Misfortune Teller td-115

by Warren Murphy

  It would be the end of his political career if this ever got out. Worse. Prison, possibly. Who knew what else?

  Princippi thought of this as he got out of his battered old Volkswagen in the parking lot of the Channel 8 studio in Passaic.

  Sun's limo was already there, as were several Sunnie vans. The tambourine-rattling nuts were probably scattered all over the studio like a flock of bald flamingos.

  Mike Princippi was locked in with these people. Whether he liked it or not.

  He knew that Sun was aware of matters unknown to the rest of the world, with the Pythia on his side. Sun knew that Princippi had been involved with the Pythia before. Although the former governor had not been in it as deep as the others at the Wyoming cult, he had been there. Sun had the goods on him.

  But there was some hope.

  The ashes were the strength of the Pythia, Princippi reasoned. If he could keep his mind completely blank and get close enough to the yellow dust, he might be able to get rid of it. Maybe flush it down a toilet or something.

  He hadn't really thought about it at Sun's Manhattan apartment. At the estate in the Hamptons, he had not yet been able to get close enough. When he did, he would get rid of them. Once and for all. Sun would be left with an empty stone pot.

  The rest would be hearsay. A crazy cult leader accusing a respected ex-presidential candidate of insane behavior.

  Ultimately, it might be a smudge on his record. Maybe not, however. In this day and age of political scandals, from blatant lies to cover-up and blind public acceptance of it all, who knew? The only certain thing was, the longer the dust remained collected in that accursed urn, the deeper grew the hole Mike Princippi found himself in.

  The former governor kept his thoughts buried as he strolled into the studio building. As he had expected, he found Sun on the set of his latest infomercial.

  The head of the Sunnie cult sat on a sofa on the new set. Roseflower stood nearby. Princippi smiled weakly at the bodyguard as he walked over to the cult leader.

  Another old Asian was with Sun on the set. He sat cross-legged on the floor at the feet of the Sunnie leader.

  The stranger wore a traditional kimono and had skin the texture of sunbaked leather stretched to the cracking point. As hooded eyes sized up the approaching Princippi, his features curled into wrinkles of distaste.

  "Hi," Princippi said, nodding to the Master of Sinanju. "You a Sunnie or something?"

  "Or something," Chiun sniffed in reply. The look of disgusted condemnation never left his face.

  "Uh, yeah," Princippi said. He turned his attention to Sun. "How soon are we starting?"

  "Ten minutes," a harried voice announced behind him.

  Princippi nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun. Dan Bergdorf stood behind him.

  "What!" Princippi demanded. He realized only when he saw the stunned look on the face of the infomercial's executive producer that he had yelled the word. He glanced nervously over his shoulder at Sun. The cult leader was not even looking at him. "I'm sorry," he apologized to Dan. "You startled me. What did you say?"

  "We start in ten minutes," the executive producer said. "You have the new script?"

  "Me? No. No, I don't."

  Dan grabbed a script from a passing stage manager. "Go over this first," he pleaded. "Cold reads on the first take never work."

  "But that's the way we did it last time," Princippi argued.

  "I know." Turning, Dan left the former governor clasping his new script in his moist hands.

  Princippi looked back at Sun. "Um." He shrugged uncertainly. "Are you going back to the mansion anytime soon?" Princippi asked nervously. He tried to force a smile.

  Sun looked up from the script he had been reading. "No," he replied. "Our work here will take some time. Why?"

  "No reason," the former governor said. "It's just that I-I left my coat there. Maybe. Anyway, I thought maybe I could take a look around and see." Princippi pretended an idea had suddenly occurred to him. It was worse than the acting he had displayed in the first Sunnie infomercial. "Say, I have an idea," he said, snapping his fingers. "Why don't I go back. Sort of on my own. I could look for it myself. No need to bother you."

  "Yes, that would be fine." Sun agreed.

  Princippi beamed. He began backing away. "Great, I'll just-"

  "There is a small matter ...." Sun began. His eyes were dead as he stared at the former governor.

  Princippi felt his stomach turn to water.

