Line of Succession

"Shit!" cursed Antonio, tripping over a wooden chair. He almost overturned a round kitchen table in the process.

"Shhhh," someone said. "You wanna wake him up?"

"Anybody bring a flashlight?" gasped Antonio, clutching his injured knee.

No one had. "Okay, be more careful now," said Antonio, limping into the next room.

"You're the one who tripped," Johnny complained.

"Shhh! "

Antonio bumped into more furniture. This time it was some kind of soft chair. He was glad for that because his knee wouldn't take another hit. He wished he had brought a flashlight.

A faint breath of air swept past him, like the backwash of a thrown baseball. The hair on his forearms lifted in warning.

"Hey, did you guys feel that?"

"Feel what? What about you, Johnny? Johnny?"

"Oh, shit, I think Johnny booked."

In the darkness, Antonio turned back. A shadow stood before him. A very short shadow. That had to be Johnny, the shortest one in the group.

"No, he's right beside me," said Antonio. "I see him." But then the one they thought was Johnny raised his hands and there was something wrong about them. Even in the darkness Antonio saw that they were abnormally long, like claws. Vampire claws.

"Johnny?" whispered Antonio.

The claws swept down, and another shadow-a larger one-fell to the floor. The thump was soft, but the vibration in the floor was very, very solid.

"Shit, you're not Johnny," Antonio hissed, and raised his Uzi. "But you're dead, sucker!"

The governor's bedroom light snapped on.

And snapped off again. Remo smashed it against a wall. There was no time for subtlety. He had to get out of the house with the letter before the governor recognized him.

"What is it? What is it, dear?" a woman's thin voice called.

"Call the police," said Governor Princippi, jumping out of bed. "There's someone in the room."

Remo shot out of the door and, after closing it behind him, mangled a door hinge with his fingers. That would slow him down, Remo thought.

Chiun wasn't on the landing, but Remo hadn't expected him to be. The sound of gunfire below meant that someone else had broken in. No one could have entered the first floor without the Master of Sinanju's keen hearing picking it up.

Remo skipped the stairs. He jumped from the second-floor landing to the parlor in a floating leap.

"Chiun, you okay?"

Above, he could hear the governor repeatedly smashing a shoulder into the jammed bedroom door.

Remo spotted the Master of Sinanju in the middle of a clot of armed individuals. He did not respond to Remo's call. He was slipping between the gunmen, teasing them into wasting their bullets. Remo saw him tap one on the back, and when the man whirled, legs apart and hands up in a two-handed pistol grip, the Master of Sinanju ducked between his legs and came up behind him, where he tapped again. The man, frantic, was firing blindly.

"Chiun, cut out the horseplay!" Remo hissed. "We've got to get out of here. I got the letter. Let's go."

"Hush!" Chiun hissed back. "The wind does not speak its name."

"Then let me help you," said Remo, moving in on one of the gunmen.

Then the upstairs bedroom door slammed open. The governor came pounding down the stairs, flashing a jerky ray of light in all directions.

"Oh, great," groaned Remo.

"Who's there?" the governor demanded, snapping on a light at the bottom of the stairs.

There was nothing Remo could do but make the best of a bad situation. As light flooded the parlor, Remo stuffed the letter under his T-shirt. Maybe he could get away with that much, if nothing else.

The light hit Antonio Serrano's eyes like needles. He blinked stupidly, sweeping the room with his Uzi. Through spots of light he made out the figure of the governor, in an old flannel bathrobe, pointing a flashlight at a faggy-looking guy at the bottom of the stairs. Antonio had a clean shot at both men. He decided the faggy-looking guy would be an easy kill. So he aimed for the governor and squeezed the trigger.

The Uzi burped a short burst, no more than three rounds. They buried themselves in the rug at Antonio's feet. One of them mangled his little toe.

Antonio, still trying to blink the spots out of his eyes, couldn't understand it. He had dropped the gun. He had only begun to pull the trigger and-dumb shit that he was-dropped the gun. That had never happened to him before. Ripping out a curse under his breath, he reached down to pick up his Uzi.

But a strange thing happened. He could not pick up the gun. It was as if his fingers had lost all feeling. And the spots in his eyes wouldn't go away. In fact, the room was going dimmer all the time.

Then Antonio saw why he was unable to pick up his weapon. He was grasping it. He saw very clearly, just before everything got truly weird, that his hand was wrapped around the butt of the Uzi. But when he straightened up, the gun stayed on the floor, still tightly clasped. Antonio saw that his lifted wrist ended very suddenly, very cleanly. The hand might have been taken off by a bone saw, it was so neatly done. The blood fountained in spurts, and as Antonio felt his heart beating faster, the blood spurted faster. Funny how that worked.

When Antonio turned to show the other Goombahs how his wrist was spurting, he saw a man shrouded in black staring at him, a long sword raised parallel to his shoulders. He did not see the stroke. He saw the room tumbling around him and in his last moment of conscious thought he saw himself standing, a raw cross section of meat where his neck ended. Funny how he was still standing up even though he had no head....

Remo turned from the governor. The kid with the Uzi was about to fire. Remo moved in on him. Suddenly a figure swathed in black jumped out from behind a dividing screen. The swordsman swept down with his blade, severing the kid's gun hand. The sword swung back upward, then took off the kid's head. Swick swack, just like that. The headless body of the kid stood like a ruined statue for several heartbeats, then crumpled into a bag of dead flesh. The head landed in the crook of one dead arm, so that it looked as if the kid had died carrying his head under one arm. The sight would have been comical had it not been so ghoulish.

"Who are you supposed to be?" Remo asked of the man in black.

"I could ask the same of you," the man said coolly. His face was hidden, except for a swatch around the eyes, by the traditional black hood of the ninja warriors of Japan.

"I'm asking it of both of you," said Governor Princippi, stepping off the stairs. He looked closer. "Oh," he said, recognizing Remo. "What are you doing here?"

"Uh, we heard about an attempt on your life," Remo said, trying to keep a straight face. "Looks like we got here just in time."

"Is that right?" the governor asked the man in ninja black. "Are you with this man?"

"I never saw this person in my life," replied the ninja.

"I meant Chiun," said Remo. "Little Father, where are you?"

"Right here," said the Master of Sinanju, stepping out of the bathroom. The toilet flushed, and Remo saw a pair of legs sticking up from the bowl. The toilet overflowed, but the legs did not even quiver.

"I know who you are," the governor said. "But who is this man?" He pointed to the ninja.

The ninja bowed low, sheathing his sword. "I am sent here as a personal representative of the President of the United States, entrusted with the protection of your life. I have been concealed in the darkness since you returned home. "

"A lie!" said Chiun. "Remo and I arrived first. There was no one here when we entered."

"I stood immobile in this very room. No human eye could perceive me, dressed in black. I am like the shadow of vengeance, awaiting your enemies, governor. "

"Tell him why you wear the black scarf over your features," spat Chiun with disdain.

"I have enemies who would seek me out if my face were ever revealed."

"That is not why!" screamed Chiun. "All ninjas go masked because their stealthy arts were stolen from Sinanju. They hide their faces to conceal the shame of what they are-thieves. So it is written in the histories of Sinanju. "

"I know nothing of histories," said the ninja. "I live by my wits and my sword."

"If that is the case," Chiun sniffed, "expect a short life."

"You saved my life," said the governor, brushing past Remo. He stuck out a grateful hand. "I owe you."

The ninja shook the governor's hand. "It was my duty, which I am proud to perform."

"You realize that I cannot take you on faith alone. Do you have anything to identify yourself by?"

"Oh, come on. That's not how it works," said Remo.

"Of course," said the ninja, reaching into a hidden pocket. He tendered a black card with writing etched in gold ink.

The governor read the writing. It said:

"TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN: THE BEARER OF THIS CARD IS A HIGH OPERATIVE IN A SECRET UNITED STATES INTELLIGENCE AGENCY. PLEASE ACCORD HIM EVERY COURTESY."

The card bore the signature of the President of the United States of America.

Governor Princippi looked up. "I'm satisfied," he said.

"But I'm not," said Remo, snatching the card and reading it. "This is ridiculous," he shouted.

"It is worse than ridiculous," said Chiun, taking it from Remo's hand. "This thief gets a magnificent card from the President and Smith denies me a common Gold Card."

"That's not what I meant," said Remo. "Nobody give out cards like these."

"Not to ninjas," added Chiun, slipping the card into a coat pocket. Later he would show it to Smith and demand one of his own.

"The ninjas were the Japanese Secret Service at one time, weren't they?" the governor asked curiously.

"Indeed," said the ninja. "I am a Master of Ninjutsu, which is Japanese for 'art of stealth.' "

"He means 'art of stealing,' " sputtered Chiun. "You should check your cupboards and briefcases after he leaves. Ninjas have sticky fingers."

"Do you mind?" said the governor. "We're having a conversation here." To the ninja he said, "You did an excellent job here."

"Don't tell me you buy his story," Remo protested. "Look at him. He looks ridiculous. And somebody should tell him that the sword went out of style after the Civil War. "

"Look at you," said the ninja. "Is that your undershirt?"

"Hey, I dress like this so I can blend in with ordinary people. "

"I dress in black so that I may blend in with the shadows. These killers did not see me in the dark. Nor did you."

"Sounds right to me," said the governor. "I used to listen to The Shadow on radio. Wasn't that how he did it?"

"What do you do when it snows, pal?" Remo asked smugly.

"I wear white," said the ninja.

"You should wear brown. It's getting knee-deep in here."

"True servants of the emperor do not hide their faces," added Chiun.

"Why not?" said Governor Princippi. "It worked for the Lone Ranger. No doubt this man requires secrecy to protect his private life. "

Remo turned to the governor. "There's nothing on that card that says this guy belongs to it-or it to him. He could have stolen it, for all we know. "

"I can almost guarantee it," inserted Chiun.

"The card looks authentic to me," said the governor. "And this man saved my life. And I'd still like to know what you two are doing here?"

"I told you. We came to protect you from assassins."

"This other person did that. And someone was in my bedroom a few moments ago. And I don't think it was any of these teenage hoodlums," said the governor, gesturing to the bodies strewn about the parlor. Noticing the headless form of the late Antonio Serrano, he grew a little green along the edge of the jaw. He turned away.

Remo shook his head. "Look, just think about it a minute. This guy waltzes in here, won't show his face, won't tell you his name, flashes a card that says he's from the President but which doesn't bear any name or picture or fingerprint, and you accept him for what he says he is?"

"Of course," said the governor. "In his line of work, those kinds of identification would cripple him. And you should talk. You're not carrying any identification at all. Either of you. I think you should both get out."

Not far off, the wail of police sirens grew closer.

"I guess that's our cue," Remo told Chiun. "What about you, pal?" he asked the man in black.

"I will return to the shadows. If the governor needs me, he has only to whistle."

"I think I'm going to throw up."

"Then throw up for me too," said Chiun. "I do not think this circus clown is worth the effort."

Giving a short bow, the ninja stepped behind the screen. "Oh, give me a break," Remo said, whipping the screen aside. He found himself looking at old wallpaper. There was no place the ninja could have gone, no door or window behind the screen.

"How did he do that?" Remo asked no one in particular.

"Who cares?" said Chiun. "Ninjas always cheat. Let us be gone."

As they slipped out the back door, Governor Princippi called after them, "And don't think I'll forget this. If this is the caliber of operative Smith employs, the sooner he's shut down, the better."

"Smitty is sunk, Little Father," Remo said glumly as they got into the Lincoln.

"The governor is merely distraught," Chiun said worriedly. "He may change his mind after the election."

"Not when he finds that letter is missing," Remo retorted, starting the engine. "He's going to want our heads. And the line forms behind the Vice-President."

Chapter 17

It was on nights such as this that Dr. Harold W. Smith wished that CURE security was not so critical.

He stood looking out the big picture window. A steady rain pelted the waters of Long Island Sound. Although he was in his office, the sight of that remorseless rain made Smith shiver in sympathy and yearn for home, with a nice crackling pine log in his fireplace.

But tonight Smith had to stand by the CURE telephones waiting for word from Remo and Chiun. If CURE's very existence had not been a national-security secret, Smith could have installed a private extension in his house. He could now be waiting in the snug comfort of his Rye home, instead of dreading the drive home through the rain. A drive that he might not be able to make for many hours yet. Maude would not be waiting up for him. Smith's wife had long ago given up on waiting up for her husband. Sometimes he wondered what kept them married.

Smith dismissed his gloomy thoughts. What was keeping Remo from calling bothered him more. Obtaining a simple letter from Governor Princippi could not be so difficult. Not for people with Sinanju powers. He hoped that this last mission had gone better than the botched attempt to safeguard the Vice-President's life.

Tired of watching the rain, Smith took his seat and called up the CURE terminal. Message traffic on CIA and Secret Service levels was busy. The Service was still trying to explain the deaths of the detail that had been slaughtered while protecting the Vice-President. Newspapers screamed about Middle Eastern terrorist interference with the American election, just days away.

Smith had been in touch with the President. The President had received another call from the Vice-President.

Oddly, this time the Vice-President had called to thank the Chief Executive for sending a new bodyguard, a martial-arts expert known by the code name Adonis.

The President had not told the Vice-President the truth-that he had not sent for this Adonis. Had Smith?

"No, Mr. President," Smith had replied. "I have no idea who this person is."

"But your person was on the scene?" the President had asked.

"Yes, he was."

"The Vice-President claimed that there were two CURE operatives at Blair House," the President said slowly.

"Ah, he must have been mistaken," said Smith, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

"Yes, he must have been," said the President. "We lost our American enforcement arm last year during that fiasco with the Soviets."

"Yes," said Smith uncomfortably. A year ago, when CURE had been compromised by the Russians, it had nearly ended for all of them. Thinking that he would never see Remo or Chiun again, Smith had allowed the President to believe that Remo had been liquidated by Smith's own hand. It had been Smith's way of atoning to Remo for past injustices, now that Remo had decided to settle down in Sinanju. For the past year Smith had lived in dread that the truth would come out.

"People under stress are often confused," the President agreed slowly. "And the Vice-President has escaped two assassination attempts now."

"I have a new lead on the leak," said Smith. "There is a man named Tulip who has sent a letter detailing our operation to the Vice-President. There is reason to believe that Governor Princippi has also received an identical letter. The Master of Sinanju is trying to verify this right now."

"Who? Why? It sounds as if this person is bent on shutting you down, Smith."

"If so, his approach is inefficient. He could have easily leaked what he knows to the press. I would have no choice but to terminate operations if this broke publicly. "

"I know one thing. I did not send anyone named Adonis to protect the Vice-President. I told the Vice-President otherwise only because he was yelling for your head. He wants you placed under arrest. "

"Sir, it may be possible that a rival intelligence agency, having learned about CURE, is copying its methods in an effort to replace us."

"I doubt the KGB would detail a man to protect an American politician."

"I meant a domestic rival group. The CIA or the Defense Intelligence Agency. Or possibly someone on your National Security Council. "

"Don't start that with me, Smith. The NSC is not involved with this."

"I'm sorry, Mr. President, but I cannot ignore any possibilities. "

"Just don't stir up any unnecessary mud. As far as I'm concerned, you remain sanctioned to operate. Don't give me a reason to change my mind." And the President hung up.

That had been hours ago. Smith had pondered the situation without respite. His CURE computers showed no strange activities on any level of America's regular intelligence agencies. And Smith had many people on his payroll who worked for the CIA, the DIA, and the NSA but who actually reported to him without realizing it.

If it was not any of those agencies, who then?

By the time night fell and the rain started, Smith was still lost in the imponderability of it all.

Hours later, Remo and Chiun walked in unannounced. "Remo," Smith said in surprise. "And Master Chiun."

"Hi, Smitty," said Remo. "I've got good news and bad news. "

"He means good news and better news," corrected Chiun.

"Let me tell it, will you, Chiun?"

"Ignore him," said the Master of Sinanju, lifting the crease of his trouser legs delicately and settling into a chair. "He is tired from our long journey. And his memory may be failing him."

Remo turned to Chiun. "I tell you, Little Father, I saw him as plain as day. He had Western eyes."

"Nonsense. His eyes were Japanese. I know a Japanese when I see one. "

"Japanese don't normally stand over six feet tall."

"Nor did he," insisted Chiun. "He was much shorter than that. He was short even for a Japanese, who walk with their legs bent like monkeys."

Smith interrupted wearily. "What are you two arguing about now?"

"Nothing important," said Chiun.

"The bad news," said Remo.

"Give me the good news," sighed Smith, grateful that this was his final operation involving Remo and Chiun. Remo scaled a letter across the room. It landed between fingers of Smith's upraised hand. An observer would have sworn Smith had plucked it from his sleeve like a magician. "I wish you wouldn't do things like that," Smith said, looking at the envelope. It was addressed to Governor Michael Princippi. The letter bore Korean stamps and a Seoul cancellation mark.

"The letter?" Smith asked, plucking the contents out and unfolding them. There were three sheets of paper covered with small spidery handwriting. Smith scanned the contents all the way to the end, where it was signed "Tulip."

"Whoever this Tulip is, he knows everything about us," said Smith, his face sagging like candlewax reaching its melting point.

"Hey, that was supposed to be the good news," said Remo. "You wanted the letter. We got it for you. Don't break the furniture in your rush to thank us."

Smith let the letter fall from unfeeling fingers. He ran his hands through his thinning hair once and buried his face in them. He felt numb.

"What is the bad news?" he asked hollowly.

"Someone tried to kill Governor Princippi when we were at his house."

"When you were-"

"I personally dispatched three of the vermin," said Chiun, leaping to his feet. "You should have been there, Emperor Smith. You would have been proud of your servant. Though alone and outnumbered, bullets flying all about my aged head, I dispatched them one, two, three."

"Alone? Where were you, Remo?"

"I was in the governor's bedroom stealing the letter."

"The governor did not know you were there, of course."

"He didn't see me steal the letter," Remo said quickly.

Smith relaxed. "Excellent. You recovered the letter and prevented an attempt on the governor's life without anyone being the wiser."

"Not exactly," said Remo.

"Not exactly? Please don't tell me that-"

"Smitty, something strange is going on," Remo said. "When the shooting started, the governor came downstairs to see what was happening. Chiun had killed most of the killers, but there was still one running loose."

"And you got him?"

"No, some screwball in a ninja suit beat me to it. I would have had him easy but I lost a few seconds when the guy drew aim on the governor. I had to step in front to protect the governor's body. Otherwise I would have been all over the ninja. Honest."

"The governor saw you." It was not a question, but a sick statement of fact.

"Sorry, Smitty. When he discovers the letter's gone, he's going to know it was us. We tried asking for it earlier in the day, but it was no go."

"Oh, my God," said Smitty.

"Smitty, there was another thing. This ninja popped out of nowhere. He said he was from the President. It was just like the situation with the Vice-President, only instead of a kung-fu beach boy, it was some white guy in a ninja suit."

"He was Japanese!" shouted Chiun. "His eyes were Japanese."

"I stood closer to him than you and I say he was white," insisted Remo.

"Are you saying that my eyes are fading?" bristled the Master of Sinanju.

"I saw what I saw. Something's fishy here, Smitty. The President doesn't employ ninjas."

"I had a call from the President," said Smith dully. His eyes were focused in on themselves, like those of a man who had been told he was terminal. "According to him, your Adonis had represented himself to the Vice-President as an official presidential bodyguard. The President denied it, but now I don't know. Anything is possible. Anything."

"I am glad to hear that anything is possible," said the Master of Sinanju, floating out of his chair. He stepped up to Smith's desk and set a plastic card on it. "If anything is possible, then it will be possible for the Master of Sinanju to obtain a card such as this one."

"I told you," said Smith, picking up the card idly. "American Express won't do business with you anymore. But perhaps I can work out something with one of the other credit-card companies." He stopped speaking and stared intently at the card.

"Hah!" said Remo triumphantly. "It's a phony, isn't it? I can tell by your face. I knew that fake ninja was spinning a story."

"This card is blank," said Smith, turning it over several times.

"Give it here," demanded Chiun, taking it back. He looked at the card. Remo leaned over his shoulder to look at it too.

The Master of Sinanju held a black plastic card. Both sides were blank, without writing of any kind.

