"Let's face it, Little Father," Remo said as they remained in their seats at the Bombay airport while the honor guard tried in vain to entice them from the refueling aircraft with discordant band music and songs of Sinanju's service to Moguls past. "No one can afford us except America."

"And not even America. China is growing. We will go to China. And demand every peasant and rice farmer pay us a single coin if we agree to work for the Middle Kingdom."

Remo whispered. "That's a lot of coins."

"A lot is never sufficient."

But in China there were problems, too. A little matter of a Long March ICBM.

The Chinese bowed and scraped in their gray-and-green Mao jackets and swore deep and abiding fealty to the Master of Sinanju behind their bland smiles.

"We offer you more than gold," said a functionary in the Great Hall of the People. He was the fifth functionary that had greeted them. And there remained a long ladder of functionaries between them and the premier, who some said was ill.

"There is nothing more than gold," Chiun returned in the singsong language of the Han.

"We have a space program now."

"Sinanju already possesses a piece of the moon. It is but a gray rock. One is sufficient."

"Did you know that no Korean has ever entered into space?"

"There is nothing in space," countered Chiun with disdain even as his hazel eyes lit with slow interest.

"True. There is nothing in space. Nor will there be anything in space of value until a Korean breathes the clear, pure air of the Great Void."

Chiun's eyes gleamed more. Sitting off to one side, Remo could only listen without clear understanding. He didn't know Chinese, the language they conversed in. Only the words Chinese and Korean shared in common.

"Tell me more," whispered Chiun.

"Men who journey into space are more renowned than any. Their names will be sung down through the ages."

"As will mine. I expect to be known as Chiun the Great to my descendants, and those who follow. Perhaps Chiun the Great Teacher."

All eyes went to the oblivious round-eyed foreign evil who had accompanied the Master of Sinanju to Bejing, and it was agreed that the honorific "Great Teacher" was certainly warranted.

"Greater renown than even yours will befall the first Korean in space. You would not wish this to be a South Korean."

"South Koreans are lazy and stupid."

"All know northerners are more hardy and brave in the extreme."

"I work for gold not glory," said Chiun.

"Some gold can be yours."

Chiun touched his wispy beard. "How much?"

And an amount was mentioned. Delicately. It was so Chinese. The words might have been apricot blossoms falling onto grass. They caressed the senses.

"That much gold and the opportunity to be the first Korean to venture alive into the Great Void is acceptable," said Chiun.

"The rocket ship awaits."

"Hold. Do not think you can trick me. Our bargain is not yet struck."

The Chinese dignitaries sat unmoving. An expression of perplexity touched their still foreheads.

"You offer payment before service. That is not the way of the Han."

"The rocket ship is ready to depart. It will go with a Chinese celestial pilot if you do not go today. Consider this the down payment. The gold will come later."

Chiun made a thoughtful face, deepening his wrinkles. In a corner of the room, Remo yawned broadly.

"I have encountered enemies of late who cannot afford Sinanju and would do without if only Sinanju might be snuffed like a candle," Chiun remarked slowly.

The Chinese expressed astonishment at such perfidy existing in the modern world.

"I will be transported into the Great Void?" Chiun asked next.

"Yes," they agreed.

"And returned?"

"Absolutely," they promised.

And so the bargain was struck in the Great Hall of the People.

Standing up, Chiun strode over to Remo. "I must go now, but I will return."

Remo stood up. "Where are you going?"

"On a short journey."

"To where?"

"Where only a Reigning Master may venture. You cannot follow. I am sorry. Await me here."

"You're not leaving me here with these guys, arc you?"

"You may beg and you may grovel, but you cannot accompany me into the pure air of the realm I am about to plumb."

"Give me a hint."

"No, await me here."

"Okay," said Remo. But as soon as Chiun left, he slipped out an unguarded window.

People's police tried to stop him. Remo broke their rifles and handed them back. Then they tried to tackle him. Remo broke a few wrists and ankles by way of discouragement.

Then they tried to run him down with a long black official car.

Remo stopped perfectly still and let them.

At the last possible second, with the grille bearing down on him, Remo executed a standing backflip and landed in a tiger's crouch on the strong steel car roof.

