Bidding War

"They must know something we don't. Where's that field phone?"

The bulky instrument hit Hornworks's meaty paw with a hearty smack.

"Hello. Get me Intelligence." The line crackled. "What the hell is going on up there in the North?"

"Nothing, sir. Why—"

"The South Koreans are moving into preinvasion positions. Why don't we know about it?"

"They're pretty upset, as you know, that we're talking to the North."

"Don't give me that political bullcrap, I want the latest on Northern troop deployments."

"One moment."

As he waited, General Hornworks cast a weary eye to the mountains above Seoul. In those mountains, he knew, Korean heavy artillery was hunkered down behind blast doors that opened and closed only long enough for one shell to be fired. God knew how many tanks were massing.

The line stopped buzzing and the voice came back. "General, the North is quiet. I say again, the North is quiet."

"Then what in Sam Hill is going on down here!"

No one knew. But the tanks rolled and overhead, Korean F-18s roared up from Onsan air base.

"I do not like the looks of this," said General Winfield Scott Hornworks in possibly the mother of all understatements.

Sergeant Mark Murdock had Truck duty again. He hated Truck duty. But in his unit everyone took his turn behind the wheel of what could only be called "the Truck."

It was a deuce and a half. Parked smack in the middle of the Bridge of No Return, bridging North and South Korea. It was kept perpetually running, the brakes on, ready to be popped into gear. The Truck's ass end was backed up to the barrier bisecting the bridge that said Military Demarcation Line. On the other side was North Korea. The most dangerous regime on the face of the earth.

If the alarm sounded, it was Murdock's job to slam the Truck into reverse and bottle up the main bridge through which a North Korean invasion would surely come. As everyone knew it would come.

It was not inevitable. And in the past year it seemed some weeks a hell of a lot less likely than anytime in the past forty years. But in that same time frame, Sergeant Murdock knew, the two Koreas had been closer to total war than at any time since 1953.

And it was Sergeant Murdock's unhappy, frequent duty to be the man designated to hold the bridge against a million ferocious invaders.

When he heard the clanking of tanks, his blood froze. His hand going to the stick shift, he waited for the alert siren.

No siren roared. The clanking of tanks grew. There had to be hundreds of them. The ugly sound reverberated off the surrounding mountains and filled Murdock's fear-shrunk brain.

Eyes going to the rearview mirror, he searched the impenetrable darkness of the Hermit Kingdom. There should be lights. Some sign. "Jesus Christ, where's the siren? What do I do?"

He wanted to bolt the Truck. He wanted to sound the alarm himself if those UN idiots wouldn't. But he knew he would be shot for dereliction of duty, because his first duty was to block the bridge.

Blocking the way was the same as kissing his ass goodbye, he knew. The bridge was a narrow thing of iron, vaguely rustic, and once he plugged it with the Truck, he was stuck. The doors wouldn't open. He would be the first ground casualty of what was estimated to be two million war dead.

On the other band, if somebody didn't sound the fucking alarm, all his buddies would join him in Hell.

In the end he made the smart choice. When the sound he imagined to be T-55 and T-62 battle tanks filled the night, Murdock got out of the Truck.

Just in time.

The first tanks clanked up and, without much pause, climbed the vibrating Truck hood. The drab steel caved, breaking the engine block and making the front tires pop like overstressed balloons.

The grinding cacophony of steel treads mangling a two-and-a-half-ton truck was almost unendurable.

Hunkered in the darkness, Sergeant Mark Murdock propped his upper body by his elbows and protected his ears with his cupped hands.

His eyes were as round as saucers in the night as he watched the ROK tanks with their tiger insignia one by one take their turn flattening the Truck as they rolled in single column over the Bridge of No Return___

And all he could think of was the certain response from Pyongyang. If they had the bomb, it would soon be screaming Seoul way perched atop a Rodong or Nodong I missile—however they pronounced the damn thing.

Since the earliest days of the land of Korea, Pyongyang was. From the days of Ancient Chosun, when it was called Asadal and was established as the first Korean capital, through the Three Kingdoms period to the present day, Pyongyang endured. Invaded many times, subject to foreign occupation and bombed virtually flat during the Korean War, it had been rebuilt each time, greater than before.

Pyongyang was a special city. People didn't go hungry in Pyongyang, no matter the famines that prowled the countryside. There were great streets in Pyongyang, which sparkled because few drove automobiles. The buildings reared up gray and strong, and as long as no one walked the floors too heavily, the concrete remained solid.

In the farthest corner of this special city was a tall concrete building, eighteen stories high, but extending fourteen stories into the bedrock of Pyongyang. On the lowermost floor, in the farthest corner, behind doors of steel that no bombs could reach, a North Korean general listened to what had happened at the Thirty-eighth Parallel.

A colonel gave him the report. His name was Nekep. A few people knew him. The general's name was Toksa. Pullyang Toksa. Everyone in Pyongyang knew of him, but few had seen him. He alone reported to the premier of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea personally. He did this every day. Pullyang Toksa told the Supreme Leader what was going on in the world.

In Pyongyang one judged one's importance by how deep one's office was, a remnant from the days when, American bombs fell all over the north. Colonel Nekep had never been this deep, and Pullyang Toksa had never asked questions before. But this time he personally had ordered the colonel from the Ministry of Intelligence to tell him everything.

"The Master of Sinanju has been seen in Beijing, General," said Colonel Nekep.

"He will not work for Beijing," said General Toksa.

"He is in Beijing."

"The mandarins in Beijing will not meet his terms, for their gold sits in their fists too tightly." He shook his head firmly. "No, the Master of Sinanju will next come here, and when he does he will gladly work for us."

"But we have not such gold as he will demand."

"No. But we have better. For the Americans in their insanity have communicated a threat to us. They have dared to target the Pearl of the Orient with a nuclear missile."

Colonel Nekep paled to the hue of a steamed bun. "They are mad."

"Whatever they are, they have delivered the House of Sinanju back to its historical home." General Toksa looked up. "Dismissed, and say nothing of this to anyone—or you will be sent to the countryside to dig grubs for your meal."

The message for the Supreme Leader, premier of the DPRK, did not reach him. It stopped at the cold stone desk of Pullyang Toksa, who sat like a squat toad, his narrow eyes showing nothing but an abiding darkness.

With such a powerful card in hand, the proper moment, like a helpful ace, would reveal itself.

Chapter Forty-three

The first dull thud barely penetrated the deep underground bunker that was the headquarters of II Corps, and so did not awaken General Oh Nambul of the Inmungun, or Korean People's Army.