"But this was the card," Chiun exclaimed.

"Yeah, it was," said Remo, recognizing the shape and texture. "Smitty, the ninja flashed this thing at all of us. It was covered with gold letters saying that it belonged to an agent of a secret government agency. And it was signed by the President. At least, it was the President's name. I don't know if it was his handwriting."

"This card?" asked Smith.

"Yes!" said Remo.

"That's rubbish!" said Smith. "No secret agency with any sense would issue such a ridiculous piece of identification. "

"That's what I tried to tell the governor, but would he listen? No. He swallowed the ninja's story whole. He wasn't even a real ninja. He was white."

"Japanese," muttered Chiun, looking at the card with puzzlement.

"There's no lettering on either side," Smith said, holding it up to the fluorescent ceiling lights.

"Maybe he used invisible ink that works on plastic," said Smith slowly.

"Does this mean I cannot obtain a card like it?" Chiun asked unhappily.

"How can I duplicate it if I don't know what was written on it?" Smith asked in a reasonable voice.

"That Japanese thief," snapped Chiun bitterly. "He will rue the day he tricked the Master of Sinanju."

"What did he look like?" asked Smith.

"His face was masked, ninja-style," Remo said.

"And with good reason," said Chiun. "Did I ever tell you about the ninjas and the Masters of Sinanju, Emperor Smith?"

"I don't believe so," said Smith.

"You will like this tale," said Chiun, drawing up a chair so he could be closer to Smith. "And I have many more besides. "

"While you're regaling Smith with tales of Sinanju, I'm going for a walk," said Remo. "And for the record, Smitty, the ninja was six-foot-one, white, and had blue eyes."

"He was my height, Japanese, with beady black eyes," insisted the Master of Sinanju.

"And I'm Kris Kringle," snorted Remo, slamming the door behind him.

"Do not mind him, Emperor," said Chiun after Remo had gone. "Obviously he is not well."

"What makes you say that?"

"Any man who would mistake a Japanese ninja for a fat white man in a ninja costume is obviously sick. I think Remo's mind is going soft. After all, he is the first white to learn Sinanju. For years I have been concerned that his weak white mind could not endure the strain of perfection, and now I am sure of it. I only hope he does not reject his training entirely. All the more reason for us to reach a new agreement. "

"Didn't Remo say the ninja wore a mask? It's possible that one of you was thrown off because his face was obscured," said Smith, turning the black plastic card over and over in his hands, as if its secret could be worried from it.

"All ninjas wear masks," spat Chiun. "It is a curse that Sinanju has placed upon them. Let me tell you that story."

"Yes, of course," said Smith absently. The plastic card held his attention.

"Once," said Chiun, striding to the center of the room, "a Master of Sinanju was hired by a Japanese emperor. The year was A.D. 645 by Western dating."

"What was the Master's name?"

Chiun paused in his pacing of the room. "That is an excellent question," he complimented. "A very excellent question. Remo has never asked such an intelligent question in all the years I have worked with him."

"Thank you," said Smith. "But I was just curious."

"Master Sam was his name," said Chiun, bowing in recognition of the wisdom of Emperor Smith in asking such an insightful question. "Now, Sam was summoned to the court of Japan by its emperor of that time."

"His name?"

"Sam. I have said it already," said Chiun, his face stung. "No, I meant the Japanese emperor."

"Pah! What matter his name? That is not important to the legend."

"Keep talking while I look it up," said Smith, reaching for his computer keyboard. After a moment he looked up. "It was Emperor Tenchi."

"Possibly," said the Master of Sinanju vaguely. Why did Smith always insist upon wallowing in foreign trivia? he wondered. "Now, this emperor," Chiun went on, "whose name might have been Tenchi, told the Master Sam that he had enemies. And the emperor told where his enemies might be found, in their homes or in their places of business. And one by one, the Master swooped down upon each of these enemies and they were no more. And each time Master Sam returned to the ruler of Japan to report success, the emperor said unto him, 'Go not yet, for I have discovered a new enemy. Attend to him as you did the others before him and I will increase the tribute to be paid to Sinanju.'

"And because the Master Sam did not wish to leave his work undone, he took responsibility for each new victim as they were brought to his attention by the emperor. Until with the fifth victim, the Master of Sinanju grew suspicious because some of these men were simple peasants, without wealth or will to plot against the chrysanthemum throne."

"I see," said Smith, his eyes drawn to the greenish light of his computer terminal as a steady stream of news digests flashed on and off.

The Master of Sinanju ignored his emperor's rudeness. The legends of Sinanju were traditionally shared between Master and pupil, not Master and emperor. Did Smith not understand why he was being told this story? Still, he would ignore Smith's inattentiveness this time. The white mind was congenitally incapable of focusing on one thought for very long.

"And so, charged to eliminate a sixth victim, the Master went early to the place the emperor had told him the plotter would be found. Arriving there, he discovered concealed high in a tree a spy who had been sent there to watch the Master Sam work his art.

"Taking the spy by the scruff of the neck, Master Sam demanded of this man his true business. And the spy, knowing full well the power of Sinanju, trembled and said, 'O Master, my emperor seeks the wisdom of Sinanju, which I was to observe and report to him, just as I have observed you kill the others.' And the spy also revealed that the emperor had no known enemies. The Master had been slaughtering peasants."

"That's terrible," said Smith.

"Not as bad as it could have been." Chiun shrugged.

"I fail to see how it could have been worse."

"Master Sam was paid for his work in advance."

"Oh," said Smith.

"Now," Chiun continued, "having learned these things, the Master had a final question for the spy of the Japanese emperor, and it was this, 'What have you learned, spy?' And the spy replied in a suitable quavering voice that he had learned from watching the Master of Sinanju how to move stealthily by wearing clothes the color of night, how to climb sheer walls like a spider, and certain ways of killing with openhanded blows."

"And Master Sam killed him, naturally," said Smith, thinking that he understood how the mind of Sinanju Masters worked.

"No, of course not," Chiun said irritably. "The Japanese emperor did not pay him to kill that man." Why was Smith so dense? It must be a white trait, he decided. Remo was like that too.

"He let him go, even though he had learned Sinanju?"

"Imperfectly," corrected Chiun. "He had learned Sinanju imperfectly. His blows were weak, and in order to climb walls he needed artificial aids. Like spikes and grappling hooks. No, he did not learn Sinanju. He stole the inspiration, but in practice he was like a mechanical man pretending to be human. So Master Sam said to this man, 'Return to your emperor and tell him you have learned naught but how to skulk and steal, and also tell him that the Master of Sinanju kills for payment, not for the enlightenment of emperors.' "

"What was his name, this man?" wondered Smith.

"Why would you ask such a question?" demanded Chiun in an exasperated voice. "What has that to do with anything?"

"Historical curiosity," said Smith. "That man was the founder of ninjutsu."

"Founder!" spat Chiun. "He did not find anything, he stole it! Have you not listened to a word I have said? You whites are all alike."

"Er, never mind," said Smith hastily. "I'll look it up later. But you haven't told me why the ninjas go about masked. "

Chiun subsided. "Very well," he said in a controlled voice. "It happened years later, after word came out of Japan of a new sect of assassins who dressed in black and were known as ninjas. And Master Sam ventured back into Japan, unsummoned and unknown, in order to evaluate this new competition. And he found a tiny band of these ninjas, and their leader was this unimportant thief from years before, who had trained others. Of course, they were as clumsy as monkeys, but that is not the point. They were taking work that should have gone to Sinanju."

"So naturally Master Sam killed them all this time," said Smith, who knew that Sinanju Masters stopped at nothing to guard their livelihood.

Chiun froze in the middle of a grand flourish and fixed his brittle hazel eyes upon Dr. Harold W. Smith.

Smith felt a chill, as if the cold rain had somehow penetrated the great picture window to run down his back. He shook his head in a silent negative.

Chiun shook his head in response, and went on, the edge in his voice glittering. "Master Sam stood before this thief and his face was wrathful. But he did not slay him. Instead, he said to him, 'You have stolen that which lasts longer than rubies. You have stolen wisdom. I could kill you, ninja, but you are a child imitating his elders, and I will not kill you. Instead, hear my curse: you are a thief, and I curse you, and all who follow in your path, to forevermore conceal your faces in shame. And should any of your number in succeeding generations ever go about his skulking work with his face uncovered, the Master of Sinanju will no longer suffer your existence. And that is why to this very day these so-called ninjas go about with their heads covered."

Chiun folded his long-nailed hands into the belled sleeves of his suit complacently.

"There is one thing I still do not understand," Smith said cautiously.

Chiun's forehead gathered in wrinkles. "I believe I covered everything."

"Why didn't the Master Sam kill the ninjas?"

"He was not paid!" screeched Chiun like a teacher before a recalcitrant child.

"But not killing them took money and employment away from future Masters," Smith pressed on. "Wouldn't it have been better to have killed the ninjas?"

"That is the way the story is written in the histories of my ancestors," Chiun returned defiantly. "To ask for information not written in those scrolls is impertinent."

"I'm sorry," said Smith stubbornly. "I thought it was a reasonable question."

"Reasonable to whom? I am sure Master Sam had a good reason for handling it the way he did. He must have forgotten to write it into his scrolls."

"Scrolls," said Smith suddenly. He was looking at the letter signed "Tulip." The envelope had been mailed from South Korea. Smith had been puzzled by that, but his full attention had been captured by the contents of the letter itself. Now the significance of the postmark was beginning to sink into his mind.

Looking up, he asked the Master of Sinanju a question. "You mentioned the scrolls of your ancestors," said Smith. "Might I assume that you regularly transcribe the history of your service to America in similar scrolls?"

"In great detail," said Chiun proudly.

"I see. And where are these scrolls now? Yours, I mean."

"In Sinanju. In past times I kept them with me, but I was unable to bring them back with me when I last returned to these shores. But do not worry, Emperor Smith, I have an excellent memory. When I am free to send for my scrolls, I will duly record this most recent year of service to your highness. And while I am on the subject," he said, removing a blue-ribboned scroll from his coat, "I have completed the latest contract. It only needs your signature to guarantee that you will be served well in the coming year."

"Leave it on the desk," said Smith. "I will read it and we will discuss it later."

"It is exact in every detail of our last negotiation," protested Chiun.

"I am sure that it is," said Smith. "But if you'll look out the window, you'll notice that the sun is coming up. We've been here all night. I really need some rest before I can deal with such a weighty matter."

"Let me read it to you, then," said Chiun. "There is no need for you to strain your royal eyes."

"I'd rather read it at my convenience, if you don't mind," insisted Smith, gesturing for the scroll to be left on his desk. The Master of Sinanju hesitated, but he had already snapped at the Emperor Smith twice this night. There was no need to push the matter. What was another few hours? Reluctantly he set the scroll on the desk and bowed from the waist.

"I will await your decision," he said.

"Thank you," said Smith.

When the Master of Sinanju had gone, Smith considered the envelope on his desk. Yes, it made sense. There was no way for CURE's existence to leak out of the American government, whether from past or present administrations. In all his years at the helm of CURE, Smith had overlooked the simple fact that all along the Master of Sinanju had been recording his every assignment for posterity. The events of the last year had caused those scrolls to be left unguarded, and now it had come to this.

There was no telling what the consequences might be, but CURE was not necessarily doomed. It all hinged upon whether the next President kept his campaign promise. And Smith, knowing politicians, would not bet on that.

Smith looked at his watch and decided to wait another hour before he reported his findings to the President. No need to wake him. And noticing also that his secretary was due to arrive for work at any moment, Smith sent the CURE terminal slipping back into its desk well.

Smith's secretary was as punctual as always. She knocked on Smith's door before entering. She was a bosomy middle-aged woman in bifocals, her hair tied into an efficient bun.

"Good morning," she said, setting a container of prunewhip yogurt and a can of unsweetened pineapple juice on the desk. "I picked up your usual breakfast from the commissary."

"Thank you, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said. Taking from a desk drawer a disposable plastic spoon with which he had eaten his yogurt for the last twenty years, he dug in.

"I see you've been working all night."

"Er, yes," Smith admitted, puzzled by his secretary's overly familiar tone. She did not normally remark on matters outside of her duties. "Important matters," he said.

"I imagine curing the ills of the world is worth losing a night's sleep here and there," she said, closing the door behind her.

Smith's mouth hung open. Yogurt ran down his chin and dripped, unnoticed, onto his wrinkled trousers. He had completely forgotten he was eating.

"Figure of speech," Smith assured himself huskily. "Yes. A figure of speech. She couldn't know. Not Mrs. Mikulka. I've got to relax. This thing has me jumping at shadows."

Chapter 18

The President of the United States was already awake when the special telephone rang. He had been lying in bed enjoying a few minutes of extra rest before having to get up, when the muffled ringing started.

"Not again," cried his wife.

"Could you excuse me, dear?" the President said, maneuvering himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. The phone rang again.

The First Lady mumbled something under her breath and climbed into a sheer nightgown. "If that's World War III, I'll be in the shower."

When she was out of hearing, the President opened the end-table drawer and lifted the receiver of the red phone. "Good morning," he said cheerily.

"I'm sorry to wake you, Mr. President," said the voice of Dr. Harold W. Smith.

The President's voice hardened. "I've been awake for several minutes. Why does everyone assume I'm not awake at this hour? It's already nine o'clock."

"Yes, Mr. President," Smith said stiffly. "If I may make my report."

"Fire away," said the President.

"As you may know, there was an attempt on Governor Princippi's life last night."

"A gang of street punks," said the President. "Probably copycatting the attacks on the Vice-President."

"There's no reason to believe otherwise at this point in time," Smith said, "but we should not assume anything."

"The gang members are dead, I'm told."

"Yes, my special person accounted for most of them."

"That should impress the governor."

"Mr. President, the governor knows about our operation. And he's not happy with it, or with me."

The President's hand tightened on the receiver. "How?"

"It appears that an unknown person signing himself 'Tulip' has sent letters describing CURE operations to both the governor and the Vice-President. The governor's letter is in my hands. It's postmarked South Korea. From that, I believe I can infer the source of Tulip's knowledge."

"Yes?"

"He seems to have accessed personal diaries of our special person which have remained in the village of Sinanju since the incident with the Soviets last year."

"I remember it well," the President said bitterly.

"A fluke, sir," Smith said uncomfortably.

"Well, this makes two flukes in one year."

"I am aware of that, sir. If it's your wish that I cease operations, I can be shut down within the hour. I should have been aware of this possibility."

"I'm not prepared to do that, Smith," said the President without hesitation. "After that last incident, you'll recall we decided that you could operate without an enforcement arm. You'd be doing that if your special person, the Korean, hadn't returned to America and offered you another year of service. Isn't it about time for your contract with him to lapse?"

"Yes, he handed me a new one just this morning. Its terms are quite generous. Of course, I explained to him that if I sign it, I may not be able to guarantee its terms after you leave office."

"What the next administration decides is their business. For now, you will continue operations."

"And our special person?"

"Have him destroy his records. Make that a stipulation of this new contract. If he refuses, terminate his employment. Is that all?"

"Not quite, sir. There was another player in the Governor Princippi incident. A ninja master. He claimed that he was protecting the governor at your behest."

"I have no such report, Smith."

"No?" said Smith vaguely.

"You do believe me, don't you?"

"Yes, of course. I have no reason to think otherwise."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," the President said acidly.

"I apologize for my tone, Mr. President, but you have to understand my confusion. Two martial-arts experts have preempted separate assassination attempts. Both claimed to be working for you."

"Governor Princippi has said nothing about any ninja. His story is that the assassins were stopped by persons unknown. I assumed that it was your unknown person."

"It was, but this ninja was also on the scene. I don't understand how he could have known of an assassination attempt ahead of time, unless he is sanctioned, or. . . "

"Or what?"

"Or he's part of the plot."

"I'll have the Secret Service look into it."

"I could handle it, sir," Smith said hopefully.

"Stick to your computers, Smith. For now. That's all." And the President hung up.

In his office at Folcroft Sanitarium, Dr. Harold W. Smith rose from behind his desk and locked the door. From a closet he removed a gray three-piece suit identical to the one he wore. Changing out of the wrinkled suit, Smith plugged in an electric razor and efficiently scoured the stubble from his face. He checked himself in a hand mirror and adjusted his rimless glasses. When he was done, he buttoned his fresh white shirt and knotted his Dartmouth tie. Putting away the razor and hand mirror, Smith tripped the intercom.

"Mrs. Mikulka, could you ask that Mr. Chiun and Mr. Remo come to my office?"

"Yes, Dr. Smith."

Minutes later, Remo and Chiun entered. "Please close the door," requested Smith.

"Sure, Smitty," said Remo.

Seeing that his new contract lay open before Harold Smith, the Master of Sinanju burst into a broad smile. "Perhaps Remo need not attend this meeting inasmuch as it concerns matters between you and me," Chiun said pointedly.

"I'd prefer that Remo remain." Chiun's face fell.

"Thanks, Smitty," said Remo.

"I'll be brief," began Smith. "I've looked over your contract, Master Chiun. It is accurate, insofar as the terms we discussed yesterday go."

"Excellent," said Chiun, puffing out his chest. "It just so happens I have with me the ceremonial goose quill. Here."

Smith raised his hand. "One moment, please."

"Two moments," interrupted Remo. "Don't I have some say in this?"

"None," said the Master of Sinanju. "You are not part of this contract. You are dead. Smith has led the President to believe this. And dead people do not sign contracts."

"I'm not signing anything," said Remo hotly. "I'm returning to Sinanju. You promised that you'd return with me. "

"I promised no such thing."

"You didn't say you wouldn't."

"And I did not say that I would. Emperor Smith has graciously offered me another year of employment in this land, and I have decided, because you are unwilling to accompany me on my Sinanju World tour, that this is the only way I can continue to support the starving villagers of Sinanju. "

"Bulldookey," said Remo. "You wouldn't let me marry without attending the ceremony, would you?"

"No, of course not," retorted Chiun. "But would you marry without me being present? That is the true question."

"We'll find out. I plan on setting the date as soon as I hit the beach."

"It might be that the Emperor Smith will allow me a week off for that purpose. Say, next summer, perhaps?"

"Actually I'd like you both to return to Sinanju immediately," said Smith.

Chiun's parchment face collapsed. "Return?" he squeaked.

"I'm already packed." Remo grinned, pulling a toothbrush from his back pocket.

"It has to do with one last stipulation upon which I must insist if we are to come to an agreement here," said Smith.

Chiun looked at Smith. Then he looked at Remo's pleased face.

"Very well," he said decisively. "Name it. Whatever it is, I am certain it will be agreeable, for you have been recorded in the histories of Sinanju as Generous Harold the First. "

"You must destroy every record of your service to America that you have in Sinanju."

The Master of Sinanju froze. His head flinched as if from a blow. He said nothing for long moments. Finally, in a low, too-quiet voice, he asked, "Why would you ask me to do such a thing?"

"This letter from Tulip. It is postmarked South Korea."

"Another place entirely," said Chiun. "Sinanju is in North Korea."

"I believe this Tulip has stolen or accessed your records. It is the only explanation for the precise knowledge he possesses."

"Impossible," sputtered Chiun. "The scrolls of Sinanju are kept in the House of the Masters. It is guarded continuously. The door is double-locked."

"That's right, Smitty," Remo put in. "I locked it myself when I left Sinanju. "

"Yes, that is correct," Chiun said. He froze. Suddenly he wheeled upon Remo. "You! You were the last one to leave Sinanju! If my scrolls are missing, it is your fault!" he shouted, leveling a shaking finger at Remo.

"Hey, Chiun, lighten up. You just got through telling Smitty that it's impossible for the scrolls to be missing."

"It is impossible! But if they are missing, it is no doubt your fault, clumsy white who cannot properly lock a door after him. You probably left the water running too."

"Not me," said Remo, folding his arms defensively. He turned to Smith. "Are you sure about this?"

"My computers are secure. They have not been accessed. The only other possible leak is the President. And he denies it. And there's no reason for him to go to the extreme of masquerading as this Tulip. He could shut us down with a phone call."

Remo turned to Chiun. "He's got a point, Little Father."

"Nonsense," snapped Chiun. "If anyone had dared to defile the House of the Masters, my faithful servant, Pullyang, would have seen it and reported it. His last letter to me said nothing of such a crime."

