But Chiun answered: "When has Kim Il Sung ever worried about Mary Lambert's operation at the hands of the illegitimate son of Blake Winfield's stepdaughter, the one who discovered that Carson Magnum, the mayor, was addicted to heroin and had taken payoffs from Winfield himself never to expose the abortion ring which had almost killed Mary when she was pregnant with the child of the unknown father?"
"It was not his fault," said Myoch'ong. "If Kim Il Sung had known of these things, he would have worried too."
"It is a ruler's duty to know many things," said Chiun, dismissing Myoch'ong with a wave of his hand and setting his face toward the window, beyond which was the sea.
Myoch'ong puzzled over those things that night and finally summoned seven soldiers of great strength to his side. "Whoever slays the Master of Sinanju will be made colonel if he is major and general if he is colonel," he said.
The soldiers nodded and grinned, and armed with guns and knives set off for Chiun's house, because each wanted to be the one to win promotion.
In the morning, none had returned to Myoch'ong, so he went himself to Chiun's house to see what the seven had done. Entering the house, he saw not a tapestry or trinket disturbed. Chiun sat upon his cushion, unharmed, and told Myoch'ong: "That which you have sent has returned to the earth. Go now and tell your master in the whore city Pyongyang that the Master of Sinanju will see him if he will bring tribute."
What kind of tribute, Myoch'ong asked.
"First, take all Pyongyangers from this province. Second, chastise the evil governor who has usurped the tribute due this village. Third, a message should be sent to America that the great dramas will be happily received. There are ways to do this and Americans know them. Your premier should invite such men as can do this to Korea. He should treat them well, for if they are treated well perhaps even Rad Rex himself may come. These things are possible."
And Myoch'ong left with heavy heart for he knew Kim Il Sung would not invite Americans into his land again. When he appeared before the premier, he told him of what he had seen and of the seven men who were no more. The premier was angered and purposed the sending of an army against Sinanju, but Myoch'ong bade him delay for he had heard tales of how neither wall nor steel nor human arm could stop the Masters of Sinanju, and that through the ages their special talent had been the elimination of heads of state. Or, he added shrewdly, of those who would be heads of state.
And King Il Sung paused and thought, and then he asked where Myoch'ong heard these things. And to this, Myoch'ong answered he had read of them in old manuscripts that told of Sinanju.
"Reactionary feudal fairy tales designed to suppress the aspirations of the masses. Sinanju has always been a home for bandits and murderers and thieves," said Kim Il Sung.
But Myoch'ong reminded him of the seven soldiers and of the people's tank and disclosed to him the corruption of the governor of the province.
Yet this did not dissuade the premier. But when Myoch'ong said that the Master of Sinanju had taught his secrets to a white, an American, and might teach more Americans these things, the premier dismissed everyone from his conference room but Myoch'ong.
And quietly, so that even the walls could not hear, he said to Myoch'ong: "I would see this bandit. I shall go with you to him. But this I warn you. Should he be but another lackey of the imperialists, you will be denounced before the presidium and the politboro."
"This one is not a lackey of anyone."
"Good. On the way you will tell me what he wants of us, should there be such demands."
Now Myoch'ong was not a fool, and every time the premier asked what the Master of Sinanju desired, Myoch'ong saw a pleasant field to look at, or wondered about the strength of the people's army, or brought up the Japanese whom everyone hated.
And again Myoch'ong returned to the house of the Master of Sinanju and asked permission to enter. And Kim Il Sung, seeing Myoch'ong bowing in the old manner, spat upon the floor.
"A den of feudalism," he said.
"Pigs and horses dribble on floors. That is why they are kept in barns," said the Master of Sinanju.
"Do you know who I am, old man? I am Kim Il Sung."
"And I am Chiun."
"Watch your mouth, Chiun."
"It is not I who drivels on floors. You get your manners from Russians."
"You are a bandit and a lackey of imperialists," said the premier without caution, for he was angered greatly.