The second was no louder, but the repetition caused him to roll over. The third brought him snuffling and snorting out of his sleep in the windowless command bunker north of the Thirty-eighth Parallel.

His head came off the threadbare pillow, and his ears still rang with a sound he didn't consciously perceive.

A rumble caused him to throw back his coarse army blanket, but he realized it was only his stomach grumbling.

The next thud came plainly to his ears, and he jumped into his cracked boots and clawed on his web belt with its Makarov pistol.

It sounded like artillery fire. But as General Oh fought to become fit for battle, he felt no shaking in the concrete walls protecting him, nor did the dirt floor under his boots jump as it would under a rocket barrage.

"What is that sound?" he grumbled.

An orderly met him as he crawled out of the bunker.

"Report! "he barked.

"They are deploying the ROK drops, General Oh."

General Oh frowned with all of his face. ROK drops were the great concrete barriers that were kept poised over the remaining bridges and roads still linking North and South for ceremonial and prisoner-exchange purposes. In the event of a Northern attack, they were to be pushed off their perches with explosive charges, pry and crowbars, completely blocking all northern attack avenues.

"Are we invading the South?" he said in the stupid tone of a man who hadn't quite awoken from sleep.

"No, General. The South is invading us. But never fear, for we are an invincible army who greatly outnumber their pitiful ranks."

General Oh stood rooted for a long moment. Were his ears lying to him?

Again he asked the orderly as the camp sprang into life all around. Jeeps were heading south. Every man knew his duty. For this was the historical moment all had trained for.

"ROK K-l tanks are pouring up the Munsan Valley, Comrade General. But they drive into the teeth of horror. For have we not been preparing for this hour for over forty years?"

General Oh's doughy features went flat as a pond. His eyes creased in his moon face, and his mouth went slack as if the muscles of his mandible had been sliced by a bayonet.

He groaned like a wounded man. "We are doomed."

"Comrade General, we are already victorious. They charge into the gleaming teeth of our entrenched forces. We have prepared. Even now bullets and spare parts are rushing to the front. Soon Seoul will be ours, for the fools of the South have given us the pretext to seize their fine cities and women."

"No. No. You have it wrong. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. This is not what we have prepared for."

He wheeled and shouted at a driver. "You, stop. Unload those munitions. They do not need more bullets at the front. They need rice."

The driver looked momentarily blank. His expression seemed to ask, What type rifle fires rice?

"Rice!" General Oh screamed. "Rice. Send rice to the front. All the rice you can scrounge. Only rice can save Pyongyang and our Supreme Leader. Rice! Rice! Do you hear me? Rice!"

And falling to his knees, General Oh of the Inmungun knew all was lost. This was not the historical moment Pyongyang had anticipated. This was disaster, and he was the general in charge of the disaster.

Captain Cang commanded the first line of defense of the DPRK. He lived in a mountain, Stone Mountain, which overlooked the Munsan Valley. Within his mountain he cleaned and oiled and drilled his great 170 mm Koksan gun and its gun crew.

All the mountains overlooking the DMZ had been hollowed out and great elevators built within. On these lifts sat the Koksan guns, their tubes pointing south though the thick natural granite.

They were the perfect defense. When the signal came, his gun crew would swing into action like the well-oiled machine it was trained to be. The breech would be rammed shut. The gun was always kept loaded. The huge elevator would toil upward, lifting gun and gun crew while synchronized gears caused great steel blast doors to lift, exposing the rising gun tube just long enough to deliver its terrible 170 mm shell. The gun was preaimed. All the Koksan guns were preaimed.

There would be time for one shot and one only. Then the elevators and the blast doors would return to prefiring position before the counterfire systems of the mysterious South could lock on and target the mighty Koksan gun.

Return fire would perhaps dent the blast door if properly targeted, but most likely it would chip at the obdurate granite of Stone Mountain. By that time, the great Koksan gun would already be reloaded and toiling upward for its second punishing blow against Seoul, which was but thirty miles away.

That was the purpose of the Koksan gun during war. To pummel the capital of the mysterious South into submission.

That was the battle plan in place for forty years. Ground-based SAM missiles would add to the rain of destruction. And once Seoul was softened up, the million men of the Inmungun would pour south to take the Southern capital.

That was the plan.

The reality didn't go according to the plan.

When the signal came that war had at last come, Captain Cang got his gun crew organized. The breech was slammed home as the lift hoisted. Moonlight streamed into the hollow of Stone Mountain as the blast door rose ponderously.

When the preaimed gun reached firing position, Captain Cang prepared to give the order to fire against the hated Southern capital.

He was already too late. The battle plan presupposed certain realities. None of them assumed ROK tanks already rolling across the DMZ and elevating their tank guns toward the blast doors themselves.

While Captain Cang savored the moment of battle, the honor of directing the first Northern shot, the ROK tank gun opened fire, lobbing a shell that screamed toward his invincible Koksan gun, silencing gun and his crew forever in a paroxysm of violence.

All across the DMZ, mountaintops were erupting as Koksan guns began falling to an enemy all had been told to expect but no one really believed would come.

As he careered through the night toward the front, General Oh saw the flashes and heard the reverberations of the night exploding all around him. In the back of his jeep were canvas sacks of rice. Rice in abundance. As much rice as his strategic reserves had held.

Which was exactly seven ten-pound burlap sacks.

For General Oh knew what his underlings did not. The preparation for war with the South presupposed a Northern attack. Not a Southern invasion. The frontline defenses were stretched thin, with bullets in plenty but insufficient rations. The frontline troops were kept on short rations for a very good tactical reason.

When the order came from Pyongyang to drive south, General Oh, who was to give it, would unleash his men, driving them south, hungry and envious, their sole motivation the generous provisions the Southern capital held.

It was a struggle they could win because they were fighting toward the most important short-term goal any soldier could fight toward.

Food.

A purely defensive war was another matter. They had arms aplenty to hold their positions. What they didn't have was rice. And without rice the underfed Inmungun wouldn't hold their positions very long. Without rice they couldn't hold back the Southern forces a day.

And so he careered toward the front with all the rice his jeep could ferry, hoping to forestall defeat long enough to call up reinforcements he knew would also arrive hungry and in need of rice.

It was hopeless.

Worst of all, General Oh knew the South knew this. That was why they had dropped the ROK barriers behind their advancing tanks. It was to discourage retreat in the face of an overwhelming foe. And a force that had no retreat option would fight all the more fiercely.