The car circled and screeched and, when there was no sign of a flat dead American, it straightened out and raced after the line of official limousines bearing the Master of Sinanju.

Atop the car Remo smiled tightly. Maybe he'd get to go with Chiun after all.

Chapter Forty

Her name was unknown, but in Suwon Province she was known as the Wart Woman. When she answered the door to her crumbling hovel, her face was aboil with warts through which she smiled toothless and foolish.

"Enter," she cackled. She wore a faded cinnabar hanbok dress. A cataract clouded one eye. Her black hat rose to a scarlet peak.

Inside, the room was filled with hanging costumes, arcane musical instruments and the dang shrine where she entreated the spirits of the dead.

After they placed four hundred won into the mouth of a boar's head, she asked, "Which spirit general would you consult with? The Fire General? The Lightning Bolt General? General White Horse? Or—"

The president of South Korea hesitated. It was a difficult choice. The choice of spirit general would have a very great impact upon the value of the wisdom dispensed.

He consulted with his advisers in hushed tones.

"The Fire General," urged the unification minister.

"No, the White Horse General," the CIA director insisted.

Waving at them to be quiet, the president spoke to the Wart Woman, by reputation the most oracular Mudang in all of Korea.

"Can you summon MacArthur?" he asked.

"Hee-hee! MacArthur will speak to you through my mouth."

Flinging herself to the racked clothing, she donned a khaki military uniform and service cap. At her dang shrine, she performed certain rites, singing in a caterwauling voice.

The kut had begin.

Soon she was in a trance and flinging herself about the room. Abruptly she fell into a sitting position on the floor, looking at them with eyes that were no longer hers. Even her face lost its semisenile looseness.

"Gentleman," she said through her bobbing corncob pipe, "what seems to be your problem?" All three men would have sworn her new voice belonged to General Douglas MacArthur, savior of South Korea—if only Truman had shown wisdom.

"The new peril from the North," the president stammered. "Is it real?"

"The foe you fear is headed for Pyongyang right this minute."

The president swallowed hard. "What is your advice to us?"

"One word."

The three leaders leaned forward to await the wisdom from the rubbery lips of the Wart Woman, who spoke in the true voice of the great American general.

"Attack!" she said.

Chapter Forty-one

The Master of Sinanju was escorted to an underground complex in a fenced-off area immediately south of Beijing.

As he entered, accompanied by high-ranking generals and others, he surveyed the flat surrounding countryside and said, "I see no rocket."

"It is underground," he was told.

"American rockets stand upon the ground, no doubt so as to save fuel because that places them closer to the sky," another said.

"Russian and American armies are jealous of our rockets, for they are the greatest in the world," said a third. "They would bomb them if they could find them. So we are forced to place them safely underground."

"Ah," said the Master of Sinanju as they passed steel door upon steel door that had to be rolled back with dual keys turned by two hands standing on opposite sides of the corridor. This, he was informed, was a security measure so no unauthorized person could unlock the doors.

At the end of a concrete corridor lay a great door like the one King Solomon had barring his treasury, according to Master Boo.

"You may enter the rocket."

"I see no rocket."

"The inside of the rocket is behind this door. You have only to enter, the door will be closed and sealed and the ride into destiny will begin."

"Very well. Open the door to destiny."

It was done with three men turning three keys this time, and the thick steel door parted in the middle, the sides separating.

A dark space was revealed. Machine smells came from within, offending the nose of the Master of Sinanju. He hesitated.

"Enter please. We are ready to launch."

Chiun faced them, eyes and voice knife-thin. "Know, soldiers of the Han, that if you fail to bring me back correctly, a great and terrible punishment will be inflicted upon you by my son, who may be white but is true to Sinanju."

The faces of the Han were suddenly still. Their eyes glittered as their lids compressed. If they took offense, it didn't show.

With that, the Master of Sinanju entered the dank chamber, and the great doors resealed with a empty clang.

In the darkness the thin eyes of Chiun gathered the dying shards and fragments of light and assembled them so that he could see.

