"Am I disturbing you?" Sun asked.
"A visit from a holy man can never be a disturbance," the Master of Sinanju replied from his lotus position on the glass-enclosed balcony.
He had turned his back to the lawn.. The setting sun had fallen from the bleak winter sky. It was being swallowed up by the distant black trees.
As Sun came across the room, Chiun did something that he rarely did. Even for Smith, whom he called Emperor and for whom he rarely displayed anything short of obsequiousness.
Chiun rose from the floor.
When Sun stepped onto the balcony, the two men exchanged polite bows. Not deferential. But certainly respectful.
As Sun found a seat on one of the Western chairs on the balcony, Chiun sank back to the floor.
"Your son is no longer here," Sun said.
Chiun shook his head sadly. The puffs of hair over his ears shook with deep sorrow. "Lamentably, no," he said. "He does not believe in pyon ha-da. The boy is young still, with skin of improper hue. My fear was always that by flittering around in a shell of ivory, he would not know the true beauty of the world."
Sun nodded. "It must be awful for you to squander your wisdom on a white," he agreed.
Chiun bristled slightly. "Remo is a fine pupil," he explained. "His mongrel lineage is not his fault. Indeed, I have confirmed that which I always suspected. There is some Korean blood within him. Dissipated over the years, of course. But in his heart, he has always been Korean."
"I meant no offense, Master of Sinanju," Sun apologized, bowing his head as he did so.
Chiun nodded in return. "Pyon ha-da will change all," Chiun said, his happiness returning. "No longer will my son with a Korean soul be painted the shade of sickness and death. My joy for him is without measure." The parchment skin at his eyes squeezed to vellum knots of delight. "Tell me, O Seer Sun, when is the blessed moment to take place?"
"Soon," Sun said absently. "Quite soon. Tell me, does your son intend to return?"
"Remo?" Chiun asked. "I do not know. He leaves, he comes back. Who can keep track of children these days? Can you not see, O Seer?"
Sun smiled. "I see much, but not all," he admitted. He stood from his chair. "I have a commercial to tape in New Jersey today. I would be pleased if you would accompany me."
"It would be my privilege."
Smiling, the Master of Sinanju rose from the balcony floor once more.
As Chiun walked beside Sun to the door, he was careful to stay as far as was politely possible from the range of the cult leader's wretched perfume. Unbeknownst to him, the powerful sulfur stench of the ancient Greek urn clung just beneath the thick fragrance.
Had Chiun recognized the sulfur smell, he would have slain Sun on the spot and flown to Remo's side. But he did not. Instead, he stepped placidly and guilelessly from the room in the company of the man who had been chosen by the ancient spirit of the urn to slay both Masters of Sinanju.
The big door shut with echoing finality.
HE KNEW WHEN THEY BROUGHT him through the police cordon at the Berlin embassy that his life was over.
After the high-speed chase with police and the subsequent crash at the North Korean mission, the Communist government needed a scapegoat. Rim Kun Soe had been chosen to fulfill that role.
He had sullenly accepted the blame for the chase that had resulted in several injuries-some severe. Face a tight mask, he had voiced regret over the death of the Burg police officer whose bloody, battered body had been returned to German authorities.
There had been two people in the cab, the police had argued. Where was the other man?
A dummy, was the explanation. They were a new thing from America for single travelers intending to lend the impression of more than one person. In his love of all things Western, Rim Kun Soe had purchased one of these. They had even produced one of the dummies for authorities.
It was another insult heaped atop the pile.
Rim Kun Soe hated the West and everything that remotely resembled the bourgeois American culture. He would have just as soon been dragged from his car and beaten to death on one of the lawless streets of America itself as buy one of their artificial people for protection.
But he had accepted the added indignity like the good Public Security Ministry officer he was.
Fortunately for him, he was not turned over to German authorities. This was not due to any loyalty on the part of the North Korean government.
It was merely feared by those in the ministry that his recollection of events would not match the reality of the American who had really been driving the truck.
He was in Germany as a diplomat and therefore enjoyed the protection of extraterritoriality. He was exempt from the laws of his host state, so the police could do nothing to Rim Kun Soe as he was hustled through the line of officers and reporters onto the first plane home.
Back in North Korea, he had been reprimanded by the ministry he served. Somehow they had decided that he was responsible for the debacle concerning the American and the aged Master of Sinanju. Even though he had been following the orders of his superior, even though Kim Jong Il himself had turned over use of his jet to the two smugglers, Rim Kun Soe had borne the brunt of the punishment.
He had not yet been relieved of duty, but that was certainly coming. There might even be a show trial. Prison, perhaps. Maybe worse.
Until that time, he had been given minor security work at the airport in Pyongyang. According to whispers of those in the know, there had been several mysterious packages delivered on a mail flight from the South two days before, and as a result security had been tightened greatly.
Shipments that had been flown into the country were not leaving as they should. Slow under ordinary circumstances, the movement from the airport was practically nonexistent. Earlier that morning, the security officer had realized just how slowly things were moving from the airport when he spied some familiar crates in a back room. They were no longer his problem, he decided. Let someone else take the blame.