Chapter Forty-four

If once all roads led to Rome, in the late twentieth century all off-ramps on the global information superhighway led to the computerized desk of Dr. Harold W. Smith at Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York.

Mexico was camped on the United States's southern border, her intentions unknown.

In the Middle East, Kuwait had attacked Iraq, and Iran was readying its short-range Scud missiles to deliver long-delayed punishment raids upon downtown Baghdad.

While everyone threatened Israel, no attacks were launched. Israeli nuclear-tipped Jericho II missiles had been readied, and all the Middle East knew it.

Pakistan had launched a non-nuclear-tipped M-11 missile against Indian soil. It shredded a herd of cows, creating possibly more raw indignation than if the prime minister had been murdered and the Taj Mahal blown up.

Bombay had retaliated with a single launch of an Akash missile. It splashed harmlessly into the Rann of Kutch.

Virtually every nation on earth was publicly announcing the development of a new superweapon destined to dominate warfare in the next century. But no one had activated theirs. Capitals the world over were in an uproar. War jitters danced across the face of the globe.

In his Spartan office only Harold W. Smith knew the truth. There was no flood of superweapons. Only one. And only one nation would possess it in the end.

As he tracked the airline credit-card purchases through eastern Europe to Asia, Smith saw, as if on a map, that wherever Remo and Chiun landed, that region became an instant powder keg.

Rome. Bulgaria. Macedonia. As Smith worked, they popped up on a flight to Beijing. Almost as soon as Smith's computers reported the fact, Russian Topol-M ICBMs pretargeted on China were cleared for launch. This according to National Reconnaisance Office satellite reports, which Smith's net-trolling computers intercepted.

Obviously spies were lurking at airports the world over, furtively reporting the movements of the Master of Sinanju to their spy masters.

And with each visit, the world lurched inexorably toward global war.

Simply because a spurned Korean had given a speech before the United Nations.

Hunkering down at his terminal, Smith watched the scrolling AP bulletins as they came off the wire and he wondered how long it would take the President to put all the pieces together.

Or if he would.

Chapter Forty-five

On the way to Moscow in a Chinese military jet, the Master of Sinanju was explaining to his attentive pupil that the House of Sinanju had not worked for a general since the days of Sayak.

"Generals are our enemies," he said flatly. "And they make improper rulers. A general controls armies. Armies fight. Emperors hire assassins because their armies are incompetent or they wish to vanquish their enemies without incurring the wrath of the armies of their enemies. And generals know this. Never accept gold from a general no matter how honeyed his words may be. Sinanju is the enemy of all generals. For all generals know that emperors have no need of generals when their kingdoms are guarded by the House."

"Got it," said Remo. And turning in his seat, he asked the hostage Red Chinese generals if they too understood the lesson of the Master of Sinanju.

Whether they did or did not, they smiled and nodded appreciation even though it was doubtful if very many of them grasped basic English. They nodded because they didn't want to anger the white foreign devil imperialist running-dog tool of the Master of Sinanju, who had removed the head of General Yang in seat 12B, the only general neither smiling nor nodding in agreement.

When the plane landed at Moscow's Vnukovo II Airport, the Chinese generals threw themselves upon the mercy of the Russian generals with the big army hats that looked like landing pads for toy helicopters. No general wore bigger hats than the generals of holy Russia. It had always been so, Chiun explained to Remo. Her armies were now so small and pitiful they had to intimidate their enemies any way they could. Imposing hats were also less expensive than new tanks or improved training.

After the Russian generals had accepted the defection of the Red Chinese generals, the former turned their attention to the Master of Sinanju.

"We have come in answer to an entreaty from the premier of Russia."

"The premier is indeposed," the general with the largest hat of all told them coldly.

"You mean 'indisposed' as in 'drunk again,' or 'deposed' as in 'thrown out of office'?" asked Remo.

"Yes," said the huge-hatted general.

Remo turned to the Master of Sinanju.

"I think we're out of luck here, too, Little Father. Looks like the generals own the town now."

"I seek transportation to Pyongyang," Chiun said then. "Where our skills are welcome."

Remo groaned.

The Russian generals looked stony of face, hard of eye and uncompromising of spirit.

Until the head of the general with the biggest hat disappeared into the hat itself.

There was a clap like near thunder. No one saw the hand of the Master of Sinanju move. Neither did the other man move.

But suddenly the hat of the great General Kulikov settled onto his broad, many-starred shoulders.

From the rear—for the other generals stood respectfully behind General Kulikov—the general presented a weird sight. It was as if he was playing a trick, hunkering his thick shoulders so his head slid down turtle fashion and his hat covered the gap.

Except no one could possibly hunker his shoulders so deeply that his head all but vanished.

After a long minute dragged past, in which General Kulikov neither spoke nor moved, the general with the second biggest hat touched him on the shoulder. And the big hat fluttered to the tarmac.

There was no head on the general's impressive shoulders. Just a stump, cut so cleanly that blood failed to spurt. Although it did bubble desultorily.

Gasps came. A hunt was organized for the general's missing head. It was not to be found on the tarmac, nor in the voluminous fallen hat nor in the general's big pockets—the only remaining possibility.

In fact, it was never found at all.

When that cold knowledge settled into everyone's stomach, the Master of Sinanju restated his simple request. "I seek transportation to Pyongyang."

The Red Chinese jet was refueled, and this time the Russian generals agreed to accompany the Master of Sinanju as a guarantee that Russia antiaircraft batteries would not cause the jet to fall from the sky.

The huge-hatted generals were very surprised to land intact in Pyongyang, capital of North Korea, because they assumed their superiors would shoot the plane down anyway and fete them as heroes of the motherland afterward.

That they dared not do even that testified to the stark fear the House of Sinanju had driven into the generals of the world. For to fail was to surely perish.

In Pyongyang, the Russian generals asked for asylum because they understood they would be shot as failures should they return to their ungrateful motherland.

They were instead shot as betrayers of the socialist cause. Moscow had long ago cut off subsidies to Pyongyang, and now Pyongyang suffered greatly. Including its generals.

After the bodies were hauled away by emaciated bullocks, the general with the greatest number of stars on his shoulder boards presented himself to the Master of Sinanju.

"I am General Toksa."

"The Master of Sinanju brings greetings to the illustrious premier of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, which is neither democratic nor a republic," said Chiun in the formal voice reserved for heads of state he respected. "All hail Kim Jong II, friend of Sinanju. Great is his glory."

The generals were silent as the Master of Sinanju finished speaking.

"Dear Leader Kim Jong II has been dead these many months."

