The Eleventh Hour

Chiun addressed Sammy Kee.

"Return to your homeland and inform Emperor Smith that the Master of Sinanju lives yet. And that Remo will not be returning, having agreed to take my place as the head of my village."

Sammy Kee trembled in silence.

"But," Chiun went on, "if he should wish to employ the next Master on a nonexclusive basis, this could be discussed. But the days of Sinanju having only one client are over. Sinanju is returning to its honored tradition of employment, which you Americans have only lately discovered. I believe you call it diversification."

"What'll we do with him?" Remo asked. "There's no submarine in the harbor. I checked."

"Hold him until the vessel reveals itself."

"I found something else in the harbor, Chiun."

"Your manners?" asked Chiun.

"No. A body. Some kid."

Chiun's wispy facial hair trembled. "A drowned child," he said sadly.

"His head was bashed in. The crabs got him." Chiun's hazel eyes turned to Sammy Kee. They blazed.

And the fear Sammy Kee felt deep inside him sweated out of his pores and proclaimed to the sensitive nostrils of the Master of Sinanju, better than any admission by word and deed, the undeniable guilt of Sammy Kee.

"To murder one of Sinanju is an unforgivable crime," said Chiun in a low voice. "But to murder a child is abomination."

Chiun clapped his hands twice to signal. The sound hurt Sammy's eardrums and set the wall hangings to fluttering.

The caretaker, Pullyang, entered, and seeing Sammy Kee, recognized him. But he said nothing. "Find a place for this wretch. He will be sentenced at my leisure. And send men to the harbor to claim the body of the poor child that lies there."

Sammy Kee tried to bolt from the room.

"Not so fast, child-killer," Remo said. He tripped Sammy Kee with the toe of one Italian loafer. Sammy crashed to the floor and Remo touched his spine down near the small of the back.

Sammy Kee suddenly discovered that his legs wouldn't work. He tried to crawl, but his lower body was so much dead weight. He cried.

"What will happen to him?" Remo asked casually.

"The crabs in the harbor have eaten sweet today. Tomorrow they will eat sour," Chiun said.

"Smith won't like it."

"Smith is a memory to the House of Sinanju from this day forward. You have renounced him."

"I'm not sure I've renounced anything, Little Father. Just because I agreed to support this place doesn't mean I can't work for Smith."

"You are a cruel child, Remo."

"How do you feel?" Remo asked in a softer tone.

"The pain is less when you are with me," he said.

"Can we talk later?"

"Why not now?"

"I have something to do," said Remo. He seemed strangely eager to leave.

"Something more important than comforting an old man?"

"Maybe."

Chiun turned his face away. "You will do what you will do, regardless of the hurt you cause."

"I still have to think this through," Remo said.

"No," Chiun shot back. "You have yet to think. The day you think is the day you feel compassion. I have decided not to move from this spot until that day arrives."

And when Remo didn't answer, Chiun looked back. But Remo was gone.

Chiun gasped at the blatant lack of respect. His brow furrowed. It was beyond understanding. Remo had not appeared angry with him, but he clearly was not responding to Chiun's blandishments.

Chiun wondered if Shiva were stirring in Remo's mind again.

Chapter 11

Colonel Viktor Ditko waited outside the invisible wall surrounding Sinanju until night fell.

Cold crept into the darkened interior of his Chaika. It made his right eye ache beneath his new eyepatch. The doctors had repaired the ruptured cornea, but it would be weeks until Colonel Ditko would know if the eye was any longer good.

Colonel Ditko shivered in his winter uniform, cursing the name of Sammy Kee under his breath. He dared not turn the heater on and use up all his gasoline. Gasoline was not easily come by in North Korea, where automobiles were for the privileged only, and gas stations nonexistent. Colonel Ditko couldn't afford to seek out an official gas depot, where there would be questions about his presence here, far from his post in Pyongyang.

Colonel Ditko wondered if Sammy Kee had escaped. But Sammy Kee would not have done any such foolish thing. There was no escape in North Korea. Only through Colonel Ditko could Sammy Kee ever hope to escape North Korea. So, watching the full moon rise above the low hills, Colonel Ditko shivered and settled deeper into the cushions, waiting for Sammy Kee to come up to the road from Sinanju.

But Sammy Kee did not come up the road from Sinanju. No one came up the road from Sinanju. It was as if Sinanju had gobbled up Sammy Kee like a hungry bear.

The night had nearly elapsed when Colonel Ditko came to the only possible conclusion left to him. Sammy Kee had been captured or killed in Sinanju. Colonel Ditko had tasted failure before in his career. Failure, it might be said, was a hallmark of Colonel Ditko's KGB career. It was the only hallmark, according to his superiors, which was why they frequently transferred him from one career-crushing post to another. Colonel Ditko could live with failure. Ordinarily.

But not this time. This time he had sacrificed an eye to ensure success. This time he had promised success to the General Secretary himself. He could admit failure to his immediate superiors-they expected no better from him-but not to the General Secretary. He would have him shot. Worse, he might be exiled to the worst possible KGB post in the world. Back to India, this time to stay.

This time, Colonel Viktor Ditko decided, stepping from the half-warmth of his closed car, he would not settle for failure.

He walked down the road toward Sinanju, the moonlight making an excellent target of his slight form, and his Tokarev handgun clenched tightly in one hand. It was the hardest walk Ditko ever undertook, because to get into Sinanju, he had to walk through a wall. Even if he couldn't feel it.

Sammy Kee lay in the darkness of the hut where they had thrown him. It was not so bad now. Before, the door was left open and the villagers paraded past to see the child-killer. Sometimes they spit upon him. Some came in and kicked him until blood climbed up his throat.

The worst moment was the woman though. She was a fury. She was young, but with the seamed young-old face of the childbearing women of Korea. She screamed invective at Sammy Kee. She spat on his face. Then she flew at him with her long-nailed claws. But the others dragged her back just in time, before she could rake his face to peelings.

Sammy understood that she was the boy's mother and he felt sick all over again.

With the coming of night, they locked the door and left Sammy with the horror of his situation. He could move his arms, but his legs were useless. There was no feeling below his waist. He massaged his dead legs in a vain effort to restore circulation and nerve feeling, but all that happened was that his bladder gave and he soaked his cotton trousers.

Finally, Sammy gave up trying to restore his legs. He dragged himself to the videocam which they had tossed in like a piece of junk, and laid his head on it, using the rubber handle as a kind of pillow. He was desperate for sleep.

The fools, Sammy thought, the greatest journalist of the century and they had treated him like a dead cat. And then the peace of sleep took him.

Sammy awoke from his slumber without knowing why.

The door opened cautiously. Moonlight shimmered off a pair of eyeglasses, turning the lenses into blind milky orbs.

Sammy recognized the slight unathletic form. "Colonel Ditko," Sammy breathed.

"Quiet!" Ditko hissed. He shut the door behind him and knelt down in the darkness. "What has happened?"

"They caught me," Sammy said breathlessly. "They're going to kill me. You must help me escape."

"You faiied?" Ditko said hoarsely.

"No, no! I didn't fail. Here. I made a new tape. It contains everything."

Colonel Ditko scooped up the videocam.

"Play it back through the viewfinder," Sammy said eagerly. "You'll see."

Ditko did as he was bidden. In his eagerness, he placed the viewfinder to his right eye. Annoyed, he switched to his good eye. He ran the tape, which played back minus sound.

"What am I seeing?" Ditko asked.

"The Master of Sinanju. He has returned. And he brought with him the American agent he has trained in Sinanju. They tell everything. They are assassins for America. It's all on that tape."

Colonel Ditko felt a wave of relief. "You have succeeded."

"Help me now."

"Come then. We will leave before light."

"You must help me. I can't move my legs."

"What is wrong with them?"

"The one called Remo. The Master's American pupil. He did something to them. I have no feeling in my legs. But you can carry me."

Colonel Ditko unloaded the tape from the videocam. "I cannot carry this and you."

"But you can't leave me here. They'll kill me horribly."

"And I will kill you mercifully," said Colonel Ditko, who placed the muzzle of his Tokarev pistol into Sammy Kee's open mouth, deep into his mouth, and pulled the trigger once.

Sammy Kee's mouth swallowed the sound of the shot. And the bullet.

Sammy Kee's head slipped off the barrel of the gun with macabre slowness and struck the floor in several melonlike sections.

Colonel Ditko wiped the backsplatter blood from his hand on Sammy's peasant blouse.

"Good-bye, Sammy Kee," said Colonel Viktor Ditko. "I will remember you when I am warm and prosperous in Moscow."

And Viktor Ditko slipped back into the night. This time he knew the walk through the invisible wall would not be that difficult.

The caretaker, Pullyang, brought the word to the Master of Sinanju with the chill of the Sinanju dawn. "The prisoner is dead," he said.

"Fear of the wrath of Sinanju extracts its own price," said Chiun wisely.

"His head lies in pieces."

"The mother," said Chiun. "She cannot be blamed for seeking revenge."

"No rock ever burst a skull in this fashion," Pullyang insisted.

"Speak your mind," said Chiun.

"A western weapon did this," said Pullyang. "A gun."

"Who would dare profane the sanctity of Sinanju with a shooter of pellets?" demanded Chiun.

Pullyang said nothing. He lowered his head. "You have something else to tell me."

"Forgive me, Master of Sinanju, for I have committed a grave trespass."

"I cannot forgive what I do not understand."

"This American was here before. A week ago. He asked many questions, and I, being proud of my village, told him many stories of the magnificence of Sinanju."

"Advertising pays," said Chiun. "There is no fault in that."

"This American carried a machine with him, the same one he had yesterday. He pointed it at me when I spoke."

"Fetch this machine."

When Pullyang returned, he offered the videocam to the Master of Sinanju, who took it in hand as if it were an unclean fetish.

"The receptacle for words and pictures is missing," Chiun said. "It was not missing last night."

"It is so, Master of Sinanju."

Chiun's eyes lowered as he thought. A man had recorded the words of the caretaker Pullyang one week ago. Now he had returned to record more of the same. But this time, he had recorded the Master of Sinanju and his pupil, for Chiun knew that the dragon dancer at yesterday's breakfast feast was Sammy Kee.

What did this mean? Chiun did not fear for Sinanju. Sinanju was inviolate. The dogs of Pyongyang, from the lowliest to the header for Life, Kim Il Sung, had made a pact with Sinanju. There would be no trouble from them.

The mad Emperor Smith was not behind this. Chiun did not always understand Smith, but Smith's mania for secrecy was the one constant of his deranged white mind. Smith would not dispatch persons to record the secrets of Sinanju.

Enemies of Smith perhaps, seeking gain. Or enemies of America. There were many of those. Even America's friends were but slumbering enemies, presenting a smiling visage but clutching daggers behind their backs.

Presently Chiun's eyes refocused.

"I forgive you, Pullyang, for in truth you are, compared to me, young, and unwise in the ways of the outer world."

"What does this mean?" asked Pullyang gratefully.

"Where is Remo?" asked Chiun suddenly.

"He has not been seen."

"By no one?"

"Some say he walked toward the house of the beast."

"Go to the house of Mah-Li the unfortunate and fetch my adopted son to me. I do not understand what transpired last night, but I know that it must concern my son. Only he can advise me in this matter."

"Yes, Master of Sinanju." And Pullyang, greatly relieved that no blame was attached to him, hied away from the house of the Master, who suddenly sank into his seat and closed his eyes with a great weariness.

The tape cassette arrived from Pyongyang by diplomatic pouch. In the pouch was a note from the Soviet ambassador to the People's Republic of Korea demanding to know why the head of embassy security, Colonel Ditko, was sending packages directly to the Kremlin through the ambassador's pouch.

As he loaded the cassette into his private machine, the General Secretary made a mental note to inform the Soviet ambassador to mind his own business regarding the activities of the People's Hero, Colonel Ditko.

The General Secretary watched the tape to the end. He saw an old man and a Caucasian exhorting a crowd of peasant Koreans. According to the note from Colonel Ditko, the tape showed the legendary Master of Sinanju and his American running dog confessing to espionage, genocide, and other crimes against the international community on behalf of a renegade United States government agency known as CURE.

There was a crude transcript with the tape, and an apology from Colonel Ditko, who explained that his Korean was not good, and that for security reasons he had not had the tape translated by someone more fluent. And by the way, the Korean-American, Sammy Kee, had met an unfortunate death in the course of making this tape.

The General Secretary called the supreme commander of the KGB.

"Look through the non-persons list and find me someone who speaks fluent Korean," he ordered. "Bring him to me."

Within the day, they had exactly the right person, a dissident history teacher who specialized in Oriental studies.

The General Secretary ordered him locked in a room with only a videotape machine, pen and paper, and instructions to translate the cassette tape from Korea.

By day's end, the transcript was delivered, sealed, to the office of the General Secretary.

"What shall we do with the translator?" asked the courier.

"He is still locked in the viewing room?"

"Da."

"When the smell of death seeps into the corridor, in a week or two, you may remove the body."

The courier left swiftly, his kindly opinion of the worldly new General Secretary forever shattered. The General Secretary read the transcript through once, quickly. And then again, to absorb all the details. And a third time to savor the sweetness of this greatest of intelligence coups.

A smile spread over the open features of the General Secretary, making him look like someone's well-fed and content grandfather.

It was all there. The United States had a secret agency known as CURE, one unknown even to the Congress of the United States. It was illegal, and indulged in assassinations both in America and abroad. The assassins were trained in Sinanju. In theory, they could go anywhere, do anything, and never be suspected.

And then the General Secretary remembered stories that had circulated in the upper levels of the Politburo before he had assumed his current rank. Fragmentary rumors. Operations that had been stopped by unknown agents, presumably American. Strange accidents that defied explanation. The liquidation of Soviet Treska killer teams during the time when America's intelligence services had been emasculated. The strangeness during the Moscow Olympics. The failure of the Volga, a space device that would have become the ultimate terror weapon had not unidentified American agents neutralized it. The disappearance of Field Marshal Zemyatin during the ozone-shield crisis two years ago.