"Isn't this the same Pullyang you once called a barking dog without teeth?" Remo inquired.

"Do not listen to him, O Emperor. He cannot tell a Japanese from an American at three paces. No doubt his hearing is going also."

"It will, if you keep shouting like that," complained Remo.

"Please, please, the both of you," Smith pleaded. "Master Chiun, I'd like your answer."

"My answer is no, no one could have rifled the scrolls of my ancestors. That is a certainty. "

"I meant, will you agree to return to Sinanju to destroy your scrolls?"

"This is an unfair thing you ask of me," said Chiun hotly. "No emperor in history has ever placed such a ridiculous demand upon the House of Sinanju. My answer is no."

Smith nodded grimly. "Very well," he said, standing up. He picked the contract scroll off the desk and studiously tore it down the center.

"Aaaieee!" wailed Chiun. "I worked for days on that scroll. "

"I'm sorry. I cannot sign this document without your agreeing to that stipulation."

"I said no, not definitely no," Chiun complained.

"Then you will agree to destroy the scrolls?" Smith asked.

"Definitely not!" Chiun shouted.

Smith tore the scroll again. Chiun's mouth hung open. Remo grinned broadly. "Looks like we're going home."

Chiun turned on him. "Do not be so smug! This may be your fault for leaving the House of the Masters unlocked."

"I assume," said Smith, "that if you find the scrolls in question are missing upon your return to Sinanju, you will do everything in your power to track them down and eliminate the culprit."

"Aha!" screeched Chiun, his eyes flashing. "I see your game now, Smith. You have tricked me! You are expecting service without payment. Yes, I will track down this thief, if such exists, but do not count upon my eliminating him. Remember the story of Master Sam and the ninjas."

"That is your privilege, Master Chiun. I have my orders. "

"And my contempt," snapped Chiun, striding out the door. "And be assured that this perfidy will be recorded in my scrolls and your name disgraced for all generations to come. "

"I'm sorry it had to end this way," Smith told Remo in a quiet voice.

"I'm not," said Remo, taking Smith's hand. "It couldn't have worked out better. Thanks, Smitty. You want to come along? I'll let you dance at my wedding."

"I don't dance," said Smith, shaking Remo's hand.

"A party pooper to the bitter end," sighed Remo. "It's okay. I don't think you'd fit in anyway. Can we count on the usual transportation by submarine?"

"Of course," said Smith, letting go of Remo's hand. And without another word, Remo skipped out the door, whistling. Watching him go, Smith thought that he had never seen Remo so happy before.

Remo found the Master of Sinanju in his room, writing furiously.

"What are you doing, Little Father?"

"Are you totally blind? I am writing, fool."

"Don't be like that."

"What should I be like? I have been terminated by my emperor. "

"You should be happy. Like me."

"To be happy like you I would have to be an idiot like you. Thank you, no. I will forgo that illustrious experience."

"Then be happy for me. And Mah-Li."

"I am writing to Pullyang now, telling him to prepare for our return. Do not fear, Remo, your wedding will take place as you wish."

"What's that other letter for?" Remo asked, nodding at a sealed envelope.

"It is a wedding invitation," said Chiun.

"I already asked Smith. He says he's tied up."

"I wish never to see that man ever again. He is a base trickster and a taker-back of Gold Cards."

"Then who?" Remo asked.

"No one you know. I have friends who are not known to you."

"I hope they bring a nice wedding present."

"It will be one that you will never forget, I am sure."

"Sounds great," Remo said pleasantly. "But hurry up, will you? The helicopter is waiting."

Chapter 19

Dr. Harold W. Smith watched the helicopter lift off from the old docks that reached out like skeletal fingers from the patch of Folcroft land that fronted Long Island Sound. The air was still moist from the evening rain, and a chill fog rolled in off the water.

Smith stood before his big office window. For some reason, he felt a need to watch them go. To see Remo and Chiun leave his life forever. It had been a long twenty years. It was strange that it would end on this difficult note, but perhaps that was for the best.

As Smith watched, Remo helped the Master of Sinanju, who had reverted to his traditional Korean dress, into the medical helicopter. Smith had summoned the helicopter on the pretext that Mr. Chiun, an Alzheimer's patient, and his guardian, Mr. Remo, needed immediate transportation to another facility. The helicopter would drop them off at Kennedy Airport, from where they would take a commercial flight to the San Diego Naval Air station, where the submarine Harlequin was waiting to take them back to the shores of Sinanju for the final time.

The door closed and the helicopter, its rotors beating the air, lifted. It disappeared into the fog as if swallowed. "It's over," breathed Smith. He returned to his familiar desk terminal. From now on, CURE was just him and his computers.

There was a tentative knock on his door. "Yes?"

The bespectacled face of Mrs. Mikulka poked through the door.

"They're gone?" she asked.

"Yes," said Smith, not looking up.

"Back to Sinanju?"

"Yes, back to-" Smith froze. "What did you say?" he croaked. He was staring at his secretary, who had served him loyally for over five years, who ran Folcroft as capably as himself, and who knew nothing-or should know nothing-about Sinanju.

"I asked if Remo and Chiun had returned to Sinanju."

"Come in, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said coldly. "And close the door behind you, if you would."

When Smith saw that his secretary had seated herself on a long divan, he asked in a tight voice, "How do you know about Sinanju?"

"I know about CURE too."

"Oh, God," said Smith. "Did you receive a letter from Tulip too?"

"No."

"Then how?"

"I am Tulip."

"You!"

"Tulip is not my real name, of course."

"You are Eileen Mikulka. Before you were a secretary, you taught high-school English. I did a thorough background check before I hired you."

"No," said the voice of Eileen Mikulka. "Eileen Mikulka is locked in a patient's room on an upper floor. She met with an accident as she carried your yogurt and fruit juice from the commissary this morning. Oh, do not worry, she is not dead. It was an effort for me not to kill her, but if I killed her, I might not have been able to stop killing. And then where would my plans be?"

"You look just like her. Plastic surgery?" Smith let one hand drop to his lap. He tried to be casual about it. His gray eyes locked with those of this woman, so that his gaze would not betray any surreptitious movement.

"Plastic surgery would not give me her voice, her manners. And do you really think I-or anyone-would go to the ridiculous extreme of becoming a middle-aged woman permanently to achieve a goal?"

"What you say is logical," admitted Smith, tugging open the middle-left-hand desk drawer with two fingers. He hoped it would not squeak before he could reach into it for his automatic. "May I ask why you wish CURE terminated?"

"I wish no such thing," said the voice of Eileen Mikulka. "You are not my target, nor is your operation. Nor were the presidential candidates I ordered assassinated."

"You?" blurted Smith. He was so shocked he let go of the drawer handle. "You were the person behind the attempts upon the Vice-President and Governor Princippi? Why, for God's sake?"

"So I could stop the assassins."

"You?"

Abruptly the figure of Eileen Mikulka shimmered. Smith squinted. Instead of the familiar bosomy plumpness of his secretary, a man sat on the divan. He was blond and bronzed, and wore a white karate gi. He smiled broadly. "Call me Adonis."

"What?" Smith croaked. Then he remembered his weapon. He had the drawer open a crack. He tugged on it again. He dared not look down to see if it were open wide enough. He fumbled with his fingers. The opening was too narrow.

"Or call me ninja master."

And the handsome face melted and ran, tanned skin turning into black folds of cloth. The figure on the divan was garbed in ninja black now, his face concealed by the flaps of his mask. Only his eyes showed. Smith saw that they were blue.

"Chiun was mistaken," he said in a stupid voice. "He thought you were Japanese."

"The Master of Sinanju is never wrong," said the figure, and his words were in the singsong accents of Japan. Smith looked closer. The ninja's eyes were black and almond-shaped. And his robust physique seemed to have shrunk.

Smith forced himself not to react. With an effort he kept his voice level. "I suppose I would be wasting my time if I asked you to identify yourself?"

The ninja stood up and came toward Smith.

"You have the letter before you," he said. "You saw my signature. "

Smith's hand touched cold metal. He had the automatic. "It says 'Tulip.' That means nothing to me."

"That is because you have not thought about it, Smith."

"I'll think about it later," said Harold W. Smith, whipping up the automatic. He held it at desk level, resting the butt on the desktop to keep it steady. "Please stop where you are."

But the ninja kept coming, his body swelling and running like a million multicolored candles melting together. Suddenly it was the figure a young man with a flowing mane of yellow hair and purple garments who came toward him on quiet, confident feet. His eyes were so blue it hurt to look at them.

Smith steeled himself and fired.

The purple figure kept coming. Smith fired again. This time he saw, incredibly, the afterimage effect as the figure returned to its path of approach. The figure had dodged the bullets. Had dodged them so fast that it looked to the untrained eye as if he had allowed the bullets to pass through him.

Smith knew he was looking at a being trained in the ancient art of Sinanju, and suddenly the significance of the name Tulip was clear. He knew whom he faced. What he faced. But his knowledge came too late, far too late for Harold W. Smith.

"I have no quarrel with you, Smith," a different voice rang in his ears. "I want Remo. I want to destroy him. You have helped me with the first phase. Do not think I am not grateful-or unmerciful. You will feel no pain, I promise."

And for Harold W. Smith, the world went black. He never saw the hand that struck him.

Chapter 20

The letter arrived in Sinanju the next day. It had come via Pyongyang, the capital of North Korea, and was delivered to Sinanju by a People's helicopter. It was left in an iron mailbox at the edge of the village, for it was forbidden for any who were not of Sinanju to enter Sinanju without permission.

When the helicopter departed, a boy was sent to the mailbox. He came running back and gave the letter to Pullyang, who was again at his post, guarding the House of the Masters.

Old Pullyang placed the letter in the dirt while he got his pipe going. After a few preliminary puffs he opened the letter, which he recognized as from the Master of Sinanju. His tiny eyes took in the message of the Master eagerly.

"Summon Mah-Li," Pullyang told the boy, who would not go until he had heard the news from America.

"Is it good news?" the boy asked.

"Joyous news. But I must tell Mah-Li myself."

Mah-Li climbed the low hillock to the House of the Masters, expectation on her radiant face.

"What word from America?" she called.

Pullyang waved the letter. "It is from Master Chiun. He returns soon. He bids us to prepare for the wedding of the white Master, Remo, and the maiden called Mah-Li."

Mah-Li's hands flew to her throat in surprise. "Remo," she breathed. "And what word from him?"

Old Pullyang shook his head. "None."

Mah-Li knit her smooth brow. "None. No message for me?"

"The Master wrote, not Remo."

"Oh," said Mah-Li, her face clouding. "It is not like Remo. You do not think he has changed his mind, do you, Pullyang? After all, it has been a year since we last saw him."

"The Master Chiun would not order the wedding preparations if the groom had changed his mind. Why would you say such a foolish thing, child?"

"I do not know," said Mah-Li, dropping to her knees beside Pullyang. With nervous fingers she picked at a clump of coarse grass. "It is just that ever since the purple birds came to us in the night, my sleep has been troubled and I know not why."

"You are a child still. And children are often subject to strange fears," Pullyang said tenderly.

"You yourself called them a bad omen, Pullyang. What did you mean by that?"

And because Pullyang did not himself know, he shrugged and tried to look sage. He took a long draw from his pipe and hoped that Mah-Li would not press the point.

"I think you were right about their being a bad omen," said Mah-Li after a time.

"They are gone," said Pullyang.

Mah-Li looked up into the morning sky. It was gray and troubled. "I know, but my dreams tell me that they will be back." And she folded her arms and shivered.

Chapter 21

The USS Harlequin broke the slate waters of the West Korea Bay and settled in the trough of a wave. Water crashed over the submarine's hull and ran out the deck gunwales.

Sailors popped open a hatch and set about inflating a collapsible rubber raft. When they had it inflated, one called down the hatch, "All set on deck, sir. "

Remo came up first. The moon was high, a crescent moon that shed little illumination. Remo saw the Horns of Welcome jutting up from the shore. They framed the low hill on which the House of the Masters stood, like some arcane emblem of antiquity. But to Remo the forbidding sight was a happy one.

He called down the hatch, "Shake a leg, Chiun. We're home. "

The Master of Sinanju's head emerged like a squirrel peering from its hole. "Do not rush me, Remo. I am an old man. I will not hurry just because you are in heat."

"I am not in heat," said Remo, taking Chiun by one elbow as he clambered out of the hatch.

The sailors were lowering the raft into the water. "Better hurry, gentlemen," one of them called. "These seas are running high."

Remo and Chiun climbed down the submarine hull until they were safely on the raft. Two crewmen manned oars. There was an outboard motor but it was not used because of the fear that the sound would attract North Korean patrol craft and create an international incident.

The raft got going.

"Sure seems strange to come back without any gold, huh, Little Father?" Remo said quietly.

"Do not remind me of my failure," Chiun said morosely.

"I was just making small talk. Why are you on my case? You haven't said a civil word all the way across the Pacific."

"If my scrolls are missing, it will be your fault."

"Christ, Chiun. I told you and told you. I did not leave the door unlocked."

"We will see," warned Chiun.

The raft bumped one of the natural stone breakers that jutted from the Sinanju beach, and Remo stepped out to help Chiun onto the slick tumble of rock.

"Thanks," Remo told the sailors.

"Do not say thanks," said Chiun. "Tip them."

"I don't have any money, remember?"

Chiun told the sailors, "You may keep this person if you wish, in place of a proper tip. He is not of much use, but perhaps you can put him to work peeling potatoes."

"Next time, guys," Remo said. And the raft shoved off. The Master of Sinanju strode from the bleak rocks to the stretch of sandy beach. He looked around him, his face unreadable.

"At least I am home, where I am respected by my people," he said solemnly.

"You've got a short memory, Little Father."

"No, it is my villagers who have short memories. In the past, they thought well of you because you had agreed to care for the village and uphold its traditions when I am gone. But a full year has passed. Their memory of your promises has faded from their hardworking minds. Instead, they will remember the great accomplishments of Chiun, who has brought new glory to their lives."

"We'll soon know, because I see people coming now." A small group of villagers stumbled down to the beach. Remo recognized old Pullyang in the lead.

"Pullyang will know if there has been a problem," Remo said confidently.

"Yes," agreed Chiun. "Pullyang will know." He closed his eyes and stuck out his hand so that his worshipful villagers could kiss it as they sang adorations. In a moment, he heard the traditional Korean words in all their glory.

"Hail, Master of Sinanju, who sustains the village and keeps the code faithfully. Our hearts cry a thousand greetings of love and adoration. Joyous are we upon the return of him who graciously throttles the universe."

But his hand remained cool, unwarmed by adoring touches.

"Cut it out," complained Remo. "You're drooling all over my hand. Chiun, how do you get them to stop?"

The Master of Sinanju's hazel eyes blazed open. The sight was a shock to his aged heart. There were the villagers-his people-clustered about Remo, kissing his hands and offering him the traditional greeting.

Chiun stamped a sandaled foot. A nearby barnacled rock split and fell in two sections. Chiun yelled in Korean. "He is not Master yet! I am still Master! I, Chiun. Do you hear me? You, Pullyang, speak to me. Has there been any trouble since last you wrote? Is the treasure safe?"

"Yes," said Pullyang, scurrying to fall at Chiun's feet. "And are my scrolls still in their resting places?"

"Yes, O Master," said Pullyang.

"Pullyang deserted his post," said a pinch-faced woman, running to Chiun's side. "He fled when the devil herons came."

"Herons?" asked Chiun, not understanding.

Pullyang threw himself at Chiun's feet. "I only left to call the villagers back after they fled the coming of the purple birds. They had all deserted the village for the hills. I went after them when the birds were gone."

"You left the House of the Masters unguarded!" shrieked Chiun.

"For minutes only," protested Pullyang.

"Minutes! An empire can fall in seconds."

"No harm was done," Pullyang promised. "I examined the door. It was locked."

"Did you enter?"

"No, I would have had to break the door. That is forbidden."

"Not when it assures that all my property is safe. Come, Remo, we must see to the treasure."

"What's the rush?" Remo said testily. "If it's gone, it's gone. The trail won't get any colder. I want to see Mah-Li. Why isn't she here?"

"Do not be a complete fool. It is forbidden for you to see her. You are to be married."

"What does that have to do with anything?" asked Remo.

"The bride is always placed in seclusion before she is wed. It is traditional in this country. You will see her at the ceremony. "

"When? Next year?"

"No, tomorrow. The wedding is scheduled for tomorrow," snapped Chiun. "Now, are you coming?"

"Tomorrow? Really, Chiun? No tricks?"

"No tricks. Now, will you come?"

"I'm with you," said Remo.

At the door to the House of the Masters, Chiun examined the wood with a critical eye.

"There," said Remo. "It's still sealed."

"We shall see," replied Chiun, pressing the top panels, which released the inner locks. Then he removed the bottom panel, undid the dowel, and pushed the door open.

Remo followed him in. Old Pullyang lit tapers on the floor. Light swelled in the main room, revealing stacks of gold and treasure surrounding the low teak throne of the Master of Sinanju.

"The treasure's still here," Remo pointed out.

"There is more than one treasure of Sinanju," sniffed Chiun, stepping into the next room, where his steamer trunks reposed. Chiun fell upon these and snapped open each lid until all seventeen displayed their contents.

"Looks fine to me," said Remo.

"Someone has been in here," Chiun said softly.

"Says who?" Remo demanded.

"Say I. Look," Chiun said, lifting pinched fingers to Remo's nose.

Remo looked. Something like a silver thread hung from Chiun's fingertips.

"A hair," he said. "So what?"

"Not just any hair, but the hair of the Master Wang."

"Wang?"

"Yes, it is customarily stretched across the receptacle of the oldest, most sacred scrolls of Sinanju and anchored at either end by the saliva of the current Master. It is an honored Sinanju tradition."

"I think it's gotten around since then," Remo said dryly.

"It lay loose, not anchored."

"Maybe it came loose on its own," suggested Remo.

"The adhesive power of Sinanju Masters' saliva is legendary," said Chiun. "This hair was pushed aside by an intruding hand. I must count my scrolls to see if any are missing. Meanwhile, it is your duty to inventory the treasure. "

"And what shall I do, Master?" asked Pullyang.

"You sit in the corner, facing the wall. Your carelessness may have cost Sinanju a priceless relic. I will decide your punishment later."

"Hey, don't be so hard on him," said Remo. "It sounds like he had a good reason for going."

Chiun simply glared at Remo.

"Why don't I check on the treasure?" Remo said, slipping out of the room.

When Remo returned to report that the treasure seemed intact, Chiun nodded absently.

"It is as I thought," he said. "Nothing was taken. Not treasure, not scrolls. But some of the histories of Sinanju have been read, for the ribbons are not tied correctly."

"What do you make of it?" Remo wanted to know.

"Tulip has been here."

"Yeah, I guess we can assume that. Let's get Pullyang's story. "

Old Pullyang squatted in a dark corner of the House of the Masters, his face to the wall.

"Arise, wretch, and face your Master," Chiun commanded.

Pullyang got to his feet and faced Remo. He trembled. "No, not him. I am Master here," spat Chiun. Pullyang turned like a dog. "Yes, Master."

"Your story," Chiun demanded.

And Pullyang babbled a long, convoluted tale of the devil herons which had come down from the stars because poor old Pullyang had foolishly looked up at them. He told about their leathery purple wings and their baleful green eyes and how they perched on the Horns of Welcome, casting no shadows, and how the villagers fled their gaze. All but poor loyal Pullyang, who waited and waited until at last the birds were gone and it was safe for the villagers to return. But the villagers did not know that, and so Pullyang had to go and seek them out.

"I was gone but a few minutes," he finished piteously.

"In which direction did these birds fly away?"

"I did not notice, O Master."

"If they stared at you, and you at them, how could they depart unseen by you?" Chiun demanded.

"It may have been that I closed my eyes momentarily, for their gaze was awful. It seemed to freeze my very soul. "

Chiun placed his hands on his hips and turned to Remo. "What do you make of his prattling?"

"I don't think they were herons, Little Father," Remo said.

"Of course they were herons. This man knows herons when he sees them."

"They were too big for herons," muttered Pullyang.

"Then what were they?" challenged Chiun.