And hearing these words, the Master of Sinanju flew into a rage. "Liar! Do not lie to the House that has made Koreans the most feared race ever to sanctify the soil with his sandal prints. You lie. I know you lie. You know you lie. Spit out these lies or surrender your lying tongues. Take me to the son of Kim II Sung."

"This will be done," said General Toksa.

At the presidential palace, the Master of Sinanju and his pupil were taken to a sumptuous basement office where sat a cunning, waxy-faced man in an ostentatious green uniform.

"You are not the son of Kim II Sung," Chiun said.

The man placed his naked hands on the desk, smiling thinly. "I am the son of Kim II Sung. I am by name Kim Pyong II."

"Where is Kim Jong II?"

"My half brother has joined his father and his ancestors."

"I will brook no more lies," said the Master of Sinanju, slashing out a hand that seemed only to graze the belly of an attending general. His belly gaped a big red smile and disgorged his bowels.

This impressed Supreme Leader Premier for Life Kim Pyong II, who stood up and said, "My brother is in the countryside doing the work that he loves best."

"Whoring?" asked Chiun.

"No. Directing."

"Take us to him, for I will serve no emperor of Korea other than the true eldest son of Kim II Sung."

Remo rolled his eyes. The last place he wanted to work for was North Korea. But he knew he had no say. Not if he wanted to stay in Chiun's good graces.

Kim Jong II, Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces of North Korea, sat in his director's chair in the soundstage outside Pyongyang. He was happy. For the first time he was happy. He was doing what he wanted. And no one wanted to kill him anymore.

Not that they hadn't tried. If it wasn't the generals who hated him, it was his half brother who feared him or his stepmother who despised him.

All had tried to kill him—and failed. It was getting to be ridiculous. Bombs in his pillows. Poisoned Bim Bam Bop. Diseased courtesans. Nothing worked.

In the end they had cut the unkillable Dear Leader a deal.

Surrender the reins of power to his ambitious half brother and lead a life of luxury and privilege.

It was too good to be true. But since they were all holding pistols and rifles on him and he was soaking in his gold-plated tub, he had agreed.

They marched him out at gunpoint, his stepbrother looking especially nervous, and into a waiting army truck. Naked.

He was sure he was going to be shot. But as they drove, their seething rage suggested otherwise. If he was really going to be killed, they would be gloating over him. Certainly spitting in his hapless face. Kicking him, too. Especially his stepmother, who did that a lot since his father had died.

Instead, they had set him up in production.

"I don't get it," he said in his Hollywood-style Korean as he surveyed the converted aircraft hangar now emblazoned with a Hangul sign that read Dear Leader Productions.

"It is simple," his half brother had barked. "The Western markets are open to us. We need their currencies. To get their currencies, we need the product they want. The Chinese are making a fortune selling epic motion pictures starring a tart named Gong Li."

"Ah," sighed Kim Jong II. "I would give anything to direct Gong Li. She was magnificent in Red Sorghum."

"Make movies the West will pay to watch," said his half brother, slapping him on the head as if he were a naughty child instead of the greatest director in the history of Korean cinema.

And so Kim Jong II had returned to his first love, directing. After a while it all made sense. A dead Kim Jong II, after so many botched assassination attempts, would bring down the whole flimsy regime. For he had been groomed to be the next Dear Leader of North Korea, and all the people knew it. They would accept no substitute.

On the day the South Korean forces rolled across the Thirty-eighth Parallel, Director Kim Jong II was lounging in his Dear Leader director's chair trying to get his leading actress to pout correctly for the camera and wishing he had Gong Li, the hottest Asian actress on the planet, instead of this simpering country-faced wench.

But one worked with what one could scrounge. It was hard to get anyone to visit North Korea in these post-Iron Curtain times, much less settle here.

In the middle of the pivotal scene where Princess An jilts King K'on, sirens began wailing so loudly they pierced the soundproof former bomber hangar.

"Cut!" shouted Kim Jong II, bouncing off his director's chair, his plump body encased in an electric blue silk jogging suit like so much sausage in a foil package. "What the bleep is going on!"

An old gaffer cried, "The Americans are back with their B-52s!"

"Don't be ridic," snorted Kim Jong II. "They're more savvy than all that."

But when he poked his head out the soundstage door, he saw clear skies and a string of official limos coming up the road, their sirens screaming their approach.

"Uh-oh. Dear Leader doesn't like the looks of this setup."

Ducking back, he went in search of a place to hide. But the soundstages had glass offices just like in Hollywood—he had insisted on that, and the glass wasn't exactly bulletproof.

They caught him climbing into the princess's kimono with the actress who was still occupying it and screaming that she was being raped.

"Hail the son of Kim II Sung," boomed a squeaky voice.

And recognizing the voice of the Master of Sinanju, Kim Jong II blurted, "Oh, shit. I'm dead. They hired the best."

Falling to his knees, Kim Jong II implored the Master of Sinanju with these words. "Just make it quick, okay? No pain, no blood, but a clean death. I'll go quietly, I promise."

"I have come because a year ago you offered work to the Master of Sinanju."

Kim Jong II blinked. Was he hearing correctly? "You want to work for me?"

"As eldest son, you have the right of first refusal."

Kim Jong II opened his closed fingers and climbed to his feet. His vision, which had irised down into a gray tunnel with a peephole at the end of it, began to clear.

He saw the Master of Sinanju, resplendent in a poppy-red kimono, along with a white he recognized with a start.

"Does your white slave come in the bargain?" he asked, indicating Remo.

"What's it to you?" Remo demanded.

"Hey! Cool it, baby. I remember you from last time. No hard feelings. Just saying is all."

"Where do you get that talk?"

"Movies. Where else?"

"My son in spirit will serve whatever emperor the House favors," intoned the Master of Sinanju.

"Don't count on it," said Remo.

"Okay. Deal," said Kim Jong II.

"Not without agreeing on payment," Remo said quietly.

"Excellent point," said Chiun. "We must come to terms."

"Gold I ain't got."

Chiun frowned.

"I have gold," said Kim Pyong II from the shadows. He stepped out, surrounded by stern-faced generals.

"Who invited you?" Jong said sourly.

"I must have gold," said Chiun.

"I have something more valuable than gold," said Kim Jong II. "Assuming you want it, that is."

Chiun sniffed, "There is nothing more valuable than gold."

"Depends on how you look at it."

"I too have something more valuable than gold," said Kim Pyong II.

"Here we go. Dueling despots," groaned Remo.

"I will listen to both offers and choose," declared Chiun.