In a locked cabinet in this very office, the General Secretary had a file of KGB reports of those mysterious incidents. The file was marked "FAILURES: UNKNOWN CAUSE."

But now the General Secretary knew the cause was no longer unknown. It could be explained in one word: CURE.

The General Secretary laughed to himself. Privately, he admired the boldness of the American apparatus. It was brilliant. Exactly what America needed to deal with her internal problems. He wished he could steal it.

But that wasn't the way the General Secretary did business. His predecessors would have tried to steal it. Not him. He would simply ask for it. No harm in that, thought the General Secretary. And he laughed. He picked up the red telephone which connected directly to the White House and which he was reserved to use only in times of extreme international crisis. This would wake up the President of the United States, the General Secretary thought, as he listened to the tinny feedback ring from Washington. And he laughed again.

Chapter 12

Remo Williams wondered if he was falling in love.

He barely knew the maiden Mah-Li. Yet, even with Chiun weakening daily, Remo was drawn back to the house of the girl the village of Sinanju had ostracized as the beast, like a poor sailor who had heard the siren call of Circe.

Remo could not explain the attraction. Was it the mystery of her veil? Fascination with the unknown? Or was it just that she was an understanding voice in a troubled time? He did not know.

It bothered Remo terribly that Chiun, in his last days, continued to carp and try to lay guilt on him. Remo wanted to be with Chiun, but Chiun was making it impossible to be around. And, of course, Remo felt guilty about that, too.

So Remo sat on the floor of Mah-Li's house, telling her everything, and wondering why the words kept coming out. He usually didn't like to talk about himself.

"Chiun thinks I'm ignoring him," Remo said, accepting a plate of a Korean delicacy that Mah-Li had baked just for him. It smelled good in the darkened room.

"What is this?" he asked, starting to taste a piece.

"Dog," said Mah-Li pleasantly.

Remo put it down abruptly. "I don't eat meat," he said.

"It is not meat," laughed Mah-Li. "Dog is rice bread, filled with dates, chestnuts, and red beans."

"Oh," said Remo. He tried it. "It's good."

"Aren't you?" asked Mah-Li.

"What?"

"Ignoring the Master?"

"I don't know. I'm all confused. I don't know how to deal with his dying. I've killed more people than I can count but I've never lost anyone really close to me. I've never had anyone really close to me. Except Chiun."

"You do not wish to face the inevitable."

"Yeah. I guess that's it."

"Ignoring the dying one will not keep him breathing. He will die without you. Perhaps sooner."

"He seemed okay when I talked to him. It's so hard. He doesn't look like he's dying. Just tired, like he's a clock that's winding down."

"Will you go back to your country when it is over?" Mah-Li asked. Remo realized she had the knack for saying just enough to keep him talking.

"I want to. But I promised Chiun I'd support the village, and I'm not sure what I would be returning to. Chiun has been my whole life. I see that now. Not CURE, not Smith. And I don't want to lose him."

"It can be pleasant living in Sinanju. You will take a wife and have many children."

"I don't want any of the village girls," Remo said vehemently.

"But you cannot marry a white girl," said Mah-Li.

"Why not? I'm white. Although Chiun doesn't think so."

"No? What does the Master think?" she asked.

"That I'm part Korean. It's crazy. With one breath he castigates me as a clumsy white. With the other he tries to convince me of my Korean heritage. According to him, somewhere in the line of Sinanju, there's an ancestor of mine. Isn't that crazy?"

Mah-Li looked at Remo through her veil and he studied her. Mah-Li's face was a pale oval behind the gauze but he could not discern her features. He felt drawn to look, even though it made him uncomfortable.

"I think there is a little of Korea in your face, around the eyes. Their shape, but not their color. The people of my village do not have brown eyes."

"Chiun just wants to justify giving Sinanju to a white man," Remo said.

"Have you ever heard the story of the lost Master of Sinanju, Remo?" Mah-Li asked quietly.

Remo liked the way Mah-Li pronounced his name. She had to force the R and she rolled it in the Spanish style.

"Lost Master? Was that Lu?"

"No, that was another Master."

"You know the story?"

"Everyone knows the story," said Mah-Li. "It was many years ago. There was a Master who was known as Nonga, whose wife bore him many daughters, but sadly no sons. Many were the daughters of Nonga, and each year another was born. And Master Nonga grew sullen, for he was unable to sire a male heir. By law, Sinanju could only be passed through the male line."

"Another strike against this place," said Remo. "One year, when Master Nonga was very old, his wife, who was not so old, finally bore him a son. And the Master named this son Kojing, and he was very proud. But his wife kept a secret from Nonga, for she had in truth borne him two sons, as identical as snow peas. She hid the other son, whom she named Kojong, for she feared that the Master would slay Kojong, for there was a law in Sinanju that only the firstborn could be taught Sinanju. And Kojing and Kojong were born at the same time. She feared the Master Nonga, to solve this dilemma would drown one son in the cold waters of the bay."

"How did she keep the second one hidden?" asked Remo. "This isn't a big place, even now."

"She was very clever, this wife of Master Nonga. She hid the babe in the hut of a sister during Kojong's baby years. And when Kojong was a boy, he was in all ways identical to Kojing, and so she enlisted Kojing and Kojong in a game. On even days Kojing would live with Master Nonga and be his son, eating with the family and knowing parents, and on the other days, Kojong would live in the hut, and pretend to be Kojing. And this went on until the two boys were two men."

"You mean the old guy never caught on?"

"He was very old, and his eyesight, although excellent for seeing far things, was not good for things near. Master Nonga did not suspect he had two sons. When the time came to teach Kojing Sinanju, the trickery continued. Kojing learned the first day's lesson and at night taught it to Kojong, who took the lesson of the second day and passed it on to his brother, and so this went until both had absorbed Sinanju.

"On the day Kojing was invested as the next Master, Master Nonga died, for in truth he lived only as long as he needed to fulfill his obligations, for he was very tired of baby-making and being the father of so many useless girls."

"I bet," Remo said.

"And on that day, Kojong revealed himself. But there could be only one Master of Sinanju, and so Kojong, because he was not Kojing, the boy Master Nonga thought he was training alone, announced that he was leaving Sinanju, and leaving Korea, to live. He pledged not to pass along knowledge of the sun source, but instead to pass along only the spirit of his ancestors, the many Masters of Sinanju, saying to the village, 'The day may come when a Master will sire no sons and the line of Sinanju will face extinction. On that day seek out the sons of Kojong, and in them find a worthy vessel to carry on the traditions.' And so Kojong sailed into the cold mists of the bay."

"Did any Master of Sinanju ever turn to an ancestor of Kojong?" Remo asked.

"No one knows."

"Chiun never told me that story."

"It is the way of the Master to do what he does. We do not question it here."

"Maybe I'm descended from Kojong."

"If so, Kojong's spirit has at last returned to Sinanju," she said.

"Yeah, but I'm not carrying the spirit of Kojong inside me, according to Chiun. I'm carrying the spirit of Shiva."

"In Sinanju, we believe that we have lived many lives. The spirit does not change, just the color of the eyes that the spirit sees with."

"Before, sometimes I've known things," Remo said. "It's like I'm carrying memories of Sinanju inside of me, memories of Masters who have gone before. I never understood it before. But the way you just explained it to me, I think I understand now."

"You belong here, Remo."

"I do, don't I?"

"It is your destiny. You should accept it."

"I could live here, Mah-Li. If you would share this life with me," Remo said.

Mah-Li turned away. "I cannot."

"Why not?"

"It is forbidden."

"I am the next Master of Sinanju," Remo said with conviction. "I decide what's forbidden around here." Impulsively Remo leaned forward and with both hands lifted the veil from the hidden face of Mah-Li, the beast.

Remo, who had seen many strange things in his life, was unprepared for the sight which greeted his eyes.

He gasped.

For Mah-Li was beautiful. Her face was intelligent and animated, her skin smooth as poured cream. Hair as black as a raven's wing framed the delicate beauty of her beautifully modeled features like a setting for the work of a master artisan. Laughter lurked well back in her eyes, as if waiting to be released, but it was there. Her eyes were Western eyes, like Remo's, not slanted, and he laughed aloud as he realized that was why the villagers called her ugly.

"Maybe I'll stay here," Remo said suddenly. "Maybe you'll marry me?"

"It is for the Master of Sinanju to give his approval of what you ask."

"Then I'm going to see him-right now," Remo said, jumping to his feet.

Remo ran into the caretaker, Pullyang, on the way to Chiun's house.

"The Master wishes your presence," Pullyang said.

"I'm on my way."

Chiun was sitting on his throne in the treasure house of Sinanju when Remo entered. The Master of Sinanju looked like an old turtle, slowly lifting his head at Remo's approach.

"Are you surprised to find me still among the living?" Chiun asked, seeing the shocked expression on his pupil's face.

"You look awful," Remo said. "How do you feel?"

"Betrayed."

"I had to be by myself," Remo said defensively.

"Then why were you with the one known as Mah-Li, if you had to be by yourself?" Chiun asked.

"Don't be a grouch," Remo said, taking a lotus position before the Master of Sinanju. "You never told me about her."

Chiun shrugged. "I have news."

"So have I. I've decided. I'm staying."

"Of course. You pledged yourself before the entire village."

"You're welcome," Remo said sarcastically. "Don't make this more difficult than it is, okay?"

"I am listening," Chiun said.

"I won't wear a kimono."

"The investment kimono has been handed down the line since before Wang the Greater," Chiun said slowly. But his eyes grew brighter.

"Okay. Maybe then. But not after."

"Done," said Chiun.

"And I won't grow my fingernails long."

"If you wish to deprive yourself of the proper tools with which to ply an assassin's trade, who am I to correct you? You are beyond correction."

"But I will choose a Sinanju girl."

Chiun perked up in his seat. He beamed. He took Remo's hand in his two yellow claws.

"Speak her name. I know it will be music to my aged ears."

"Mah-Li."

Chiun dropped Remo's hand as if it were a gutted fish.

"She is not appropriate," he snapped.

"Why not? I love her."

"You do not know her."

"I know enough to know I love her. And why didn't you tell me about her before? She's gorgeous."

"What do you know of beauty? Have you ever listened to one of my Ung poems without leaving in the middle?"

"Six-hour recitals about bees and butterflies don't do it for me, Little Father. And what's wrong with Mah-Li?"

"She is ugly. She will bear ugly children. The Master of Sinanju who will come from your seed must one day represent us in the outside world. I will not have my house shamed by hideous emissaries."

"That reminds me. Whose idea was it for her to go veiled? Yours?"

"The women of the village decreed it, so that she would not frighten the children or the dogs."

"Monkey spit," Remo snapped. "They were jealous of her."

"Your whiteness blinds you to the truth," Chiun retorted. "Name me one positive quality she possesses."

"She's kind. I can talk to her."

"That is two. I asked for only one. Besides, if you wish conversation and kindness, I have both in full measure."

"Don't duck the issue. Maybe I love her. Maybe I should marry her."

"You have loved unwisely before. You got over those ones. You will forget this one. I will send her away, if that will help you."

"I want Mah-Li. But she won't have me without your permission. Dammit, Chiun, I'm giving you what you want. Give me something in return. Give me one good reason I can't be with her."

"She is without family."

"And I have sixteen brothers and sisters? We already know it's going to be a small wedding party."

"She has no dowry."

"So?"

"In Sinanju, no maiden may enter into marriage without offering something to the father of the groom. Custom demands that the father of the bride provide this tribute. But Mah-Li has no family. No dowry. No marriage. These rules were made before our great-great-great-grand-ancestors. They are inviolate." Remo jumped to his feet angrily.

"Oh, great. Because of some horseshit tradition, I can't marry whoever I want? Is that it? Is that what you're telling me, Chiun?"

"Tradition is the foundation of our house, of our art."

"You just want the freaking tribute. Isn't that it? You don't have enough gold in this place already?" Chiun looked shocked.

"Remo," he squeaked. "There is no such thing as too much gold. Have I not drummed that into your head?"

"Into my head, but not into my heart. I want to marry Mah-Li. You want me as the next Master. That's my price. Take it or leave it."

"We will speak of it another time," said Chiun, changing the subject. "I have already postponed the investment ceremony. Perhaps you are not ready yet."

"That's your answer?"

"No. That is my thought. I will think more on this matter, but there is first another, more pressing."

"Not to me," said Remo. "And why didn't you tell me the story about Kojing and Kojong before this?"

"Where did you hear the tale?" demanded Chiun.

"Mah-Li told me."

"I was saving that tale for the investment ceremony. And now she has ruined the surprise. Another reason not to marry her. She is a carrier of tales. They make inferior wives."

"No Mah-Li, no Master of Sinanju. You think about it," Remo said, and walked toward the door.

Chiun called out: "The spy you caught is dead."

Remo stopped. "So?"

"I did not kill him. Someone with a gun entered the village last night and butchered him."

"Why is it butchery when someone uses a gun? Dead is dead, isn't it?"

"Remo!" Chiun said, shocked. "Sinanju does not slaughter. Sinanju releases one from life. Is there no end to your insolence?"

Remo shut up.

"Better," said Chiun. "The one who invaded Sinanju took with him the cassette from this recording machine."

"What was on it?"

"Who knows? You. Me. All of us. Our words. Our secrets. Emperor Smith's secrets."

"You think someone's going to make trouble?"

"I hear a breeze in the distance," said Chiun.

Remo cocked his ear to the door. "Sounds quiet to me."

"This is not a breeze that blows through the air, but one which blows through the lives of men. It is just a breeze now, but soon it will gather force and become a wind, and as a wind it will grow bolder still, and it will be a typhoon. We must be ready for this typhoon, Remo."

"I'm ready for anything," Remo said, rotating his thick wrists impatiently.