The chamber was a concrete cylinder and hung with great electrical cables. Water dripped, stagnant and old. Somewhere a rat skittered on the broken floor. The chemical smell was overpowering, so the Master of Sinanju began breathing shallowly.

Looking up, Chiun beheld a great dark maw suspended over his aged head, like a tremendous bell, much like the one employed by the kings of the Silla Kingdom to punish criminals by inserting their heads into the hollow and setting the metal to violent ringing by pounding mallets.

Except there was no room for mallets or men between the bell and the great concrete cistern in which it hung.

But somewhere above, something went click like an electrical relay closing. And great engines began to turn, so slowly that only the ears of a Master of Sinanju could detect their first faint revolutions.

The official Hong Qui—Red Flag—car slithered through the installation checkpoint without Remo being noticed.

As it approached, he had slid off the car roof and was clinging to the side where no one could see him, not the passengers, not the gate guard on the opposite side.

When the vehicle rolled inside, Remo looked around. He saw tall grass and a few funny-looking gingko trees.

As the car slowed in its approach to a bunkerlike building, he noticed the green steel missile silo roof door on its sliding track several hundred yards away, fringed by gingko trees to provide overhead camouflage.

"Uh-oh," he said to himself, "looks like an underground missile site. Better find Chiun fast."

The car doors opened and the passengers emptied out in a rush. One stumbled and was called by the other, "FangTung!"

And suddenly Remo remembered that pungent phrase had been used by the nameless drive-by killers back in Massachusetts.

Coming out of his crouch by the car, Remo slipped up behind the two officers as they approached a blank steel door in the concrete blockhouse.

One inserted a magnetic keycard, the door began rolling open and Remo reached out and took each man by the spine.

They had time to bleat out the first microsecond of what was meant to be a blood-curdling scream. But all electrical and brain activity ceased when their spines exited their backs, pulling out all life. Without lumbar support, they fell into each other and collapsed. Remo stepped over them.

Inside he wasted no time.

"Chiun, where are you?"

That brought three PLA guards in green running.

If their slack-jawed expressions meant anything, the sight of a Westerner stupefied them into inaction. So Remo stepped in and blended their Kalashnikovs into a kind of fuzzy metallic cocoon in which their arms were inextricably tangled.

He moved on, leaving them to their helpless weeping.

There were layers of steel control doors and matching guards along a single corridor with no branching paths. That took away all the guesswork. Remo simply bulled through.

Doors meant to be opened electronically surrendered to the pressure of his steel-hard fingers insinuating themselves into stout frames and forcing them apart.

Guards tried to stop him with a combination of bullets and kung fu. The kung-fu boys got the worst of it because their weapons were part of their bodies, and Remo felt obliged to disarm everybody so he could get out again without problems.

Once bloodied stumps began flying about, no one tried to kung fu Remo Williams again. In fact, resistance pretty much died down. PLA security forces retreated like scientists in a B-grade fifties horror film before the rampaging monster.

"Great," Remo grumbled. "By the time I reach the end, I'm going to have to take out a small army."

When he forced the last door open and found himself in a control room, Remo demanded in a loud voice, "Where is my father!"

Perhaps it was the sight of the mad foreign devil with the powers of the gods. Perhaps it was the sheer mounting terror his crashing intrusion had caused. Or maybe it was just that nobody clearly understood English.

The huddled knot of frightened and trembling officials said nothing.

But from behind a great double steel door, the squeaky voice of the Master of Sinanju called, "I am here, son in truth!"

And then Remo spotted a hand surreptitiously trying to turn two firing keys at once at a corner console.

"Chiun! Get outa there!" said Remo, racing for the door.

On the other side the Master of Sinanju heard the urgency in his adopted son's voice and dug his long nails into the crack between the two steel door valves. He pushed aside the weaker of the two. Stubborn, it began to screech in complaint.

As the door resisted, he sensed Remo on the other side, pushing the other valve in the opposite direction.

"Hurry, Remo! For I hear machines."

"You're underneath a fucking nuclear missile, and it's about to launch!" Remo yelled.