"Me first," said Kim Jong II. And stepping forward, he whispered into the receptive ears of the Master of Sinanju.

"This is an interesting offer," mused Chiun. Then, turning to the other Kim, he asked, "What is your offer?"

"I have no gold to offer, either, but rather information of inestimable importance to you."

"I cannot trade my services for information my ears have not heard nor my brain evaluated," returned Chiun stonily.

"When I reveal my information, it will sing to your ears and fire your spirit."

"I will listen and if this is true, I will respond accordingly."

Just then the air raid sirens wailed a song that froze the blood and brought the color of cold stone to the faces of the two Kims.

Kim Pyong II sucked in a deep breath. "I regret to inform the Master of Sinanju, guardian of our honor and fountain of our glory, that the hated Americans have targeted the Pearl of the Orient with their vicious missiles."

"Nice try," said Remo.

"Is this true?" Chiun demanded, cold of voice.

"You know it isn't true," Remo said.

"It's true," insisted Kim Pyong II. "Having lost Sinanju to the East, the reactionaries desire its destruction."

Chiun's wispy hair quivered delicately. "But Sinanju dwells not in my village, but in the heart of the Master."

"And his pupil," said Remo.

"Nevertheless, Master, it is so."

Chiun turned to Remo. "Could this be true? Would Smith be so foolish?"

"Maybe yes. Maybe no. Why don't we ask him?"

"He would never admit this."

"I do not know who Smith is," said Kim Pyong II, "but I have an official cable from Washington warning that this is so."

"Where is this cable?"

And the attending General Toksa proffered the cable. The Master of Sinanju took it. Remo read it over his shoulder.

"Looks authentic to me," Remo said.

"Why does it say Sinanju Scorpion?" wondered Chiun.

"I do not know," the premier of North Korea said, licking his pale lips.

"You lie!"

Eyes shifted guiltily.

"My information is correct and true," Kim Pyong II said stiffly, "and I must have your answer and allegiance."

"And I will give it when the full truth is revealed."

Eyes shifted again.

"He's hiding something," Kim Jong II said. "I know him. He's my little half brother, the weasel."

"You should talk," Remo grunted.

"Go on, tell the Master of Sinanju. Tell him the truth."

Remo stepped up and took Kim Pyong II by the back of the head, lifting him off his booted feet. "There are ways and there are ways."

"An announcement was made," Kim Pyong II said. "It was premature. We did send you an offer, did we not?"

"The House has come to Pyongyang, has it not?" Chiun countered.

"We announced to our enemies and the world that Sinanju again serves Korea. The true Korea. Yes?"

No one spoke. Chiun's eyes were chilling with every passing second.

"The hated enemies, loathsomely jealous, employed their sky spies to seek out the new seat of Korean power and, finding your village, placed it in the cross hairs of their thousand guns."

"They have threatened Sinanju?"

"You have read the cable yourself. Never before have they been so bold."

"This isn't like Smith," Remo said. "Or Washington, for that matter."

Chiun's glittering eyes fixed Kim Pyong II. "You have placed my village and its people in danger."

"No. I swear I did nothing deliberate. It was merely counterreactionary propaganda."

At that point Kim Jong II stepped up and said, "Kill him and I can get you out of this."

Chiun turned his head, fixing Jong with a steely eye. "How?"

And Kim Jong II whispered in the ear of the Master of Sinanju.

Chiun stood there for a long moment. His hazel eyes narrowed and lengthened, and his crafty brain processed the conundrum before him.

Suddenly he said, "Remo, you are my son?"

"Yes."

"You would do anything I ask?"

"Within reason. Yeah."

"Protect Kim Jong II from all harm."

Remo groaned. "Don't ask me to do that."

But it was too late. With a cry of rage, the Master of Sinanju spun like a top and dervishlike whirled into the personal guard of Kim Pyong II.

Hands clawed for Tokarev side arms, and heads began jumping like pineapples being sickled.

No one screamed. No one had time to scream. Only to die. And die they did. Violently, magnificently, surrendering blood, bone and internal organs until they lay in steaming heaps upon the soundstage floor, the final and ultimate tribute to the Master of Sinanju.

When the blood harvest was complete, the Master of Sinanju emerged from his frenzied dance of death to a position of cold calmness. His bloodless hands, clean as if just washed, retreated to the hollow of his joined kimono sleeves.

"You are restored to your throne," he told Kim Jong II.

"Actually I'd just as soon make movies. But if you could tell the surviving generals to leave me the bleep alone, I'll call it even."

"Agreed. Once you have surrendered to me the valuable prize you promised."

"Let me make a few phone calls."

"What's the name of the movie?" Remo asked, looking around at the lavish set.

Jong grinned happily. "King K'on."

"It's been done."

Kim Jong II looked stricken. Then he went to make his calls.

When he came back, he said. "It's all set. By the way, we have a new problem. The South is overrunning the Thirty-eighth Parallel. Won't be long before they're all over Pyongyang like white on rice. Next thing you know, they'll be souvenir hunting in Sinanju."

"Never," said Chiun. And the Master of Sinanju and the newly installed Leader for Life of Korea huddled for some minutes.

Chapter Forty-six

The president of South Korea was as safe as a South Korean could be with red war returning to the peninsula. Of that, there could be to doubt, no question.

There were bunkers all over the land. But a bunker by its very nature had been rejected as a likely target for bombs. And if the madmen in Pyongyang had developed a nuclear bomb, no bunker built could preserve the life of the South Korean leader if the bunker found itself at ground zero.

As he sat at a simple card table deep in the lava tubes of Man Jang Caves on the southernmost Korean island of Cheju-do, listening to a shortwave radio, the president of South Korea didn't feel safe.

He chain-smoked Turtle Ship cigarettes as he wondered if Seoul still stood. If the North had a nuke, they would unleash it upon Seoul. If two, then Seoul would be doubly destroyed. And if Seoul fell under Pyongyang bombs, the Americans wouldn't hesitate to nuke Pyongyang flat. There would be no pieces to pick up after that.

But the president of South Korea would survive. Even if the peninsula were overrun, he would survive. The entire North would be crushed by the Americans in time, and even if some surviving Pyongyanger controlled Sinanju after all was radioactive dust, Sinanju wouldn't look for the president of South Korea in Cheju-do Island. They would assume him obliterated in the fireball that consumed Seoul.

But to be certain of survival, there were ROK Tiger Marines stationed at the entrance to the network of lava tubes that in peacetime served as a tourist attraction. His most trusted aide had control of the innermost circle of defense. His second-most-trusted aide controlled the middle perimeter. The outer shield defense belonged to his third-most-trusted aide.