Chiun shook his head sadly. Remo was obviously not ready at all. And there was so little time left. Chiun felt the weight of the future of Sinanju-a future that might now be smoke-on his frail shoulders.

Chapter 13

No history book would ever record the superpower summit in Helsinki, the capital of Finland. No one knew it took place, except for the President of the United States and the General Secretary of the Soviet Union, and only a handful of very trusted aides. And of the group only the two world leaders knew what was discussed.

"A summit?" the President's chief of staff said. "Tomorrow?"

The President had just gotten off the hot line. The Soviet General Secretary had called unexpectedly, offering to meet secretly on a matter of critical international concern.

The President had accepted. He had not wanted to, but he knew from the brief conversation that he had no choice.

"I'm going," the President said firmly.

"Impossible, sir," the chief of staff stated. "We have no preparation time."

"We're going," the President repeated.

The chief of staff saw the cold anger in the President's eye. "Very well, Mr. President. If you'll kindly inform me of the agenda of matters to be discussed."

"That's classified," was the tight-lipped reply.

The chief of staff almost choked on the jelly bean the President had handed him.

"Classified? I'm chief of staff. Nothing is classified from me."

"Now you know different. Let's get going on this."

"Yes, Mr. President," the chief of staff said, wondering how the President was going to hold a meeting with the Russian leader so that no one, including the press, knew about it.

He found out that afternoon when the President's personal press secretary announced that the President was, on the advice of his doctor, taking a week's vacation at his California ranch.

The White House press corps immediately descended upon the topic of the President's health. Instead of issuing the usual denials, the press secretary gave a tight-lipped "No comment."

The press secretary walked away from the White House briefing room trying to conceal a satisfied smile. By tonight, the White House press corps would be encamped outside the perimeter fence of the President's California compound, trying to shoot telephoto pictures through the windows, which, if they hadn't been the press and the President a public figure, would have gotten them all arrested on Peeping Tom charges.

When Air Force One left Andrews Air Force Base that evening, it vectored west as the network cameras recorded its takeoff. What the cameras did not record was Air Force One setting down in a small military air base and suffering a hasty makeup job. The presidential seal was painted over, and the plane's serial numbers changed. A quick application of enamel spray paint changed the aircraft's patriotic trim.

When Air Force One was again airborne, it was a cargo plane. It flew east, out over the Atlantic on a heading for Scandinavia.

In Soviet Russia, no such subterfuge was required. The General Secretary ordered his official TU-134 aircraft readied for a flight to Geneva. His aides were not informed of the reasons. There didn't have to be any.

The next morning, the Soviet plane descended on the airport in Helsinki. The freshly painted cargo plane carrying the President of the United States was already sitting on a runway that was closed, ostensibly for repairs.

The Soviet General Secretary sent a representative to the disguised Air Force One. The President at first refused an invitation to board the Soviet plane.

"Let him come to me," the President said through his chief of staff.

But the Soviet leader was insistent. As leader of a great power, he could not be expected to enter a lowly cargo plane of dubious registry, even in secret. "They have us there," the chief of staff groaned.

"Very well," the President said. "I'm on my way."

"We're on our way," the chief of staff corrected. The President fixed his chief of staff with a baleful glare. "You stay here and make fresh coffee. Strong. Black. I have a feeling I'm going to need it when this is over."

The Soviet General Secretary greeted the United States President in a soundproof cabin in the rear of his personal jet.

They shook hands formally and sat. The cabin smelled of the Russian's musky cologne. There was a small TV and video machine on a tabletop. The President noticed it subconsciously, no idea of its critical importance touching his thoughts.

"I am pleased you could meet me on such short notice," the General Secretary said. He smiled expansively. The President hated it when he smiled like that. It was the same shit-eating grin he had flashed at Iceland.

"What's on your mind?" the President asked. He was in no mood for small talk, even if this was the first time the two leaders had met since the Russian, in his continuing quest to appear more Western, had gone to the trouble to learn English.

The General Secretary shrugged as if to say: I just want to keep this friendly. But he said: "I will get to the point. As I hinted over the phone, I know all about CURE."

"Cure?" the President asked, trying to sound calm. "The cure for what?"

"I mean CURE, as in all capital letters, CURE. The secret American agency whose existence demonstrates that the U.S. Constitution is a sham, a piece of political fiction."

The President knew it was all over, but he decided to play the hand out.

"Knowledge is not proof," he said pointedly.

"No," the General Secretary admitted, tapping the Play switch on the video recorder. "But proof is proof. Allow me to entertain you with this. It was filmed in the People's Democratic Republic of Korea." And when the President looked perplexed, he added: "North Korea. More specifically, in the modest fishing village known as Sinanju. I believe you have heard of it." There was that grin again.

The video screen came to life. And there was the Master of Sinanju. The President recognized him. Chiun had personally guarded the oval office during a recent threat to the President's life. It was impossible to forget Chiun.

Chiun spoke in Korean, and at first the President was relieved. No matter what secrets Chiun spilled in Korean, they would have less impact shown over U.S. television, even with subtitles.

But then an American appeared beside Chiun. The President knew he must be Remo, CURE's enforcement arm. As Chiun spoke to a crowd ofvillagers, Remo interposed comments, some in Korean, but others in English. Remo had to ask Chiun for the proper Korean words for "Constitution."

"Here is a complete transcript of what they are saying."

The President took it wordlessly and glanced at the first few pages. It was all there. America's greatest security secret, and it had been handed to him by the Soviet General Secretary.

"We know all about it," said the General Secretary. "About Master Chiun, Remo, and Emperor Smith."

"If you call him emperor, you can't know it all."

"We know enough."

And the President agreed. Looking up from the transcript, he had deep pain in his eyes.

"What do you want?"

"It is simple. It is fair. For more than a decade, America has had a secret weapon to handle its domestic affairs."

"That is our right," the President bristled.

"I will not disagree with you. The question of the illegalities of this enforcement arm of yours is your political problem. We in Russia have had similar arrangements in the past, our KGB, and before that the Cheka. But my country is concerned over the use of this CURE apparatus in international affairs."

"Specifically?"

"Specifically, we do not know. We have no proof yet that your CURE has operated on our soil. But there have been many strange incidents among agents of our foreign service. Projects mysteriously abandoned. Agents killed in odd ways. Others who disappeared. We have never been able to account for these failures. I will not ask you about them now. Most took place prior to my regime, and they belong to the past."

"What do you want?" the President repeated.

"Before I place my demands before you, let me point out to you that you have been employing an agent-I refer to the illustrious Master of' Sinanju-who comes from our sphere of influence. You have made numerous secret submarine landings-according to this tape and another in our possession-in North Korean waters. Communist waters."

"No comment."

"Good. You understand the political damage of that revelation alone and apart from the business of CURE. Then understand I am only asking for what rightfully belongs to Mother Russia."

"Belongs-!"

"We want the Master of Sinanju. We want CURE erased from existence. And we want this Remo person."

"So you can meddle in international affairs? This is blackmail."

"No. We merely want an advantage that America has enjoyed in secret for many years. Now it is Russia's turn."

"Blackmail."

"Such a harsh word. I prefer to call it parity."

"Remo is a patriot. He won't work for you. And I can't turn him over to you. That would be a deed more politically damaging than if the world sees that tape."

The Premier considered.

"Abandon CURE. Give us the Master of Sinanju. And let us negotiate with this Remo. If he turns us down, what would you do with him?"

"Remo would have to die."

"So let it be that way. Our mutual problem is solved."

"I can't turn CURE over to you. It would be a knife at America's throat."

"I understand your fear. Let me quell it. I do not want the Master of Sinanju to enforce our political will in your hemisphere. I wish to use him as you have, to make our system of government work in spite of its flaws. Crime is growing in Russia. Drunkenness, laxity in the work force. These are Russia's deepest ills. You know that I have been trying to solve them."

"Yes, I know."

"Then you can sympathize with my plight. The plight of Mother Russia. We want a dose of your CURE, too."

The President's mind worked furiously. He wished he had his advisers here now. But if he did, they would have to die after advising him. He was all alone in this one.

Finally he said, "I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't."

"Not exactly. If you'd like I could draw up a treaty assuring you that Russia would not employ the Master of Sinanju outside of the so-called Soviet bloc for a grace period of, say twenty-five years. Surely that is a greater period than the lifespan of the current Master of Sinanju."

"Who would draw up the treaty? You? Me? We can't trust anyone else with the knowledge."

"I see your point," the General Secretary said. "Then let us trust to a handshake."

"I have no choice," the President said stiffly, rising to his feet. "I will issue the directive to disband CURE immediately. Give me a day to work out the details. The rest is up to you."

The General Secretary shook the President's hand warmly, and grinned.

"And our representative will approach the Master of Sinanju about new employment. As they say in your country, it is a pleasure doing business with you."

The President mumbled something under his breath that the Russian leader took to be some informal acknowledgment, and he nodded even as he made a mental note to ask his official English tutor the meaning of the colloquial American phrase "Up yours."

In Rye, New York, Dr. Harold W. Smith was having an ordinary day. The sun shone through the big one-way windows. Outside it was pleasantly warm for this late in the fall and there were boaters on Long Island Sound.

His secretary, Eileen Mikulka, a bosomy middle-aged woman wearing bifocals, had just dropped off the preliminary budget sheets for Folcroft's next quarter.

"That will be all, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said.

"Yes, Dr. Smith," Mrs. Mikulka said crisply. At the door, she turned to add, "Oh, I spoke with the electrical contractor this morning."

"Um-hum," Smith said absently, immersed in the budget forms.

"They'll be here tomorrow to look at the backup generator."

"Fine. Thank you."

"You're welcome, Dr. Smith," Mrs. Mikulka said, closing the door. She wondered if her employer had understood any of what she had said. That man could get so absorbed in his columns of figures. Well, she would remind him again tomorrow.

It was an ordinary day. Which in the life of Harold W. Smith meant an extraordinary day. His early-morning scan of incoming CURE-related data had revealed only updates of ongoing situations. No action was required on any of them. And so Dr. Harold W. Smith was spending his day actually working on Folcroft affairs-something he usually delegated to his secretary.

He did not expect the phone call from the President of the United States. And he did not expect this particular call.

Smith let the direct line to the White House ring several times before answering. He did not do this out of self-importance, but to emphasize the true nature of CURE's unwritten charter. The President who had originally set up CURE had been aware of the possibility of abuse of the enormous power of the organization. Not by Smith-who was considered too patriotic and, more important, too unimaginative to implement a power grab-but by a future President. Thus, Dr. Harold W. Smith was entirely autonomous. The President could not order CURE into action. He was limited to three options: imparting information on developing situations; suggesting specific missions; and-and here, the check-and-balance system reversed itself-he could order CURE to disband.

Dr. Harold W. Smith picked up the telephone on the fifth ring, assuming the President was calling to invoke one of the first two options.

"Yes, Mr. President," Smith said coolly. He never let himself become friendly with any of the Presidents under which he served. He refused to vote for the same reason.

"I'm sorry to have to do this, Dr. Smith," said the familiar garrulous tones, now strangely subdued.

"Mr. President?"

"I hereby direct you to disband your organization. Effective immediately."

"Mr. President," said Smith, betraying surprise in spite of himself, "I know America is edging closer to no longer needing this organization, but don't you think this is precipitous?"

"I have no choice."

"Sir?"

"We've been compromised. The Soviets know all about us."

"I can assure you there's been no leak from this end," Smith said stiffly. It was typical of him that he thought first of his reputation, and not of the more personal consequences of the presidential order.

"I know. I have just met with the Soviet General Secretary. The bastard handed me a videotape of your people. They spilled their guts to the camera."

"Remo and Chiun? They're in Sinanju."

"According to what the transcript of the tapes says-and I don't dare verify it for obvious reasons-Remo has gone over to the other side."

"To the Russians? I can't believe that."

"No, not to the Russians. He's defected to North Korea. He's agreed to work for his teacher's village. It's on the damned tape."

"I see," said Smith. But he didn't see. Remo was an American. Had Chiun drummed Sinanju into him until he was no longer himself?

"The Soviets want them both. That's their price for silence."

"We can't give them Remo and Chiun."

"We can't not. As dangerous as those two are in the wrong hands, we can't admit that our system of government doesn't work. That's why your organization was started, isn't it?" The President's tone softened. "You did your job admirably, Smith, and I'm sorry. But we're going to cut our losses on this one."

"Remo would never agree to work with the Soviets. He's a patriot. That's one of the reasons he was selected for this."

"That's the Russian's problem. They want to negotiate with Chiun themselves. They want Remo dead. They want CURE disbanded."

"There's a problem with that," said Smith.

"There better not be," said the President hotly. "I'm giving you a direct order."

"The Master of Sinanju is in ill health. That's why he's gone back to Sinanju. Remo thinks he might be dying."

"Then the joke is on the Soviets. We may come out even on this one in the end."

"Some of us, Mr. President," Smith said.

"Uh, yes. Sorry, Smith. I didn't create this situation."

"I will leave for Sinanju immediately to terminate our contract with Sinanju."

"I'll inform the Soviets that they can go into Sinanju at sunset tomorrow. The rest will be up to them."

"Good-bye, Mr. President."

"Good-bye, Smith. I'm sorry it had to end in my administration. Your country may never know your name, but I will remember your service as long as I live."

"Thank you, Mr. President," said Dr. Harold W. Smith, and hung up the direct line to the White House for the final time. He upended the phone and, with, a dime, unscrewed a plate to reveal a tiny switch. He pressed it. Instantly the phone went dead. There was no longer a line to Washington, nor any trace that one had ever existed. Just a telephone with no dial and melted circuitry.

Smith took a special briefcase from a locked cabinet and went into the outer office.

"I'm leaving early, Mrs. Mikulka," he said.

"Yes, Dr. Smith. Have a good day."

Smith hesitated.

"Dr. Smith?"