  He knew. Of course. He must know. He had the urn.

  Sun knew of his intentions, knew that he planned to dispose of the powder in the urn. He never should have come up with the scheme to begin with. Never should have thought to go against the sinister force of the Pythia.

  "You must wait until after we have completed this day's taping," Sun finished. He returned his attention to his script.

  That was it. Mike Princippi felt as if he were dancing on air.

  "Of course," he gushed. "When we're done here. After. I'll go there after. Alone. Or with you with me. But you can stay here. Whatever. Doesn't matter to me." As he stepped anxiously backward, he nearly knocked over a camera. Stumbling over the wires, he continued to babble until he was halfway across the studio.

  Once Princippi was out of earshot, Chiun turned to Sun.

  "He is lying," he offered blandly.

  From his spot on the couch, Sun glanced down at the Master of Sinanju. "This I know," he replied in the same flat tone. "For can I not divine the future?"

  "He also intends to do you harm." Chiun frowned. "But he does not give off the signals of one who means to make use of conventional weapons." He tipped his head as Princippi vanished from sight. "This is most puzzling."

  Sun seemed surprised "You can gauge a threat simply by looking at someone?"

  Chiun nodded. "A man's body tells much that is otherwise hidden. That Greek's is a mystery to me, however. It is almost as if he intends to do you harm without doing harm to you. How could this be?"

  "Who can understand the Greeks?" Sun asked with a shrug.

  Chiun accepted this. "Indeed," he said. "In pyon ha-da, we will none of us have to deal with the maze that is the mind of non-Koreans."

  "It will truly be a glorious day," Sun echoed. He returned to his script. As he read, he wondered absently what the best time would be to kill the treacherous Michael Princippi.

  WORD OF THE RETURN of the Master of Sinanju's white son to Korean soil was greeted with concern in the People's Palace in Pyongyang.

  News of the incident at the airport spread like wildfire through the capital of Communist North Korea. Although he was seen speeding through the streets in the company of a disgraced Public Security Ministry officer, none of the forces on the ground were brave enough to intercept him.

  Kim Jong Il sat in his secure basement office in the presidential palace. Waiting.

  The room was four stories down in solid bedrock. To reach it, one had to travel in an elevator like a pneumatic tube that was accessible to only the elite of the nation. Soldiers were stationed in the two hallways that led out and around to the elevator in a labyrinthine design known to only eight people in the country. The soldiers had been led in blindfolded. Only when they were in place were the cloths removed from their eyes.

  Briefly, the premier had considered stationing guards at his secret entrance, as well. He dismissed the idea almost immediately. His father, the late president Kim Il Sung, had ordered the escape tunnel to be dug. Afterward, he had had the workmen shot. The only person alive who knew of the tunnel was Kim Jong Il, who preferred to keep it that way. At the first sign of trouble from the hallway outside, he would slip through the secret panel and flee to safety.

  While he sat sweating into his People's uniform, he stared off into space. The large-screen TV before him played a wide-screen laser-disc version of The Empire Strikes Back. He saw the film without watching.

  One boot tapped relentlessly at the polished granite floor.

  Ret
aliation had been a mistake, he now realized. He never should have let the People's Bureau of Revolutionary Struggle director talk him into it. The Master of Sinanju and his heir worked for the Americans. Even though there had been no explanation, the heads that had been mailed to North Korea were a sign of something. But what?

  If the last report of the American's whereabouts was accurate, the premier might only have a few moments left to decipher the cryptic message. Otherwise, it might very well be his head that next wound up boxed for shipping.

  The premier pressed both hands tightly against his throat as he tried desperately to think what the message had meant. His Adam's apple fought past his clutching fingers as he gulped in fear.

  For Kim Jong Il, the third act was about to begin. And no one had bothered to give him a script.

  PYONGYANG WAS A GHOST town.

  Remo saw soldiers while he drove. They peeked out like frightened specters from doorways and windows. But no one made a move toward him as his jeep roared down the wide, empty streets.