"Were you not the premier of our people in the north," said Chiun, "I would slay you like a pig for dinner. Yet I withhold my hand for I would reason with you."
"How can a lackey reason?" said the premier. "All his reason serves his white masters. I serve Korea."
"Before you, young man," said Chiun, "Sinanju was. During the Mongol invasion, Sinanju was. During the Chinese lords, Sinanju was. During the Japanese lords, Sinanju was. During the Russian lords, Sinanju was. They are all gone and we are here as we will be here after Kim Il Sung was. But I would speak with you for, lo, after these many years Korea has a leader who is of her own. And that is you, although you are but a Pyongyanger."
And hearing these words, Sung sat. But he neither bowed nor did he remove his shoes as in the old ways. And Myoch'ong listened with great apprehension. But when Chiun spoke, he knew all would be well for there was much wisdom in the Master.
"You come here seeking the wisdom of Sinanju, otherwise why would a premier come to this poor village?" said Chiun.
And Sung agreed.
"You call me lackey," said Chiun.
And Sung agreed.
"Yet who is the lackey? Have I joined Sinanju to the Russians? Have I made compacts with the Chinese? Do I on every occasion support Arab and African and even whites just because they profess a belief in one form of government?"
"They are our allies," said Sung. "The Russians give us arms. The Chinese fought Americans for us."
And Chiun smiled.
"The Russians gave arms because they hate the Americans. The Chinese fought because they hate the Americans. Lucky are we that these two hate each other for they would sit in Pyongyang and not you. As for Africans, Arabs, and whites, they are far away and not even yellow. The Japanese are greedy, the Chinese despicable, the Russians swine, and as for our own southerners, they would sleep with ducks if birds had big enough openings."
At this, Sung roared in laughter.
"This man has a proper outlook," he said to Myoch'ong. "Who is responsible for calling him a lackey? Who has given me such misinformation?"
And Chiun spoke again. "But we must look with more sympathy upon our southern brothers because they are of the south and cannot help themselves. This is their nature."
Myoch'ong gasped. For never had anyone dared say any kind thing about those beneath the thirty-eighth parallel.
"I too have often thought such. They cannot help being what they are," said Sung.
"And Pyongyang is not the nicest of places. It is where good people go wrong," said Chiun.
"I was not born in Pyongyang but in Hamhung," said Sung.
"A fine village," said Chiun.
"Sinanju is fine also," said Sung.
"I am of Paekom," said Myoch'ong.
"But he has risen above it," said Sung.
"Some of our best friends come from Paekom. They transcend their origins," said Chiun.
Now Kim Il Sung was satisfied that here was a man of good heart and proper thinking. But he was troubled.
"I hear you teach Sinanju to whites. To an American."
Now Chiun knew this to be a great offense, one that could not be laid before the premier with all honesty, so he was careful with his words, and he spoke with slowness and with caution.
"In my own village, in my own family, none I found was worthy. There was laxness and sloth and deceit. Among ourselves, we can admit these things."
Sung nodded for he too knew of the problems of governing.
"There was ingratitude for what was offered," said Chiun.
> How well did Sung know this also.
"There was backsliding and lack of discipline," said Chiun.
Oh, how truly did the Master of Sinanju know this, proclaimed Sung.
"The son of my own brother took the preciousness given him and used it for selfish gain."
How well did Sung know this trait. He looked somberly at Myoch'ong.
"He acted like a southerner, "said Chiun.
Sung spat and this time Chiun nodded approval. For it was a proper moment for such things.
"And so I sought another, that this knowledge of our people should not die."
"A wise thing," said Sung.
"I would have chosen one of us. But in all the village, in all the North, I did not find one with a Korean heart. I did not know you at the time."
"I had my problems," said Sung.
"So I sought a Korean heart like yours. One of us."
"Good for you," said Sung, placing a strong hand on the shoulder of the Master of Sinanju by way of congratulation.
"This man of our heart happened to have suffered a misfortune at birth. A catastrophe."
Sung's countenance became exceeding sad.