And the doors, mighty, implacable, surrendered with howls and shrieks of protest as the muscle and bone and will of the two mightiest human beings on the face of the earth pitted their inexhaustible energies against the tempered steel.

The doors parted, the Master of Sinanju slipped out like a silken ghost and, as he stood free once more, behind him grew a dull roar.

"Let's go!" Remo screamed.

They ran.

The others tried to run, too. But they were but mortals, flat and flabby without training or proper breathing.

Only a Master of Sinanju was fleet enough to out-race catastrophic death.

The great Long March missile belched fuel and trembled as the silo roof rolled back on its tracks to allow it to take wing.

Remo and Chiun zipped through the corridors strewn with the dead and out of the blockhouse.

Throwing himself flat, Remo yelled, "Get down!"

Chiun dropped in the lee of the blockhouse. The air was shaking. Songbirds uplifted from the sparse gingko trees, frantic and wild.

With a majestic slowness the lipstick red nose cone of the Long March missile emerged from the earth like a dormant giant and lifted and lifted until it stood poised on a column of white-hot chemical fire.

The boiling air consumed treetops, branches, even birds on the wing, who were scorched to charred bone and dropped to the ground more like spent coal than dead things that once lived.

Roaring and roaring, the missile vaulted into the sky.

The air shook for a long time after it was gone.

When it was safe, Remo stood up. "It's okay, Little Father."

"Not for those who sought my life," said the Master of Sinanju, for from the blockhouse door crept tendrils of smoke that mixed chemical rocket fuel with the unmistakable sickly sweet smell of roasted human flesh.

"What the hell was that all about?" Remo wanted to know.

Chiun patted his kimono clean of dust. "I was to be the first Korean in the Great Void," he said unhappily.

"You were almost the first human Korean barbecue. By the way, those guys who tried to kill us back home? Chinese. Probably sleeper agents."

"How do you know this?"

"Each time someone swore in Chinese. Any idea what 'Fang Tung' means?"

Chiun nodded. "It is an Han insult, meaning 'turtle's egg.' Come, Remo. Obviously there will be no service to be had from the Han."

"Where to next?"

"Russia."

"Great," Remo said dispiritedly.

"I am glad you approve," the Master of Sinanju said blandly as he allowed Remo to hold the Chinese limousine door open for him.

"I'd prefer Canada. They're not big on violence up there."

"A client who does not fear Sinanju would not appreciate Sinanju," Chiun sniffed. "Even Smith had the good taste to shoot at me when he realized Sinanju was lost to him."

Remo jumped behind the wheel and got the car going. "Smitty did that? Why didn't you tell me?"

The Master of Sinanju rearranged his kimono skirts carefully. "We were leaving America. I did wish you to see him in a good light, ere you cling to your homeland with the stubborn nostalgia of your past."

Chapter Forty-two

No one knew when it would happen, or even if it would happen at all.

But everyone knew how it would happen. The elements had been in place for more than forty years, strung along the most heavily armed and fortified border in human history. The scenario had been analyzed and war-gamed to death.

Every simulation assumed a sudden thrust from the north, overwhelming the entrenched southern forces. Seoul would fall. There was no denying that.

Victory, if it was to happen, would come in the counterattack, it was assumed.

All the scenarios were wrong. They were wrong for a very specific reason.

They assumed North Korea would attack South Korea. Ultimately it didn't happen that way.

General Winfield Scott Hornworks knew it was a mistake. A colossal mistake. It was the mistake of mistakes. The mother of all mistakes.

He liked to use that phrase, "mother of all mistakes." "Mother of all hemorrhoids" was another favorite. As the general who had led the multinational United Nations force to victory in the Mother of All Battles, better known as the Gulf War, he felt he had some basis for being an authority on the subject. The decision, handed down by the JCS, was the biggest pain in the ass to come his way since the Tet Offensive.

"Are you out of your cotton-picking mind? Sir," General Hornworks had barked barely a year before.

"The decision has been made at the highest levels, General. We are turning operational control of all South Korean forces over to the South Koreans. You ire relieved of all responsibility for ROK troops."