In the vast storeroom off the main concourse, there was a bottleneck of government luggage and mail-government officials being the only ones with access to travel and some, albeit censored, communication with the outside world.
After several hours at work in the back rooms of the airport, Rim Kun Soe had been turned over to a detail that was inspecting the suitcases. It was the greatest indignity he had endured in his entire career. Searching through the dirty undergarments of stupid diplomats.
The security officer was not exercising much care as he fumbled through the cheap suitcase of a support staffer from the North Korean mission to Hanoi.
While he worked, Soe was forced to endure the endless prattling of a pair of very junior officers with the People's Bureau of Revolutionary Struggle. They appeared to be obsessed with food.
"Were you able to eat today?" one asked as he swept an electronic device over a pair of trousers.
"Some," admitted his partner.
"I, as well. It has not been easy."
The other nodded. He wore a sickly expression. As a member of the Public Security Ministry while at home and particularly during his brief stay in Germany, Rim Kun Soe had always been able to eat his fill. However, returning as he had in disgrace, he did not enjoy the privileges he once had. Back home in Pyongyang, he had been dropped into the middle of another one of the interminable food shortages the North Korean government specialized in.
Somehow, the men he now worked with seemed to have been affected by more than the famine.
"I think about it at night," the first said. "How he pulled it from the box and threw it to you. Last night, my meal came up in my sleep. I was awakened by the sound of my wife eating it off the blanket."
The other nodded. "I have told my wife I will turn her and the children out if I find them eating my vomit," he said knowingly. "Strength is the only way to deal with them."
"Mmm," said the other in bland agreement.
The conversation went on like this
for much of Rim Kun Soe's day. It was humiliating for one who had had so much in his political career to deal with wretches like these two.
His only relief to the embarrassing tedium came when the hip radio of one of the two men he was with squawked to life.
"Security Officer Hyok," the first man announced into the mouthpiece, his breath reeking of stomach acid.
There followed a steady stream of Korean so frantic as to be unrecognizable from Soe's position across the big room.
The security man blanched when he heard the report over the radio. When the voice was through issuing orders, the man stuffed the radio away, quickly drawing his side arm.
"What is it?" his partner asked.
"We are needed on the tarmac," said the first. "Right away. You," he commanded to Soe. "There is an emergency. Come with us."
Soe was grateful for the break in the tedium. He pulled his automatic free and, with the others, made his way out of the building and into the pale sunlight of Pyongyang Airport.
They reached the tarmac at a run, finding many security personnel already there. As Soe looked around, he realized that this was probably the entire airport detachment.
There were hundreds of men standing around. All were looking skyward. Many jeeps lined the periphery field beside the long runway.
"What is it?" Security Officer Hyok asked when he and the others ran into the crowd.
"A plane," said a ranking officer of the PBRS. "From the South."
"Why has it not been shot down?" Soe demanded.
The ranking officer looked angrily at the brazen security man. "It has requested asylum."
The plane was in sight. A fat dot in the whitewashed sky, it moved remorselessly closer. It was attended by a number of smaller specks. Like flies around a larger animal. North Korean fighter jets.
Soe wheeled to the officer. "Shoot it down anyway," he insisted. "It could be loaded with chemical or biological weapons. Worse, it could carry a nuclear payload. Who knows what technology the fool Americans have given our capitalist cousins? They have been jealous and fearful of the people's nuclear program for years. This could be their reckless attempt to finish us all."
Though the officer looked blandly at Soe, venom roiled beneath the surface of his well-fed face. "Are you not Rim Kun Soe, the disgraced lackey running dog of the capitalist-loving Master of Sinanju?"
Soe stiffened. "I am no one's dog, you ignorant son of a mongrel!" he snapped.
The officer did not hesitate. He sent a balled fist directly into the face of Rim Kun Soe.
As Soe reeled back, nose gushing blood, the man ordered the two agents who had accompanied the dishonored Public Security Ministry representative onto the tarmac to take hold of him. Instantly, Soe felt his arms being pinned behind his back.
Then the officer turned back to the plane.
It was much closer now. As Soe bled onto his uniform, the entire group of gathered agents watched the plane touch down.
It hit with a squeal of smoking rubber. The plane rapidly decelerated. As it slowed to a stop, a wheeled staircase was rolled out beneath the main exit door, which was now open. The engines died.
The Korean military jets that had acted as escort roared back and forth across the airport as the first gunmen raced up the steps and on board the now silent plane.
There were several tense moments when nothing happened.
All at once, a man stepped out onto the upper platform of the staircase. He had his hands atop his head, fingers intertwined.
For a moment, the security personnel assumed that this was one of the men from the South requesting asylum. This mistaken impression lasted only until they realized that it was one of their own security men whom they had sent aboard to secure the plane.
Several others followed. All were in the same pose. None carried the rifles they had brought aboard with them.
"What is this?" the officer demanded when the first man had climbed down the steps. "Where are your weapons?"
"He took them," the soldier admitted.
"Who?"