"I do not know," Pullyang quavered. "I have never heard of birds such as these, even in tales of old."

"Nor have I. Therefore they must have been herons-very large herons."

Remo shook his head. "He wasn't describing herons. He was describing pterodactyls."

"I have never heard of birds called that," Chiun countered.

"Pterodactyls aren't birds," said Remo in a strange voice. "They are lizards, I think. But they have wings, like bats."

"There is no such thing in all of Sinanju history," snapped Chiun.

"Were they like bats?" Remo asked Pullyang.

"Their wings, yes. But they had heron-demon faces. I did not know what they were."

"Whatever they were," Remo said, "they sure didn't sneak into this place while the villagers were up in the hills. That means somebody sent them-probably to scare everyone off so he could slip in unseen and go through your scrolls. "

"There are no such birds as you describe, Remo," Chiun insisted. "I think Pullyang is making this up."

"Didn't the villagers admit they saw the birds too?"

"It is a conspiracy, then. The villagers themselves stole in to read the histories. And they will all be punished," added Chiun, looking at Pullyang severely.

"I don't think so," said Remo.

"I say again, there are no such creatures as this wretch describes."

"That's the weird part, Little Father. Pterodactyls don't exist anymore. They haven't existed in millions of years. They're dinosaurs. They all died out before Sinanju came along. "

"If that is so, how would you know of them?" demanded Chiun.

"I read about them when I was a kid. Every American kid knows about pterodactyls and dinosaurs."

"My ancestors would have mentioned such creatures if they existed," said Chiun with finality. "But just to be certain, I will look through my histories for mention of these terrorbirds. How do you spell the name?"

"Got me. But it starts with a P," Remo said.

"P?" sputtered Chiun. "You mean a T, do you not?"

"No, it's P, then T. The P is silent."

"You are making this up, aren't you?"

"No, honest," Remo insisted.

Turning to Pullyang, the Master of Sinanju said, "Go. I will decide your fate later."

Old Pullyang lost no time in finding his way out of the House of the Masters.

"If there's nothing missing," Remo said after some thought, "then there's no real harm done."

"Yes, there is. Whoever entered this dwelling knew how to work the locks. That is a secret reserved for Masters of Sinanju only."

"I didn't do it," protested Remo.

"Nor did I. "

"Then who?"

"I know not. But I will find out. Perhaps as early as the morning. But for now, I am weary and require sleep. Tomorrow will be a stressful day, for I must watch helplessly while the white upon whom I have bestowed the gift of Sinanju weds a maiden he barely knows."

"I'll ignore that crack," said Remo. "But only because I'm in a good mood."

"No doubt you would tell jokes at your own execution."

Chapter 22

He changed planes in London for a KAL flight to Seoul.

He had been a Spaniard during the first leg of his journey, with haughty Castilian features and an inner composure that made people hesitate to intrude upon his thoughts. The simulacrum kept the couple occupying the adjoining seats from bothering him with tourist chatter. For good measure, he had held a paperback book open on his lap, focusing on it, but not reading. It kept the beast inside of him under control.

The flight was uneventful.

Phase One was complete. Remo and Chiun were cut off from their American employer. They would never again work for that country.

At the KAL counter he insisted upon a window seat. The ticket girl was happy to oblige.

"Here you are, Mr. . . ." She paused to look at the ticket. "Mr. Nuihc," she said smilingly.

"Thank you," he said. His name was not Nuihc. Nor was it Osorio, the name he had used on the earlier flight. Now he was a moon-faced Korean, impassive and soft of voice. In the men's room he checked himself in the mirror. Even the mirror reflected the lie that was his face. Yes, it was a good face. No one would bother him during the flight. And that was good, because if the beast started killing, it would kill them all, including the flight crew. And that would be suicide because he did not know how to pilot the big airliner.

As it happened, the seats next to him were empty. He relaxed. This was better than he had hoped. He shut his eyes and dozed.

He awoke when the stewardess screamed.

Smoke boiled from the forward galley. Yellow oxygen masks dropped from the overhead compartments.

A steward in a neat uniform grabbed a dry chemical extinguisher from an overhead rack and doused the flames. After a few minutes the captain came over the intercom and joked that he shouldn't have turned off the no-smoking signs so soon. He explained that a microwave in the galley had shorted and caught fire. An accident.

"Mr. Nuihc" did not think it was an accident. It must have been the beast, the beast inside him that wanted everyone on the plane dead. It had caused the short.

He decided not to sleep for the remainder of the flight. The blond woman came down the aisle after lunch had been served. He had not noticed her during the preboarding wait at Heathrow. She had been seated in front. She was tall and athletic, her blond hair braided in coils on either side of her womanly face. Her eyes were cornflower blue, but as she passed down the aisle they shifted color like a turbulent sea, going from blue to green and green to gray and back again.

She led a small child-who was practically her image except for some residual baby fat in the cheeks-to the rest rooms at the rear of the aircraft.

He recognized the mother, but not the little child, who was bundled up in a snowsuit and parka hood.

Averting his gaze, he gripped the seat armrests tightly. No, not now, he told himself. Please, not now. This was too good, too perfect. You can have her later, beast. Not now. Later. I promise. Later.

But the beast was raging within him. It would have to be unleashed. Below, the ocean sparkled. Desperately his eyes sought a target, a release for the unstoppable force building within. An oil tanker slid into view. Perfect. He focused on it. Silently, it went up in a ball of fire. The plane vibrated in the turbulence of the shock wave.

The blond woman and the child passed him, clutching the seats to keep their balance. Satiated, the beast allowed them to live.

He closed his eyes tightly and kept them shut until the faint natural scent of the woman passed him on the return trip and he knew they were seated and out of his line of sight.

He relaxed again.

In Seoul he would hire a vehicle and see how far north the driver would take him. If necessary, he would walk across the demilitarized zone. It would not be hard. He would walk all the way to his destination if he had to. There was no rush. In North Korea the beast would be fed. And there would be plenty of food for the beast within him, because he knew that the tall woman's ultimate destination, like his own, was the village of Sinanju.

Chapter 23

Mah-Li wept.

She knelt in the middle of the floor of her house, her eyes downcast, regarding the bamboo floor. Rice-paper squares were pasted over her eyes to inhibit her vision. Her long black hair had been put up at the back of her neck and her face was powdered the traditional bridal white. Her tears soaked the rice paper and cut channels through the face powder.

"I long so to see my Remo," she said.

"Hush, child," cautioned one of the elder women of the village, a crone name Yuli, as she repaired the streaks in Mah-Li's makeup. "Custom must be observed. You will see your husband tomorrow at the wedding. You have waited a year. Is one more night too much?"

"I must know if he still loves me," Mah-Li said plaintively. "He did not write. He always writes. What if he rejects me? What if he has found a new lover in the land where he was born?"

"Master Chiun has proclaimed that the wedding will take place tomorrow. Is that not assurance enough? Think upon your fortune, to marry the future Master of the village. That he is white is not important. After all, you are an orphan. You would have no dowry without Master Chiun, and no prospects for marriage."

Mah-Li bowed her head low. Not in shame, but because custom demanded a bride-to-be feign humility on the night before her wedding.

"I know," she said.

"A year ago you were Mah-Li, the orphan. Tomorrow at this time you will be Mah-Li, the next Master's wife."

"I know," repeated Mah-Li. "But a feeling of dread has come over me ever since the purple birds came. Something clutches at my heart. I know not what it is. I wish Remo were here."

"He is not far. Think on that. I must go now."

After Yuli had gone, Mah-Li tried to keep the rice-paper squares in place over her eyes, but she could not. Her tears had soaked into the flour adhesive.

Mah-Li did not hear the footsteps approach the house. The door was not locked, because in Sinanju ordinary homes were never locked. Out of the corner of her eye Mah-Li saw the door open, and she caught a glimpse of a tall figure.

Her indrawn breath was quick and sharp. Remo she told herself. But why had he come? It was against tradition for the groom to invade the bride's quarters before the wedding.

Mah-Li kept her eyes riveted to the floor. Her peripheral vision told her that the man was white. It must be Remo. There were no other whites in all of Sinanju, and no whites in all the world, so far as Mah-Li knew, who walked with the soft cat-padding step of a Master of Sinanju.

Mah-Li's heart pounded within her, wild and uncertain. Whatever Remo wanted, she decided, it was up to him to speak first. Even if it was to tell her that he no longer wanted to marry Mah-Li, poor Mah-Li, the orphan.

Mah-Li closed her liquid eyes and held her breath, waiting.

Chapter 24

Remo Williams awoke to the sound of impatient clapping. "Up, up, lazy one," barked the Master of Sinanju. "Would you sleep through your wedding day?"

"Oww, not so close to my ear, okay, Chiun? I'd like to be able to hear the ceremony." Remo sat up on his sleeping mat, blinking the sleep from his eyes. The Master of Sinanju stood dressed in a flowing white jacket over white cotton trousers. He wore a black stovepipe hat on his nearly hairless head. It was tied under his chin with string.

"What are you supposed to be?" Remo asked, getting up.

"The father of the groom," snapped Chiun, turning to rummage through a pile of clothes heaped on a tatami mat. "But perhaps if I stand in the back during the ceremony, no one will recognize me."

"Very funny," said Remo. "What's that stuff?"

"Your wedding garments."

"There's enough cloth in this pile to outfit the Bolshoi Ballet. I can't wear all that."

"These are the wedding vestments of past Masters," said Chiun, holding up a green-and-blue costume that might have suited a geisha girl. "We must find one that will fit you."

"This isn't exactly my style," commented Remo, examining the cloth. It was pure silk.

"You have no style. But with the proper garments that sad fact might go unnoticed long enough for you to get through the ceremony. Ah, here is a worthy one."

Remo took the offered garment.

"Very colorful," he said dryly. "In fact, I don't think there's a single color in existence not on this thing. Hmmm, wait a minute, I don't see puke yellow. Oh, here it is, in the shape of a cat. See? Under the left armpit."

"That is a badger," snapped Chiun, ripping the cloth from Remo's hand and tossing it onto a second pile. "And you are obviously not worthy to dress in the garment I wore at my wedding."

"That was yours?" said Remo, dumbfounded.

"Try this one. It belonged to Master Ku. "

"I've never looked right in snakeskin," protested Remo. "Besides, this would just about fit a midget if he didn't button it."

"That is exactly the problem," said Chiun, throwing the garment of the Master Ku onto the second pile. "All past Masters of Sinanju have been properly sized. You, on the other hand, are a big clod-footed freak. None of these will fit you."

"How about if I go as I am?" suggested Remo, spreading his arms.

Chiun looked Remo up and down. Remo was dressed in the white T-shirt and black slacks he'd worn to Sinanju. Chiun made a sour face.

"I will work something out," he said, returning to the piles of clothes.

Remo, seeing that this was going to take some time, assumed a lotus position in the middle of the floor and cupped his chin in his hands.

"You don't seem happy, Little Father."

"I am not," said Chiun, taking a frilly yellow garment and tearing off long strips.

"I know you wanted to stay in America, working for Smith. I know you're not happy that I'm getting married, but couldn't you, just for today, pretend my happiness isn't a conspiracy against your well-being? For me?"

"For you, I will see that you are properly attired for your wedding. Is that not enough?"

"Okay," said Remo in a light voice. "Why don't you tell me about the wedding ritual? That pile of rags leads me to believe I'm not being prepared for a quickie civil ceremony. What do I do?"

"After you have properly dressed, you will go to the bride's house riding a suitable steed. There you will meet and drink wine, and promise devotion to your bride, and she to you. It is a simple ritual. Even a white could not mess it up."

"I can't drink wine, you know that. The alcohol would short-circuit my system."

"I take back my rash words. You may be the exception that proves the rule. Never mind, we will worry about that part when we get to it. Ah, this one is good. It matches your eyes."

"It looks like shit, color and texture."

"Yes, your eyes exactly," agreed Chiun, winding the cloth around Remo's forehead and tying it off so that it nearly obscured Remo's vision. He stepped back. "It is a beginning," he said, and with his long fingernails he loosened the seams of a pair of green trousers. "Put these on," he ordered.

Remo climbed into the green trousers.

"The cuffs barely cover my knees," Remo complained. "I look like some twerp whose idea of a day at the beach is to go wading up to his ankles."

"I will take care of that. Stand still!" And kneeling, Chiun wound strips of different-colored cloth around Remo's bare calves with furious motions.

"Not so tight, huh?" Remo pleaded.

"Now the jacket," said Chiun, offering Remo a tigerskin tunic.

Remo held it up. "Too small," he pronounced. "Try it."

Remo did. Without removing the T-shirt, he slipped his arms into the tigerskin jacket. It smelled of must. When he got it on, he tried to close it in front with loop-and-button fasteners.

"No, do not strain it," warned Chiun. "It is fine just like that."

Remo turned. Behind a tapestry was a gold-framed mirror. Remo swept the tapestry aside and looked at his reflection.

"No way," he said firmly. "I look like Elvis Presley as a bag lady. "

"I am sure her wedding garment was equally memorable," Chiun pronounced happily.

"I'm not going to be married dressed like this."

"If you would prefer to have a wedding vestment made specially for you, that could be arranged. But we would have to postpone the wedding two, perhaps three, weeks."

Remo considered. "Okay. But only because you might change your mind if I wait any longer. What's next?"

A timid knocking came from the outer door. "Enter," proclaimed Chiun.

A dirty-faced boy rushed up to the Master of Sinanju and tugged on his trousers. Chiun bent an ear and the boy whispered.

"Excellent, thank you," said Chiun, shooing the boy off.

"What's the secret word?" asked Remo when the boy was gone.

"I am informed that wedding guests have arrived."

"Must be your relatives. I don't have any."

"Do not be so certain," said Chiun.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that it is time for the wedding feast."

"Now? This early?"

"This early? This early?" said Chiun, his hazel eyes blazing. "For a year you have carped and complained, complained and kvetched, because you cannot get married. Now that the day has come, you recoil as from a serpent's tongue. We can call it off if that is your wish. I would be shamed forever, but it could be done."

"Now, I'm not trying to call it off, it's just . . . it's just..."

"Yes? "

"Well, after a year of your stalling, it seems strange that you're suddenly rushing me into this."

"Who is rushing?" said Chiun, pushing Remo out of the room. "Come, your steed awaits."

Remo, trailing loose strips of cloth, followed Chiun to the throne room of the House of the Masters. Outside, a bullock was uprooting stones with his nose.

"I thought you said a suitable steed," Remo said, looking at the bullock.

"Normally it is a pony," explained Chiun. "But if you mounted one of our delicate Korean ponies, you would break its spine. This is the next best thing."

Reluctantly Remo climbed onto the bullock's bowed back. The bullock moaned a low protest.

"I don't think he's used to being ridden," said Remo. "It is just a short ride. Now, sit still, and whatever you do, do not fall off."

"Tell that to the bullock."

And Chiun took up the azalea-garlanded rope and led the bullock down into the village, crying, "Come all, come all, the day of the wedding of Remo the Fair is at hand. Come to the house of Mah-Li."

"You sound like the town crier," Remo whispered, trying to keep his balance. He noticed that Chiun carried something under one arm. It was a wooden duck.

"Going duck hunting?" Remo asked.

"The duck is part of the ceremony. Among my people, the duck is venerated as a symbol of marital fidelity. Fidelity is very important in a marriage. We value it highly. "

"Thank you, Dr. Ruth."

Out of the peak-roofed houses of Sinanju, men, women, and children poured out in the bullock's wake. They laughed and danced and sang. Mostly they laughed, Remo noticed. And they pointed. At him.

"You know, Little Father," Remo whispered tersely, "if I didn't know better, I'd say they're all laughing at me."

"Who wouldn't laugh at a too-tall white man dressed like a ragamuffin and riding a bullock," said Chiun smugly.

"You're doing this on purpose," hissed Remo. "You're trying to make me a laughingstock. "

"No, you are a laughingstock. I did not make you." Remo almost lost his balance as the bullock picked its way down to the shore road, which led to the house of MahLi on the outskirts of the village.

"What's the deal here, Chiun? You're still jealous that the villagers are paying too much attention to me, so you dress me up like a clown to take me down a peg in their eyes. Honk if I'm getting warm."

"Would I do that to you, and on your wedding day?"

"You'd do it to me at my freaking funeral if it served your purposes."

"Hush," warned Chiun. "We are nearly to the house of your bride. Try to compose yourself. You have the pleasant expression of a pig stuck in a tree."

Remo took a deep breath. It felt hot in his throat. Here it is, he thought to himself, my wedding day and I look like Bozo the Clown. Behind him, the villagers of Sinanju formed a ragged noisy line like revelers at a Mardi Gras.

"Hold," said Chiun in a voice loud enough to carry into South Korea. The bullock snorted and stopped at the courtyard of Mah-Li's modest hut.

Two Sinanju maidens dressed in finery stood on either side of Mah-Li's door and bowed as Remo dismounted clumsily.

"What do I do now?" Remo whispered to Chiun.

"Go and bow to the table three times," he said. "And try not to trip over your big feet. "

"I'm nervous," Remo whispered, his heart pounding. The courtyard was decorated with long rice-paper strips on which Korean wishes of good fortune were marked in black ink. A wooden table stood in the middle of the courtyard. A bottle of wine had been placed between a plate of jujube fruit and an empty bowl.

Remo bowed three times before the table. "Now what?" he asked Chiun.

"Stand still. If that is possible."

Off to one side, Remo saw a stack of gold ingots. MahLi's dowry-a gift from Chiun. It was the final CURE payment made to Chiun, one year ago, by Harold Smith.

"Where is she?" asked Remo, looking around.

"Hush," said Chiun.

The two bridesmaids in blue-and-white kimonos opened the hut door. Mah-Li, attired in a splendid bridal costume of red silk, emerged from within. The bridemaids escorted her to the table and Mah-Li stood, her head bowed as if in shame.

The wedding party gathered around. Those who could not fit into the courtyard peered in from outside the little gate. There was some snickering among the solemn faces.

"Look at her, Chiun," Remo whispered. "She's ashamed of me. How could you do this to her?"

"Korean maidens always stand modestly before their husbands-to-be. It is our way. Now, go and stand with her." Remo went around the table and the bride lifted her face. Once again Remo felt that stab of desire in his stomach. The face staring back at him was radiant with a youthful innocence. Her dark eyes were haunting.

"Hello, kid," Remo breathed. "Long time no see." Remo was rewarded by a shy smile and downcast eyes. Officiously Chiun stepped up to the couple and waved the bridesmaids back. Taking a long strip of white cloth, he bound Remo's wrist to those of Mah-Li.

"I bind their hands, this man and this woman, to signify that they are forever united."

Chiun faced the audience, his hands raised as if in invocation. Remo noticed that his birdlike eyes searched the crowd worriedly.

"As the father of the groom, not by blood, but by ties of Sinanju, I hereby accept the dowry of Mah-Li," Chiun proclaimed gesturing to the stacks of gold ingots.

The old pirate, thought Remo. After all that, he ends up with Smith's gold anyway.

"Now all that remains is to join these two in wedlock," said Chiun, who Remo saw was up on tiptoe, trying to see over the heads of the wedding audience. Chiun's face wrinkled concernedly. "Now all that remains is to join these two in wedlock," he repeated in a louder voice. The crowd fidgeted. Chiun pressed on. "But first, I must speak of what it means to be married. Being a husband, like being a wife, means devotion to spouse. But unlike in certain barbarian countries, it requires more than a spouse to make a family. Or a happy marriage. Others should be considered. Especially the elder relatives of the married couple. Some people, in some lands," said Chiun, eyeing Remo closely, "think that marriage means leaving their families. Not in Korea. Not in Sinanju. Here, when a man takes his bride, both are welcomed into the groom's family, making for a larger, happier family. Let us not, because we see this day a new era dawning in our village, abandon the old for the new. "

"Pssst," hissed Remo. "I get the message, okay? Can we wind this up?"

"Cast the old for the tried and true," added Chiun, pleased that he had made part of his speech rhyme. His neck bobbed this way and that, scanning the stolid faces of the wedding party.