"What was this misfortune?"
"He was born white and American."
Sung gasped at the horror.
"Each morning he had to look at his round eyes in the mirror. Each meal he had to eat hamburger. Each day, naught but others with that same affliction for company."
"And what did you?"
"I found him and saved him from the Americans. From their thinking and ill manners."
"You did well," said Sung. But Myoch'ong, being of a suspicious nature, asked how Chiun knew this was not just another American but a Korean heart in an American body.
"Because he learned correctness exceeding well, and to prove the point he will demonstrate what he has learned when he comes to honor his heritage here in Sinanju."
"How do we know," asked Myoch'ong, "that it is not just an American to whom you have taught all of Sinanju?"
"An American?" said Chiun with a scoffing laugh. "Did you not see Americans in the great war with the south? Did you not see Americans when you had them with their ship? An American?"
"Some Americans are hard," said Myoch'ong. But so taken with the words of the Master was Kim Il Sung that he forgot his own truth and looked at Myoch'ong with scorn. Of course, this white man has a Korean heart, he said.
"His name is Remo," said Chiun.
And thus it was that evening, in the large People's Building in Pyongyang, when the name Remo was mentioned again to the Premier, Kim Il Sung recognized it. He was told a message had been received that an American named Remo would be disgraced in the village of Sinanju, and that he would be disgraced by a man named Nuihc.
And the sender of this message was himself Nuihc and he pledged the devotion of his soul to Kim Il Sung and the People's Democratic Republic of Korea. And he signed his message in this fashion:
CHAPTER NINE
"I'd like a million dollars, lady, in singles. Don't count it, weigh it."
Lynette Bardwell looked up at her teller's cage and smiled at Remo.
"Hiya," she said. "Missed you last night."
"You were among the missing last night," Remo said. "But I thought there's always tonight. You almost done here?"
Lynette looked at the clock in the center of the bank lobby, high up over Remo's head. The craning of her neck caused her bosom to rise.
"Ten minutes more."
"Dinner okay? Your husband won't mind."
"I guess he won't," said Lynette. "I haven't heard from him. I guess he did go away for awhile."
Remo waited in front and Lynette came boobily bobbing out in precisely ten minutes.
"Take my car?" she said. Remo nodded. In her car in the parking lot, she leaned over to brush his cheek with her lips. The top of her body pressed against his right shoulder. Remo grimaced.
"What's the matter? You hurt your shoulder?"
Remo nodded.
"How'd that happen?"
"Would you believe I ran into a barrel of basketballs?"
"No."
"Good. Don't."
Lynette drove and Remo picked the dinner spot this time, an even darker restaurant than the night before, but one that looked as if it could cook rice.
It could, and Remo joined Lynette in eating.
"Did you see Wetherby?" she asked.
"Yes. But he couldn't help."
"Couldn't help you what? You know I don't know what it is you're after."
"I'm doing a book on Oriental fighting. Your husband, Wetherby, they all have some special training, something unique. I know enough about it to know that. But they won't tell. I think I've stumbled onto some new training secret, and, well, I'm stubborn."
"I wish I could help," she said, picking over a piece of crabmeat. "But it's not my bag."
"What is your bag?"
The crabmeat vanished into her mouth without a trace. "I'm a lover, not a fighter."
Over her brandy, Lynette confided that her husband had never stayed away at night before. "You didn't scare him away, did you?"
"Do I look like I could scare anybody away?"
Remo picked slowly at his rice, first using his right hand, then his left. The pain in his shoulders was growing, and each time he brought the fork to his mouth he could feel the burning heat of injury moving through the shoulder joint, throbbing its pain into his consciousness. If only Chiun were in the States, instead of gallivanting around in Sinanju, he might be able to help. Someplace in that memory of his would be a way to make Remo's arms work again, someplace a way to stop the pain and the weakness.
And these were just the first two blows. He knew now that he had been targeted by Nuihc, the nephew of Chiun, who sought Chiun's title and had vowed Remo's death. Already Remo's arms were gone, worthless. What was next?