That was the mistake of the president of South Korea, he soon discovered.

There had been no warning. No warning was possible. All telephone and other communications using wire were forbidden in Man Jang Cave lava womb. Only shortwave, which could not be traced.

And since his defense teams had no shortwaves of their own, they were unable to alert him that a typhoon had descended upon Cheju-do Island in the form of a wispy little man.

And so in silence they fell, unbeknownst to the president of South Korea, who smoked in nervous ignorance.

The final door was not lava but steel. It opened with no more sound than a breath of subterranean air. Trying to listen through the crackle and static of his shortwave headset, the president paid it no mind.

The ghostly tap on his shoulder made his heart leap into his mouth, and without turning, he knew.

"Sinanju?" he croaked.

A thin, merciless voice intoned, "You erred."

"How?"

"For the three rings to work correctly, the most trusted ones must take up the outer ring. For they will fight more fiercely. The second ring nearly as fiercely. Thus, your assassin will be fatigued by the time he reaches the least trustworthy ring, and might succumb." The voice cooled. "Unless your assassin is of Sinanju."

The president of South Korea groaned, the cigarette falling from his bloodless lips.

"Turn and face me, man of Seoul."

Woodenly the Korean president obeyed. He found no strength in his legs and merely turned in his chair.

The eyes of the Master of Sinanju were like agates of deep hardness.

"You have come for my life___"

"No. I have come for your surrender."

"Seoul has fallen?"

"No. Nor Pyongyang, either. Your forces own the mountains. But only those."

"I cannot surrender to Pyongyang and face my ancestors."

The Master's papery mask of a face softened. "Well spoken. The South is not as spiritless as I have heard. No, you will not surrender to Pyongyang. Nor will Pyongyang surrender to Seoul. But both must surrender so that this conflict ends well and face is preserved."

The South Korean president looked perplexed. "If neither can surrender to the other, who will we surrender to?"

And the Master of Sinanju whispered a name.

Secretary General Anwar Anwar-Sadat was too busy drawing up the formal documents regarding the U.S.-Mexico observer group to worry about the end of the world. The phone rang constantly, and aides scurried in and out to announce this conflagration or that calamity. He would have none of it.

"I am very busy," he said testily. "It is not every day that I can impose the will of the United Nations upon the United States."

"But, my General—"

" 'Mr. Secretary.' "

"The two Koreas are at war."

"It is nothing. The Americans will solve that problem, and then we will step in and preserve the peace. Now begone."

It was late in the day when the under secretary for peacekeeping operations timidly approached the secretary general's desk and said, "The leaders of North and South Korea are on lines three and four. They wish to speak with you."

"About what?"

"Surrender."

The secretary general brightened as much as his stony face would allow. It was not every year two surrenders came his way. First Iraq, now this.

"Which one? Quickly, I must know."

"Both. Both wish to surrender. Neither will capitulate to the other."

"I do not understand."

"They are Asians. Saving face."

"Ah, yes, of course. Put them both on," said Anwar Anwar-Sadat, picking up two receivers and setting one to each ear as the under secretary performed the difficult task of working the line connections.

When the leaders of the two Koreas began chattering in his ears, the secretary general of the United Nations made his voice neutral. But his stony face softened in pleasure.

By the time this day was concluded, no one would wonder about the incident in the General Assembly again. He was solving the world's problems, alone and without outside assistance.

A Nobel Peace Prize was certain to be his.

When he had a working agreement, he returned to his final draft of UNUSMEXOG only to be told that that crisis was over, too.

"Over! I do not wish it to be over."

"Nevertheless, it is over. The Mexican forces have withdrawn from the U.S. border."

"This would have been my greatest moment, the culmination of my service as secretary general. Once the United States submits to the will of the world community, the last obstacle to my one-world order will have fallen like a stubborn domino."

"There is still the fiftieth-anniversary gala, my General."

"I would rather have my peacekeepers on the U.S. border," Anwar Anwar-Sadat said miserably.

Chapter Forty-seven

Harold Smith arrived at work the next morning like an automaton. He had hardly slept. He could barely think. But he was also helpless, and so he had gone home to sleep through the night hoping morning might come, if not for the world, at least for the United States—the only nation not immediately at risk, ironically, because it wasn't involved in the bidding war.

Remo and Chiun were waiting for him in his office. There was no sign of Mrs. Mikulka.

"My God!" Smith croaked.

"Hiya, Smitty," said Remo cheerfully.

"Greetings, Smith," the Master of Sinanju said in a severe voice. His kimono was a pale gold.

Then Harold Smith noticed the nuclear device. It was sitting on his desk in the form of a fat gravity bomb not very much unlike the one that had been dropped on Hiroshima.

"Is that what I think it is?" he said thickly.

"It is," said Remo.

"Where did you—er, what is it doing in my office?"

Remo spanked it once. "Kim Jong II gave it to us in trade."

"It is the North Korean atomic bomb?"

"Their only one."

Smith stepped back and fell into a sitting position on a green vinyl divan. "Why have you brought it here?"

"It is for sale," said Chiun loftily. "To the highest bidder."

"Actually we were thinking of a trade," said Remo.

"Trade?"

"Yeah." Remo addressed Chiun. "Can I handle this, Little Father?"

The Master of Sinanju nodded. "Do not fail, because the lives of my villagers are hanging in the balance."

"It's like this, Smitty. The good old USA has locked an ICBM on Sinanju. We want it declared a nontarget."

Smith started. "Where did you hear this?"

"Check it out if you don't believe me."

Harold Smith did. He rushed to his desk only to realize he couldn't access his system because of the bomb.

"Er, Remo. Could you… ?"

"Sure," Remo said brightly.

Stepping up, Remo wrapped his arms around the ungainly device and lifted it up and away. It went thunk on the hardwood floor.

"Be careful with that!" Smith gasped.

"Relax. It's not armed. At least, that's what they told us."

Smith booted up his desk computer and worked diligently for several minutes. He became utterly oblivious to his surroundings. When his patrician face came up, his gray skin was two shades paler and his voice had a frog in it.

"I can confirm that an SS-20 missile is currently targeted on the village of Sinanju. But why?"

"Washington thinks it's a secret-weapon installation."

"Where do they get that idea?"

"Pyongyang announced it controlled a secret weapon it called the Sinanju Scorpion," explained Remo. "Someone found Sinanju on a map, checked it out by satellite, noticed the three-lane highway Kim II Sung built for Chiun's convenience and decided the Horns of Welcome had to be some kind of death thingy."

