Misfortune Teller td-115

by Warren Murphy

  Instead of heading up into North Korea, the missile remained south of the Thirty-eighth Parallel. In a horror scenario that the United States Navy never even thought to imagine, the entire flight of the missile into friendly territory took less than one minute.

  There was no time to call a warning.

  No time to evacuate.

  No time for the victims to even scream.

  When the missile fired from the USS Courage exploded on the grounds of Seoul National University forty-two seconds later, the shock waves were felt halfway around the world.

  Chapter 19

  The bombing in Seoul was only minutes old, and Harold W. Smith was trying to make some kind of sense out of the reports he was receiving.

  It was clear what had happened initially. A United States destroyer had fired a Tomahawk cruise missile against the capital of South Korea.

  An entire building on the campus of Seoul National University had been utterly destroyed. Fortunately, it was early in the academic day, and the building was not yet filled to capacity. But that was hardly a comfort. There had been fatalities. And the U.S. was responsible.

  Preliminary reports put the death toll at nearly two hundred, but Smith knew that there was no real way of gauging the number of students and faculty killed so soon. He was not optimistic. Doubtless, the actual number would rise as rescuers began to dig through the rubble.

  As Smith typed away at his keyboard, the muted sound of CURE's White House line buzzed inside his desk. Continuing to type with one hand, he reached down, pulling the cherry-red phone from his desk drawer.

  "Yes, Mr. President," Smith said crisply.

  "Smith, what the hell is going on?" the familiar hoarse voice of the President of the United States rasped.

  "You are calling, no doubt, in reference to the situation in South Korea."

  "It's the damnedest thing, isn't it, Smith," the President said. "Who'd have thought the two Koreas would be such a problem spot?"

  "Your nine immediate predecessors might have had some inkling," Smith said dryly.

  Smith had a personal dislike for this President that he tried hard to subdue. After all, it was not his duty to second-guess the wisdom of the American people. But the CURE director could not help but long for a return of any one of the seven other presidents he had served.

  "They did?" the President asked. "It doesn't surprise me. Those old farts were always worried about everything that didn't matter. So what's the deal?"

  Smith started to speak when a female voice broke in behind the President. Whatever she whispered made the President snort with laughter. Smith heard the chief executive cover the mouthpiece as he whispered back.

  "Keep it down, will you?" the President asked. "Okay, Smith, what can you tell me?"

  "Who is that?" Smith demanded.

  "Oh. Who?" asked the President innocently. A woman giggled somewhere in the nearby background.

  "Mr. President, need I caution you again on matters of security? Please ask your wife to leave the room."

  "Um, she's not here," the President said, voice almost distant. The giggling again, this time muffled in a pillow.

  "I will terminate this call if your wife does not excuse herself," Smith said seriously.

  "Okay, okay," the President said. "Honey, you better get out of here. There's some heavy Commander it Chief stuff going on." There was a rustling of sheets, and then the sound of a door clicking shut.

  Only when the labored breathing of the President of the United States was the only sound in the room did Smith speak once more.

  "Mr. President, we have had this conversation before," Smith said, weary of having to explain yet again the importance of keeping CURE secure. "It is unacceptable for the First Lady to be anywhere near the dedicated line when we are discussing sensitive matters."

  The President cleared his throat, embarrassed. "She wasn't. The, um, ball and chain's in California," his hoarse voice said sheepishly. "She's got appointments with a couple of lawyers out there."

  "Then who-?" Smith paused. "Oh." It was his turn to clear his throat. Smith rapidly changed the subject. "As you must already know, the U.S.S. Courage fired a cruise missile at South Korea approximately twenty minutes ago."

  "Yeah, I just found out," the President said. "South Korea? Are they the ones who like us, or not?"

  "They like us, Mr. President," Smith said, his lemony voice weary. "At least they did until today. I have heard that already there are organized protestors in the streets of Seoul demanding the withdrawal of U.S. troops from Korean soil and our ships from their territorial waters."

