The Sky is Falling td-63

by Warren Murphy

  These things were told in an office only a few knew of, and one those few approached with dread.

  It had neither spacious windows nor carpeting. If it had had a window, the view would have been bedrock. It was eight stories beneath the street, built during the time of the imperialist invasion of the homeland, known to the west as the Korean War. It had been dug out of the rock with picks. Two thousand laborers had been worked to death to get this far down into the bedrock. At its base was the most expensive steel imported to North Korea since Japan had ruled the peninsula. Around that steel was lead, and for a finish was rough concrete.

  It had been built by the glorious leader himself, Kim II Sung, President for Life.

  If there was one building that would survive an atomic attack by the Americans, it was going to be that building. From that room would spring a new Korea with the soul of a sword and a heart of a shark.

  In the deepest room of that building came the word about the village on the West Korea Bay. The information came to Sayak Cang, whose name was never mentioned, because to speak his name was to die.

  Typists who worked in the building were told never to enter that corridor, because typists were in demand. To walk in the corridor without a permit meant instant death without appeal.

  Those few who knew Sayak Cang had never seen him smile. They had never heard him say either a positive or unnecessary word.

  When they did-with passes-enter that room, they did so with moist palms, having rehearsed everything they had planned to say many times over.

  Sayak Cang was the director of the People's Bureau of Revolutionary Struggle for the People's Democratic Republic of North Korea.

  Sayak Cang, in brief, was the head of their intelligence. This day Sayak Cang had given every detail of the rest of the world, including the never-ending penetration of South Korea, to his subordinates. He wanted to know everything that had happened or was happening in the village of Sinanju.

  This day, too, Sayak Cang ordered that, for expediency, anyone arriving needed neither a pass nor clearance. The most important thing was every detail that happened in Sinanju.

  Sayak Cang had a melon-round face with slits for eyes and a mouth that was a harsh line. His lips always looked dry, and his hands showed a scar above the thumb knuckles. That was, people said, from his heavy use of the whip when he had been a junior officer in charge of interrogation.

  The Master of Sinanju had entered the village. The Master had found that the treasure was gone. The Master was seen talking to an old man. Did Sayak Cang wish to know what the Master was saying?

  "If anyone puts an electronic device to detect what the Master of Sinanju says or hears, I will have that person crushed under rocks," said Sayak Cang, who did not believe that a Master of Sinanju could be overheard without the Master knowing it.

  And he was not about to upset his Glorious Leader Kim Il Sung with the possibility that the Master of Sinanju suspected that the People's Republic was in any way spying on him. Sayak Cang had insisted his leader leave before the Master's plane was given flight clearance, and so Kim Il Sung had taken off for Yemen with his son. Unfortunately, with modern jets, Yemen was not all that far away, and after reviewing the industrial progress of that Marxist country on the Arabian Sea, the glorious leader had only consumed a half-day. He was bored with Yemen within five minutes.

  "Once you have seen one hand cut off you have seen them all," said the President for Life of North Korea.

  "I am sorry, but you must stay out of the country until it is safe."

  "A well-dug sewage ditch had more industrial progress than Yemen."

  "What about Ethiopia? That is a friendly country," said Cang.

  "Are there any socialist countries that are interesting?"

  "Only before they are liberated, sir."

  "Well, hurry, Sayak Cang."

  "You well know, sir, I would not dare hurry a Master of Sinanju. I would lay down my life now for our struggle. But I would not for all our sakes and for the dignity of our nation hurry the Master of Sinanju."

  "You have always known what you were doing, Sayak Cang. What can I do in Ethiopia?"

  "You can watch people starve, Your Excellency."

  "Another country?"

  "Tanzania."

  "What can I do there?"

  "Pretty much what they are doing in Ethiopia without the intensity. You can starve."

  "How about a white country?"

  "East Germany. You can watch people being shot trying to climb over the wall they have used to seal everyone in."

  "No."

  "Poland. Maybe they will murder another priest for you."

  "Is there any place with some fun in it?"

  "Not if you want to go to a country that has freed itself from the shackles of imperialist domination."

  "Do what you must do as quickly as possible then, Sayak Cang," said the Premier.

  Sayak Cang had no intention of hurrying. While the others feared Sinanju, or had talked about the humiliation by a single archaic pack of murderers who served reactionary monarchies throughout history, Sayak Cang had told them all that the House of Sinanju was the one glory in the history of a nation shamed among nations.

  "We have been the footstools of the Chinese, the Russians, the Japanese, the Mongols. There is no one who has not put his heel on the Korean neck. But in all that time, there has been only one note of glory: the House of Sinanju. Only the Masters of Sinanju have earned this nation any respect during those shameful times. Glory to the House of Sinanju, to the Masters of Sinanju who refused to be whore worms to those who sat on foreign thrones."