Finally eating wasn't worth the pain, and Remo just let the fork drop from his fingers. He found himself nodding at Lynette without hearing what she was saying, and soon they were driving toward her house and he heard himself accept her offer to stay in her upstairs spare room so he could rest.
And he felt so badly he no longer tried to maintain any pretense by asking if her husband might object. The husband was dead, and fuck 'im, he had hurt Remo's arm and he couldn't rot in that coffin fast enough to suit Remo.
Lynette helped him upstairs to a big bedroom in her house and he let her undress him. She did it slowly, trailing her fingers over his body and she put him naked under the covers. She was soft but efficient and Remo thought it rather marvelous how she had learned to hold her liquor much better than she had the night before. That was funny. Funny, funny, Remo thought. Look, look, look at funny Remo.
He could not move his upper body. The pain surged through his shoulders and down his arms, numbing his fingertips, into his chest where it seemed to attack each one of his ribs, into his neck where it made movement painful.
Hurt, hurt Remo. Look, look, look at hurt, hurt Remo.
He was hallucinating. It had been so long since he had suffered pain, real pain. For most people, pain was a helpful warning sign that something was wrong with the body and the owner should take care of it. But Remo was one with his body, it was not a belonging but a being, and he did not have to be reminded when there was something wrong with his body, and so there was no need for him to pain. He had almost forgotten what pain felt like. He had felt pain when he sat in the electric chair. They had failed to fry him, but at least they had given him a quick braising. That was pain. And so was this. In between those two times, in all the ten years, there hadn't been too much other pain to remember.
Look, look, look, funny Remo. He was losing control.
Look, look, Remo, look at the beautiful lady walking through the door. Look at the white nylon gown she's wearing that you can see through.
Look at the soft swelling of the highrise breasts, look at the smooth round outlines of her body, silhou
etted against the hall light. Look at the long tan legs. Look how she smiles at you, Remo. The lovely lady likes you, Remo. She will make you feel all better. Remo wanted to feel all better. He smiled.
Lynette leaned over him in the bed. "I will make you feel better," she said.
Remo kept smiling, because it hurt to stop. "Make me feel better. Want to feel better. Arms hurt."
"Where do they hurt, Remo?" Lynette asked. "Here?" She touched his left shoulder through the strand of muscles in the front and Remo groaned with the pain.
"Or here?"
She touched his right shoulder with her fingertips and pressed and Remo screamed.
"Hurt. Hurt," he shouted.
"There, there. Lynette will make you feel better," she said.
Remo opened his eyes narrowly. The tall blonde woman he had made a widow was standing next to the bed, and then with a smooth practiced swoop she was lifting her negligee over her head.
She held it in her fingertips at arm's length, her eyes seemingly fastened to his by wires, and then she dropped the negligee into a soft fluttery mound on the floor.
She moved closer to Remo, ran fingers down his cheeks, trailed them down his neck, and then pulled the blanket down from his unclad body.
No, he wanted to say. No. No sex. Don't feel well. No sex.
But Lynette Bardwell was moving her fingers all over his body now, and he found that if he concentrated on something other than his shoulders, the pain was not so severe, so he concentrated on that part of the body that Lynette was concentrating on and then Remo was ready. Lynette smiled and moved up onto the bed and was over him and then on him and then surrounding him, swallowing him with her body.
She knelt over Remo looking down at him and her face was smiling but there was no mirth in the showing of her teeth, which looked as if they were about to bite, and there was a glitter in her eyes, a kind of merciless sparkle, and she began to move her body and it helped, it helped, it helped if he moved his a little, and he stopped thinking of his shoulders and thought only of himself and Lynette and their junction.
He wanted to move his hands up to her, to reach her body, but he could not. His hands and arms were straight at his side, pinned there by her thighs straddling him, but he still had some movement in his fingers and he used them to touch the insides of her thighs where there were large clusters of nerves, very delicately throbbing.
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