  "Aren't they out a little soon?" the President asked.

  "My thinking exactly," Smith replied. "It almost seems as if they knew there was an attack coming."

  "Is that possible?"

  "Sadly, yes. Our armed forces have been infiltrated by foreign spies in the past. Perhaps most significantly to these events, there was the 1996 incident concerning the South Korean who was a naturalized U.S. citizen. He was a U.S. intelligence officer who was caught passing classified information on to the Republic of Korea."

  "You think whoever did this was a buddy of his?"

  "I will not speculate one way or the other," Smith said. "It is merely one of the possibilities I am investigating. It could well be an isolated incident. As it stands now, we do not yet know how many were involved in the firing of the Tomahawk. There are reports of deaths aboard the Courage."

  "Maybe they were attacked by the Koreans," the President speculated. "They might have been defending themselves."

  "Hardly," Smith said. "If my information is accurate, the dead aboard the naval vessel committed suicide."

  "Wowee," the President said. "You know, that's part of the reason I despise the military so much. All those guns and rockets and everything. I'd be happier if we could take all that war stuff and dump it in the ocean. Of course, the veep would have my flabby ass if I did. Ecology and all,"

  "Yes," Smith said, his voice flat. "In any event, there has been another item from the Koreas that has come across my desk this morning. Nine individuals in the North with tenuous ties to the Central Intelligence Agency were murdered this morning. Their decapitated bodies were discovered near the British embassy a few hours before the missile attack."

  "Yuck," the President said. "What's that got to do with anything?"

  "Perhaps nothing. However, one of my people recently, er, dispatched nine men in New York whom I later learned were North Korean agents. Their bodies were taken by individuals I have yet to trace who were dressed in the uniforms of New York City police officers. Apparently, they were brought somewhere to be mutilated. Their headless and handless corpses were found on a garbage scow in the East River."

  "This is gross as all get-out," the President complained. "Just get to the point."

  "It is possible that the murders in North Korea are a retaliation for the decapitated bodies found here. The cruisemissile launch following so closely on the heels of both events could signify a link to some larger scheme."

  "Like what?" the President asked.

  "I am not certain. But it might interest you to know that the same protestors I told you about earlier are calling for reunification talks to begin with the North."

  "Is that bad?"

  "Dire is the word I would use. A unified Korea would doubtless favor the political system of the North. If reunification goes as some expect, we would have the first significant Communist expansion in two decades. In addition, we would lose an important strategic ally in the region. As you no doubt are aware, as far as our military is concerned, relations with Japan are not particularly strong at present."

  "Really?" the President of the United States asked.

  Smith sighed. "I intend to send my people in to the Koreas," he said. "The Masters of Sinanju are undisputed experts of the Korean political scene, and have been since time immemorial. Since it is his homeland, Master Chiun is infinitely suited to dealing with the current
tensions."

  "Whatever you say, Smith," the President said. He sounded distracted. "I told you to stay out," he whispered hoarsely.

  Over the phone, Smith heard a door creak shut. He closed his eyes patiently. "I will keep you apprised of any new developments," he said.

  While he was hanging up the phone, he heard the same woman's voice as before. It was obvious now that it was not the First Lady. She was singing "Happy Birthday" in a husky whisper. Smith hung up the receiver as the President of the United States guffawed with delight.

  Chapter 20

  The plain was endless.

  There was sky, but it was washed in blood. Like the atmosphere of a planet in the sphere of a red giant sun.

  The red Martian landscape stretched out limitlessly in all directions. At some hazy point in the far-distant horizon, the red of the sky swept over the red of the land, creating a muddied seam of blood.

  Man Hyung Sun watched the horizon and smiled.

  He had visited this place in his mind before. Many times in the past several days. But he had seen it prior to that. In both daydreams and nightmares when he thought he was going mad.

  It was not madness. It was real. And unreal.

  This thing had been calling to him for months. It knew of destiny. It knew his future. It had even given him some directions on a subconscious level for almost a year prior to this current cycle of events.