  Thus spoke Sayak Cang at a most important meeting of the generals and labor directors of North Korea. He spoke to silence and to many who thought that he would soon be executed for such insolence.

  But in that silence at that most important meeting many years before, Sayak Cang had won respect, for into that silence came the sound of soft palms touching each other. It was a clap from Himself, Kim Il Sung.

  And now Sayak Cang himself was prepared to tell a Master of Sinanju what he thought of him to his face. "If he is still in the village, beg that he come here. If he does not wish to leave the village, ask that I be permitted to enter."

  This was sent by radiophone to the officer who was waiting outside the village. He asked a child to go to the house to which the Master of Sinanju had returned and tell Chiun himself that there was a message waiting for him. The officer promised a coin if the child would do this.

  He was quite careful, of course, not to enter himself. The child returned, saying the Master of Sinanju did not wish to speak to any Pyongyanger, and it was as though the officer had heard his own death sentence.

  With trembling hands, he picked up the radiophone made in Russia, as was all North Korean equipment, and phoned the number of Sayak Cang. He had seen men who had displeased Cang. He had seen one tied to posts begging to die while Sayak Cang exhorted the rest of the man's company to laugh at his pitiful cries.

  "The Master of Sinanju does not wish to come to Pyongyang although he was begged by myself to do so. Begged."

  "Exactly what did he say?" asked Sayak Cang.

  The officer felt the cold sea winds from the West Korea Bay blow through his thin uniform, but he did not mind the cold. He saw his own breath make puff clouds before him, and he wondered how long his own body would be warm.

  "He said, comrade sir, that he did not wish to speak to a Pyongyanger."

  It must have been the faulty Russian equipment because the officer could have sworn that he heard laughter from Sayak Cang himself at the other end of the phone.

  "Tell a child, any child from the village, to show the Glorious Master a history book. Any history book. Then beg the Master to go to a neighboring village and see any history book that the children read."

  "And then what, comrade sir?"

  "Then tell him that Sayak Cang ordered these histories written. Tell him where I am, and that I would gladly com
e to him."

  The officer sent the child back with a coin for himself and the message for the Master of Sinanju. The child disappeared into the mud and filth of the fishing village. Within moments Chiun's flowing gold kimono could be seen coming up from the village, the winds blowing the wisps of hair, the gold like a flag of conquest whipping in triumph.

  The Master of Sinanju held a schoolbook.

  "Take me to another village," said Chiun.

  Hurriedly, the officer made way in his car for the Master of Sinanju and drove five miles to a farming town. Unlike Sinanju, there were red flags everywhere and in every building was a picture of Kim Il Sung.

  Here people came to attention and hurried at the officer's command. Here he did not need a coin for people to do his bidding.

  The Master of Sinanju was brought one history book and then another. He wanted to see every grade's text. Finally he said:

  "Almost correct."

  "The man who insisted they be written like that is in Pyongyang," said officer. "He will come to you, or if you wish, you may come to him."

  "Pyongyang is an evil city of much corruption. But I will go because in all the darkness of this day, one light shines from Pyongyang," said Chiun. "Would that my own pupil had shown such understanding."

  The officer bowed profusely. Chiun kept the books. The building that covered the eight-story excavation into bedrock was a simple one-story government office. But the elevators were lavish by comparison, with full use, of aluminum and chrome and the most expensive metals. The elevator descended to the lowest level and there, with his face oddly changed, was Sayak Cang.

  The change was noticed by those who worked on this lowest level, those who knew him. Sayak Cang, with great pain to his facial muscles, was smiling.

  "You caused this to be written?"

  "I did, Glorious Master of Sinanju."

  "It is almost correct," said Chiun. "I interrupted a grave situation to tell you that."

  "A thousand thank-yous. A million blessings," said Sayak Cang.

  Chiun opened the books he had with him. They told of the misery of Korea. They told of filthy foreigners with their hands at the pure maiden's throat. They told of strangulation and humiliation. And then there was a chapter called "Light."

  It read:

  "Amid the darkness shone pure and glorious the light of the Masters of Sinanju. They alone paid no homage to foreign lands, but received it. They alone like the sunlight shone eternal, invincible, magnificently glorious, keeping alive the true superiority of Koreans while the rest of their nation waited, humiliated in darkness, with only Sinanju to foretell the coming of the true destiny of the Korean people."

  Sayak Cang nodded at every sentence.

  "Basically you have got this right," said Chiun. "But instead of 'light,' wouldn't 'awesome light' be more correct? A light could be a little match."

  "But in darkness a match is glorious."

  "Are you talking about the glory of Sinanju or the darkness of the rest of you?"

  "Most correct. Every book will be changed."

  "Usually, young man, historians lie and shade the truth for their own convenience. But here in Korea we have a passage that can be called absolute truth."

  Sayak Cang bowed. One of the secretaries on the floor almost gasped. No one even knew that his vertebrae moved, much less bowed.