"By custom, the groom will spend the next three days here, in the bride's house," Chiun went on distractedly. "At the end of the third day, the newlyweds will be obligated to come and live in the house of the male line. Because the groom is from a foreign land and not one of us by birth, I will now ask him to agree to our honored custom. "

And Chiun turned to face Remo, grinning like a cat. "Yes," Remo said, brittle-voiced. Under his breath he added, "You always get your way, don't you?"

"Only when it counts," Chiun answered, turning his back on the bride and groom so that he again faced the wedding party. Remo saw his shoulders lift, a sure sign of a deep breath and the beginning of another long-winded oratory. Remo wondered if Chiun intended to stretch the ceremony over the whole three-day honeymoon.

Abruptly Chiun turned to face them again.

"I now ask the bride to say that she accepts the groom." Remo heard, for the first time since he had returned to Sinanju, Mah-Li's sweet voice whisper a breathy, "Yes."

"I now ask the groom," intoned Chiun, "if he accepts the maiden as his bride, today and forever."

"I do," said Remo.

Chiun faced the crowd one last time. He raised his hands so that the sleeves of his costume fell back, exposing spindly arms.

"I now ask those assembled here to witness this marriage. And before I pronounce them wed, I further ask if there is anyone present who objects to the joining of these two. "

The crowd gasped with one voice. Such a question had never before been asked at a Sinanju wedding. Was it some strange American custom? How were they to respond? The members of the wedding party looked at one another blankly.

And through the crowd, a tiny face pushed out from between the legs of Pullyang, causing the old village caretaker to cackle with surprise. Tiny brown eyes fixed on Remo Williams and widened suddenly.

"Daddy, Daddy!" a childish voice said, a smile breaking over a cherubic face.

Remo blinked. A tiny figure bundled in a blue snowsuit toddled up and wrapped stubby arms around his right leg. "What's this?" Remo asked awkwardly.

The Master of Sinanju hurled the wooden duck to the ground, causing its head to snap off. He clapped his hands once, sharply.

"There has been a mistake," he proclaimed. "This man is not pure. I declare this marriage invalid because the groom is not a virgin."

"Not a . . ." sputtered Remo. "Since when is that news? "

"The bride did not know," said Chiun. "Only one who is pure in mind and body may take a Sinanju maiden to wive. Remo, I am ashamed of you for leading her to believe otherwise when the proof of your unchaste behavior clings to your leg for all to see."

Remo turned. "Mah-Li, I don't know what this is all about," he said, anxiously. "Honest."

"You do not?" a woman's crisp voice asked from the crowd.

Remo's head snapped around. The voice. It was familiar. Standing at the front of the crowd, draped in a forest-green cloak, was a tall blond woman with coils of hair on either side of her face. Her eyes shone an angry green, and then darkened to a flat unfriendly gray.

"Jilda!" gasped Remo.

Chapter 25

It had all happened so fast that Remo Williams was paralyzed by surprise.

Jilda of Lakluun stood before him, throwing back her long cloak to reveal a Viking warrior costume of leather and chain mail. She wore a short dagger clipped to her belt.

"How?" Remo sputtered. "I mean, hi! Uh, what are you doing here?"

"Before you wed this woman," Jilda said frostily, "you should look upon your child. Then if it is your wish to wed, so be it. "

Remo looked down. Troubled brown eyes stared up at him. The child hugged Remo's leg tightly.

Remo looked up, his face stricken. "Mine?"

Jilda of Lakluun nodded severely. "Ours." Remo turned to his betrothed. "Mah-Li, I . . ."

But she was no longer standing there. Remo saw that the white strips of cloth that had bound their wrists together dangled loosely from his arm. And the door to Mah-Li's house slammed shut after a scarlet train of silk.

The Master of Sinanju stepped to Remo's side and lifted the child from Remo's leg. He faced the wedding audience, holding the child above his head with both hands:

"Do not feel sad, my people. For although no wedding will take place on this day, behold the son of my adopted son by the warrior woman Jilda of Lakluun!"

The people of Sinanju started to cheer. But the cheering died in their throats.

"White," they whispered. "It is white. Are no Koreans ever again to take responsibility for our little village?" Remo stepped in front of Chiun:

"You did this," he said. "You told Jilda about the wedding."

Chiun stepped around Remo so the audience could see the child, who stared wide-eyed and uncomprehending at the wedding party.

"Later," he hissed. "This is the crucial moment. The village must accept your son as Sinanju."

"What am I going to tell Mah-Li?" Remo said hotly.

"She will find another. Mah-Li is young; her heart is resilient. Now, be silent!" Again Chiun addressed the crowd. "You call this child white," he cried. "It is white-now. But within a year he will be less white. In five, you will not be able to tell him from a village child. And in twenty, he will be Sinanju in mind and body and soul."

"His eyes are round," a boy said.

"He will grow out of it," insisted Chiun. "Already the sun source burns within him. After Master Chiun, there will be Master Remo. And after Master Remo, there will be this one, Master . . . What is his name?" he asked Jilda from the side of his mouth.

"Freya, daughter of Remo," Jilda said.

"Freya, daughter o-" Chiun's mouth froze on the open vowel.

The villagers broke into howling laughter. They pointed at the little girl and openly mocked Remo's tattered figure. Remo looked at Freya, at Jilda, and again at Freya. He mouthed the question: Daughter? Jilda nodded.

Abruptly the Master of Sinanju handed the child to her mother, his face bitter. He waded into the crowd.

"Away! Away with you all! What follows here is not for the ears of common villagers."

Reluctantly the village people started to drift off. Curiosity slowed their feet. But at an angry exhortation from Master Chiun, they broke and ran. The Master was beside himself with fury. They understood it was not safe to remain.

Chiun waited until the last flop of sandaled feet had faded from hearing. He faced Remo and Jilda.

"You tricked me!" Remo said.

"And me," added Jilda. "Your letter told me nothing about a wedding. Only that my presence was urgently required."

Chiun dismissed their complaints with flapping hands. "Trivia! I will not hear of it! Do you not realize what has happened here?"

"Yes," Remo said bitterly. "You ruined my life."

"Your life! Your life! What about mine? I am shamed. You are shamed. We are all shamed."

"What have I to feel shame for?" asked Jilda, patting Freya's head. Frightened by Chiun's strident voice, the little girl had buried her face in Jilda's shoulder.

"For this!" said Chiun, pulling back the hood of Freya's snowsuit. It came off like a golf-club cover, revealing hair like new gold.

Remo and Jilda looked at Chiun blankly.

Seeing their expressions, Chiun stamped a foot and spoke his shame aloud, which only made it worse. "A female. The firstborn of my adopted son, the next Master of Sinanju, is a lowly female."

"So what?" said Remo.

"Yes, so?" agreed Jilda.

Chiun pulled at the hair tufts over his ears in frustration. "So what! So what! She is useless. Masters of Sinanju have always been male."

"I have not given permission that this child be entered into Sinanju training," Jilda said firmly.

"Your permission is not needed," snapped Chiun. "This does not concern you, only Remo, the child, and me."

"I am the child's mother."

"Has she been weaned?"

"Of course. She is nearly four years old."

"That means your work is done. Remo is the father and I the grandfather-in spirit, of course. We make all decisions concerning the child's future. But it does not matter now. Everyone knows that females are uneducable. Their bodies cannot handle Sinanju. They are good only for cooking and breeding. In that order."

"Have you forgotten, old man, that I was the representative of my people at your Master's Trial? Only Remo and I survived that ordeal. I am female and a warrior, too."

"A warrior is not an assassin," Chiun spat. "My people will never again look upon us with respect. It is your fault, Remo. You gave this woman the wrong seed. You should have given her a good male seed, not an inferior female seed."

"I'm a father," Remo said bewilderedly. He reached out to touch the little girl's hair. It felt soft and fine.

"You sound surprised," snorted Chiun. "You knew that she bore your seed when you and this woman parted after the Master's Trial."

"I asked that you not tell him," Jilda said accusingly. "You promised to keep this child our secret."

"He had to know. The child bears the spirit of Sinanju. Or at least I supposed it had. Why did you not tell me it was a female?"

"This is Remo's child. The rest does not matter."

And at that particular piece of white imbecility, the Master of Sinanju threw up his hands.

"I give up! I am ruined. Disgraced. And no one understands. "

But neither Remo nor Jilda was listening. Remo was stroking his daughter's head as Jilda looked on tenderly. The tension seeped from her face, to be replaced by a mother's contented pride.

"Hi, there," Remo said quietly. "You don't know me, but I'm your daddy."

Little Freya looked up. "Daddy," she giggled, reaching for Remo's face. "I missed you."

"May I?" Remo asked. Jilda nodded.

Remo took his child in his arms. She was heavier than he had expected. Freya had most of Jilda's features, but her face was rounder. Her eyes were as brown as Remo's, but not as deeply set.

"How could you miss me?" Remo asked. "You've never met me before today."

Freya hugged Remo's neck. "Because you're my daddy," she answered. "All little girls miss their daddies. Don't they?"

"Awww," said Remo, hugging her tightly.

"Uggh!" said Chiun, turning his back disdainfully.

"Little Father, maybe you should go for a walk or something," Remo suggested. "Jilda and I have things to discuss. "

"If anyone wants me," Chiun muttered, "I will be committing suicide. Not that anyone cares." He strode up the shore path, his stovepipe hat rocking to his angry gait.

Jilda took Freya from Remo and placed her on the ground. "Play, child," she bade her daughter.

"Why didn't you tell me about her?" Remo asked, watching Freya playing with the good-luck streamers.

"You know my reasons."

"I want to hear them from you."

"After the Master's trial, when I knew that I carried your child, I understood that there could be no place for me in your life. Nor you in mine. I did not belong in Sinanju. I could not be with you in America. Your work is dangerous. You have many enemies-and one enemy in particular. I could not risk this child's life. Keeping my own counsel was the only way I knew to avoid our facing an impossible choice."

"I almost went after you, you know."

"I would have fled," Jilda said.

"But you're here now," Remo pointed out.

"I received a letter from Master Chiun, bidding me to come to Sinanju. I was told you were in danger, and that only my and our child's presence would save you."

"Yeah," Remo said bitterly. "From matrimony."

"Do you love her?" Jilda asked, nodding toward the closed door of Mah-Li's house.

"I think so. I thought I did. Seeing you here again has me all confused. I thought we'd never meet again. And now this."

"I, too, feel mixed emotions. Seeing you about to wed was like a sword sliding into my belly. I hold you to no promises, Remo, for we made none to each other. Your life is your own. As is mine."

"It's different now. I don't work for America. I'm planning on settling here."

"Then perhaps it is time that we face the hard choices we fled from when last we were together," said Jilda, smiling tentatively.

Impulsively Remo took her in his strong arms and kissed her. Freya broke out in bubbly laughter. "Mommy and Daddy like each other!" she said, clapping her hands with glee.

"Let's go for a walk," Remo suggested. "The three of us."

"What about her?" asked Jilda.

Remo shot a guilty glance at the house of Mah-Li. "One insurmountable problem at a time," he said, reaching out to take Jilda by one hand and Freya with the other. It felt right somehow.

Chapter 26

The Master of Sinanju sat amid the splendor of his treasure. His parchment face was strained. Before him the scrolls of Sinanju stood upright in glazed celadon holders. Chiun went from one to another, searching for guidance.

There was no precedent in all the history of Sinanju for such a thing. Never before had a Master failed to produce a male on the first try. Masters of Sinanju, being absolute masters of their bodies, possessed the ability to produce males at will. Remo had been taught the exercises that built up the male seed so that there was no chance for error. But of course, Remo, being lazy, had complained about the exercises.

And now this. Chiun hoped to discover guidance in the writings of his ancestors. Perhaps the child should be sacrificed to the sea, as was done in past times when the village was without sufficient food. The infants were drowned in the cold waters of Sinanju harbor.

But there was no record of that ever being done with the offspring of the Masters. Perhaps, Chiun thought, that meant that he was free to create his own solution. It had been a rare thing, these last five centuries, for a reigning Master to inaugurate new traditions, and a faint smile tugged at his dry lips at the thought of entering another first in the records of the Master Chiun.

But that still left the problem.

Chiun heard Remo's approach before the knocking started.

"That door is thousands of years old," Chiun said. "If you break it with your ridiculous knocking, I will hold you personally responsible."

The door opened with a splintering crash. Wood chips flew everywhere.

"Are you mad?" cried Chiun, horror wrinkling his face. "This is a desecration!"

"Look, don't give me any of that crap," Remo shouted back. He had changed out of his makeshift wedding costume. "It's all your fault I'm in this mess."

"I am the one who is in a mess. I have to decide what is to be done about the daughter you have inflicted upon me."

"Inflicted? What kind of talk is that?"

"Sinanju talk. Men are born into the world. Women are inflicted upon it."

"Not in my book," Remo said.

"No, but in my scrolls. How could you sire a female? Had I taught you nothing? You knew the exercises."

"Those weren't exercises. They were torture."

"A minor sacrifice to ensure a male is produced."

"I don't call drinking fish oil for a week before I do it, holding a pomegranate in my right hand and poppy seeds in my mouth while I'm doing it, and plucking my eyebrows afterward minor sacrifices."

"The eyebrow plucking can be dispensed with," Chiun said dismissively. "It is only for luck."

"Look, Jilda and I have been talking. There's a chance we can come to an understanding about our future."

"I might agree to that."

"Might?"

"On one condition. She sells the baby."

"No chance. How could you even ask that?"

"According to Sinanju tradition, the firstborn is trained in Sinanju. But never women. She must be trained, but she cannot be trained because she is female. It is a conundrum I cannot resolve."

"Solve it later. I've got a problem too. What about Mah-Li? I love her, but after what's happened, she probably hates me. "

"I will speak with her."

"I think I should be the one. But I don't know what to say to her. I need your help."

"Help?" muttered Chiun, picking through his scrolls. "Ah, this one covers that eventuality," he said, unrolling it. "Listen, 'In the event that the Master must break off his betrothal to one woman because he has stupidly sired a female first born by another, matters can be brought to a balance by offering said child to the jilted one and trying for a boy with the other.' "

"What? Let me see that," demanded Remo, snatching up the scroll. He ran his eyes down the parchment. "It says no such thing. This is all about lineage."

Chiun shrugged. "It was worth a try," he said.

"I really like the way you play fast and loose with my life."

"I was not the one who got one woman with child and tried to marry another one."

"I hadn't seen Jilda in over four years. I didn't even know where to find her. And she didn't want to be found. What was I to do? It took me long enough to get over her the first time. "

The Master of Sinanju replaced the scroll thoughtfully. "We must deal with this one unpleasant step at a time," he announced. "Come, we will visit Mah-Li."

"Fine," said Remo. But as he followed Chiun along the shore road, his heart beat high in his throat. He forced his breathing lower in his stomach, trying to get a grip on his emotions.

The decorated courtyard was deserted when they arrived. Wind plucked at the good-luck streamers forlornly. A loon flew up from the tipped bowl of jujubes, and the wine had been spilled.

Remo knocked at the door. There was no answer. "Maybe we'd better come back," he suggested nervously. "It might be too soon."

"It will only be harder tomorrow," said Chiun, pushing on the door. Remo followed him in.

The main room was empty of all but a low table and some sitting mats.

"Mah-Li?" Remo called. His voice bounced off the bare walls.

Chiun raised,his nose. His nostrils clenched. "Smell," he commanded.

"What is it?"

"Death," said Chiun. "Come."

In the next room, the bedroom, Mah-Li lay on her sleeping mat, still in wedding costume. She lay with her face turned to the ceiling, pale hands folded upon her breast. Her eyes were closed. The room was still. Too still.

Remo pushed past Chiun. He knelt and tapped on Mah-Li's shoulder.

"Mah-Li? It's me," he whispered.

There was no response. And Remo suddenly, shockingly, recognized why the room was too still. He could not hear Mah-Li's heartbeat.

"Mah-Li!" he cried, lifting her head in his hands. Mah-Li's head lolled to face him. Her cheek was cool to the touch, her face the flat color of antique ivory. From the corner of one closed eye a dried tear had streaked down her cheek and under her chin. The tear was red.

Although he knew what the tear meant, Remo touched her throat. His trembling fingertip detected no pulse. Remo looked up into the stern face of the Master of Sinanju. His expression was stricken.

"She's dead," he said hoarsely. Chiun knelt and felt her face.

"What could have happened?" Remo asked, his voice cracking. "She was fine at the ceremony. That was only an hour ago. Little Father, can you explain this?" And Remo's mouth drew into a thin line.

The Master of Sinanju undid the high collar at Mah-Li's throat, disclosing a purple braise no larger than a dime. "A blow," he said. "Look."

The bruise was over the larynx. Remo felt it. One touch told him that the windpipe had been collapsed. He looked up.

Chiun nodded. "A single finger stroke did that."

"Whoever did this knew what he was doing. If it wasn't for the blood, I would suspect Sinanju."

Remo looked down at the face of the woman he was to have married. Even in death, it was a peaceful face. "Little Father," Remo said in a faraway voice. "Did you do this?"

Chiun came to his feet, girding his kimono about, his waist.

"I will assume that your grief has caused you to ask that question, and not you," he said. "Therefore, I will answer it and not take offense. No, I did not slay this poor child of my village. Such a thing would be sacrilege."

"Well, if I didn't do it, and you didn't, who did?"

"The murderer may still be about. Come, let us hunt the dog."

Carefully Remo lifted Mah-Li's head off his lap and set it on the sleeping mat. Unable to tear his eyes from her face, he stood up.

"Whoever he was, he couldn't get far in an hour," he said.

"Your grief has blinded you, Remo. Did you not see how the blood has dried on her cheek? That poor girl was slain last night."

"But the wedding was only an hour ago. She was there."

"Not her. Someone who looked like her."

"Something's not right here," said Remo.

"Come." Chiun beckoned. "There are answers to be sought. "

The Master of Sinanju stormed out of the house of Mah-Li, his face grim. Remo started after him, stopped, and dropped to one knee beside the body of Mah-Li. He kissed her once, on her slightly parted lips. They were cold and tasteless.

"I wish-" Remo started to say, but his voice choked off and he hurried from the house.

The Master of Sinanju waited for him in the courtyard. "We will accomplish more if we go our separate ways," he said.

"After this is over," Remo said grimly, "we may go our separate ways in more ways than one." His eyes were the color of a beer bottle that had been left out in the elements, dull and devoid of sparkle.

"If that is your wish, then so be it," said Chiun proudly. "I am content that I have done only what is right for my people and my village."

"Yeah, I noticed," Remo muttered, starting off.

Chiun watched him go. Remo's hands were clenched into white fists of rage. His back was straight and defiant, but the Master of Sinanju saw that his pupil walked with his head bowed, like a man who did not care where he was going-or one who had no place to go.

Shaking his head sadly, he turned to the shore road. And saw the man standing on the rocks.

The man was short. He stood with his hands on his hips, defiantly. His face was swathed, like his body, in black folds of cloth. And from the patch of uncovered skin at his face, slanted black eyes laughed insolently.

"You are not content to be a thief, ninja," Chiun hissed under his breath. "Now you are a murderer as well."

And as if the ninja could hear him across the rocks, he laughed out loud. The laugh was a rattle of contempt. "Remo!" Chiun shouted. "Behold!"

Remo whirled, his eyes following Chiun's accusing finger.

The ninja jumped back and disappeared behind the tumbled rocks of the beach.

Without a word, Remo burst into motion. He flashed past Chiun like a wild wind. The Master of Sinanju leapt after him.

"It is he, the thief from America," said Chiun.

"He did this," Remo bit out. "And he's going to suffer for it."

Together they topped the rocks and swept the beach below with their eyes.

"He is not here," said Chiun in a puzzled voice.

"Must be hiding," Remo decided, jumping onto the sand. "He couldn't have gotten far."

"But where?" said Chiun, following. "There is no place to hide."

Remo didn't answer. He ran along the beach, looking for footprints. But there were none.

Remo doubled back. "Other way," he said, passing the Master of Sinanju.

Chiun reversed direction too. Remo was running so fast his toes, touching the ripples of beach sand, left almost no mark. Chiun nodded. Remo was almost good enough to be Master now. Even in his grief he remembered to control his feet.

Chiun looked back to see the marks his own sandaled feet left. There were none. Good. Chiun was still Master. Chiun caught up to Remo at the base of one of the towering Horns of Welcome. Remo was talking to someone. Chiun recognized the wizened form of old Pullyang, the village caretaker.