Smith cleared his throat. "Please file those budget reports I left on my desk," he said hastily. And then he ducked out the door. He was never any good at good-byes.

Smith drove to his house, his briefcase open on the seat beside him. It contained a mini-computer, telephone hookup, and modem, which linked with the Folcroft computer net. Smith issued the orders that would set in motion the complicated relay of transportation necessary to get him to Sinanju. He wondered what it would be like. He had heard so many stories.

As he drove, Smith noticed the beauty of the turning leaves. The scarlets of the poplars, and yellows of the oaks, the burnt oranges of the maples. They were beautiful. Strange that he had not noticed them before. He instantly regretted that he would never look upon them again.

"Harold?" said Mrs. Smith, surprised to find her husband in the upstairs bedroom, packing. "I didn't know you were home."

Smith felt a pain stab at his heart. He had sneaked in, hoping to avoid his wife. He hadn't wanted to face saying good-bye to her, either. He was afraid it would cloud his resolve.

"I'm in a rush, dear. Late for an appointment." He did not look up from his packing.

Maude Smith saw the old familiar bulge of a shoulder holster under Harold Smith's gray jacket, and the tight, drawn look that her husband had worn so many years before. But seldom these days.

"Tell me Harold."

"Dear?"

"The gun. The look on your face. It's like the old days. Before Folcroft."

"An old habit," Smith said, patting the spot under his armpit. "I always carry it during business trips. Muggers, you know."

Maude Smith sat on the neatly made bed and touched her husband's arm lightly.

"I know all about it, dear. You don't have to hide it from me."

And Smith swallowed the acid that rose in his throat.

"For how long?" he asked hoarsely, avoiding her eye, trying to finish packing. But his hands trembled.

"I don't know. I've always suspected it. A man like you doesn't retire from intelligence work. We went through too many years together for me not to know the signs."

Smith thought back to his OSS days, searching his mind for the most painless method of death he could administer.

"I never dreamed you knew," Smith said, looking stonily ahead.

"I didn't want you to worry about my knowing, silly."

"Of course not," Smith said hollowly.

"Don't look so pained, dear. I've never mentioned to anyone that you were still with the CIA."

"CIA?" asked Smith in a blank voice.

"Yes. Your retirement was a ruse, wasn't it?" Smith rose from his packing. He sucked down a climbing sob. Tears of relief came, the first he could remember crying in decades.

"Yes, dear," said Dr. Harold W. Smith, grateful that he would not have to kill his wife to protect his country. "My retirement was a ruse. Congratulations on guessing the truth."

Maude Smith stood up and gave her husband a motherly peck on the cheek.

"Vickie called today. She's planning on coming for the weekend."

"How is she?" Smith asked.

"Just fine. She asks about you constantly."

"She's a wonderful daughter," Smith said, wishing he could see her one more time before he went. "Will you be back in time?"

"I doubt it," Smith said quietly.

And Mrs. Smith read more into that quiet statement than her husband would have dreamed. "Harold?" she asked tentatively.

"Yes?"

"Are you in a terrible rush?"

"Very."

"Can you spare just a few minutes for me? For us?"

And Smith saw that her chin trembled, just as it had on their wedding night, so many years ago.

He took off his jacket and held her in his arms. "I've always loved you," she said. "Every minute of every day."

He could only respond, "I know," and hold her tighter.

In San Diego, Captain Lee Enright Leahy was dining on pork chops and baked potatoes when a lieutenant strode into the base officers' mess and offered him a salute and a packet of sealed orders.

Captain Leahy thought he was having an attack of deja vu when he read those orders in the privacy of his quarters. The orders were to prepare to return to Sinanju. Today.

Captain Leahy picked up the phone and did something that should have gotten him court-martialed. He called the admiral to protest top-secret orders.

The admiral said, "I have no idea what orders you are talking about."

"Thank you very much for your cooperation, sir!" barked Captain Lee Enright Leahy, sounding very much like an angry Annapolis cadet given extra crap. King duty. He thought the admiral was observing proper protocol by denying knowledge of the orders he had signed.

What Captain Lee Enright Leahy did not know, and never suspected, was that the admiral really didn't know anything about the order to return to Sinanju. Or any previous Sinanju mission, although his signature had appeared on them all. He was as much in the dark as anyone.

Except Dr. Harold W. Smith, who had made it all happen.

Chapter 14

Remo stopped between the Horns of Welcome, high over the rocky Sinanju beach. Down a shell-strewn path, he could see the simple shack of Mah-Li, and he sat on a damp flat rock to try to sort out his feelings.

He had known love before. In the days before Sinanju, he had loved a girl named Kathy Gilhooly. They had been engaged but Remo's arrest had ended that. There was Ruby Gonzales, whom Remo wasn't sure if he ever loved, but they had been friends. Ruby was the only other person ever to work for CURE and when she decided to quit the organization, she disappeared. And there had been Jilda, the Scandinavian warrior woman he had met when he was last in Sinanju, during the so-called Master's Trial. Remo's commitment to Sinanja had gotten in the way of their love and she had gone before Remo learned, too late, that she had been carrying his child. He wondered where she was now. Had the child been born? Was it a boy or a girl?

But Remo had never felt a pull like the one he felt toward Mah-Li. It was as if she were the other half of him, lost and unsuspected for all his life. Now that they had found each other, even in the turmoil he felt, she put him at ease.

It seemed that every time Remo had found someone important, he was cheated by fate. Now, it was happening again.

Remo stood on the beach with his hands in his pockets, wondering what to do.

He felt his wallet, dug it out. It contained a sheaf of bills, useless in Sinanju, some credit cards, a few fake identity cards supplied by Smith, all in different names. He looked through them. There was an FBI agent's card in the name of Remo Pelham, a private detective license in the name of Remo Greeley, and a fire marshal's card in the name of Remo Murray.

"Screw this," Remo said, sending the cards skipping, one by one, across the Bay of Sinanju. "From now on I'm just Remo Williams."

He tore the bills to pieces, shredded the leather wallet, and tossed it into the surging tide too. There was a bunch of coins in the other pocket. Remo dug them out and started to pitch them across the waves one by one. Each coin flew farther than the others.

Remo was down to his last few pieces of change, thinking that with each toss he was ridding himself of another piece of his past, when he saw the conning tower push up from the surging surf. And the American flag painted on its side.

"Shit," said Remo, wondering if he should just disappear. But when he saw, across the miles, Dr. Harold W. Smith emerge topside and step into an inflating rubber raft, he instead sat down on a rock to wait for him.

Smith came alone. He wore the inevitable gray three-piece suit, and the even more inevitable briefcase lay at his knees. Salt spray wet them both. Remo grinned at the absurd sight.

Smith let the raft beach itself before stepping out. Remo went down to meet him.

"Remo," Smith said, as if they were coworkers bumping into one another in an office corridor.

"If you're here to take me back to America," Remo said, "you're too late. If you're here for the funeral, you're too early.

"Good. I must speak with Chiun. But first, I must ask you a question."

"Shoot."

"Please answer truthfully. Would you consider working for the Soviets?"

"No way," said Remo.

"I'm glad you said that," said Smith, pulling his automatic.

Remo had sensed the movement even before Smith's brain had given the command to draw. Smith's arm was still in motion when the gun suddenly jumped into Remo's hand.

"Nice try, Smitty," Remo said. "But you know better."

"I had to try," said Smith unemotionally.

"You've disbanded the organization, am I right?" asked Remo, pulling the clip from the gun and throwing the components in opposite directions. "And you don't need me anymore."

"The President gave the order," Smith said. "The Russians have found out about CURE. We have to disband."

"Fine. Disband. Just do it someplace else. I've got things on my mind."

"I wish to speak with the Master of Sinanju."

"I don't think he wants to talk to you."

"I'm afraid I must insist."

"You have nerve, Smitty. First you try to kill me, then you want me to take you to Chiun, figuring you can get him to kill me."

"Will you take me to him?"

Remo grinned broadly. "Sure. My pleasure." And he dragged Smith all the way back to Sinanju, just fast enough that Smith had to run to keep his feet.

"Guess who came to dinner, Little Father," Remo said, when he entered the treasure house.

Chlun looked up from his scrolls with tired eyes. He gave a tiny bow of his head. "Emperor Smith, your presence is welcome. You are here, of course, to witness the investment ceremony."

"No," said Smith, clinging to his briefcase. "Master of Sinanju, I must speak to you ... alone."

"Forget it, Smitty. He won't kill me. I'm head of the village now."

Chiun stared at Smith with impassive eyes.

"I have no secrets from Remo. Although it cannot be said that he has no secrets from me."

"Very well, Master of Sinanju. First let me remind you of your contract with the United States, specifically clause thirty-three, paragraph one."

"I remember that clause," said Chiun. "A worthy clause. Perhaps outdated, but sufficient for its time."

"The cherry blossoms are in bloom," said Smith, giving the agreed-upon code word for Chlun to kill Remo. It had been part of their agreement.

"I am old and failing in vigor," said Chiun. "I do not believe I understood your words."

"I said, 'The cherry blossoms are in bloom,' " repeated Smith in a louder voice.

"Ah," said Chiun. "I understand now. You wish me to eliminate Remo, as per our agreement. Unfortunately, I cannot do that. Remo is about to become the reigning Master of Sinanju-"

"Maybe," added Remo. "If we can work out the details."

"-and it is forbidden for one Master to kill another," finished Chiun.

"But Remo isn't reigning Master yet," insisted Smith.

"True," said Chiun, his fingernails fluttering in the air. "But he has agreed to support my village. That makes him of my village, and Masters are forbidden to harm fellow villagers. I am sorry, but the Remo you gave me to train no longer exists. In his place stands this Remo, who is no longer the flabby meat-eater of our first meeting, but one in Sinanju. I cannot kill him."

"See?" Remo said smugly. "I told you."

"If there is someone else you would like me to kill, I will be glad to consider it," said Chiun.

"I see," said Smith. "Very well. I must tell you that the Russians have discovered my operation."

"Good for them," said Chiun, returning to his scrolls.

"The organization is to be disbanded. We've agreed to turn you and Remo over to the Soviets in return for their silence."

Chiun paused, and carefully placed his goose quill back in its inkstone.

"Masters of Sinanju are not slaves," he said gravely. "To be bartered like chattel."

"The Soviets will be here by sunset to take control of the village."

"You sold us out!" yelled Remo. "You sold me out! You sold my village out!"

And Chiun smiled at that last.

"We had no choice," Smith said imperturbably.

"We'll fight," said Remo.

Chiun held up a commanding hand.

"Hold!" he said. "Emperor Smith, am I to understand that you have sold our contract to the Russian bear?"

"Ah, I don't ... If you put it that way, yes."

"The contract of the House of Smith," said Chiun solemnly, "binds my house to do your bidding. To do what you wish, there must be a formal signing over of the contract. Are you prepared to do this?"

"Yes," said Smith.

"Chiun, what are you saying? We can't work for the Russians."

"No," said Chiun. "You cannot work for the Russians. You must stay here and take my place. I must go to Russia and fulfill my last contract. It is my duty."

"I thought you said we were through with Smith."

"We are,"' said Chiun blandly. "Has not Emperor Smith himself just proclaimed it so?"

"That's right. I did," said Smith.

"You keep out of this," Remo snapped.

"But Emperor Smith's contract is still in force. I cannot die with an unfulfilled contract in my name. My ancestors, when I meet them in the Void, would shun me for eternity."

"I can't believe you're saying this, both of you," Remo cried.

Chiun clapped his hands imperiously.

"I grow weary. Leave me, both of you. We will assemble in the square when the Russians arrive. For now, I am an old man and I wish to enjoy in relative peace my final moments in the house of my ancestors."

"Come on, Smitty," Remo growled. And Remo yanked Smith out the door.

"Don't think badly of me, Remo," Smith said when they were outside. "We all understood it might come to this when we joined CURE."

"I didn't join, remember? I was hijacked."

"Uh, yes," said Smith uncomfortably.

"Things were bad enough until you came along," Remo complained. "Couldn't you let him die in peace?"

"You know the position I'm in," said Smith, dropping to his knees. He opened his briefcase. "You once believed in America."

"I still do," Remo said. "But things are different. I've found what I've been looking for here. What are you doing?"

"Taking care of unfinished business," said Smith, booting up the mini-computer. When the screen was illuminated, he keyed in a sequence of numbers and hooked the phone into the modem.

Remo watched as the words "ACCESS CODE REQUIRED" filled the screen.

In the space below, Smith typed the code word "IRMA."

The words "ACCESS DENIED" appeared on the screen.

"You goofed," said Remo. "You must be slipping."

"No," said Smith. "I deliberately used the wrong code. I just erased our secondary computer files on St. Martin."

"You're really going through with it," Remo said. Smith keyed in another number sequence. Again the words "ACCESS CODE REQUIRED" appeared.

This time Smith typed in the name "MAUDE."

"ACCESS DENIED," the screen said.

"Folcroft?" asked Remo.

Smith stood up, locking the briefcase. "I'm afraid so."

"Just like that?"

"Part of the safety system," said Smith. "In these days of tapping into computer records by phone, I had to come up with a fail-safe tamperproof system. CURE records can only be accessed by a code word. Anyone entering the wrong code word-any code word-would automatically throw the system off line. Just now I used the code words designated to erase the files permanently."

"Your wife's name and her nickname," said Remo. "Wasn't that risky? Suppose someone else had used them?"

"That was the idea. It's common to use a wife's name as an access code. Anyone who knew those two names would obviously know about me. That kind of unauthorized knowledge by itself would signal that we were compromised, and file erasure would be just a prelude to disbanding."

"Well, that's that," said Remo.

"Not really," Smith said grimly. "I was supposed to be erased with them."

In Rye, New York, in the basement of Folcroft Sanitarium, the computer banks containing every particle of data belonging to CURE, the government agency that officially did not exist, and now no longer existed unofficially, received the microwaved transmission from Sinanju and initiated the code request sequence.