  Mike Princippi had known of it. He had encountered the thing in America's West. But he had chosen to ignore the sweet, vaporous song. He had forced the images from his mind and had given away the vessel. It had taken Man Hyung Sun much time to search out the former governor in his mind. The thoughts drawing him to this place had not been clear until very recently. Now they seemed so obvious.

  The figure was where it had been. Clothed in a haze of yellow fog, it sat upon the endless flat plain. The head and eyes of a man looked up as Sun approached.

  "I am weak," the strange, otherworldly figure lamented when Sun crouched down beside it. Puffs of yellow smoke danced around the ethereal shape like thin clouds scudding across a clear sky.

  It was the same complaint as always. Sun smiled comfortingly. "You cannot know true weakness," he assured the figure. "For to be truly weak is to be Man. And you are not Man."

  The creature thought for a moment. "No," it admitted eventually. "But I am not what I once was. My master has fled to the place of the gods. I am a shadow of his greater self, a fraction of that which he is. Without his energy, I am doomed. Soon I will be condemned to nothingness."

  Sun knew that the spirit of this nether region was weak. From what he had gleaned of previous conversations, a battle had taken place at some time in the past. The creature in the smoke had not fared well. Nor had its master, who had abandoned this part of himself to the limitless red plain.

  "Your plan goes well," Sun offered consolingly. "The land of my birth is reeling on both sides of the division."

  "This I know," said the creature, a great weariness in its voice. It did not get up from the ground. It continued to sit-as eternal as the land and sky around it.

  "There will be political upheaval from these events. The United States-the Greece of this era-needs a presence in the South to show strength against the North. That foothold appears to be slipping."

  "This, too, is known to me," said the fragile creature. "It is as I have designed it to be. To remedy the situation, they will send my young enemy first."

  "What of the old one?" Sun asked.

  The strange being shook its head. Puffs of yellow smoke escaped from its neck, falling back into the larger cloud. "The Master will remain behind for now. Only the night tiger of Sinanju will go. I have foreseen it."

  Sun knew enough not to dispute the creature's oracular abilities. "It is as you say," he conceded. "Is there something you require of me?"

  "Their emperor has attempted to contact the Master. So far the old one has not deigned to speak with him, but his soul is more restless than he admits. His attitude could soon change. Keep him with you so that they do not communicate."

  "Can you not see his future, O Prophet?" Sun asked, puzzled.

  "I see much," agreed the creature. It exhaled ancient puffs of sickly yellow. "But it is as mud. The clarity is gone. It is ...difficult for me."

  "But my future," Sun stressed. "That is clear to you."

  "Yes," the being admitted. It seemed drained.

  Sun smiled. "I will do as you say. I have another taping today. The old one can accompany me."

  Before him, the creature sighed deeply. Its breathing was ragged. "I am not what I once was. Prophesying fatigues me. Leave me now to my waning days."

  Although the being shook a substantial hand at Sun, the cult leader lagged. "Um, if you could...?" he asked.

  The creature looked up tiredly. Sun still squatted beside it. Its eyes closed, and it nodded in understanding.

  Reaching out two humanlike hands, the being pressed its palms against either side of Sun's head.

  The explosion of yellow was blinding, brilliant.

  The vision came at once.

  He was as a king. Riding a cloud from the heavens. The vast domain of Korea stretched out beneath his feet. Beyond it, the world lay waiting.

  His future.

  The flash of yellow consumed him with a shocking abruptness. Sun shuddered, gasping for breath. He blinked madly, chasing the dancing yellow spots from before his eyes.

  As the brightness faded, Sun looked around.

  He was back in his closet. Hangers hung from wooden rods beyond the thin film of yellow smoke.

  Between his ankles was the strange urn with the Greek carving along its sides. The same urn that had been in the possession of Mike Princippi and given away. The urn he had had his Sunnie followers remove from the Boston Museum of Rare Arts.