"They are more correctly called the Horns of Warning," said Chiun.

"You've been to Sinanju, Smitty. You know what I'm talking about."

"Isn't it a natural rock formation?" Smith asked.

Chiun shook his aged head. "The rock is natural, but Master Yong carved it into the shape that welcomed seafaring clients and warned invaders that here was the inviolate seat of the Master of Sinanju. Ever since Yong, Korea has been conquered many times, but my village remains forever free."

Smith's prim mouth tightened to a bloodless knot. "You mentioned a trade."

"Yeah," said Remo. "According to Jong, this is the North's only nuke. It's yours if you de-target Sinanju."

"Done," said Harold Smith.

Remo blinked. "Can you do that?"

Smith nodded firmly. "Either through secret channels or directly through the President, but I assure you both it can and will be done."

"Good," said Remo, satisfied.

"Er—will there be anything else?"

Remo eyed Chiun and the Master of Sinanju nodded silently.

"We're still on the open market," said Remo.

Smith wiped his brow with a handkerchief. "I know. The planet is on the brink of global conflagration as a result."

"We've kinda been away from cable these last couple of days. But the good news is that we defused the Korean crisis."

"I can suggest the President redouble his efforts to secure funding to reactivate your contract."

Chiun piped up. "Triple."

"Triple," Smith blurted.

"Triple. For we are secret weapons now, sought mightily by nations across the face of the earth."

"Will you accept diamonds and other valuables in supplement for half of the gold involved?"

"No. The House no longer accepts diamonds, for they are not truly valuable or rare. I have been told this by no less than PBS, whom some conspirators are attempting to suppress."

"One-third silver?" Smith said hopefully.

"No. No silver, no electrum and no aluminum."

"Aluminum?"

"A Master made an error," Chiun said blandly. "He thought he was being paid in a rare new metal. He later discovered it was only new."

"I see," said Smith. "And which Master was that?"

"His name does not matter," Chiun said testily. "It is enough to know he was young at the time and later learned from his mistake, bringing great wealth and fame to the village. His name will one day be writ large in the Book of Sinanju."

"It was Chiun," Remo whispered to Smith. "One of his first assignments. He's still embarrassed about it."

"Cease whispering," Chiun spat. "Now I must have your answer, Smith."

Harold Smith swallowed so hard his Adam's apple bobbed.

"I will see what I can do," he said, reaching for the red telephone link to the White House.

The President of the United States was firm. He was direct. He was decisive.

The combined Joint Chiefs of Staff barely recognized him.

"The crisis is over," he said flatly.

"Which one?"

"All of them. The Iraqis have surrendered, the South Koreans have withdrawn to the Thirty-eighth Parallel, Macedonia and the Balkans have subsided and the Mexican army is withdrawing from our border, with apologies."

The Joint Chiefs of Staff were so stunned they were at a loss for words.

"And we have come into possession of the only nuclear weapon developed in North Korea," he announced.

The generals regarded one another doubtfully.

"Are you certain of your facts?" asked the JCS chair.

"It's ours," the President said firmly.

The secretary of defense couldn't conceal his disbelief. "The North surrendered their only nuke, with the South Koreans knocking at their gates?"

"That's all I can tell you at this time."

The JCS absorbed this information in a pregnant silence.

"We also have an opportunity to acquire the technology that is sweeping the globe," the President added.

"Do we know what it is?"

"I know what it is," the President said forcefully.

"Please share it with us, Mr. President," the secretary of defense said.

"Sorry. It's classified."

"From us?"

"That's the way it has to be. Now we can acquire this technology, but it's going to cost us."

"I think we should pay any price. Don't you agree?"

"Absolutely. Once we have one of these things, we have parity with other nations. We have to have parity. It's imperative."

Everyone agreed parity was imperative even if they didn't know what the secret weapon under discussion actually was.

"We're going to have to buy it," said the President.

"Fine."

"Once we have it, the mere possession of this weapon will effectively render the secret weapons in other hands absolutely impotent."

"It's that powerful?"

"It's that powerful," the President said in a steely voice. "But it's going to be an expensive acquisition."

The secretary of the Navy pounded his fist on the table and said, "Weil pay any price, endure any sacrifice."

And the President smiled coolly. "I'm glad you gentlemen said that, because you're all going to have to pony up if we are to acquire the Sinanju Scorpion."

"Er—how much we talking about here? In round numbers?"

The President named a figure.

The secretary of defense was indignant. His face turned bright red. "Defense can't afford that!"

"The defense of the United States can't afford to let this opportunity go sailing past us, never to return," answered the President.

The JCS swallowed hard, their Adam's apples bobbing dissynchronously.

"Well, we can scratch that next batch of submarines," the secretary of the Navy muttered.

"We can close a few more bases," said the Air Force chief of staff.

"I never did like the Osprey," said the commandant of the Marines. "Damn thing flew like a one-winged pelican."

"It's for the good of the country," the President assured them all.

"It's a mighty big hit," complained the secretary of Defense, crunching the numbers on a notepad.

When the meeting was over, the combined Joint Chiefs of Staff had agreed to divert a significant percentage of their next year's budgets to a bank account in the Cayman Islands.

When it was done, the JCS chair asked, "When do we take delivery?"

"We don't. I do."

"But we have to analyze it. Break it down. Do reverse engineering and mass replicate it."

"Won't work. I'm going to take possession and keep it in reserve."

"What about command and control? What about the chain of command?"

They tried every argument including a constitutional one, but the Chief Executive stubbornly refused to budge.

"When the money's in the vault, America will be safe and secure once again," he promised.

As he rose to leave the Situation Room, the JCS chair had only one last question. "Just tell us this—is it nuclear, chemical or biological?"

The president smiled. "Biological. Definitely biological."

Chapter Forty-eight

It was the next day that the Master of Sinanju began to unpack the things he had packed in anticipation of leaving America forever. His apprentice, the next Reigning Master of Sinanju if he performed correctly in all his duties, prepared duck and the short-grained rice favored in the northern mountains of Korea.

When the food was served, the Master took his seat at the low taboret and, sampling everything once, pronounced it good.

His pupil smiled.

"All has turned out as it should," Chiun said.

"I think so, too," said Remo.

"There is only one thing more."

"What's that?"

"I have not told you the story of the stonecutter."

And the Master was pleased to see his pupil lay down his rice bowl and silver chopsticks and sit up attentively despite his prodigiously embarrassing appetite for food.