There was a pause while the access-code request was sent back to Sinanju. The computers hummed softly, awaiting the proper code word. Or the improper one, which would strip their memory banks of all data. File tapes twitched in quarter cycles. Lights blinked. The computers waited.

Then the lights went out.

"Oh my goodness," said Mrs. Mikulka, who was at her desk several floors above.

Then she remembered. The electrical contractor. She took the stairs to the basement because the elevators were inoperable.

She found the contractor examining the backup generator in the dark with a flashlight.

"What happened?" Mrs. Mikulka demanded.

"Sorry about this, lady. I tried switching from the mains to this baby and-boom!-she blew. Completely. This is going to take a few days to fix now."

"Dr. Smith will be furious," said Mrs. Mikulka.

"Can't help it. This unit is pretty worn out. Can't figure out why. It's supposed to be for backup only. Am I right?"

"That's right."

"Well, you must have bought this baby used. It's worn down to nothing."

"Never mind," said Mrs. Mikulka. "What about our power? We have patients."

"No problem. Give me a minute to throw the circuit breakers on the mains."

Mrs. Mikulka felt her way back up the stairs, wondering what she would tell Dr. Smith when he returned.

Then the lights came back on.

Behind a concrete wall in the basement, not far from the faulty generator, a secret bank of computers resumed their operation, awaiting transmission of the CURE access code.

When, after several minutes, no signal was received, the computers resumed normal operations, searching nationwide data links for signs of potential criminal activity, as they had for over twenty years of continuous operation.

Chapter 15

The Russians arrived exactly at sunset. Five Chaika automobiles led by a Zil limousine pulled to a halt at the edge of the village of Sinanju. The people of the village, seeing uniformed men bristling with weapons emerge from the cars, scattered to their huts in fear.

Remo saw the Russians coming down the rocks, one in KGB green, the rest in black uniforms like none he had ever seen before. He ran to the treasure house and burst in.

"Chiun. I'm not letting this happen," Remo said. Chiun handed a freshly-rolled scroll to the caretaker, Pullyang, and waved for him to leave.

"You do not have to let anything happen, egotistical one," he said quietly. "It is happening without you."

"We'll fight them, Little Father."

Chiun shook his head wearily. "I cannot fight them."

"Then I'll do the fighting. There's only about a dozen of them. Piece of cake."

"Yes," said Chiun. "You could easily best the dozen. But what about the next dozen? And the two dozen who will show up at my village when the others do not return? And the legions who will surely follow. We are safe from the dogs at Pyongyang, but they are vassals to the Russian bear. The bear will keep coming until he has filled his stomach. No matter how many Russian corpses we pile in the village square to show our might, in the end my village will be lost." Chiun shook his head sadly. "No. This way is better."

"Bull!" said Remo.

"Once before, a Master of Sinanju was in service to an emperor, and when that emperor lost a war, his goods became the property of the conquering emperor. This calamity would not have happened had not the Master of that time, whose name was Tipi, been away at a crucial time. Have I told you that tale, Remo?"

"Screw the story. If I'm stuck in Sinanju, you're staying here,too."

"You have made up your mind?"

Remo folded his arms across his chest. "Definitely."

"Very well. Then bring me the sword of Sinanju. Quickly. Before the Russians are knocking at this door."

Remo took the sword, a two-handed weapon with jewel-encrusted hilt and a seven-foot blade, from its place of honor on one wall. He brought it to Chiun, offering it flat in his palms, blade turned inward.

"I do not wish to hold it," snapped Chiun. "It is for you. Now, quickly, strike off my head," and the Master of Sinanju bowed his head, giving Remo a clean opening to the back of his wattled neck.

"No," said Remo, horrified.

"Do it!" commanded the Master of Sinanju. "If you wish to spare me the pain of exile, then spare me the shame of willfully violating my sacred duty. And grant the Master who has made you whole a clean death."

"No!"

"Why do you hesitate, my son? With one stroke, you would cut yourself free of your obligations to me, and to my village."

Remo dropped the sword. He was in tears.

"You could return to the land of your birth ... with the maiden Mah-Li, if that is your wish."

"I can't. I love you."

"But not enough to grant me release from an odious responsibility," said the Master of Sinanju, lifting his face to meet Remo's streaming eyes.

"I'm sorry, Little Father."

"So be it," said Chiun, rising to his feet like a time-lapse film of a sunflower growing. "I go now to meet my future clients. I will expect you not to interfere."

"What about the investment ceremony?" asked Remo.

"There is no time. I will dispense with it. Consider yourself the new reigning Master of Sinanju."

"I'm not sure I'm ready," Remo said weakly.

"And I am sure you are not," said the Master of Sinanju. "But fate has decreed it otherwise. But you may take comfort in the story of the Master Tipi. I have placed the scroll describing his career under his new emperor beside my throne. It was not so terrible. He, too, was in his end days."

And Chiun went out of the house of his ancestors without a backward glance.

Colonel Viktor Ditko waited in the square of the village of Sinanju, surrounded by a crack team of black-clad Special Military Purposes Unit soldiers. Spetsnaz commandos. A cross between the American Green Berets and the old Nazi Stormtroopers, they were the most vicious soldiers in the entire Soviet Army. And Colonel Ditko was prepared to unleash them.

The word had come from the Kremlin. He was to personally take possession of the Master of Sinanju at sunset, and bring him instantly back to Russia.

When Colonel Ditko saw the crowd of villagers scatter like frightened pigeons, he was surprised to see an elderly Korean being escorted into the square by another. He recognized the younger of the two as the one in the original tape made by Sammy Kee, but not the other, who wobbled as he walked.

Then, with a shock, he realized it was the Master of Sinanju himself. He looked older, shrunken and feeble in his funereal black robes.

"What is this?" demanded Ditko of the Master of Sinanju.

And the Master of Sinanju replied in excellent if haughty Russian.

"This is the Master of Sinanju, Soviet dog. What are you?"

"I am Colonel Viktor Ditko. I have come to take you to my country."

"You make it sound simple."

"I understood there would be no resistance," said Ditko, a little nervously.

"And there will be none. But there must be a ceremony. Where is Smith?"

"Here," said Dr. Harold W. Smith, stepping out from behind a group of huts, where he had observed the Russian advance. He carried a very large scroll under one arm, edged in gold and tied with a blue ribbon.

"Who is this?" asked Ditko.

"My former employer," said the Master of Sinanju. "With our contract. He must sign it and you must sign it before I can enter into your service."

"Very well," Colonel Ditko said impatiently. "Give it to me."

Chiun took the scroll, opened it to the very end, and held it stiffly in the air while Smith signed the bottom. And then the Master of Sinanju turned to Colonel Ditko and offered the document for signing.

"Do you not wish to read it first?" asked Chiun politely.

"No," snapped Ditko. "We have little time."

"Such wisdom from a Russian," said the Master of Sinanju, a faint smile tugging at his parchment lips. "It augurs well for my service in your country."

When the contract was properly signed, the Master of Sinanju made a show of rolling up the document and with a little bow handed it to Colonel Ditko.

"It is done," said the Master of Sinanju. "Your emperor, and you as his representative, are now responsible for all provisions and guarantees described in this contact."

"Of course."

"One provision is that my village is sanctified from harm and that my pupil, the new Master of Sinanju, be allowed to govern in peace."

"If he does not wish to work for us, that is his right as an American," said Colonel Ditko stuffily. "But it is understood he works for no other country."

"For the duration of my services to you," agreed Chiun.

Smith, who understood some Russian, was surprised at the ease with which the transfer of employment took place. There was no haggling over price, none of the last-minute i-dotting and t-crossing that had characterized his dealings with Chiun. But it was clear to Smith that Chiun was a shadow of his former self. He looked so shaky that a stiff breeze might have toppled him.

"Take him to the car," ordered Colonel Ditko, who relished commanding the elite Spetsnaz team. "I will join you at the airport."

"I must say good-bye to my pupil, Remo," Chiun insisted.

"There is no time. The aircraft is waiting," said Colonel Ditko.

Chiun bowed stiffly. "I obey, because I am now in your service."

Two Spetsnaz commandos started to take Chiun by his spindly arms, but he shook them off.

"Unhand me," he snapped. "I am old and frail, but I can still walk. Allow me to leave my village with dignity."

Gathering up the hem of his robes, he strode up the road, the two commandos on either side of him, walking a respectful two paces behind. The Master of Sinanju did not look back. Nor did he say goodbye to Smith or the handful of villagers who had ventured out into the square. Smith wondered if the old man would survive the plane trip. He looked that far gone.

While everyone's eyes were following the slow departure of the Master of Sinanju, Smith slipped away, heading for the beach. It was done. Now there was just one last detail.

Smith found a quiet place among the cold rocks. He dug into the watch pocket of his vest and removed a small case. In it was a coffin-shaped pill. He had carried it ever since that day many years ago when he had assumed his duties as director of CURE. Duties, he knew, which were lifelong, because when they ended they could only end with his death.

"Good-bye, Maude, Vickie. I love you both very much."

And there, on the empty beach so far away from the nation he loved, Dr. Harold W. Smith swallowed the pill.

And choked on it. It caught in his throat. It wouldn't go down.

Smith, frantic that his suicide attempt might fail, plunged into the cold surf and drank a long swallow of salt water to wash down the pill.

The water was so cold, it numbed his taste buds so he couldn't taste salt. But he felt the pill go down. Shivering from his sudden immersion, he threw himself on the fine beach sand and waited for the end to come.

Dimly he heard the percussive stutter of automatic-weapons fire.

There were screams. The haunting screams of the dying.

Faintly he understood that the Russians had betrayed them all. And deep within him, a cold rage swept all thoughts of death-his death-from his mind.

Dr. Harold W. Smith pulled himself to his feet. The poison was supposed to act quickly, but he was still alive. He stumbled up into the rocks. The sporadic fire grew constant.

Smith swore and started running, not sure what he could accomplish in his last moments of life, but determined to inflict a final blow.

He tripped over his automatic, lying in the sand where Remo had thrown it. Smith grabbed it, checked the action. There was no clip, but he had an extra in his pocket. He loaded the gun and pushed on, praying that he had time to take out a few of them before he succumbed. A spreading coldness filled his stomach.

Remo Williams stood among the heaped treasures of Sinanju, his mind stunned at Chiun's strange actions, when he heard the shooting.

"Chiun!" he cried. He pitched out the door. There was no sign of Chiun. The Russians were going from hut to hut, dragging people out into a huddled mass in the village square. To expedite their work, they fired into the air. Sometimes, not into the air.

A running woman bumped into Remo. He caught her in his arms, then noticed the hole in her chest gushing blood. She gave out a little sigh and died.

A clot of soldiers came around the corner. Their eyes locked with Remo's.

Remo moved on the Russian commandos, his senses coming alive in a way they had never done before. He could see the bullet tracks erupting in his direction, and each individual bullet in each track.

Dodging them was the same as dodging cork guns. He took an inside line, evading the streams of bullets as if they were harmless flashlight beams wielded by nervous children.

To the eyes of the Russians, Remo seemed to float toward them, his feet barely touching the ground-but in actuality he was striking with the nervous speed of a fer-de-lance.

Remo hit the nearest Russian with an openhanded palm. The soldier's rib cage was instantly turned to Jell-O. He collapsed from the sudden lack of skeletal support.

"We have found him!" called another soldier. "The American."

"Right," said Remo, chopping him down like a sapling. "I'm the American."

The Russians broke in all directions, seeking cover in the higher rocks. Remo moved toward the nearest group, pulled them off the rocks like bugs off a wall. He appeared only to tap them, but they did not rise from where they fell.

"American," called Colonel Ditko from the rocks above where Remo stood amid a pile of Soviet corpses. "What?" Remo shot back.

"We do not wish to slaughter everyone. We only want you."

"I'm not going to Russia," snapped Remo.

"And Russia does not want you. But we will exchange your surrender for the lives of these people."

"You can't get them all," Remo said, trying to bluff. "But I'll get all of you."

"If you wish a war, than so be it," said Ditko, whose orders were to erase all traces of the village of Sinanju and its people. "I will order my men to fire into the crowd."

Remo saw the villagers huddled behind their homes, their faces wearing that soul-shocked look that he had seen a thousand times in Vietnam. He felt a wave of pity for them. They were not-and never had been-masters of their own fate. Centuries of dependence on the Masters of Sinanju had stripped them of all self-reliance. It was not their fault they had turned out the way they had. They were no longer Chiun's people. They were his now.

Remo hesitated, calculating the positions of the Russians. Only a handful remained. Maybe there was time to get to them before they picked their shots.

But then Remo saw Mah-Li being dragged into view by one of the Russians. She struggled. "Mah-Li!" he said under his breath. She was not wearing her veil. Her delicate face shone with anxiety. "Okay, you win," said Remo. And he put up his hands.

They came down from the rocks carefully, their Kalishnikov rifles pointed unwaveringly at Remo's head.

"Bring him," ordered Colonel Ditko. "And round up the rest of the villagers. We will execute the American as an example to them."

"This wasn't the deal," said Remo.

"Wrong. This is the deal our leader made with your leader."

"Where's Chiun?"

"On his way to Pyongyang airport. And I must hurry to join him. I am to present him to the General Secretary myself. It will be a great day for me. Now I must leave you."

And Colonel Ditko hurried back to a waiting car and drove off.

His second in command marched Remo to the wall of the nearest hut and stood him up against it. He gave sharp orders and the five remaining commandos lined up in single file, their rifles aimed at Remo's chest.

"No blindfold?" asked Remo.

The soldiers ignored him. They squinted down the sights of their weapons.

"Ready!" ordered the second in command.

Remo saw Mah-Li fall to the ground and cover her face. Her shoulders shook with emotion.

"Aim!"

"If you harm these people after I'm gone," said Remo in a brittle voice, "I'm coming back after you all."