  The People's Palace loomed big and ugly before them. Remo ordered Rim Kun Soe to stop at the huge stone staircase before the massive building.

  "Let's go," Remo said, climbing down from the jeep. He put one foot on the first broad step.

  "You would dare enter the presidential palace, American capitalist cur?" Soe asked, astonished and angry at once.

  "If this is where that rat Kim Jong Il lives, I guess so, Soe," Remo replied. "Hurry up."

  Soe crossed his arms. "I will not," he insisted. "You will have to kill me first."

  "As tempting as that may be, I need you as my passkey."

  "I have no key to the palace, fool."

  Remo smiled. "You are the key."

  He reached over and dragged Soe across the seat, dropping the Korean onto the sidewalk.

  Soe looked up, face a mask of seething fury. "I should have killed you in Berlin," he sneered.

  "I wish you had," Remo sighed. "It would have saved us both a whole lot of grief."

  Grabbing the Public Security Ministry officer by the scruff of the neck, Remo headed up the abandoned steps of the great People's Palace.

  HE HEARD THE STEADY pop-pop-pop of automaticweapons fire from beyond the great steel door. It was still far away. Echoing along the labyrinthine halls.

  Kim Jong Il chewed the inside of his mouth as he waited. He had always felt safe in this stronghold. If he escaped through his secret entrance, would he become a greater target once he reached the surface?

  The bedrock in which his office was secreted absorbed a great deal of sound. Vacillating, he strained to hear how close the gunfire actually was.

  Sudden silence.

  The guards had stopped firing. That meant only one of two things. They had either failed or succeeded.

  A fresh round of gunfire much closer to his sealed door gave him the terrifying answer.

  "Impossible!" the premier hissed.

  Somehow, the Master of Sinanju's protege had found his way through the maze. He was right outside the closed door of Kim Jong Il's inner sanctum.

  Escape was now no longer a question. It was imperative. Leaving his television to display images of Darth Vader to an empty chair, the premier hustled over to a single framed poster on the wall next to his bar.

  The artwork depicted Arnold Schwarzenegger straddling a motorcycle. The sunglasses that had appeared on the actor in the original picture had been airbrushed out. The Asian eyes that had been painted in stared menacingly down at the North Korean premier as he grabbed at the edge of the frame.

  The frame swung away with a single tug, revealing a long corridor beyond it. Kim Jong Il was just picking one foot up over the threshold of the secret doorway when a terrible pounding began to echo through the basement room.

  The gunfire had stopped. All that was left was the incessant pounding. Frozen in place, the premier watched as the metal door buckled beneath some great external pressure.

  Kim Jong Il came to his senses all at once. He was just lifting his other foot inside the panel when the main door to the room gave way completely. It collapsed inward in a hail of crumbling concrete and tinkling metal shards.

  The thing that had been used to batter in the door fell in after it. The battering ram groaned.

  As he stood in the open door to his secret corridor, the premier's shocked gaze raked Rim Kun Soe. As he lay dazed on the broken door, the security agent's head bled profusely. His eyes rolled in their sockets, settling unsteadily on Kim Jong Il.

  "Traitor!" the premier screamed. His eyes went wide as Remo stepped into the room behind Soe.

  Yelling in fear, the premier desperately dragged the secret door shut behind him. He almost got it closed.

  Tugging on the interior handle, he found that it would not go the final inch. The door would be impossible to seal if it was not closed. All at once, Kim Jong Il noticed a set of fingers wrapped around the side.

  His heart caught in his throat. With both hands, he dragged at the door. To no avail. Even though he pulled with all his might, the premier felt the door being dragged inexorably open. In a moment, he was face-to-face with the frightful visage of the Master of Sinanju's son.

  "Remember me?" Remo asked sweetly.

  Grabbing the Leader for Life of North Korea by the throat, Remo tossed him back into the basement office. Kim Jong Il landed in a heap near his crumpled basement door. Near him, Rim Kun Soe groaned.

  "This is your doing!" the premier screamed. Scrabbling across the debris, he grabbed the security man around the throat. He began strangling Soe, banging his injured head against the steel door. The former embassy agent took the abuse with dull incomprehension.