"There lived in old Chosun in the days of Prince Chu Tsu a simple stonecutter," he began. "Every day of his life he cut obdurate stone into blocks that other men purchased. His toil was long and arduous, and as the years of his life passed he grew to despise his miserable lot.

"Now, the toil of this stonecutter was difficult and produced only rude stone blocks, from which other more skilled artisans erected buildings and statuary and other fine things. His chisel made marks in the stone of Diamond Mountain, but the stonecutter made no mark upon the world.

"One day a yangban came through his village, a nobleman of high degree, and seeing the people bow and scrape before this yangban, the simple stonecutter grew jealous and resentful. So he went to the mountain from which he carved his stone blocks and prayed to Sanshin, the spirit of the mountain, to make him into a yangban with much wealth and property and respect.

"The spirit of the mountain, hearing his plea, granted his wish. And lo, the stonecutter was now a yangban who dressed in silk and on whom other lesser mortals fawned."

"Just like that?" Remo asked.

"Just as I tell it," replied the Master of Sinanju.

"Now, time passed, and though all bowed to him, the stonecutter soon grew weary of empty bowing. And of his fine home and gardens and concubines. One day he awoke to find his garden had wilted under the blazing noonday sun—for this man was in truth lazy—and looked up to see the sun regarding him with its thin mercy. Shielding his eyes, he realized that his power was nothing under the awful might of the sun. That night he went again to Diamond Mountain to beseech Sanshin to make him into the sun.

"When he awoke the next dawn, Sanshin had granted him his dearest wish, Remo. He was the sun."

"No kidding. Just by praying?"

"Sanshin is very powerful," explained the Master of Sinanju to his pupil.

"So I've heard," Remo said dryly.

Resuming his tale, the Master of Sinanju said, "And so the stonecutter poured his power and his radiance down upon the land, for he was the sun. Nothing could escape his sight. No prince nor emperor could look upon him without shrinking from his awesome wrath. And he was content."

Chiun raised a bony finger.

"But not for long. Soon he grew weary of his heavenly rounds. For although he was now the sun, the sun too obeyed certain laws, rising at an appointed hour and setting when the universe decreed it. And this did not suit the stonecutter who had grown accustomed to sleeping late when he was a mere yangban.

"But what was he to do? He was the almighty sun. What greater than this could he ask for? And to be less was not in his nature.

"But one day a great storm cloud appeared and intercepted his powerful light, throwing all of Korea into darkness. And seeing this, the stonecutter realized that a cloud was greater than he, and could move about more freely, as well."

Remo spoke up. "And so he prayed again to Sanshin to become the cloud and Sanshin granted his wish, right?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Guess."

Chiun frowned. "I am telling this story, not you."

"Sorry."

"Now, this stonecutter enjoyed greater power over mankind. He brought rain, flooded the fields and rice paddies, and in doing so provided sustenance and famine at a whim. Men feared him, welcomed him, loved and hated him, and as he traversed the skies he was content in his mastery of mankind. For a time."

"Here we go again," Remo said dryly.

"For in his travels, one thing and one thing alone did not fear him. And that was Diamond Mountain. He poured his gentlest rain upon Diamond Mountain and no greenery grew. He exerted himself to his utmost, and torrents and forked lightning pelted Diamond Mountain, but Diamond Mountain stood serene and unmoved by his temperamental display.

"And so the storm cloud called down to the mountain and beseeched Sanshin to make him one with the mountain.

"And Sanshin replied that if he did this there would be no place for Sanshin to dwell, for Diamond Mountain was his home.

"But the storm cloud was insistent in his pleading and would not leave Sanshin alone. And Sanshin, who was tired of residing in Diamond Mountain because it was increasingly subject to incessant and capricious rains, granted this last wish.

"And so the simple stonecutter became the spirit residing within Diamond Mountain and he was gratified, for while he could not move, no force of nature could move him. He had stood for millions of years and would outlast the hardworking people of the valley and the nimble creatures of the forests."

Chiun lifted his finger once more. "Until one day he awoke to feel a stab of pain in his side, Remo."

"Yeah?"

"And looking down, what do you suppose the stonecutter saw?"

"Got me."

"He saw a stonecutter very much like his former self chipping away at his mighty flank with a cold chisel."

And the Master of Sinanju folded his hands and sat back.

A slow dawning crossed his pupil's face. But Chiun spoke not. This was his pupil's opportunity to show the understanding that came with having a few drops of Korean blood in his veins.

"I think I get it," said Remo.

Chiun cocked his birdlike head to one side expectantly. "Yes?"

"A person is what he is. He shouldn't wish for any more than that."

"Very good. Go on."

"I'm an assassin. I'm the best."

"Second best," Chiun admonished.

"Second-best assassin living. This is what I am. This is what I do. There isn't anything more for me. I'm not a counter assassin. I take out people who deserve death so that innocent people can live their lives without fear."

A thin smile that grew broader with each passing instant wreathed the wrinkled countenance of the Master of Sinanju.

"I am pleased."

"Good. Can I finish my rice now?"

"You may."

And in a contemplative silence, the Master of Sinanju and his worthy pupil took up their rice bowls.

It was a perfect moment.

And then the doorbell rudely shattered the mood with its ding-dong sound.

"I'll get it," said Remo.

He was gone but a moment and when he returned, he was wearing a strange expression and carrying a crumpled letter.

"What is it?" asked Chiun.

"We just got stung for fifteen cents. Postage due from Ottawa. Guess they're low on stamps up there."

"It is a trifle, and we care not what the penniless Ottawans say, whoever they may be."

"Ottawa is the capital of Canada," said Remo, tearing open the envelope. "Might as well see what they had to say."

Out came a letter and a colored slip of paper.

"What is it, Remo?"

"It's a letter inviting us to meet with the prime minister."

"Then why are you frowning?"

"Because this other thing is a half-price discount coupon for a one-way bus ticket to Ottawa. Can you beat that? Everyone else sent a limo. Or at least tried to kill us."

"They insult us!"

"They waste their time," said Remo, tossing the letter into the trash.

"The Ottawans could at least have poisoned the paper or cunningly secreted deadly spiders in the envelope as a gesture of respect."

Remo sat down and attacked his rice. "Speaking of spiders, you never did tell me who killed Khoja Khan."

"Because it does not matter, for Sinanju had nothing to do with it."

"So? Tell me anyway."

"His crimes were discovered, and he was tied living to wild asses, which were urged to flee into the desert."

"Ouch."

"His bones were later found, but that was all."

Remo grinned. "That's the biz, sweetheart."