"I do not believe in ghosts," said the second in command.

"Maybe not. But if you don't listen to me, you'll be believing in Shiva the Destroyer."

There was something about the tone of the American's threat. The second in command hesitated. It was a very big mistake.

Before the firing order could be given, five spiteful shots rang out from the high rocks. And, one by one, all five members of the firing squad fell with their skulls shattered.

Remo broke his bonds with a hemp-splitting tug. The second in command never saw the hand that reduced his face to raw meat.

Remo looked up. Smith lay on his stomach, smoke drifting from the muzzle of his gun. Then he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been clipped. Smith closed his eyes.

Remo ran to him and saw that he was going into convulsions.

Remo flipped Smith over on his back. The older man's face was turning the color and texture of blue cheese. Poison.

"Dammit, Smitty!" Remo screamed at him. "Did you have to go through with it? Couldn't you have waited?"

Remo tore Smith's jacket, vest, and shirt open with a single exertion. Buttons popped in all directions. Remo placed both his hands on Smith's wrinkled stomach and started to massage the solar-plexus muscles rapidly. He was rewarded by a rapid suffusion of color under his kneading fingers. That meant poison-fighting blood was concentrating where it was most needed.

Remo turned Smith onto his back, so that his head hung over the edge of the outcropping. He stuffed a large stone under Smith's feet to keep the blood flowing to the stomach.

Smith began to gag. He gave a low strangling groan, like a woman giving birth. But life had nothing to do with the sound that Smith made.

It was now or it was all over.

There were nerve clusters at the throat and solar plexus, and Remo took them, one in each hand, and performed a manipulation that a chiropractor would have understood.

Smith started vomiting violently. An ugly black bile erupted from his mouth and nostrils, spraying the sand below. Smith convulsed. His eyes opened, rolled up into his head as if the muscles behind them had lost tension.

Then Dr. Harold W. Smith lay still.

Remo listened. No heartbeat. He felt the carotid artery. No pulse.

"Dammit, Smitty! I need you!" Remo yelled again, and flipped Smith over one last time.

Sinanju techniques had gotten rid of the poison, but not in time. Smith's heart had stopped. Remo laid a fist over Smith's stilled heart and brought the other fist down atop it. Once, twice, three times, until he had established a rhythm. He kept the rhythm going, even though the heart muscle did not respond to it.

"Dammit!" he swore, and punched Smith's stomach to expel clearing air through his windpipe. Smith took in a reflexive breath. And then Remo felt the beat. Irregular at first, but more regular as Remo kept up the beating of his hand. He pounded his fist in synchronization with Smith's heart, staying with its rhythm, until the rhythms were one. And then Remo picked up the pace, forcing Smith's heart muscle to match it.

When he was sure that Smith's heart would continue beating on its own, Remo stopped.

He waited. One minute. Two. Five.

At length Dr. Harold W. Smith opened his eyes. They looked horrible, like those of a man who had awoken one morning to discover that maniacs had stripped the flesh from his body.

"Remo," he said weakly. "You should have let me die."

"You're welcome," Remo said bitterly. "Never mind that crap. Chiun's gone to Russia. I need your help. I gotta get there. Fast."

"They betrayed us, didn't they?" Smith said dully, sitting up.

"You learn to expect that from certain kinds of people," Remo accused. "Even friends."

Smith said nothing.

"Here's your briefcase," Remo said, throwing the leather valise onto Smith's lap. "Get on the horn and make the arrangements to get me to Moscow."

"I can't. The President has a deal with the Soviets."

"Get me to Moscow or I'll kill you," Remo warned.

"I'm already a dead man," said Smith.

"You sold us out and the Russians betrayed everyone. You owe me, Smitty. But if you won't do it for me, or for Chiun, or for what's left of the organization, then do it for America."

And through the pain, Dr. Harold W. Smith felt a chord being struck. The only one he would respond to.

Smith made an absurd show of straightening out his ruined clothes and opened the briefcase.

"The Darter is still lying off the coast," he said emotionlessly. "Their orders were to leave if they didn't hear from me by dawn. I'll call in a landing party. We can get to Kimpo air base in South Korea by midnight at the latest. From there, I think I can still order an Air Force jet into action. The organization may be finished, but I'm not powerless. Yet."

"Do it," said Remo. "And forget that 'we' stuff. I'm going. You're staying here."

"Here?"

"You're going to protect Sinanju until I get back."

"It's a suicide mission, Remo. What if you don't come back?"

Remo stood up and gestured to the tiny village below.

"Then it's all yours, Smitty. Don't spend the gold all in one place."

Chapter 16

Deep into Soviet airspace, General Martin S. Leiber assured Remo Williams that the Air Force's new Stealth Stratofighter was in no immediate danger.

"The Russians never shoot at armed military aircraft," the general said confidently. "They know we might shoot back. Besides, if a Korean airliner can penetrate Soviet defenses while flying at a lousy thirty-thousand feet, we should have no problems loafing along up here in the stratosphere."

"Good," said Remo absently. He was staring out a window. A faint tinge of bluish moonlight edged the wings of the Stratofighter, which had folded back for maximum faster-than-sound velocity once they penetrated the Soviet air-defense net. The soundlessness of their flight was eerie. They were actually flying away from the roar of the Stratofighter's six gargantuan engines, literally leaving it miles behind. Below, lights twinkled here and there. Not many. Russia, for all its size, was not very populous.

"Good," Remo repeated absently, worrying about Chiun. Was he still alive? Had he really left without saying good-bye?

"Of course, we're going to have to drop to about fifteen-thousand feet and fly slower than sound for the drop."

"That's where it gets hairy for me, right?" said Remo, turning away from the window.

"That's where it gets hairy for everyone, civilian. If Red radar picks us up, they're naturally going to assume we're a strayed civilian airliner. They'll open up. There's nothing the Russians like better than taking potshots at targets that can't shoot back."

"But we can," Remo said.

"Can," said General Leiber. "But won't. Not allowed."

"Why the hell not?" Remo demanded.

"Use your head, man," the general said indignantly. "It would cause an international incident. Might trigger World War III."

"I've got news for you," Remo said. "If you don't drop me in Moscow in one piece, you won't have to worry about World War III. It'll be practically guaranteed. Right now, the Russians have a weapon more dangerous than any nuclear missiles. That's what this freaking mission is all about."

"It is? Well, humph ... that is . . . The way of it, civilian, is that I can't take the responsibility for causing what we military call a thermonuclear exchange. Even if it's gonna happen anyway."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because if I do, I could lose these silver twinklers on my shoulder. They may not seem like much to you, civilian, but I'm damned proud of them and what they represent," said General Martin S. Leiber righteously, thinking of the ten thousand dollars a year each star meant in retirement benefits.

"You're afraid you'll lose your stars," Remo said slowly, "but not of World War III? Unless you cause it, of course."

"I'm a soldier, man," the general said proudly. "I'm paid to defend my country. But I haven't spent thirty years in the Air Force, man and boy, just to spend my twilight years eating dog food on social security."

"Get me to Moscow," Remo said grimly, "and I'll see that no one ever takes those stars from you."

"Deal," said the general, putting out his hand. He didn't know who this skinny guy was but anyone with the clout to compel the U.S. Air Force to risk a billion dollar experimental aircraft just to get him into Russia had to have a lot of pull.

"You got it," said Remo, shaking it. His ordinarily cruel mouth warped into a pleasant smile.

Over Novgorod, they began their descent. The sound of the engines caught up with the decelerating plane. Remo, parachute strapped to his back, stepped onto the closed doors of the bomb bay. Because it was a night drop, he wore the black two-piece outfit of the night tigers of Sinanju, and rubbed his face black with camouflage paint.

"We can drop you north of Moscow," the general called over the engine roar. "Plenty of good open space there."

"I don't have that kind of time," Remo said. "Put me down in the city."

"The city?" the general shouted. "It's crawling with military police. They'll hang your head on the Kremlin Wall."

"Red Square would be nice," Remo added.

"Red-?" the general choked.

"Remember my promise," Remo reminded him.

"Right," said General Martin S. Leiber, saluting. He went forward into the nose and conferred with the pilot. He returned a minute later.

"You want Red Square, you got Red Square," the general said flatly. "Now, about my stars," he whispered.

Remo stepped up to the general, and with one lightning-fast motion stripped the stars from his shoulders and, with a fist, embossed them permanently to the general's forehead.

The general said, "What?" and frowned. Then he said, "Ouch!" three times very fast as the points of the stars dug into his wrinkling brow.

"Satisfied?" Remo asked politely.

"You drive a hard bargain, civilian. But I gotta admit you deliver. And so will I. Stand by."

Remo waited. The Stratofighter dropped, its retractable stealth wings swinging forward to decrease airspeed.

"Red Square coming up," the general shouted. "You got a weapon, civilian?"

"I am the weapon," Remo said confidently.

The bomb-bay doors split and yawned like a great maw.

"Hang loose, civilian," the general called as, suddenly, Remo fell. He was instantly yanked back by the terrible slipstream. He tumbled, and catching himself, threw his arms and legs out into free-fall position.

Below, the lights of Moscow lay scattered against a black velvet plain. The wind roared in Remo's ears and his clothes flapped and chattered against his body. He squeezed his eyes half-closed against the vicious updraft, oblivious of the biting cold, and concentrated on his breathing.

Breathing was everything in Sinanju. It was the key that unlocked the sun source, and the sun source made a man one with the forces of the universe itself. Remo couldn't afford to pull the ripcord until he knew where he would land. He couldn't afford not to pull it very soon because even the sun source wasn't proof against smashing into solid ground from four miles up. So he adjusted the rhythms of his lungs and worked the air currents like a hawk. He slid off to the right, toward the highest concentration of lights. Downtown Moscow. Then he stabilized his fall, his splayed body a great X in the sky, like a bombsight. Only the bombsight was also the bomb.

When he was sure he was balanced against the prevailing wind, Remo tugged the parachute ring. There came a crack! above his head, and Remo felt his body brought up short, like a yo-yo returning to a hand. The sensation was brief, and then he was floating down, feet first. The parachute was a huge black bell above him, nearly invisible against the empty sky.

Remo looked up. There was no sign of the Stratofighter. Good. They had made it. Now all he had to do was the same.

Remo had been in Moscow on previous CURE assignments, and knew the city. He had picked Red Square for his landing for two reasons: because it was the largest open space in the heart of Moscow and because it was extremely well-lit at night. He couldn't miss the iridescent blue streetlights that transformed the square into a bowl of illumination.

This, of course, meant that once Remo's parachute fell into that bowl, the dozens of gray-uniformed militsiya who patrolled the city couldn't miss seeing him. And they didn't.

"Cron!" shouted a militiaman, bringing his AK-47 to bear on Remo's descending stomach.

Remo remembered that "cron" meant "stop," and tried to remember the Russian word for "how?" but gave it up when the man opened up with a warning shot. Other militiamen-Russia's version of policemen-came running, brandishing automatic rifles and shouting loudly.

Normally, even a half-dozen armed combatants would be a cinch for Remo to handle, but not while slowly falling from a parachute. He might as well have been an ornament hung on a Christmas tree wearing a sign that read: "SHOOT ME!"

The warning shot snarled past Remo's shoulder. He was about forty feet off the ground. Remo dug into his pockets for the loose change he suddenly remembered was still there and snapped a nickel back at the militiaman.

The Russian went down with a slot in his forehead and a massive exit wound at the back of his skull. Remo didn't wait for the converging guards to open fire. He flipped pennies, dimes, quarters at every uniform in sight. The coins left his fingers at supersonic speed and wreaked devastating damage on bones, brains, and major organs. Within seconds, the first wave of challengers lay scattered over the gray bricks of Red Square. Pedestrians ran screaming from the area.

Remo wondered what Sister Mary Margaret would have said if she could see him now.

Reinforcements would be arriving soon, Remo knew. He didn't plan to stick around and tangle with them. He tugged on the parachute shroud lines, spilling air, and tried to land inside the Kremlin Wall fronting Red Square. He didn't make it.

Instead, Remo landed atop a long black Zil limousine that had stopped at Spassky Gate, waiting for the red light to turn green, signifying that the car was cleared to enter the Kremlin. The light turned green just as Remo's feet hit the Zil's roof with a dull thump. Remo cut himself free of the parachute with short slashes of his Sinanju-hardened fingers and jumped from the car just as the huge parachute spilled over the limousine, covering it like a black shroud.

The chauffeur emerged from behind the wheel shouting and swearing. He got tangled up in the silk chute for his trouble. Militiamen and a few plainclothes KGB agents descended on the enshrouded Zil like angry hornets. They pulled and tore at the billowing fabric, uncovering the car. They almost shot the chauffeur before the owner of the Zil, the Indian ambassador to Russia, stepped out, demanding to know what the hell was going on. He was ignored while the KGB searched the car thoroughly.

The senior KGB officer couldn't understand it. Who would parachute into Red Square? And for what diabolical reason? More important, who was this incredible hooligan? No one knew. He should have been under the parachute. But he was not. Was he perhaps hiding under the Zil? They looked. He was not hiding under the Zil.

Then the KGB men and the militsiya noticed the still-open Spassky Gate and they knew they were all in very serious trouble.

Marshal Josef Steranko had the cushiest duty in all of the Red Army. He was marshall in charge of the defense of Moscow. It was a traditional post, very important in times of war, but since Moscow had not been under military attack since World War II, it was now largely ceremonial. A reward for a grizzled old veteran of the Great Patriotic War.

So it came as something of a shock when, watching television in his apartment in the luxury tower of Moscow's Rossiya Hotel, Marshal Josef Steranko received the first reports of a commando raid on the Russian capital city.

"Are you drunk?" demanded Steranko of the KGB chief, who had called him because he knew nowhere else to turn. For some strange reason, the General Secretary was ignoring all incoming calls. There were rumors of his assassination.