  Remo had to drag Kim Jong Il off Soe.

  "Knock it off," he growled.

  The premier wheeled on Remo. "So, do you intend to kill me?" he demanded.

  "No, O Great Leader," Soe replied from the floor. He was still on the floor, trying to shake the ringing sound from his head. It sounded like a supper gong.

  "I wasn't talking to you," Kim Jong Il snapped.

  "No, I'm not going to kill you," Remo said. "Yet."

  "What's the meaning of all this, then?" the premier asked. "Geez-O-man, you wrecked the place." He looked out through the open basement door. He spied several pairs of army-issue boots jutting into view. None were moving.

  "We need to talk," Remo said.

  "Is that all? Couldn't you have made an appointment?"

  "Your thugs killed nine people suspected of being agents for America," Remo pressed on. "I'm here to find out what the hell is going on."

  The premier frowned. "So, that is what this is about."

  "That is what what is about?" Soe asked, dazed.

  "Shut up," Kim Jong Il ordered. He turned to Remo. "I didn't want to do it at first," he begged. "They talked me into it. And anyway, I didn't think you or your old man were involved in this."

  "Involved in what?" Remo asked. "I'm just here to make sure you people don't run around killing everyone on this benighted peninsula who ever accepted a handful of rice from some dopey CIA spook."

  "So you don't know?" Kim Jong Il asked suspiciously.

  "Know what, my premier?" Soe asked.

  "Know what?" Remo asked, shooting a sour look at Soe.

  Kim Jong Il nodded seriously to Remo. "Perhaps you should come with me," he said.

  THE MORGUE WAS out-of-date by fifty years according to Western standards.

  Premier Kim Jong Il himself led Remo into the chilly, windowless room. Bulbs flickered on in fixtures suspended from the ceiling.

  "We are not as closed a society as some think. We allow some mail to enter our country from the South," the premier explained as they walked across the room. "These arrived on a flight several days ago."

  They were at a row of drawers along a side wall. Kim Jong Il grabbed on to the handle and pulled the long sliding drawer into the room.

  It was a standard morgue slab. But instead of the usual body tha
t would be lying in the refrigerated interior, there were three separate large objects.

  Remo looked down at the trio of severed heads. Ten fingers were arranged around each, like spokes on a wheel.

  "I know you've got another famine going here," Remo said evenly. "Don't tell me your pathologists ate the rest."

  "This is all we received in the mail from the South," the premier said. "Presumably from America originally. There are six more like these."

  "Six?" Remo asked. Leaning, he squinted at the weirdly swollen face of the nearest man.

  "Yes," Kim Jong Il replied. "We assumed it was a sign from your intelligence community. However, I allowed my people to convince me that it couldn't have come from you, since the heads were torn off in such a savage manner."

  "You're right there," Remo admitted. "But this is definitely one of the guys we killed."

  The premier blanched. "You did this?" he asked.

  "Not the decapitation part," Remo said. "That's a mess. But see that?" He pointed to a tiny waning-moon-shaped incision in the nearest forehead. Blackened blood collected in the narrow sliver. "That's obviously Chiun's handiwork."

  Kim Jong Il gulped. "The Master of Sinanju?" he asked. His tone betrayed his fear.

  "The one and only," Remo said. He was frowning. "This is really wacky," he said, straightening up. "Smith said only the Koreans' bodies turned up. I just figured it was some ritual and the rest of them got eaten by fish or washed out to sea or something."

  "Smith who?" Kim Jong Il asked.

  Remo looked over at him, shaken from his thoughts.

  "These guys were spies," he said, indicating the heads lying on the cold metal bed. "They were trying to kill someone, so Chiun and I whacked them."

  "Impossible," the premier insisted. "They were stationed at the New York mission. The PBRS assures me that they were given no activation orders."

  "Be that as it may, they were pretty active last I saw," Remo said. "The United States government had nothing to do with sending these parts over here. In fact, I'd guess it was probably someone trying to provoke something between our countries."

  "Who?"