"You didn't see anyone?" Remo asked incredulously. He told Chiun, "Pullyang says nobody came this way."

"Impossible," Chiun insisted. "There are no tracks going the other way."

"And none this way," said Remo. "Except Pullyang's."

"He was in black, a thief of ninja," Chiun told Pullyang. "You must have see him."

The old man shrugged helplessly as if to say: Is that my fault?

Chiun said, "Away with you, then, useless one."

He noticed Remo staring at him, an odd expression on his face.

"Remo? What is it?"

"You said ninja," Remo muttered. "So?"

"Chiun," Remo said slowly, "I saw him clear as day. He wasn't a ninja. He was that kung-fu beach bum from Washington-Adonis."

"He was the ninja. His eyes were Japanese."

"That's not what I saw."

"Perhaps both thieves have come here," suggested Chiun.

"I saw you point at a man on the rocks, and it was Adonis. "

"I pointed at a ninja. That is what I saw."

"And we both saw him jump behind the rocks," Remo said. "You know what I think? I think we saw what someone wanted us to see."

"I think that you are right."

Remo looked around. "Hey, where'd Pullyang go?" Chiun looked about angrily. Pullyang was gone. Chiun frowned.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Remo asked.

"I am thinking that Pullyang's footsteps start at the rocks and end at our feet," Chiun said, gesturing to the sand, "as if he ascended into the sky."

"We'd better get back to the village. There's no telling what this phantom-whoever he is-is up to."

"Then we are together on this?"

"Until I say different," said Remo.

Chapter 27

The Master of Sinanju summoned his people to the village square with a bronze gong that was held in a hornbeam frame by springs so strong that no known mallet could make it ring.

Chiun stepped up to the gong and tapped its center with a single finger. Its deep reverberations caused the scavenging sea gulls to fly from the square in fright.

The villagers came running. Never in the memory of the village of Sinanju had the Gong of Judgment been sounded. Never had there been a crime in the village while a Master was in residence.

They came, the old and the young, their faces etched in lines of shock, and clustered around the gong.

"Assemble before me, my people," commanded Chiun. His eyes seemed to fix every face, so that each felt that the Master of Sinanju was probing his own innermost thoughts.

When the villagers had formed a ragged semicircle before the Master of Sinanju-the adults holding their children before them with hands on their shoulders and the infants slung on their hips-Chiun lifted his voice to the sky.

"Death has come to Sinanju," he proclaimed.

The villagers hushed as if the sky were slowly pressing down upon their heads.

"Mah-Li, the betrothed of Remo, has been murdered." The faces of the villagers took on a stony quality. It was as if they had suddenly become one emotionless, extended family.

"I seek her murderer among you," Chiun said. Remo came up behind Chiun.

"I checked every hut," he said quietly. "Empty. They're all here."

Chiun nodded without taking his eyes off the crowd. "Jilda and the child?" he asked.

"I put them in the treasure house. I fixed and locked the doors too."

"Then our murderer is among those assembled. "

"Maybe," Remo whispered. "How can we tell if he can make himself look like anyone he wants?"

"Pullyang, step forward," Chiun commanded.

From out of the crowd, walking like a dog that expected a whipping, came old Pullyang, the caretaker. He stood before Chiun, his legs trembling inside dirty trousers.

"Were you down at the beach today?" Chiun asked.

"No, Master," Pullyang quavered.

"At all?"

"No, O Master," Pullyang repeated.

"I saw you at the beach not five minutes ago," insisted Chiun. "I spoke with you, and you with me."

"I was not there."

"My son says that you were," Chiun said sternly.

"That's right, I saw you," agreed Remo.

Pullyang fell to his knees. "Not I! Not I! I have been with my grandchildren all day," Pullyang cried.

Chiun looked down upon the pitiful figure, but no pity crossed his wrinkled countenance.

"If my words are not true," Chiun intoned, "you must call me a liar, and my adopted son a liar too, before the village. Will you do this?"

"Not I. I cannot call you a liar, but neither would I lie to you."

"You lied about the purple herons," Chiun said.

"I saw them!"

"And I saw you at the shore," said Chiun distantly. "Arise, Pullyang, faithful caretaker, and see to your grandchildren. "

Remo asked Chiun, "If the murderer is here, he could look like anyone. How are we going to tell him from the others?"

"We will find a way. This crime will be punished."

"Just remember," said Remo, "who's going to do the punishing. "

"We will see. It is against Sinanju law for a Master to harm a villager, no matter the reason."

"Try to stop me," said Remo, looking at the blank faces watching him fearfully.

"I may do that," Chiun said softly, stepping around the clot of villagers, his hands clasped behind his back like a general reviewing troops.

"You, Pak," said Chiun, pointing at a young man. "Name your father."

"Hui, O Master."

"Good. Go stand beside the Gong of Judgment. I will ask each of you a question. My question will be easy. Those who answer correctly will stand with Pak. And woe to him whose face is not known to me."

For an hour the Master of Sinanju inquired of each villager, from the oldest man to the youngest speaking child, a question of family tradition or Sinanju history. All answered correctly. And all went to stand with Pak until the village square was empty of all but the blowing plum-tree leaves.

"He's not here," said Remo impatiently. "He got away."

"All my villagers are accounted for," admitted Chiun. "Let's leave them here and search the entire village."

"Agreed," said Chiun. "But beware, my son. We may be facing sorcery. Our abilities are not always proof against such things. "

"I don't believe in that crap," said Remo, stalking off.

Chiun followed him. "You saw that crap with your own eyes, heard the words with your own ears. Was that not Pullyang's voice you heard coming from a mouth that looked like Pullyang's?"

"It wasn't black magic."

"What it was we have yet to discover. But it was. You know that as well as I. Come, let us speak with Jilda."

"Why?"

"Did you test her to see if she was truly who she seemed?"

"I know Jilda when I see her."

"And I have known Pullyang since I was a child. We shall see."

The door to the House of the Masters was closed, but not locked. Chiun's sharp vision told him that much even from a distance.

"I thought you locked the door," he said, picking up his pace.

"I did," Remo replied sullenly.

"It is not locked now."

Remo broke into a run. He went through the door like a thunderbolt.

"Jilda!" Remo's cry was strangled with anguish.

The Master of Sinanju swept into the throne room, taking in the treasure with a glance. Satisfied that it was undisturbed, he joined Remo in the guestroom. Remo was trying to shake Jilda awake.

"Remo," she said thickly, stirring from a sitting mat.

"What happened?" Remo asked.

Jilda of Lakluun looked around dazedly. Her eyes were a milky, confused gray.

"I do not recall. Was I asleep?"

"Yeah," said Remo. "Don't you remember?"

"I waited here as you bade me to do. Freya wanted to play with the other children. She grew cranky. The last thing I recall is telling her to mind her manners. There my memory stops." As she looked around the room and saw only Remo and Chiun, Jilda's voice shrank. "Freya . . ."

"Check the other rooms," Remo said.

The Master of Sinanju disappeared like steam from an open valve. When he returned, his cold expression had melted into the frightened face of a grandparent.

"Remo! She is gone!"

Jilda of Lakluun drew her cloak around her as if the room's temperature had dropped. She said nothing, her eyes growing reflective.

"Come on, Chiun," Remo said. "We're going to find her. "

"Remo!" Jilda called suddenly. Remo paused at the door. "My Freya is a guest of your village. If anything has happened to her, it will be upon your head."

Remo said nothing, and then he was gone. Outside, it had grown dark.

"Something is wrong here," Chiun said ominously. "It should not be dark for two hours yet."

"Forget the Sinanju almanac," Remo snapped. "We have to find my daughter."

In the square, the villagers huddled together. They, too, knew that it lacked two hours to sunset, but darkness mantled the little village like a doom.

"Look!" quavered Pullyang. "See! I did not lie. They are back."

Remo looked. Down by the shore, two creatures circled on their purplish-pink bat wings, their hatchet faces twitching on gooselike necks.

"Pterodactyls," Remo breathed. "I was right."

"I have never seen such things," said Chiun. "But I understand this much. They are circling prey."

"Oh, no," groaned Remo. He flashed to the rocks that ringed the shore and hit the sand running as the pterodactyls dipped lower, their spiky tails whipping excitedly.

On the beach, running on tiny legs, was a little girl with blond hair.

"Freya!" Remo called. "Hang on, babe. I'm coming." The pterodactyls swooped down like blue jays worrying a cat. Freya kept running, her face haunted.

Remo ran after her, his feet blurring as he concentrated on his breathing. In Sinanju, proper breathing was all. It unlocked the latent powers of the human body. Remo's breathing flattened as he ran and his feet picked up speed until he was running faster than the pterodactyls could fly:

Freya's little legs churned. She glanced back in fear just as a rock was coming up in her path.

Remo yelled, "Watch the rock!" He saw Freya trip. He leapt for her.

But the pterodactyls were closer. One twisted away and came at Remo, talons grasping. Remo chopped once, but the claw was somehow faster than his lightning reflex. He ducked under a billowing wing and came up behind the ungainly thing. About to launch a kick at the back of its saclike body, Remo suddenly forgot his situation.

The other pterodactyl landed where Freya had fallen and folded its beating wings in a quick gathering motion. It returned to the sky, its long neck straining. Clutched in its hanging talons, a tiny figure wriggled like a worm.

"No!" Remo screamed.

The pterodactyl glided out over the water.

Remo plunged after it. His feet did not kick up any sand as he ran. And when he hit the water, he did not plunge in, but kept running, his feet moving so fast they did not break through the heaving waves. He was running on top of the waves, his momentum so great that gravity could not pull him down.

Remo narrowed his focus. Only the pterodactyl existed for him now. The pterodactyl with a little girl in its claws-Remo's daughter. He wasn't going to lose her too. All the awesome power that was Sinanju burned within him, forcing every muscle to function in perfect harmony.

He was only dimly aware of Chiun's voice behind him. "I am with you, my son."

Remo didn't answer. He was gaining on the ugly reptile. Its tail lashed tantalizingly within reach.

"Yes," said Chiun, as if reading Remo's mind. "The tail. If you can snare it, you may bring him down. Do not worry about the child. I will catch her when the devil heron lets go. Or I will plunge into the sea and rescue her. You stop that monstrosity. Trust the Master of Sinanju to preserve the life of your child."

The tail danced closer. Remo knew he would have only one shot. Once he went for the tail, he would lose the momentum that kept his feet from sinking. One shot. He wasn't going to blow it.

Remo took his shot. He saw his right hand close over the purple tail. Then the sea rose up to swallow him. Still hanging on, he let himself sink. He'd drag the pterodactyl to the ocean bottom and tear it to pieces. Please, God, he prayed as the cold clutched his muscles, don't let Chiun fail.

The water was like a wall of ice. It numbed his body. He could not tell whether he still had the tail. His fist felt like a rock. Remo reached out, found his wrist, and reached up toward his clutching hand. No way that thing would shake a two-handed grip.

But Remo felt nothing. The sea was too dark. He couldn't see if he still had the tail. God, do I have it? I couldn't have missed. Please don't let me have missed.

And suddenly, as if the sun had been turned on, the sea flooded with light. Remo saw that his fists were clutching seaweed. Frantically he kicked his feet, trying to get back his equilibrium. There was no sign of the pterodactyl.

The Master of Sinanju, his cheeks puffing air bubbles, swam up and tapped him on the shoulder. He shook his head no.

Remo kicked free. When he broke the surface, he saw the sun was out again. It was low in the horizon. The skies were clear.

Chiun's wrinkled face surfaced beside him.

"She is gone." Remo thought tears streamed down his wrinkled face, but it might have been seawater. "My beautiful granddaughter is gone!"

"I don't see the pterodactyl. It's got to be down there!" Remo slipped under the surf, Chiun following.

Grimly they searched, their lungs releasing pent oxygen in infinitesimal amounts. A half-hour passed without their breaking for air. The ocean floor was rocky and forbidding. Few fish swam. And although they scoured the ocean floor for more than a mile around, they found no bodies. Only the green crabs of the West Korea Bay, which had been known to eat the flesh of drowned villagers.

Fearfully Remo dived into a group of them feeding on the ocean floor, scattering them with his hands. He uncovered a fragment of white meat. A flat silver eye stared at him. A fish.

When the sun disappeared beneath the waves, they gave up. "I am so sorry, Remo," Chiun said chokingly. "I saw you grasp the tail, and when the bird fell, I reached out for the poor innocent child. I thought I had her. But once underwater, my arms were empty. "

"I couldn't have missed that tail," Remo said.

"You did not," Chiun told him.

"I had the tail and you saw the bird come down. But there's no bird down there."

"What does it mean?" asked Chiun.

"Come on," Remo said grimly, settling into the overhand swimming stroke that was favored by Sinanju. He made for the shore.

Jilda was waiting on the beach. She stood tall and grim, her hands clutching the seams of her cloak. Her womanly face reflected neither grief nor resignation. She was too proud a warrior for either emotion.

"You failed," she said in an arid voice.

"You watched us. What did you see?" asked Remo.

"You fell on the ugly bird. It crashed into the sea. And the two of you come back empty-handed. Could you not have at least returned my child's body to me?"

"She's not out there," Remo said flatly. And he struck off for the village.

Jilda spun on Chiun. "What does he mean? I saw-"

"You saw a darkness fall and lift in an hour's time," said Chiun. "Did you believe that?"

"I do not know."

"Distrusting your senses is the first step toward truly seeing," said Chiun, taking Jilda by the arm. "Come."

"And what should I trust, if not the evidence of my eyes?"

Chiun nodded in the direction of Remo's purposeful figure.

"Trust in the father of your child, for he is of Sinanju."

Chapter 28

Jilda of Lakluun caught up with Remo. "Tell me," she said.

"Quiet," snapped Remo as they approached the village proper. "He can hear us."

Jilda grabbed Remo by the arm. The muscle felt like a warm stone. "I care not about who can hear," she said. "Are you so cold that you do not care about your own child?"

Remo took Jilda by the shoulders. He put his face close to hers. "The pterodactyls weren't real," he whispered. "I grabbed the tail and ended up with air. There was nothing there."

"I saw my child fall into the sea."

"You saw what someone wanted you to see. Someone who is close enough to influence our minds and manipulate the images we all see. And if he's who I think he is, we've got our work cut out for us."

"You know who it is?"

"I have an idea," Remo said, looking toward Chiun, who stood with his hands resolutely folded in his kimono sleeves. Chiun nodded.

"For once, my son has reached a truth before me," he said proudly. And he bowed in Remo's direction.

"Save the grease," Remo said sharply. "We have things to settle between us, you and I."

"Tell me one thing," Jilda said anxiously. "Is my daughter dead or alive?"

"I don't know," Remo admitted. "But forget what we saw at the beach. That wasn't Freya. An illusion can't lift a flesh-and-blood child and carry her out to sea."

"Illusion?" said Jilda. "You mean it is-"

"The Dutchman," said Remo. "There's no other explanation. He knew how to unlock the treasure house. Probably learned that from Nuihc, the bastard. He got into Chiun's scrolls, learned about CURE, and used that information to make as much trouble for us as possible. Now he's followed us back to Sinanju to finish the job."

"I remember him from the Master's Trial," said Jilda. "He is as powerful as you in Sinanju, and his evil mind can make us see any witchery he cares to conjure."

"He's the reason you fled from me in the first place," Remo said bitterly. "It's because of him you and I couldn't be together. And now he's killed Mah-Li. He's going to pay for that."

"Remember, Remo," Chiun interjected. "He is like you, a white who is trained in Sinanju. But he is also the Other, the yin to your yang."

"And I can't kill him, because if he dies, I die," Remo said grimly. "I haven't forgotten that. But I'll tell you this, Chiun. I may not kill him, but I'm going to bring him right to the damned edge. When I'm done with him, he's never going to kill anyone again. Ever." Remo headed back toward the village.

A faraway-sounding voice stopped him. "Remo."

Remo's sensitive hearing fixed on the voice. It was Mah-Li's voice, light and silvery. But the line of rocks from which the voice came was empty.

"Remo." It was her voice again.

Remo looked around, and saw her. She was standing beside the house that Remo had started to build a year ago. She wore her high-waisted scarlet bridal costume and she smiled at him warmly, gesturing to the open door of the unfinished house.

"Come, Remo. Come, it is your wedding night. Don't you want me, Remo?" The voice was Mah-Li's, but the tone mocked him.

"You son of a bitch," said Remo.

The Master of Sinanju tried to stop his pupil, but Remo Williams moved too rapidly. Chiun's fingers brushed Remo's bare arm impotently.

"He is baiting you, Remo," Chiun called. "Do not forget your training. No anger. Anger gives him the edge." Then the music started, the dissonant music that came from the diseased mind of Jeremiah Purcell, who had become known as the Dutchman during his years of solitude on the island of Saint Martin after the death of his trainer, Chiun's evil nephew, Nuihc. The air filled with colors and Remo found himself caught in a psychedelic tunnel of light. There was no road, no sky, and no house with the Dutchman standing there invitingly. It was all bands and swirls of colored light. Remo kept running anyway, but he was stumbling through a world that did not exist except in his own mind. His foot struck something hard-a rock or a tree root-and he went sliding on his chest, dirt spraying into his open mouth.

Remo shut his eyes. At the end of his slide he got to his feet, spitting to clear his mouth. But even with his eyes closed he saw the colors and heard the music.

"Eating dirt on the wedding night," said the voice that sounded like Mah-Li. "Is that a new Sinanju custom?"

"You can't hide behind your illusions forever," Remo warned.

Abruptly the colors spun into a coalescing dot and exploded like fireworks. The last sparks faded and Remo could see again. Chiun and Jilda were standing not far from him, their eyes blinking stupidly. They, too, had been made to see the colors.

"I am not afraid to face you." The voice was that of Adonis. He walked calmly toward Remo, a smug smile on his wide tanned face.

"Remo. Beware," warned Chiun.

"But you are afraid of me." And suddenly he was a ninja in black costume with one round blue eye and one slanted black eye.

"Not me," said Remo.

"If you kill me, you die," crowed the Dutchman, reverting to his natural form. His blond hair swished like a lion's mane.

"He is baiting you," said Chiun.

"So what?" barked Remo, setting himself. "If he kills me, he dies too. It goes both ways-doesn't it, Jeremiah?"

"Do you not see?" Chiun said. "Look at his eyes. They are full of madness. He wants to die. He has nothing to lose. "

The Dutchman stopped in his tracks and set his fists on his hips. A sea breeze made his purple fighting costume flap against his arms and legs. He opened his mouth and a laugh rattled out as if it were produced by a mechanism keyed to the throwing-back of his head. It was not a human sound.

From the yellow sash girding his waist he plucked a pair of rimless glasses and tossed them at Remo's feet.

Remo looked down. They were Smith's glasses.

"I have killed your intended bride, your daughter, and your former employer. Take your revenge now, if you dare. "

"I dare," said Remo, leaping into the air. He executed a magnificent Heron Drop, rising over thirty feet into the air. At the apex of his leap, he dropped sharply toward the lifted face of the Dutchman. But the Dutchman stood his ground, prepared to receive a death kick in the face. And Remo knew, too late, that Chiun was right. The Dutchman wanted to die. But at the last possible moment the Dutchman shot out a hand and caught Remo's right ankle as it came down. Spinning like a discus thrower, he redirected the energy of Remo's descent into a wide arc. He let go. Remo flew in a straight line, smashing against the side of his unfinished house. He landed in a tangle of splintered bamboo and teak.

The Dutchman's voice filtered into his mind. "Come, Remo. We have all night to die. Perhaps I will kill your Viking dyke of a lover before I extinguish your life."

Remo jumped to his feet. He came out the door like a cannonball, hitting the door with his palm. The door flew ahead of him and bounced along on its corners like a square wheel.

The Dutchman stood laughing. Behind him Jilda lifted the dagger from her leather belt. She crept up behind him. Remo caught the bouncing door and flipped it like a Frisbee. It sailed high, then sank like a pitcher's fastball. Remo hoped it would distract him just long enough.

The Dutchman watched the door lift and then plunge in his direction. It would be easy to avoid. Had Remo learned nothing in the years since they had last clashed?