"No, Comrade Marshal," the KGB chief said. "It is true. They landed in Red Square itself."

"Hold the line," said Steranko. His apartment overlooked Red Square. He went to a window and looked down. He saw scores of militsiya running to and fro like ants. Chalk outlines where the dead had fallen showed clearly against darker stains. The Kremlin was ablaze with searchlights and armed soldiers crouched along the top of its red brick walls as if expecting a siege.

"My God," said Steranko huskily. It looked like Leningrad just before it fell. He hurried back to the phone, cursing.

"I want details," Steranko barked into the mouthpiece. "Quickly!"

"Yes, Comrade Marshal," the KGB chief stuttered, and then launched into a frightening litany of atrocities the American Rangers had perpetrated on beautiful Moscow. They had parachuted in, bold as cossacks. From Red Square, the Rangers had melted into the night. Unseen, they had removed Lenin's body from his glass coffin and placed him in a window of the great GUM department store, dressed in female clothes. A detachment of the Americans, perhaps thirty in number, had stacked automobiles one atop the other all along Kalinin Prospekt and then proceeded up the Garden Ring to liberate the animals from Moscow Zoo, stopping to pilfer the American flag from in front of the United States embassy. Everywhere one went, windows had been cut free from sashes as if with mechanical glass cutters and crushed into small piles of gritty powder. The prisoners of Lubyanka Prison had been released and were even now roaming the streets shouting "Viva America!" And the statue of Feliks Dzerzhinsky outside KGB headquarters was now without a head. All over the city, they had spray-painted an untranslatable counterrevolutionary slogan. It was even to be seen, some said, on the Great Kremlin Palace itself.

"This slogan?" demanded Steranko, who knew English. "What is it?"

"One word, comrade: REMO. We think it must be an anagram, possibly meaning 'Ruin Everything in Moscow Overnight.'"

Marshal Josef Steranko could not believe his ears. None of it made sense.

"These are children's pranks," he said. "Tell me of the battles. How many dead on each side?"

"Seven died in the first assault on Red Square. All ours. We have no reports of casualties on either side beyond this."

"No reports!" yelled Steranko. "Moscow is being desecrated and no one fights back. Is that what you are telling me?"

"The Rangers, they are like phantoms," insisted the KGB chief. "They strike and move on. Every time we send a security detachment to the scene of the atrocity, they are gone."

"Confirmed enemy troop sightings," Steranko barked.

"We estimate anywhere from thirty to-"

"I do not want estimates! Confirmed sightings only!"

"Comrade Marshal we have a confirmed sighting of but a single commando. It was he who landed in Red Square and murdered seven brave militsiya."

"One man accounted for seven?" said Steranko, aghast. "With what weapon did he accomplish this miracle?"

The KGB chief hesitated. "Ah, this report must be in error."

"Read it!"

"He was unarmed, by all accounts."

"Then how did the seven die?"

"We do not know. At first, they appeared to be shot, but examinations of the bodies showed only deformed American coins in their wounds."

Josef Steranko's mouth hung open. Was he dreaming? Was this a nightmare from which he would awaken? He hung up on the KGB chief's frightened plea for instructions.

Stenanko walked slowly to his window overlooking Red Square. He could hear the sirens in the night, racing blindly from one scene to another, always too late because they were searching for concentrations of troops. Josef Steranko knew there were no concentrations of troops. The Americans would not have dared land troops on Soviet soil without first immobilizing Soviet missile defenses, and this they had not done. Yet something was roaming the streets of Moscow making a juvenile show of force. Something powerful enough to lift automobiles and crush plate glass into powder. Something that could hurl coins with force enough to massacre armed KGB agents as if they were defenseless children recruited from the Young Pioneers.

Something ... or someone.

But even as the thought ghosted through old Marshal Steranko's mind, he shook his head angrily. It was preposterous. Such a weapon could not exist. And if it did exist, the Americans would not send it to Moscow to stir up such infantile troubles when they had powerful ballistic missiles to throw in a first strike.

Then Marshal Josef Steranko saw the secret weapon with his very own eyes.

It was a man. All in black. Unarmed, except for what appeared to be a long pole. He was inside the very walls of the Kremlin itself, climbing the Ivan the Great Bell Tower, by law the tallest structure permitted in Moscow. The man climbed effortlessly, like a monkey, until he reached the large onionshaped dome with its crucifix, retained for historical reasons.

At the top of the dome, the man in black plunged the pole into the ornate bulb and shook it once. An American flag unfurled proudly, defiantly. The flag, Steranko realized instantly, that had been liberated from the American embassy.

Josef Steranko stood watching the man for a full five minutes.

"He is waiting," he said under his breath. "He wants something."

Steranko walked to the phone and dialed the officer in charge of Kremlin security.

"Inform the man on the bell tower that Marshal Josef Steranko wishes to speak to him," he said crisply. Ten minutes later, two green-uniformed KGB officers escorted Remo Williams into Steranko's spacious apartment. The old marshal noticed that the arms of the troops hung limply by their sides, hands empty.

"Your weapons," he demanded. "Where are they?"

"He took them," one trooper said, jerking his head toward Remo.

"And he took away the use of our arms when we protested," the other added.

"It'll wear off in about an hour," Remo said casually.

"Leave us," Steranko said. The KGB men left. Josef Steranko looked hard at the man before him. There was an unreadable expression on the man's blackened face.

"The penalty for espionage against Mother Russia is execution," he told Remo.

"I wouldn't have written my name over every blank wall in Moscow if I were spying," Remo pointed out.

"Then what?"

"I'm here to get back a friend. Your people have him."

Marshal Josef Steranko sat down on a sofa that, although new, might have been designed around the time Buddy Holly died. He looked at Remo with unwavering eyes and said:

"Speak."

Chapter 17

Marshal Josef Steranko knew it was treason to escort the American named Remo into the Grand Kremlin Palace itself. He also knew that if he did not, this madman who fought like a tiger would not only kill him but also bring Moscow down about everyone's ears until he got what he came for.

And Marshal Joseph Steranko, who had stood at Leningrad when the Nazis and the Finns were hammering the city with artillery, was charged with the defense of Moscow and the mother country. And he was going to do whatever he had to do to safeguard them both-even if it meant sneaking into the Kremlin an American agent possibly bent on assassinating the entire Politburo.

Leaders came and went, but Moscow must stand. Steranko had escorted Remo as far as the main stairway of the Grand Kremlin Palace. Remo was wearing a winter greatcoat and fur hat that Steranko loaned him.

None of the sets of guards they encountered questioned them. They assumed the old marshal was reporting on the rumored attacks on the city.

"The guards say that the General Secretary is in conference three floors above with an Oriental such as the one you described to me," said Marshal Steranko, pulling Remo into a marble corridor. "Your friend may be anywhere on that floor. I can go no further."

"You're sure?" Remo demanded, shucking off the greatcoat.

"Absolutely."

And Remo thanked the man by putting him to sleep with a nerve tap, as opposed to killing him. Remo floated up the damp north stairs. He sensed no electronic warning systems. No traps. Remo wondered if it was because the Kremlin's stone walls did not allow electronic implants-or were the Russians so secure in their capital that they thought they didn't need any?

On the third floor, Remo found himself in a dark paneled corridor with numerous heavy doors on either side. It was strangely deserted. All the doors looked alike and Remo couldn't read the letters on any of them. They reminded him of his old high school back in Newark. Oppressive.

For want of a better approach, Remo walked down the corridor, trying the doors on each side. The first several were empty, but in the third, he came face-to-face with six guards who were just leaving what must have been a break room, if the strong smell of coffee was an indication.

"Sorry," Remo said lightly. "I was looking for the little boys' room."

The guards turned as if on separate pivots geared to a single motor. The nearest one, seeing Remo's strange costume, fired two shots almost without thinking.

But in the split second it took for him to pull the trigger, before the bullets emerged from the barrel, Remo had grabbed the pistol and turned it into the Russian's stomach, so that the man shot himself as well as the guard directly behind him.

Both men fell, hitting the parquet floor so close together that they made a single thud.

Remo was in motion before the two dropped. The room was small, without much room to maneuver in, so he moved in on the next nearest guard with a straight-arm thrust, taking him in the throat. The man's head snapped back, his neck dislocated. He died instantly, but Remo wasn't through with him yet.

Grabbing him by the back of the neck, Remo backpedaled into the corridor, bringing the body, still on its feet, with him.

"Hold your fire," the sergeant of the guards yelled, not realizing what had happened because it happened so blindingly fast. "You'll hit Ilya."

The guards held their fire.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Remo sang from the hallway. He had to avoid a firefight. If Chiun was anywhere on this floor, he didn't want him to be hit by a stray bullet.

"He is unarmed," said the sergeant of the guards softly. "Two of you go out and shoot him dead."

A pair of guards started for the door. The sergeant hung back, his pistol ready.

A head suddenly appeared in the doorway, and the two guards opened up on it. The head snapped back out of sight just ahead of the shots.

"What was that?" one asked.

"It looked like Ilya. Ilya, what is wrong?"

The head reappeared in the doorway, and they could see it was Ilya's all right. They could also see that Ilya's eyes were open and unblinking, like those of a Howdy Doody puppet.

"I'm fine," the head seemed to say in a weird, faraway voice. "Come out and play."

"He's dead!" one of the guards said. "And that crazy man is using him like a toy."

The macabre sight froze the two hardened guards in their tracks. One of them went green.

"Fools!" cried the sergeant of the guards. "What are you frightened of?" And he put two bullets into Ilya's slack jawed dead face. "There. Now get that hooligan."

Remo dropped Ilya's body across the threshold of the door and waited out of sight.

The snout of a Tokarev pistol showed first, and Remo snaked out a finger to meet it. The barrel snapped off and fell to the floor with a clank. The guard stood looking stupidly at his maimed weapon. Then he looked at Remo, who held his right fist with forefinger extended, like a kid pretending that his hand is a gun.

"Mine still works," Remo said casually. The guard fired anyway. The bullet popped out of the gaping breech. Without a barrel to give the slug velocity, it tumbled slowly end over end.

Remo caught it in his palms, held it up for the Russian to see clearly. "Now, for my next trick," Remo announced, and flicked the bullet back.

The guard took it in the forehead with enough force to knock him down.

Remo danced into the room, taking out the fallen guard with a crunching kick to the temple and then went straight for the one person left in the room.

The sergeant of the guards.

The Russian's Tokarev snapped off a series of shots. Remo wove to one side, dodging the first three shots, and then moved to the other, letting the round drill past him.

"You got one shot left, pal," Remo said. "Better make it count."

The sergeant of the guards did. He placed the pistol to his temple, and before Remo could react, blew half his face across the room.

"I guess they don't make Russians like they used to," Remo said.

It had gone so well for Colonel Viktor Ditko. From the flight from Pyongyang airport to Moscow, and the escorted drive from Sheremetyevo Airport to the Kremlin, the Master of Sinanju had not spoken a word. He simply stared out the window, regarding the wing of the Aeroflot jet as if it might, at any moment, fall off.

Colonel Ditko personally led the Master of Sinanju through the ornate gilt door of Vladimir Hall in the Grand Kremlin Palace. The low-vaulted octagonal room was one the General Secretary preferred for certain kinds of meetings.

The General Secretary had arisen from behind an oversize conference table and smiled genially. "Welcome to our country," the General Secretary had said to the Master of Sinanju. "I understand you speak English."

"I also speak Russian," the Master of Sinanju had said coldly in Russian. "Too bad that you do not." The General Secretary lost his smile.

"I will speak with the Master of Sinanju in private," he informed Colonel Ditko.

"What about my appointment to the Ninth Directorate?" asked Colonel Ditko nervously, fearing he would become lost in the Politburo's endless bureaucratic machine.

The General Secretary frowned at the raising of a minor detail at so historic an occasion.

"Very well. Consider yourself so appointed. Your first assignment is to stand outside this door and see that I am disturbed by nothing."

"Yes, Comrade General Secretary," said Colonel Ditko, who took his instructions literally.

So when, not long after, the General Secretary's personal secretary tried to get into the office, Colonel Viktor Ditko, barred her way.

"The General Secretary is not to be disturbed."

"But this is a crisis. Moscow is under attack. The Politburo is going into emergency session."

"My orders are clear," said Colonel Ditko, unholstering his sidearm.

The secretary, whose duties did not include staring at the business end of a pistol, ran off. So did subsequent messengers. The phones rang continuously. But there was no one to answer them.

Military and political leaders, unable to reach the General Secretary, automatically assumed he was dead, or fighting off assassins. Rumors of a coup filled the Kremlin itself. Guards, secretaries, and other functionaries quietly evacuated the building.

And so, while Moscow was practically under siege, Colonel Viktor Dicko single-handedly prevented word of the greatest crisis in the city's history from reaching the ears of the one man who was empowered to orchestrate a coherent response.

No one had dared to come near Vladimir Hall for more than an hour when a strange figure padded down the long corridor that led to the gilt door.

Colonel Ditko squinted down the corridor, which was not well-lit. The figure was unconventionally dressed. He wore not a suit, nor a uniform, but something like the pajamas of the decadent West, except they were of black silk. His sandaled feet made no sound when he walked, but he walked with a confidence that told Colonel Ditko that his authority came, not from orders or a uniform, but from something deep within him.

Colonel Ditko thought the man's face was familiar, but the lights in the corridor were widely spaced.

Just when he focused on the man's features, he entered a zone of shadow.

Colonel Ditko brought his pistol to the ready. "Who would pass?" he demanded.

And then the figure came into a zone of light again, and Colonel Ditko saw the blaze of anger in the man's eyes and he heard the voice reverberate off the walls.

"I am created Shiva, the Destroyer; Death, the shatterer of worlds. The dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju," the voice intoned. "Who is this dog meat who challenges me?"

Too late, Colonel Viktor Ditko recognized the face of the American named Remo. Too late, he brought his Tokarev in line. Too late, he pulled the trigger.