"Begging your pardon, sir," General Hornworks had said in a strangled voice. "But if damn Kim Jong II takes a mind to send his forces south, unified command and control is gonna be all-important to victory. We do want victory here in the Land of the Rising Sun, don't we?"

"It's 'Land of the Morning Calm. 'Rising Sun' is Japanese."

"So noted, sir," said General Hornworks. "But getting back to the catastrophe at hand—and make no mistake, we've got us a beaut on the horizon if this Hoes through."

"It's through. Decided. Live with it, General."

"It ain't the living with that rankles me, sir. It's the dyin' from it. We got over a million North Koreans hanging over our heads like so many human cluster bombs. They get the word and next thing you know they'll be pouring across the damn DMZ, yelling 'Mansai!'"

"I think you're thinking of the Japanese again."

"Allow me to correct you, sir. The Japs yell Banzai. The Koreans yell Mansai, and my silver-haired daddy told me enough stories about his days in the Korean War to freeze the blood. It was worse than Nam. I don't want to live through what my poor daddy did. So you gotta get this asinine decision re pealed. Sir."

"It's final. I'm sorry. But the thinking in Washing ton is that even with the economic aid we're providing Pyongyang, the regime will collapse of its own weight. Then the South can take control without fir ing a shot."

"That's a right pretty theory, sir. But the Koreans have a little saying of their own."

"Yes?"

"I die, you die, all die."

The JCS chair had nothing to say to that. He gave General Hornworks his best and wished him Godspeed. And General Hornworks duly thanked him and spent the next hour retching up solids.

Retirement had beckoned General Winfield Scott Hornworks after his miraculous triumph in the Gulf War. Some talked of running him for high office. The truth was, all he wanted was to get the sand out of his boots and the Arab allies out of his hair.

So when he was offered the position of supreme commander of joint Korean defense forces, he had leapt at it. This was Cold War stuff. General Hornworks had grown up in the Cold War. He understood the Cold War. He didn't understand the Middle East or what the Pentagon was now calling OOTW—Operations Other Than War. He was a soldier. Trained to fight. Not keep the peace.

Holding the line against the godless Commies. That, General Winfield Scott Hornworks understood.

Just as he understood that if it came to all-out war, his ass was hanging out, politically and corporally.

So when General Hornworks was relieved of control over ROK forces, he began each day personally walking the wire, looking for gaps and spy tunnels that might be a prelude to the long-feared invasion.

Barbed wire ran across the Thirty-eighth Parallel like an unhealed scar, but in the end Hornworks knew force fields couldn't hold back the North. They had, per capita, the largest standing army on earth, and as the months rolled by, the frontline forces were getting hungrier and colder and less and less likely to listen to whoever was supposed to be in charge in Pyongyang.

No one knew anymore. Some said Jong was dead. Others said he had been imprisoned while his half brother, Kim Pyong II, ran things. Others said both were dead and the generals ran the show.

Even though he was a general himself, this was Hornworks's worst-case scenario. The North was slipping into famine and deprivation. Generals fight wars. They don't build industries or feed people. If push came to shove, the generals would send all of North Korea south to chow down rather than see their egg-sucking asses hanging from Pyongyang lamp posts.

As he walked the line, the first snap of the fall was in the air. Over on the other side, the enemy had traded in their green helmets for Russian-style fur hats. Winter was coming. And with it more cold and the gnawing winter hunger that moved mountains. And motivated armies.

Satisfied that the line hadn't been breached through the night, he started back for his Humvee. The clattering of an OH-58 Bell helicopter came to his ears.

The chopper dropped onto the cold ground, and a major came running out, white as a ghost, saluting reflexively.

"General. They're on the move!"

"No! God in heaven say it isn't true. Tell me we're not talking a damn Northern human-wave assault."

"We're not, sir."

"Then what the hell are you jabbering about?" the general asked.

"Sir! It's the ROK forces."

"What about them?"

"They're moving this way."

"What in tarnation for?"

"No one knows. But they look hell-bent on war."

Climbing into the chopper, General Hornworks was taken upstairs in jig time. The chopper turned south, clattering angrily.

A triple column of tanks was rolling up Unification Road. Highway 1. The main invasion path.