  The yellow smoke rose in uncertain puffs from the damp powder within the ancient stone vessel. The stink of sulfur clung to every corner of the room.

  Sun struggled to regain his breath. He looked down at the powder in the urn.

  "Would it be disrespectful to say that that was one hell of a rush?" he enthused as he stood.

  He drew the damp towel from around his neck, tossing it on the floor near a humidifier. Sweating, Man Hyung Sun left the small fetid room.

  Chapter 21

  The drive from New York to Massachusetts did not help to diminish Remo's sour mood.

  When he stepped through the front door of the condominium he shared with the Master of Sinanju, he heard the telephone ringing at the rear of the house. Scowling, Remo walked back to the kitchen.

  "What do you want?" Remo asked, picking up the receiver.

  "Remo? Smith. Thank goodness I was finally able to reach you."

  "Been trying long?" Remo asked with sarcastic sweetness.

  "Yes," Smith replied, unaware of the sarcasm. "When I could not reach you at home, I traced your call back to Sun's mansion, but you and Chiun had already left. I trust you already know about the situation in Korea."

  "You're too trusting," Remo said. "And Chiun didn't leave. He's still with the Reverend Sun."

  "Oh? He did not come to the phone."

  "Probably busy passing around the collection plate," Remo said. "So what's with Korea?"

  Smith explained the situation both north and south of the Thirty-eighth Parallel. As he regurgitated the raw data, he quickly told Remo of the headless Korean bodies discovered that day and their connection to North Korea, which Smith had established through that nation's New York UN mission.

  "I need for you and Chiun to fly to South Korea immediately. If there is some kind of sinister force behind this, I want you on the ground ready for quick action. I've arranged military transport for the two of you."

  "Better cancel one of those tickets," Remo said.

  "Why?"

  "Chiun won't be coming."

  "I need him," Smith stressed. "It may become necessary to stabilize the situation in North Korea, as
well. Chiun has a knack for dealing with government leaders. Particularly in his homeland."

  "And I don't?" Remo asked.

  Smith's hesitation spoke volumes. "Er, if you are saying that Chiun is at the Sun mansion, perhaps I could try to reach him there again," he said vaguely.

  "He's not going anywhere," Remo insisted, his tone betraying his offense. "He's sitting in his room waiting for the human race to jaundice."

  "I do not understand."

  "Join the club."

  "This is a vital situation," Smith urged.

  "Chiun's found something that's more vital. Take my word on this one, Smutty-you aren't moving him an inch."

  Smith considered for a long moment. "You may go alone," he said finally, clearly unhappy with the situation. "But remember that South Korea is still an ally. Try your best to be diplomatic."

  "Blah, blah, blah," Remo said.

  "The North is an even trickier situation," Smith pressed on. "They look for any opportunity to drive a wedge between the United States and the South. Try not to give them any ammunition."

  "Gee, you want me to make sure I wear clean underwear in case I get in an accident, Mom?" Remo asked.

  South continued, undaunted. "It is not yet known if the nine informants killed in the North are a tit-for-tat for the nine you removed here. It is important that we do not act unilaterally until we are certain of our facts."

  "Yammer, yammer, yammer," Remo sighed. "Stop worrying, Smitty. Just get me on the right plane, and everything will work out for the best. Trust me. I can be very diplomatic."

  Another deafeningly loud pause.

  "Are you absolutely certain Chiun is not available?" Smith asked, his voice strained.

  THE MASTER OF SINANJU heard the heavy footfalls in the hallway outside his room. They certainly did not belong to Remo. His pupil's confident glide had moved in the opposite direction hours before. He was too stubborn to return.

  No, these were footsteps Chiun had come to recognize clearly in his short stay at the East Hampton estate.

  "Enter, Most Holy One!" Chiun called even before his visitor had a chance to knock.

  Man Hyung Sun stuck his head around the doorway.

  Chiun smelled the after-shave lotion even before he had opened the door. Remo was right about that, at least. The stink about the Reverend Sun was strong. Almost overpowering.