For the American was upon him. Colonel Ditko did not feel the hand that swatted aside the gun, and took his wrist like a vise.

"Where is Chiun?"

"I cannot say," said Colonel Ditko. And then Remo squeezed. His hand turned purple, and the tips of Colonel Ditko's fingers swelled like stepped-on balloons. The tips split, spewing blood.

Colonel Ditko screamed. The scream was a word. And the word was "Inside!"

"Thanks for nothing," said Remo Williams. who collapsed Colonel Ditko's larynx with the heel of his hand.

Remo stepped over the corpse to reach for the door.

The General Secretary of the Soviet Union was trying to call Washington. The operator kept breaking in to tell him there was a crisis. His advisers were frantically attempting to reach him. Would he please accept the incoming calls while there was still a functioning government?

"Never mind!" the General Secretary screamed. "Clear the lines. I must reach Washington!" He clenched the telephone receiver in his hand. The pain was beyond endurance.

Which was strange, because as near as he could tell, the old Korean known as the Master of Sinanju was merely touching the General Secretary's right earlobe with a long fingernail.

Then why did the pain sear his nervous system worse that a million white-hot needles?

Finally, thankfully, the familiar voice of the President of the United States came on the line.

"Tell him that the tapes have been destroyed," the Master of Sinanju hissed in his ear.

"The tapes have been destroyed!" screamed the General Secretary.

"What?" said the President. "You don't have to shout."

"Now tell him that you have broken your contract with the Master of Sinanju."

"I have broken my contract with the Master of Sinanju."

"And that the Master of Sinanju no longer works for anyone, including America."

"The Master of Sinanju no longer works for anyone, including America," the General secretary gasped. Pain caused his vision to darken. He thought he was going to die. It would have been a blessing.

"You are done," said Chiun.

"I am done." said the General Secretary, and hung up. Sweat poured off his brow like water from a faulty playground bubbler.

Remo Williams barged into the office of the General Secretary and stopped dead in his tracks. "Chiun!" he said.

Chiun was standing over the Russian leader, holding the man down in his seat with a single delicately curved fingernail. The Master of Sinanju no longer looked wan and tired. Life blazed in his hazel eyes. And at Remo's unexpected entrance, surprise.

"Remo," he squeaked. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to rescue you."

"I need no rescuing. Who guards the gold of my village?"

"Smith."

"Phtaah!" Chiun spat. "We must hurry home then."

"What about your contract with Russia?"

"This fool Russian did not read the fine print. Sinanju contracts are nontransferable. Clause fifty-six, paragraph four. Since Master Tipi's unfortunate servitude, this has been standard in all Sinanju contracts. Which you would have known had you bothered to read the scroll I left for you."

"You were coming back all along?"

"Of course."

Remo's face wore a puzzled expression. "I don't understand this."

"What else is new? Here," he said, tossing Remo two mangled blobs of black plastic. "The tapes this Russian used to blackmail Smith."

Remo caught them. "They're no good anymore. But this guy still knows everything," Remo said, indicating the General Secretary.

"He has graciously consented to accept the gift of amnesia, as administered through the kind offices of Sinanju," Chiun said, twisting his fingernail suddenly. The General Secretary jumped in his seat.

"Now all we have to do is get out of Russia alive." Chiun made a snorting sound. "Passing through borders has never been a problem for Masters of Sinanju. All nations are happy to give us diplomatic immunity."

Remo turned to the Soviet General Secretary. "You got a problem with that?"

The General Secretary had no problem with it whatsoever. In fact he was more than eager to order his private plane to take them back to Pyongyang-if only the damned People's Phone Lines would clear.

Chapter 18

The Master of Sinanju and his pupil sat on opposite sides of the airplane during the flight back to Pyongyang, North Korea. Representatives of the government of the Great Leader, Kim Il Sung, were on hand to greet them and arrange a helicopter flight directly to Sinanju.

During the short hop, Remo broke the strained silence.

"You seem to have recovered awfully fast," he said.

"'Of course," said Chiun. "I am the Master of Sinanju."

"I thought you said you were dying."

"I never said that. Your American doctors said that. And what do they know?"

"Wait a minute," Remo said accusingly. "You specifically told me that you were dying."

"Never. I merely pointed out that I was in my end days, which I am. I have no more days left to my life than those which lie before me, which are many fewer than the years I have lived before this."

"How many days would that be?" Remo asked suspiciously.

"Who can say? Twenty, perhaps thirty years."

"Years?"

Chiun put on a hurt expression.

"What is the matter? Are you disappointed in that? Are you so looking forward to becoming the reigning Master of Sinanju that you can't wait for me to be put into the cold ground?"

"I thought I was the new reigning Master of Sinanju."

Chiun looked shocked. "Without a proper investment ceremony? Are you mad? You know these things must be done correctly."

"I'm confused."

"You were born confused," said Chiun. "Look! There is our village below. And there is Smith waiting for us."

The helicopter touched down in the square, sending up waves of dust. Remo and Chiun emerged and the machine lifted skyward.

Smith trotted up to greet them. He was still clutching his briefcase. His ruined jacket was fastened in front by bone needles.

"Remo. And Master Chiun."

"Hail, Smith," said the Master of Sinanju. "My village is well?"

"Yes, ofcourse."

"It's all over, Smitty," Remo said. "The Russians have backed down."

"They have? That's wonderful. For America."

"And I'm staying here. I'm going to be the next Master of Sinanju."

"Do not get ahead of yourself, Remo," Chiun warned, handing Smith the contract scroll which he had recovered from the Soviet General Secretary with a studied lack of ceremony.

"Master of Sinanju?" Smith said blankly.

"Clause fifty-six, paragraph four," Chiun said. "Should a client ever sell a contract to another emperor, said contract is immediately null and voic. Sinanju is not for sale. Only its services are. You may keep this document for future reference, in case an American emperor two or three centuries from now requires our services and needs to know terms."

"I guess you can go home now, Smitty," Remo suggested.

"I'm supposed to be dead," Smith pointed out.

"Now you know how it feels," said Remo.

"You know full well I cannot go home. The Russians may have backed down, but CURE is finished. And so am I."

"Your choice," said Remo.

"I need a favor," said Smith

"Yeah?"

"I only had one poison pill. Do you think you could-"

"What? You want me to kill you?"

"Please, Remo. It's my duty."

"Not me. I'm retired, as of today."

Smith, a disappointed expression on his lemony face, turned to the Master of Sinanju.

"Master of Sinanju, I wonder if you could grant a final boon?"

"Yes?" Chiun said brightly.

"I must not live beyond today."

"How unfortunate for you," Chiun said.

"Do you think you could eliminate me? Painlessly?"

The Master of Sinanju frowned. "How much money do you have with you?" he said after some thought.

"Money?" asked Smith, perplexed.

"Yes, of course. You are no longer a client, so you must expect to pay for service."

Smith dug out his wallet and found there an assortment of bills. He counted them.

"I have over six thousand dollars in traveler's checks."

"No checks," said Chiun firmly.

"But these are guaranteed."

Chiun shook his old head stubbornly.

"I also have nearly thirty-seven dollars. American."

"Worse," said Chiun. "You have no gold?"

"No, of course not."

"Silver?"

"Some coins." Smith poured out the contents of his change purse into Chiun's hands.

Chiun examined them. And promptly dropped them to the ground disdainfully. "Not pure silver. No good. Come back when you have gold," said the Master of Sinanju, his hands folded into the sleeves of his robe.

Smith turned back to Remo. "Remo, please."

Just then the phone in Smith's briefcase buzzed.

Smith went ashen.

"What? This can't be. Incoming calls are poured through Folcroft. Those computers are dead."

"Surprise," said Remo.

The phone kept buzzing.

Smith opened the briefcase. Holding it clumsily across one arm, he tapped the keypad. There was no downlink from St. Martin. Those computers were definitely dead. But when he signaled Folcroft, he got an "ACCESS CODE REQUIRED" response. He almost dropped the briefcase in shock.

"Why don't you answer the phone, Smitty?" Remo asked.

Smith did.

"Yes, Mr. President?" he asked hoarsely.

After a pause, he said, "Yes, Mr. President. I understand the Soviets have let us off the hook. The crisis is over, yes. Resume operations? Yes, that is possible. The main computers are still functioning. Somehow," he added under his breath.

"Remo?" Smith suddenly looked up at Remo. Remo frowned. He made a throat-cutting gesture with his finger.

Smith straightened up. "I'm sorry, Mr. President. Your call came too late. I regret to inform you that Remo Williams is no longer with us. Yes, sir. I took care of that matter personally. Yes, it is regrettable. Very. And I'm afraid our signing Chiun's contract over to the Soviets has broken an important provision. He won't be with us any longer either. My error entirely. I had forgotten that clause. No, I doubt that the Master of Sinanju would consider training another, after what happened to Remo."

Remo watched the first peep of sunlight break over the eastern hills. He whistled a happy tune to himself. It was the theme from Born Free.

"Yes, Mr. President," Smith continued, putting a finger to his ear to keep out the sound. "I will return immediately. I'm sure that we can continue operations without them."

Dr. Harold W. Smith hung up the phone and closed his briefcase. He cleared his throat noisily. "Thanks, Smitty," Remo said simply.

"I can't understand what happened. The erasure codes were foolproof. They couldn't fail."

"But they did. It all worked out, so try not to lose any sleep over it."

"Of course. You're right," Smith said. He put out his hand.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Smith asked. Remo shook Smith's hand firmly.

"I wasn't when I first came here. But now I am. Chiun was right. He was right all along. These people are my family. I belong here. There's nothing back in the States for me now."

"What about the background search for your parents? There's no longer any security reason not to pursue it vigorously."

"Funny thing, Smitty. It's not that important anymore. I wanted to know who I was. But now that I know who I am, it doesn't matter."

"I understand," Smith said.

"Tell you what, Smitty. Do the search. But don't call me. I'll call you."

"If you start free-lancing, we could end up on opposite sides, you know," Smith said, releasing Remo's hand.

Remo shook his head. "This village has more gold than most nations. They don't need an assassin. They need an investment counselor. I can handle that."

"I'm relieved to hear that," said Smith. "Then this is it."

"Maybe it's not forever," Remo said. "If something really special comes up, Chiun and I will be there if you need us. Who knows? Maybe someday I'll train somebody to take my place."

"It's hard to say good-bye after all these years," Smith said stiffly.

"I know. But that's the biz, sweetheart." And Remo smiled.

Smith took the shore road to the waiting raft that would take him back to the USS Darter. Remo watched him from the rocks, feeling no sadness at all. It was over at last. He was free.

Chiun joined him silently. He no longer wore the black robes of death but a canary-yellow day kimono. Chiun noticed Remo's exposed neck and touched it with his long-nailed fingers.

"I see the blue has faded from your throat," he said.

"Huh? Oh, right. You know, when I was in the Kremlin looking for you, the voice spoke through me again. But I was still myself. I wonder what that means."

"It means the same thing as the blue fading from your throat," Chiun said.

"Which is?"

"Which is that Shiva's hold on you has weakened. It was as I thought. If you came here and became one with the village, you would be strengthened in your Sinanju-ness and you would be able to overcome the call of Shiva. As usual, I was right. You are Sinanju, Remo."

"Shiva," Remo said slowly. "This whole thing started back in that burning house in Detroit, didn't it?"

"What whole thing?" Chiun asked innocently. "When I blacked out and became Shiva. I still don't remember any of it, but it shook you. You were afraid Shiva'd snatch me up and I'd run off and leave you without an heir. Wait a minute. . . ."

"Yes?" Chiun said blandly, watching Smith's raft move out to the waiting submarine.

"Did you by any remote chance fake this whole dying-Master routine just to get me back here?" Remo said.

"Stop babbling, Remo. This is a momentous occasion. We are at last free of Mad Harold."

"I'm not so sure I want to be. And stop trying to change the subject. What was it? I know. You thought if you got me here and got me all tied up in this village, somehow that'd keep me here, away from Shiva."

"That is ridiculous," Chiun scoffed. "What happens to you is of very little importance to me."

"Yeah," Remo continued. "You faked it all. Sinanju breathing techniques to lower your heart rate and blood pressure. The rest was just playacting. You know all about that from the soap operas you always watch."

"Nonsense," Chiun bristled. "The truth is that you are so inept and so ugly that the villagers will not accept you as the next Master. Because of your whiteness, you pale piece of pig's ear, I cannot even die in peace."

"You're a fraud, Chiun. It was all an act, all designed to get me back here, all designed to make me so much Sinanju that even Shiva couldn't pull me away."

"There are worse things," Chiun said. He pointed toward the shore road. Remo saw Mah-Li and when she saw him, she began running. Her face, no longer veiled, radiated joy.

"I think I'm going to marry her," said Remo. "Dowry or not."

"She is ugly, like you, but she does have a kind heart," Chiun allowed. "Have I mentioned that since Smith has broken our contract, his last shipment of gold is refundable in full? I forgot to mention this to him earlier and it is too late to return it to him now. The histories do not cover this situation. I am uncertain what I should do."

"You'll figure-out something," Remo said.

Chiun snapped his fingers. "Of course. I do not wish to throw perfectly good gold into the sea just because it is not rightfully mine. So I will donate it as Mah-Li's dowry. But say nothing of this to the other villagers. They will all want to borrow some and the treasure of Sinanju is not a bank."

He pointed to the approaching woman. "Go to her," Chiun said. "As father of the bridegroom, I must attend to the wedding arrangements."

Remo faced the Master of Sinanju and bowed deeply.

"You are an unregenerate old fraud who will never die," he said solemnly.

"And you are the next Master of Sinanju in whose hands I will someday place my village and my good name," Chiun replied, bowing so Remo could not see the pleased smile light his wrinkled face.

Then Remo ran down the shore road to embrace his bride-to-be, and a new dawn broke over the black rocks of Sinanju, brighter than any the little village had ever seen before.