"The one who did this." The man tugged at his arms. Though it appeared as if he was trying to move them, they did not budge. The fingers remained locked atop his black hair.
"Lower your arms," the officer commanded, disgusted.
"We cannot," said the soldier.
The others were straining behind him. They appeared to be having the same difficulty as the first.
The officer grew angry. He grabbed the lead soldier's arm at the elbow and yanked. It did not budge. Surprised, he pulled harder. The arms remained locked in place. It was as if they were glued to his head.
The officer finally gave up. "How many are aboard?" he demanded, scowling.
"Only one man," said the soldier.
"One?" asked a stunned voice from behind the officer.
The soldiers all looked in the same direction. Rim Kun Soe stood behind the officer. Wet blood streaked down his suddenly fearful, cold face. He appeared to know something that the others did not. His expression was more uneasy than it had been when he suspected the plane might be carrying a nuclear payload.
The officer did not have time to waste on an insubordinate agent like Soe. He turned back to the soldiers.
"The flight crew?"
"Are still in the cockpit, I assume."
"You assume," he spit. The man glanced at Soe one last time. He drew his side arm. "You," he said, spreading his arm to the next batch of soldiers in line. "Come with me."
The officer himself led the next charge into the belly of the mysterious plane. When he came out a few minutes later, his face was almost as red as Rim Kun Soe's. However, it was not blood that turned his skin to scarlet. It was embarrassment.
The man's hands were locked atop his head. His weapon was nowhere to be seen.
He was also not alone.
"Man, I forgot what a desolate lump of ice this country is," Remo Williams complained from his position behind the officer.
On the ground, Soe attempted to back away. The two agents held him fast. "No," he said, his voice small.
As one, hundreds of weapons suddenly trained on the doorway of the 747, in spite of the presence of their commanding officer. Bolts clicked like so many metal crickets as the handguns and rifles were cocked.
"Do not move!" shouted a junior officer.
"Hold your fire!" screamed the officer with Remo. "Hold your fire! He is friendly!"
Remo waved to demonstrate this. "Hiya!" he called to the crowd of soldiers.
This did nothing to convince the men to lower their weapons. However, they did not wish to go against their commanding officer. Three hundred gun barrels tracked the two men down the stairs to the runway.
"If you know what's good for you, you'll get them to lower their weapons," Remo cautioned the officer.
Apparently, Remo had done something more than merely freezing the soldier's hands atop his head while they were on board the plane. His red face grew more ruddy as he screamed out to the soldiers.
"I will personally see to it that every soldier who does not stand down this moment will spend the rest of his miserable days rotting in a People's prison!" he screamed over the gusting wind.
They hesitated at first. After all, sometimes there was rice in the People's prisons.
"With no food!" the officer screamed.
The guns were not only lowered; they were dropped, flung. They clattered loudly and crazily to the frozen tarmac.
"That's better," Remo said, glancing around. His eyes alighted on Soe.
The former Berlin embassy man had been trying to sink back into the crowd. Remo bounded over to him.
"Hey, I know you!" Remo said, beaming in recognition. He slapped a hand on Soe's shoulder. "He'll be my driver."
"Please-" Soe begged of the officer.
"Fine," the officer said.
As Soe watched the last hope of salvaging his career drain away, a jeep was brought forward. He was pushed in behind the steering wh
eel. Remo took the seat next to him.
Rim Kun Soe wished he still had his gun with him. If he had, he would have ended his life right then and there. Particularly at the next words that issued from the filthy American's capitalist mouth.
"Which way to the presidential palace?" Remo asked, smiling.
Chapter 22
Mike Princippi suspected that it would someday come to this. He had known it since he'd collected the stone urn from the ruins of that cult in Wyoming a year ago.
It was a stupid, stupid move. He should have left the urn where it had been buried. The cult lay in ruins. The secret would have remained buried along with the urn.
The whole affair was a time in his life that was best forgotten. Some people had said that about his failed run for the presidency. But if they only knew about that urn, they would have conceded that the national embarrassment of losing the election was a bright spot in the biography of Michael "the Prince" Princippi compared to the terrible days he had spent in the vicinity of that ancient stone artifact.
He didn't know much about the history of it. Just that it had been found at an archaeological dig in Delphi and brought to America. Most recently, he had owned the urn for a brief time, finally turning it over to a local Boston museum when the strange dreams he was having refused to subside.
And now the Reverend Man Hyung Sun owned it. It was a chilling prospect.
Princippi was generally a practical man. The only mystical matters he had ever trucked in were those pertaining to the Massachusetts budget when he was governor. As far as anything otherworldly was concerned, he didn't believe a word of it. But the urn had changed his mind.
The powder contained in that ancient piece of carved rock possessed a force greater than he had ever imagined.
The being within the urn was a fragment of the ancient god Apollo. The Pythia, as it was called, was the oracular force behind the famous temple at Delphi. Indeed, it was for this creature who imparted knowledge of the future that the word oracle was given.
The Pythia saw the future. People had died for it. Most recently at the museum in Boston where it had been stored. And Mike Princippi had known about it.
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