He saw the hands a split-second before the dagger slid under his jaw. So that was it. It had almost worked too. "My child. Speak of her fate," Jilda of Lakluun hissed, pulling his hair back to expose his throat.

"Your hands are so gnarled, Jilda," he said smoothly. "How can you even use them?"

Jilda recoiled. The dagger dropped. Her fingers stiffened as if petrified. She held them up, and saw with widening eyes that they were like dried wood, as if tree limbs had grown into the rough shape of her hands.

The Dutchman turned. "Old dry wood," he mocked. "Not warrior's hands. Good for firewood only."

The fingers ignited first. The flames were blue and ethereal but they crept toward her wrists and then raced toward her elbows, which had also turned to wood.

"An illusion! It is only an illusion!" Jilda cried.

"Not the flames," corrected the Dutchman.

"Yes! Illusion!" she said, squeezing her eyes against the pain.

The Dutchman stepped back as the Master of Sinanju took Jilda and forced her to the ground, rolling her in the dirt to smother the fire.

"The flames are real," Chiun said. "It is one of his true sorceries. "

"Now watch, old man," called the Dutchman, "and you will see who is truly worthy of becoming the next Master of Sinanju." He turned his attention to Remo Williams once again.

Remo's face was warped with pain and rage. He was only yards away now, and coming like an angry arrow.

"You are looking well," said the Dutchman. "I only wish your wedding-excuse me, our wedding-had not been interrupted. I had in mind for you a most memorable honeymoon."

Remo came in with both hands held open. He grasped thin air. The real Dutchman materialized behind him. "Pitiful," said the Dutchman. "You have learned nothing. I am still your superior. Nuihc trained me as a child, while you came to Sinanju as an adult. I will always have that advantdge."

And to show his contempt, he turned his back on Remo. "Now we are equal," he said, folding his arms.

Remo sent out a sweeping kick. The Dutchman jumped in place, expertly avoiding it. He spun with the jump and sent out a stiff-fingered blow. Remo parried it with crossed wrists. Hooking the back of his enemy's knee with a toe, Remo sent the Dutchman into a spinning cartwheel. He landed on his back.

"Who's superior now?" asked Remo, placing a conquering foot on top of the Dutchman's heaving chest. Remo pressed down until he heard the crackle of straining cartilage. The Dutchman's unreal blue eyes flared.

"I underestimated you, Remo. Very well, slay me, if that is your wish."

"No, Remo," Chiun said. The Master of Sinanju leapt to Remo's side.

"Stay out of this, Chiun," Remo warned. And while he glared at Chiun, the Dutchman saw his opportunity. Steelhard fingers took Remo's ankle and twisted once. Remo cried out. He floundered away in pain, hopping on one foot.

The Dutchman pushed himself erect and said, "Your powers of concentration are pathetic. How did you survive your initial training?"

Remo found his feet. "Some people think I'm pretty good," he answered. When he leaned on his right foot, it hurt. But he felt no grinding from broken bones. The pain wasn't important.

"Mah-Li does not think so. She is in the Void now, her spirit crying out that you could not protect her. Your child, your employer, they are eternal testaments to your incompetence. "

"Get ready to join them," said Remo, advancing menancingly.

"No, Remo." It was Jilda's voice. "He knows where my Freya is, whether she is dead or alive. Do not kill him. Please."

"Listen to her, Remo," Chiun said. The Master of Sinanju stood over Jilda, his hands fluttering helplessly. He could not kill the Dutchman without killing his pupil. It was between the two white Masters of Sinanju now.

"Listen to me," cried the Dutchman. "You will only beat me by killing me. I want you to do that, Remo. I have killed those closest to you. I could kill you. I prefer that you kill yourself by killing me."

Remo said nothing. His eyes were focused on that open mocking face. Nothing else mattered now. It was just him and the Dutchman. The warning cries of Chiun were faint in his ears, as if all Remo's energies had been diverted from his surroundings to his enemy. The Dutchman was only four paces away, then three, then two, then . . .

Remo's fist blow went to the solar plexus. It would have felled a strong tree, but the Dutchman had hardened his stomach muscles in anticipation of the blow. He bounced back several feet, but retained his balance.

The Dutchman grinned at him. "A poor blow. Your elbow was bent. But that has always been your problem, hasn't it?" Remo came on, silent and purposeful. There was something in his eyes, the Dutchman saw. Something that was not anger, something that did not belong in the eyes of a human being, even one trained in Sinanju.

"You're going to tell me where Freya is, scum," Remo said levelly.

"Where?" mocked the Dutchman. "Why, she is all around us. I fed one piece to a sea gull, some to the snakes, and the rest to the crabs. I don't believe in wasting good meat, do you? Especially such tender, sweet meat."

Remo's hand was quicker than the Dutchman's eye by the merest of microseconds, but it was enough. He snared the Dutchman's long hair and twisted his head around. Remo shoved him down on one knee, his hands locking about the Dutchman's smooth neck from behind.

Remo began squeezing. "Tell-me-where-she-is," he said through grinding teeth. "Tell-me-where-my-daughter-is." Jeremiah Purcell strained for Remo's hands. His pale fingers were frantic, but it was as if they struggled with stone. Remo's death grip on his throat was unshakable. He twisted and fought in vain, and as his field of vision began to redden like boiling blood, he panicked. He hadn't expected it to end this way. Remo had cut off the oxygen flow to his lungs, disturbing his breathing rhythms. For the first time, the Dutchman felt fear. He realized he did not want to die, but Remo was squeezing the life out of him. Darkness rolled across his vision even with his eyes open wide.

The Dutchman tried to summon up an image, but the beast would not respond. Instead, there was a voice, cold and metallic.

"You can fight or you can beg," Remo was saying into his ear. "But I won't let go until you tell me where my daughter is. Can you hear me, Purcell? You'd better be serious about dying because I'm serious about killing you."

No, no, Jeremiah said wordlessly. It can't end like this. I'm not done. O beast, help me. But the beast in him was cowed, as helpless as he was before this true Master of Sinanju.

Finally, with his sight darkening like a falling curtain, Jeremiah Purcell relaxed his clawing fingers and spread them out in an unmistakable gesture of surrender.

"You giving up, huh?" demanded Remo, still squeezing. "You want me to let go. Is that it? Maybe I'm not ready. Maybe I don't want to let you go at all. Maybe I want to finish the job, you scum."

"No, Remo," Chiun said. His voice was suddenly close. "If you must kill this man, do it with a clear mind. Listen to me. Should he die, he takes not only your life but also the truth of Freya's fate with him."

With a final savage shake of the Dutchman's neck, Remo let go. His hands were like claws as he stood up, his fingers clenched so tightly they could not fully open.

"Where?" demanded Remo, his chest heaving.

The Dutchman curled up like an insect that had been set afire. His hands held his throat. He coughed rackingly. It was many minutes before the coughing subsided and he was able to speak.

"She is in the House of the Masters. While you were busy chasing my images, I placed her in one of the steamer trunks. "

"You son of a bitch," hissed Remo, going for the Dutchman's throat again.

"No," Jeremiah Purcell said, cowering. "I did not kill her. Think of me what you wish, but like you, I am Sinanju. To kill a child is forbidden. The illusion of her death was only to provoke you."

"All right," said Remo. "We'll check it out. You be here when I get back."

"Why?"

"I still want a piece of you. Isn't that what you want?"

"Yes," said the Dutchman in an unconvincing voice. "It is what I want."

Chiun stood over the huddled figure in purple silk.

"I will stand guard over this one while you see to your child, Remo."

Chapter 29

The Master of Sinanju waited until Remo and Jilda of Lakluun disappeared from view. He bent over the Dutchman's cringing form.

"Forget the pain in your throat," Chiun said softly. " Focus on your breathing. My son has robbed you of breath, disrupting your inner harmony. Take slow sips. Hold them deep in the stomach before releasing the bad air. That is it. Good. "

The Dutchman found the strength to sit up. His eyes were glazed like a birthday cake.

"He was. . . " The words rattled in the throat. The Dutchman coughed painfully.

"He was stronger than you expected," finished Chiun. "Yes. He is a different Remo now. He knows who he is. He understands that he is the avatar of Shiva on earth. The knowledge troubles him, but he has taken an important step in his development. I sometimes think he is almost as powerful as I. Almost."

"My powers are greater."

"Your capacity for destruction is greater, that is all. Nuihc has taught you well. Although he is long dust, I still rue the day I taught him Sinanju. Are you able to walk?"

The Dutchman nodded. "I think so."

"Stand up, then. You will follow me into the village."

"No. I will wait here for your pupil's return. "

"You no longer wish death. I saw it in your face. And Remo will surely kill you when he returns."

"I'm not afraid of him," the Dutchman said sullenly.

"You are, whether you admit it or not. And I am afraid for my son. If you agree to follow me into the village, I will see that you live to see another day."

"You slew Nuihc, who was like a father to me," said the Dutchman in a bitter voice. "I will make no deals with you. "

"And I will make none with you, carrion who murdered a child of my village," blazed Chiun. He slapped the Dutchman across the face. "If it were within my power to snuff out your base life without extinguishing Remo's with the same stroke, you would now be so much scavenger food. Arise! "

The Dutchman stumbled to his feet. His face was red where Chiun had slapped him. His eyes were strange. "You will come with me to the village."

The Dutchman nodded numbly.

The Master of Sinanju walked two paces behind the Dutchman so that he could watch him at all times. The Dutchman walked unsteadily. His confidence was gone, Chiun knew. He had allowed himself to be manhandled by Remo. That was bad enough. But he had also displayed cowardice in combat-a trait that was considered unSinanju. The discovery that he feared death in spite of his boasts had shaken this white youth. He was still turning the realization over in his mind. What was left of it. For Chiun knew that the Dutchman walked along the edge of madness. It had been his lot ever since he discovered his mutant powers. They had always been accompanied by a strange desire to kill, which the Dutchman called the beast. It had never been fully controllable.

As they descended into the sheltered village, Chiun began speaking quietly.

"You see the square below?"

"Yes," the Dutchman said woodenly. "You see my villagers there?"

"Yes. "

"When we reach the square, we will walk among my people. They will be curious. They will come close to see you better. Can you still use your mind powers?"

"I think so."

"Be certain. Imagine for me a butterfly. A pretty summer butterfly. "

The Dutchman concentrated. About his head, black wings fluttered in the moonlight. A butterfly. But Chiun saw that the butterfly, although having a beautiful pattern to its veined wings, had a flaming skull for a head. Despite himself, Chiun shuddered.

"You will use your power of mind," Chiun went on, "in this fashion. . . . "

Remo found Freya in the first trunk he opened. His ears had zeroed in on her heartbeat as soon as he entered the House of the Masters. Surprisingly, the heartbeat was very calm.

"Are you okay?" Remo asked, lifting her into his arms. Freya looked at him seriously, but her face was unafraid. "I'm okay. Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Remo laughed. "I'm okay."

"Hi, Mommy."

"I would hug you, my child," Jilda said warmly, holding out her seared arms, "but I cannot. Your father will hug you for me."

"What happened to your hands, Mommy? Did you burn them? "

"Never mind, child. It is nothing."

"She takes after you," Remo said admiringly.

"How do you mean?"

"Brave. The both of you. Locked in a trunk for a couple of hours. I'll bet you didn't even cry, did you?" Remo asked Freya.

"Nope," replied Freya. "Why should I cry? I knew you'd come to get me out. Isn't that what daddies are for?"

"Yes, sweetheart," Remo said. "That's what daddies are for. "

"Did I tell you about my pony?" Freya asked. "His name is Thor. I ride him every day. "

"Hush," said Jilda. She turned to Remo. "As long as the Dutchman lives, none of us are safe. What can you do with him that will not cause your own destruction?"

"I don't know," answered Remo. "I'll think of something, because no one is ever going to lay a hand on this little girl again. Right, Freya?"

"Right," Freya said stoutly, making a little fist. "We'll beat him up. Pow!"

Remo set Freya down. He searched Jilda's face. "We gotta talk," he said seriously.

"My arms need attention," she said, holding them up.

The skin was singed to the elbow. Remo examined her carefully.

"Not good," he decided. "But not bad. Chiun knows a lot of healing stuff. I'll bet he can have you swinging a sword again inside of a month."

And Remo smiled. Jilda smiled back.

"I think he wants to be kissed again, Mommy," said Freya, looking up with innocent eyes.

Remo and Jilda laughed.

Their laughter was cut short by the sound of commotion from outside.

"Sounds like a riot," Remo said. He made for the door.

"Stay, Freya," Jilda warned, and followed Remo. Remo stepped out of the House of the Masters and almost fell over the figure of the Dutchman. Reflexively he grabbed him by his long hair. A thin scream-not the Dutchman's-pierced his ears.

"You're not fooling me, Purcell," said Remo, tossing the Dutchman to the ground. He fell like a rag doll. He must still be weak, Remo thought.

Remo had set himself, in case it was an act, when another Dutchman came around the corner.

Remo took the second Dutchman by the arm. Again there was no resistance. But the second Dutchman pointed to the first and in an old woman's voice cried, "The evil one. I must escape." The sounds of confusion down in the square grew more frantic.

Dragging both Dutchmen to the edge of the hillock on which the House of the Masters stood, Remo saw a hundred figures in purple silk running wildly through the village, bumping and stumbling in a frenzied effort to escape each other.

In their midst, the Master of Sinanju danced about like a chicken running amok.

"Chiun?" Remo called. "What the hell happened?"

"Are you blind? Can you not see?" Chiun shouted back. "I see a million Dutchmen everywhere."

"That is what I see too," said Jilda.

The gabble of Korean voices told Remo that each villager saw the others as Dutchman. They ran from one another, not knowing which one-if any-was the real Dutchman.

"Damn!" said Remo. "Chiun, here's what you do. Knock 'em out. Knock them all out. We'll sort them later." Remo took the two Dutchmen in his hands and squeezed nerves in their necks. They collapsed like deflated party balloons.

"You watch Freya," Remo told Jilda, and leapt down to the square.

It was easy work. Remo simply ran through the village, taking necks at random. No one fought back. Remo was too fast, and every neck he squeezed was as unresisting as a kitten's. Remo worked his way toward Chiun, who was busy performing the same operation, except that Remo let them lie where they fell and Chiun made little piles of purpleclad Dutchmen.

They ended up back-to-back in the village square, Dutchmen falling all around their feet.

"What happened?" Remo demanded.

"He got away and worked his magic. As you can see," Chiun explained.

"You were supposed to keep him under guard," Remo said, gently lowering a Dutchman to the ground.

"He recovered more swiftly than I expected," Chiun complained, taking two necks at once. Two identical Dutchmen closed their neon-blue eyes and joined other heaps of purple-clad figures.

"Dammit, Chiun. You know how dangerous he is," Remo said.

"Yes," Chiun said evenly. "I know how dangerous he is. "

After the entire square became littered with unconscious Dutchmen, Remo and Chiun worked their way out to the huts and hovels of the village. They found other Dutchmen cowering under the raised floors and in darkened rooms. They dragged every last one into the open.

"I think this is the last," said Chiun, lugging a body over his frail shoulders and depositing him in a pile.

"How can you tell?" asked Remo, joining him.

"Because I count 334 Dutchmen. "

"So? "

"That is precisely the number of villagers in Sinanju."

"That means we don't have the right one."

"Really, Remo," said Chiun, surveying his handiwork with a certain pride. "That should be obvious to you. If the true Dutchman had succumbed, his illusion would have vanished with his consciousness."

"Yeah, you're right. What do we do now?"

"I think I saw someone running toward the East Road. Did you intercept one of the false Dutchman going that way? "

"No," said Remo.

"Then I suggest you go swiftly along the East Road if you wish to settle with your enemy. "

"You seem awfully eager to see me go," Remo said suspiciously.

Chiun shrugged. "I cannot stop you if you are bent upon your own destruction."

Remo hesitated.

"Or you can help me sort my villagers. Perhaps the Dutchman is among them."

"I'll see you later," Remo said evenly, taking off.

"I will guard your woman and your child while you are gone," said Chiun loudly. Under his breath he added, "On your wild-goose chase."

Remo Williams took the inland road away from the village of Sinanju. A simple dirt road, it ran for several hundred yards and suddenly diverged into three superhighways that were bare of traffic. Beyond the horizon, the smoky glow of the most heavily industrialized section of North Korea obscured the stars. The bite of chemical wastes abraded Remo's lungs. Although the East Road was deserted, Remo set off at a dead run. If the Dutchman had taken this road, Remo would catch up with him. But somehow Remo didn't think the Dutchman had taken the East Road at all. He had known Chiun too long and he figured this was one of his tricks. But Remo was not sure, so he ran and ran, eating up miles of black asphalt with his feet and getting further and further away, he suspected, from his ultimate enemy on earth.

In Sinanju, the villagers began to wake up. Their resemblance to the Dutchman faded slowly, like a double exposure. The phenomenon told the Master of Sinanju that the Dutchman had escaped safely.

Chiun roused some of the slow ones with massaging fingers applied to their necks. It increased the flow of oxygen-carrying blood to their brains, reviving them faster than a shot of stimulant.

Jilda watched with Freya at her side.

"What if Remo does not come back?" she asked.

"He will," Chiun said absently.

"Not if he finds the Dutchman."

"He will not. I told Remo that the Dutchman took the East Road. If he decides to believe me, he will take the East Road and waste his time. If he chose not to believe me, he will take either the North or South road."

"I understand," said Jilda. "There is only a one-in-three chance that Remo took the correct road."

"No," said Chiun, whispering encouragement to a waking villager. "The chance is none in three. The Dutchman took the shore road."

"Then why did you send Remo along the East Road?"

"Because I have spent two decades training him and do not wish to lose him foolishly."

"He will know he has been tricked."

"Remo is used to being tricked. If his mind were as strong as his body, he would be the greatest Master Sinanju has ever known."

"None of us are safe as long as the Dutchman lives."

"I do not claim to have achieved a solution to this problem," Chiun said, shooing the last of his villagers away. "Only that I have postponed one tragic result."

The three stood alone in the silent village square. The only light came from the moon. Chiun took in a deep breath of sea air. It was cold and bitter.

When Remo returned, his shoulders sloped dejectedly. "He got away," he said.

"Is that a bad thing?" asked Chiun.

"We gotta get him. Now. Today. This can't go on. We can't have him hanging over our lives like this."

"I think it is not my life he hangs over," said Chiun. "I think it is yours. And are you so eager to end your life that you will pursue your inevitable mutual destruction with this man? "

"If we're going to die because of one another, I'd rather get it over with," Remo said seriously.

"How white," Chiun remarked nastily. "Oh, it is too much of a burden to wait and plan a solution to my problem. I would rather commit suicide than live in such uncertainty."

"It's not that way, Chiun, and you know it."

"Oh? Then how is it, Remo? You cannot kill this man. Let him go lick his wounds. You are stronger than he is. He knows that now. Perhaps he will never return."

"You're forgetting that he killed Mah-Li."

"And you are forgetting that beside you stand your child and the woman who bore her."

"That's exactly why I have to take care of the Dutchman," Remo said. "Don't you see that? They're not safe as long as he's alive. He won't stop until he's murdered everyone in my life. I'm going after him. Are you going to tell me which way he went-or am I going to have to waste a lot of precious time?"

"Very well," Chiun said, drawing himself up proudly. "He took the shore road."

"See you later, then."

"If that is your wish. You will miss the funeral. But it does not matter. A person so bent on self-destruction that he would leave without saying good-bye to his only child and the child's mother is obviously above pausing to pay his respects to the woman he almost married. The woman he claims to have loved."

Remo stopped in his tracks. He did not turn around. "Postpone the funeral," he said.

"Sinanju law. Burial must be on the evening of the passing of the villager. I cannot bend Sinanju law, not even for you. But go. I will tell the villagers that you would not attend the funeral because you did not truly love her. I have been saying it for months, and now you are proving it to me."

Remo turned to face the Master of Sinanju. The resolve vanished from his face. "You always have an answer, don't you, Chiun?"

"No," said Chiun, turning his back on Remo. "It is you who always have a problem. But I like that in you. It makes life so interesting. Now, let us bury our dead."

Chapter 30

Cold moonlight washed the funeral of the maiden Mah-Li like an astringent solution.

The funeral procession began in front of the House of the Masters. The entire village wore white, the traditional Korean color of mourning. Villagers carried the rosewood coffin on a palanquin. Remo and Chiun walked just ahead of the litter, the remaining villagers trailing behind, carrying incense burners and making no more noise than the sea mists rolling off the bay.

Jilda walked in the rear, her arms bandaged, Freya beside her.

The procession followed the shore road to the plum-tree-shaded burial ground of the village of Sinanju. Every Sinanju villager was entitled to a mound of dirt in the burial plot, with a small stone or pillar to mark his or her life.

The palanquin was set on the ground beside an open hole. After a moment of silence in which the villagers were allowed a final view of the face of the deceased, the coffin was closed.

The Master of Sinanju watched his pupil, Remo Williams, as the lid closed on the face of his beloved for the final time. There was no expression on his face. No shock, no grief, no nothing. Chiun's parchment countenance frowned.

Chiun stepped before the villagers.

"Think not that Mah-Li is dead," he said, looking squarely at Remo. "She was a flower whose perfume has made our lives sweeter, but all flowers wither. Some with age, some by disease, and others by cruel acts. So it was here. But let this be said of Mah-Li, if nothing else. That she was a flower who left us while her perfume was still fragrant in our nostrils, and our last sight of her face gave us the pleasure of her smooth skin and her innocent nature. No one will remember this child as stooped or wrinkled or infirm. I decree that future generations, when they speak of Mah-Li, will know her as Mah-Li the Flower." Chiun paused.

The villagers wept silently. Only Remo stood unmoved. "Before we let the maiden Mah-Li settle into her final rest, I will ask her beloved, my adopted son, Remo, to speak of her memory."

Remo stepped forward like a robot. He looked down at the coffin.

"A year ago I took a vow to protect this village and everyone in it," Remo said. "My vow to you today is that the man who did this will pay dearly. No matter what it costs me." And Remo stepped back.

Chiun, unsettled by the raw edge in Remo's voice, signaled for the coffin to be lowered into the ground. Shovels began cutting into the mound of loose dirt beside the hole, and with dull, final sounds, clods of barren earth fell upon the coffin.

The people of Sinanju stood respectfully as the coffin was covered. Except Remo Williams. Without a word, he stormed off.

Chiun lowered his head sadly. Tonight, he thought, felt like the end of so many things.

Remo took the shore road, the wind whipping the loose cotton of his white funeral costume. He had no destination in mind. He was just walking.

He came to the house he had built with his own hands and never finished. The doorway gaped cavernously like the eye of a skull. There was a hole in one wall, where the Dutchman had hurled him, and no roof. It was the final touch he had not gotten around to.

Remo stepped inside. The interior was a single square room filled with starlight so bright Remo could see the hairs on the back of his hand clearly. He squatted in the middle of the room and lifted his face to the sky. It was brilliant with stars. They lay in wreaths and pools, like diamonds awash in celestial milk. In all his years in America, Remo had never seen such a beautiful night sky. Its haunting glory made him want to cry. But he knew that if he shed tears now, they would not be in tribute to the beauty of creation, but over the waste of earthy dreams.

The Master of Sinanju appeared in the doorway. He said nothing. Remo did not acknowledge his presence, although both men knew that each was aware of the other.

Finally Chiun spoke.

"It is customary to speak of the cherished memory of a loved one at a funeral, not to voice vengeance."

If Chiun expected an answer, he was disappointed. Remo continued to ignore him.

Realizing that his pupil was not going to take the bait, Chiun asked in a gentler voice, "What is it you do here, my son?"

Remo's throat worked as he struggled to answer. His words were thick.

"I was trying to visualize how it would have been."

"Ah," said Chiun, understanding.

"I'm trying to imagine the furniture," Remo went on in a distant voice. "Where the cooking fire would be, how the noodles would be drying out in the courtyard with the radishes in their big rattan bowls. The sleeping mats would be over there. How every morning she would wake me up with a kiss. I keep trying to see the children we won't ever have. And you know what, Chiun?" Remo said, his voice cracking.

"What?"

"I can't," Remo said, choking on the words. Chiun frowned.

"I can't imagine it. No matter how hard I try, I can't imagine how it would be. For a solid year I daydreamed about it all the time. I knew exactly how it would feel and smell and taste, but now I can't even bring back the memory of that dream."

Remo buried his head in his arms.

Chiun stepped inside and settled into a lotus position before his pupil. He waited.

"Why can't I do that, Chiun? Why can't I bring back the memory? It's all I have left."

"Because you know it was only a dream, and you have awakened from it."

Remo looked up. For the first time since the funeral procession, his face registered emotion. Anguish. His eyes were like old pennies, worn and impossibly sad.

"I had such plans, Chiun. Sinanju was going to be my home. No more Smith, no more killing. No more of any of it. Why couldn't I be happy? Just once. Finally. After all the shit I've had to live through."

"Let me explain something to you, Remo," the Master of Sinanju said quietly. "That which you call the 'shit,' that is life. Life is struggle. Do you think happiness can come to one such as you by living peacefully in a small ugly village surrounded by backward peasants? No. Not you. Not I. Why do you think I have lived in America these last two decades? Because I enjoy breathing brown air? To live is to struggle. To continue to exist is to respond to challenge."

"My life is screwed up," said Remo.

"You are the finest example of human power to walk the earth in our time-next to me, of course-and you say that your life is screwed up. You belong, not to me, not to Mah-Li, not even to Jilda and little Freya, Remo, but to a greater destiny. You act as if your life is over when truly it is just beginning. "

"I grew up in an orphanage. Having a family I could call my own was my greatest dream. I'd give up Sinanju for a normal life, a house with a white picket fence, and a wife and kids."

"No, you would not. You say it, but in your heart you do not mean it."

"How would you know what I mean?"

"I know you. Perhaps better than you do yourself."

"It's such a simple dream," Remo said. "Why can't it come true for me?"

"I remember when I married," said Chiun. "I, too, was filled with such yearnings. I married young, and my wife, although beautiful on our wedding day, grew shrill and old before her time. Have I ever told you about my wife?"

"Yeah. And I don't want to hear it again."

"Too bad. I am going to tell you anyway. In the past, you heard the lessons of past Masters of Sinanju from my lips. Of Wang, of Kung, of little Gi. But I have never told you the great lesson of the Master Chiun."

"Wrong. I know that one by heart," Remo said bitterly. "Never accept checks."

"I will ignore that," said Chiun, his squeaky voice dropping into the dramatic tone he used when telling lessons of past Masters. "I have always told you that my wife was barren, and having no heir, I was forced to train the son of my brother-in-law, Nuihc, in the art of Sinanju."

"Yeah," interrupted Remo. "And Nuihc went off to freelance for himself, sent no tribute back to the village, and you were left without a pupil. Until Smith hired you to train me. And even though I was a white who couldn't keep his elbow straight, you made do. And we took care of Nuihc. But he had trained Purcell, so now we have the same old problem of a renegade Master. He just wears a different face. Did I leave anything out?"

"How eloquent," Chiun said tartly. "But I have never told you the full story. About the time I had a son of my own. I will tell you that story now."

"Go ahead. I'm not going anywhere," Remo said resignedly, but the Master of Sinanju recognized the first stirrings of interest in his voice.

"The son who was born to me was named Song. He was a fine boy, lean of limb, with skin like tallow and intelligent eyes. I took him as my pupil, of course. And as the years passed, my heart swelled with pride as he learned, first the breathing, then the early exercises. He learned quickly, and the quicker he learned, the faster I pushed him along the path to greatness."

"Sounds familiar," said Remo.

"Oh, do not think that I have trained you hard. I have trained you rigorously, but compared to my dead son, Song, you have been loafing through the stages of Sinanju. In truth, I pushed too hard. I have never admitted this to anyone, but I killed my own son."

"You, Chiun? That's terrible."

"I did not kill with a stroke, or a blow, or a kick. I did not spill his blood with my own hands. I killed with pride. It was the first day of the spring, when the villagers were flying their kites to welcome the season. My son wished to join them. He was but eight. His ninth summer lay ahead of him, but it would be a summer as dark as night-although no one knew that on the day I tore his kite from his hands and marched him to Mount Paektusan.

"We stood at the bottom of Mount Paektusan. And I said to my son, 'If you are truly the son of my wife, you will climb Mount Paektusan in one day.' And my son say to me, 'O my father, I cannot. It is too high and my hands are too small.'

"And I said to him, 'The Master Go climbed Mount Paektusan when he was nine. Before him, no Master had climbed Mount Paektusan before his twelfth summer. I see greatness in you, and unless you wish to give the lie to my judgment, you will climb this peak before your ninth birthday. Begin now.' "

The Master of Sinanju smoothed the lap of his mourning kimono with thoughtful hands before going on. "Reluctantly my son began his climb. I sat in the melting spring snows to await him. I knew he would not make it on his first try, but I was determined that he would one day succeed, and if necessary, I would bring him to the base of Mount Paektusan every day until he succeeded or the summer rains made me a fool."

"He didn't make it," Remo said.

"On the first day," continued Chiun, "I watched him ascend until he was a spider speck against the snows of the high mountain and he disappeared into the upper mists. He had gone very high. I could tell, because at times falls of snow indicated that he was nearing the summit. I remember a moment on that day when I was very, very proud. But time passed, and my son did not descend from Mount Paektusan. I waited, determined that if he reached the summit on his own, he would descend on his own. I was stubborn. The sun set on my pride and it arose upon a stubborn young man-for I was young in those days-and when my son did not return, I scaled the peak to reach him, angry and intending to berate him for his lack of resolve.

"I found him near the summit," Chiun said softly, looking at his hands in his lap. "To this day, I do not know if he fell trying to reach the summit or while climbing down from it. The last of the snow had melted that morning, and there were no traces of his climb. My son lay on a wet outcropping, where he had fallen and dashed his head. He had been dead for many hours, but it had taken him many hours to die. Had I been less stubborn, I might have found him in time. I carried his body home to his mother, and from that day on she never had a civil word for me, nor would she allow me to enter her so that I would have another son and an opportunity for atonement. In time, age did make her barren, as I have told you in the past. But in truth, she did not trust me with another child."

"Why didn't you divorce her and remarry?"

"In Sinanju, one marries for life."

"Life sucks sometimes," said Remo.

"When you are Master you may write that in the scrolls of Sinanju, if that is your wish. But there are worthier thoughts. "

"I can't help how I feel."

"How do you feel?"

"How do you think I feel? I lost my bride-to-be, and the woman who mothered my daughter is afraid to have me around. All because of one man. "

"And so you will seek revenge, even though it costs you your life."

"What else do I have?"

"Me."

"What?"

Chiun searched Remo's face hopefully. "You have me. Have I meant nothing to you, that you would kill yourself and deprive an old man of his last chance for atonement?"

"I don't owe you anything. Especially after that trick you pulled at the wedding."

"I saved you from a horror. Had you married what you thought was Mah-Li, the Dutchman would have revealed himself to you at a moment of great intimacy. I spared you that."

"You didn't know it was the Dutchman at the ceremony. Don't you take credit for that. Don't you dare take credit for that."

Chiun smiled to himself. Anger. Good. Remo was coming out of his depressed self-absorption.

"I do not claim to have prior knowledge of the deception, true," Chiun admitted. "But the good I did still stands. You cannot disagree with that."

"You always twist things around so that they turn out in your favor," Remo said.

"True," agreed Chiun. "After I lost my son, I learned to transform defeat into victory, errors into detours, not endings. I promised myself that I would never feel such bitter disappointment again in my life."

"I always wondered why you did some of the things you did. "

"Because I am Chiun," said the Master of Sinanju. "But do not think that because I did not know of the Dutchman's deception, my motives were selfish."

"Here we go again," said Remo bitterly. "Here's where you do it to me again. Okay, Chiun, give me your explanation. Tell me how wrecking my wedding was for my own good. And make it good, because if you don't convince me, I'm walking out of this place and you're never going to see me again. You understand? End of partnership. We're through."

Chiun drew himself up so that his sitting posture was perfect, the spine aligned with the pelvis and the head sitting square to the upper vertebrae.

"Remember this time a year ago, when you brought me back to Sinanju?" Chiun asked.

"You were sick. Or faking sickness. You wanted to come back to Sinanju for good."

"Faking or not," said Chiun, "you thought I lay near death. And in your grief, you sought solace. Do you remember your first meeting with Mah-Li?"

"Yeah. She wore a veil to hide her face because the other villagers thought she was ugly. They called her Mah-Li the Beast. She was gorgeous, but by the screwed-up ideals of Sinanju beauty, she was homely."

"When did you first fall in love with her?"

"Almost immediately. It was love at first sight."

"Yet you did not see her face on that first meeting. How could you love at first sight when you had no sight of her veiled face?"

"I don't know. It was her voice, the way she made me feel good all over. She was lonely, an orphan like me."

"Precisely," said Chiun.

"Precisely what?" Remo asked.

"You were lonely. You thought the Master of Sinanju-the only person you cared for in life-was dying. You reached out to the nearest person you saw to fill the void in your existence. "

"You'd better not be saying that I didn't love her."

"I am not saying that. Love is learned. This love at first sight is a Western concept. A rationalization of a necessary but inconvenient urge. How long did you know Mah-Li?"

"A few weeks. I don't know."

"Less than a month," said Chiun. "And you knew her only a day when you came to me to ask my blessing for your marriage. Yet a month later when I stole away from Sinanju in the night, you left your love-at-first-sight and followed me to America. And when I told you I intended to remain in America for a full year, did you return to your betrothed? No, you chose to remain with me."

"I was worried about you. I thought of Mah-Li every day. "

"Did you send for her? Did you say, 'Mah-Li, come to America where we will be wed'?"

"No," said Remo slowly. "I wanted to be married in Sinanju. "

"So you say. But I say that had you met in other circumstances, had Mah-Li been a Korean living in America and you passed her on the street, you would not have given her a second look. You thought I was dying and you found a Korean maid who, in her sweetness and intelligence, was appealing to you. And so you took her for your betrothed to fill the coming void. When my health miraculously improved, that void was healed and there was no need for her in your life."

"I loved her!" Remo shouted.

"You came to love her. You started to love her. You saw her as the fulfillment of your dream of happiness. But in truth, you barely knew her. This is why you did not cry at her funeral. I watched you, Remo. No tears fell from your face. There was anger, yes. But not true grief. In fact, she was nearly a stranger to you. Deny this if you dare."

"Her death hasn't sunk in yet," said Remo. "Hey, I loved her. "

"You loved the dream. You loved what Mah-Li represented to you-your silly white house and picket fence. I understood this even if you did not."

"And you think that gave you the right to bust up the wedding? That's lame, Chiun. Even for you. I'll be seeing you around," added Remo, heading for the door.

Remo stopped at the threshold with Chiun's next words.

"I interfered with your wedding because you had a daughter you did not know. If it was your wish to marry, I would not have stopped you, even believing as I did that it was a mistake. But you had to see your own child first. You had to confront the reality that you had caused life to be brought into the world and weigh your new responsibility against this fantasy of yours."

Remo stood at the doorway unmoving.

"The love you had felt for Jilda of Lakluun was a casualty of the Dutchman. Did you think that living in Sinanju would have protected Mah-Li from his wrath? That is a lesson you have learned in the bitterest way imaginable. Just as I learned one of my own long before you were born. "

"As soon as Jilda came back," Remo said weakly, "all my old feelings for her returned."

"Because now she represents your dream. And can you say whom you loved more, of these two women?"

"I never slept with Mah-Li, you know. I wanted to do it the old-fashioned way. Wait for the honeymoon."

"What are you saying? That because you had lain with one and not the other, you cannot compare them? That is unworthy of you, Remo. "

Remo shook his head. "No, it's not that. I was just thinking out loud. I don't know, I'm all confused. I've got to clear my head. I have decisions to make."

"Yes," said Chiun, climbing to his feet. "You have many decisions to make. Whether to live or to die. Whether to be a father or to walk away from fatherhood. Whether to continue as my pupil or to go your way. But either way you choose, Remo, you will have to walk through shit. For that is life."

Chiun stepped out into the cold night.

"I am going to my home," he said solemnly. "If you wish, you may come with me. There will be a fire."

"I'd rather be alone right now," said Remo, looking at the house that was all he owned in the world.

"Just as long as you understand that your decision affects more than you alone. If you make the wrong decision, little Freya is an orphan-and I am once again sitting at the bottom of Mount Paektusan, a stubborn and childless man."

"I'll let you know, Little Father," said Remo. "You know what hurts the worst? The last time I saw Mah-Li alive, it wasn't her. It was that bastard Purcell."

"And my son was dead even as I berated him in my mind for his failure. We have that emptiness in common, you and I."

And Chiun walked off, grateful that whatever Remo decided, he had once again called him Little Father. It still felt good, even after all these years.

Remo watched the Master of Sinanju go and turned his attention to the house. He had built it bare-handed, breaking the bamboo with deft chops, splitting it with his fingernails to make the floor. It was only a shell. It had never been more than a shell, roofless and solitary. Like my life up to now, Remo thought bitterly.

Remo kicked at one wall. It wobbled, then crashed mushily. He attacked the remaining walls, tearing them apart, ripping up the floor and hurling shoots of bamboo high into the air. One by one, they splashed into the barren waters of the West Korea Bay and were borne away like the fragments of a dream. His dream.

When he was done, Remo stood on the bare earth where the house no longer existed. The tears came then. Finally. They flooded out and he sank to the ground sobbing.

When they stopped, Remo got up and scuffed the dirt smooth until there was nothing to show that a dream had ever been built on the site.

Remo took the shore path, back into the village of Sinanju. Everything was clear now.

Chapter 31

Sunrise found the Master of Sinanju inscribing a fresh scroll. He heard Remo Williams climbing the hill, and noticing his firm and confident step, continued writing.

"I've decided," Remo said from the open door.

"I know," replied the Master of Sinanju, not looking up from his calligraphy.

"I'm going back to America," Remo announced.

"I know," said Chiun.

"You couldn't know that."

"I knew it a year ago."

"No way," said Remo. "Don't try to con me with that tired Oriental-wisdom routine. That went out with Charlie Chan. You couldn't know."

"Remember a day last year when you barged in on my meditation? You had great plans for Sinanju, you said. You wanted to put in electricity, running water, and-ugh!-toilets. "

"I thought they were improvements. There's plenty of gold. The village can afford it."

"For thousands of years the village of Sinanju has been considered the pearl of Asia," Chiun recited. "Long before there was an America. Men have come here seeking power and gold and jewels. Instead, they find a ramshackle fishing village where the men do not fish, the woman are no better than scullery maids and the children uncouth. They find squalor. And they move on, convinced that the legends are false or that the true Sinanju lies beyond the next horizon. And so my people and my treasure have remained safe for centuries. "

"Thanks for the lesson, but that doesn't explain how you could know a year ago that I would decide to return to America. "

"By the very act of intending these so-called improvements, my son, you were showing me that you were already homesick. It was your intention, whether you realized it or not, to remake this village in the image of your place of childhood, Newark, New Jersey." Chiun's nose wrinkled distastefully. "How clever you are. If there is a less desirable spot on the crust of the earth than my little village, it is there."

Remo considered. "Improvements," he said at last.

"I will not argue. You wish to return to America. Is that all?"

"The Dutchman said he killed Smith. I want to know if it's true. I owe him for that, as well as for Mah-Li. Then I'm going to bring him to American justice."

"Sinanju justice is more absolute."

"I'll only kill him if I have no choice."

"Why don't you simply sit down and slit your throat? You will be dead, and the Dutchman, being entwined with your destiny, will die. This will save you a long journey, not to mention plane fare."

"After I take care of the Dutchman," Remo went on, "I'm going to ask Jilda to marry me."

"I doubt that. After you take care of the Dutchman you will be dead. Even if a dead man can propose marriage, I doubt a living woman will accept. But she is white. Who knows? You can still hope."

"What about you?"

"What about me? I am like an onion that awaits peeling. There are so many fascinating layers. Where shall I begin?"

"You can come if you want. To America, I mean."

"Why would I want to? I have already carried one dead son home to Sinanju. I think that is my allotment in life."