  "But you have thieves in this country," said Chiun. And then he told him of the treasures of Sinanju.

  On the lowest floor of the most secure building in North Korea came a scream of horror. It came from the lips of Sayak Cang.

  "This is a disgrace to the Korean people. This is an indignity. A shame that knows no bounds. Better our mothers and daughters sold into slavery to whore for the Japanese than this insult to our history. When they have robbed the House of Sinanju, they have robbed us of our past."

  At that moment the entire intelligence network of North Korea was laid at the feet of the Master of Sinanju that his treasure should be recovered for all the people.

  Of course there was a saying in Sinanju that light from a Pyongyanger was like darkness from an honest man. But who, after all, could argue with what Chiun had seen being taught to schoolchildren?

  Then again, within not too long a time, a North Korean embassy discovered that one of the treasures of Sinanju was being sold. At an auction no less. In a white country.

  Shortly before noon, the gruesome luck of the Western world seemed to change. Chiun was putting through a phone call to Folcroft.

  Smith almost wanted to breathe a thank-you to the heavens. But he said:

  "Look. We have something we need immediately. We promise to replace much if not all of your treasure. We need you now."

  "The House of Sinanju is honored to exalt your glory," came Chiun's voice. "But first, are you in touch with Remo?"

  "Yes," said Smith.

  "Good. Take this down, and be very careful. Do you have ink?"

  "I have a pencil and a computer," said Smith.

  "Use the pencil," said Chiun. "Now, write down, 'The Glorious Struggle of Korean Peoples Under the Leadership of Kim Il Sung, grades one through five.' "

  "I have it."

  "Pages thirty-five and thirty-six," said Chiun. "Good."

  "Tell Remo he must read that now."

  "All right. Will do. Now, we have. . ." said Smith, but he was unable to finish his sentence. Apparently an operator from the other side had cut them off after Chiun had hung up.

  Chapter 5

  Alexei Zemyatin did not trust good news, especially from the modern KGB. He remembered how they had been under Felix Dzerzhinsky, their founder. Then, they were frightened, angry, and ruthless. Many of their leaders were in their teens then. They were all learning, those early state police known as the Ogpu: trying to copy the late czar's Cheka, afraid of making mistakes, yet also afraid not to act.

  If one of those ragamuffins had told him they had made a major breakthrough in finding out the source of this deadly, invisible new American weapon, he would have felt reassured. But when the KGB general in his tailormade green uniform told him, plump with imported chocolates and fruits and sporting a wristwatch from Switzerland which would tell him the time to return to his lush dacha in the quiet suburbs of Moscow, Alexei Zemyatin felt only suspicion.

  The West might fear the KGB because of its successes. But they did not realize how much effort and failed motion went into each triumph. They did not realize that for every operative there might be one hundred officers living the good life, whose main concern was to keep that life. And to keep that life they would create reports to make themselves look good. Therefore, when speaking to the KGB about something they were responsible for, one also had to calculate how they were protecting themselves. One did not accept good news at face value under any circumstances.

  Alexei Zemyatin put his hand on the soft green felt of the lavish desk in the lavish office. On the other side of the desk was a defender of Russia's security making a very comfortable job of it all. This KGB general was young, in his mid-fifties. He did not really know of the Revolution, and was a child during the great patriotic war against Germany. Apparently he had never been interrupted by anyone for the last few years. He was director of the British desk of the KGB, the unit responsible for what was perhaps the most successful penetration of any nation by another since the British infiltrated the Germans in the thirties and forties. He had made, in his own boastful words, "all England like downtown Moscow."

  "Excuse me," said Zemyatin. "Before I hear of your triumphs, indulge me in the little details of the matter. I want facts."

  "Of course," said the young KGB general coolly. His office was as large as a ballroom, featuring a plush couch, art on the walls, and, of course, a picture of the chairman behind his desk. His desk had once been used by a czar and still enjoyed the gilt design. The room smelled of rich Cuban cigars and the best French brandy. The young officer took the interruption by the old man as he would by someone in the Politb
uro who, while having more authority, would in a very few minutes acknowledge the young general's technical superiority. These old men were like that. The young general had heard about this one from older officers but dismissed their kudos as nostalgia for the past. Therefore he was not surprised or offended when the relic in the typical worker's baggy suit interrupted him. In just a few moments the old man would be as grateful as the others for the general's brilliant technical presence on the British desk.

  "We ascertained a strike in the British area of Malden, approximately eight A.M. their time. The target area was a field of approximately one hundred square meters. The launch site was verified by Jodreil Bank as west of Ireland, which of course is continental USA. I think we have gone over this before."

  "Go on," said Zemyatin.

  "We have the woman responsible for the weapons. We have her," said the young general, "in a British safe house and she is cooperating fully." The general waited for Zemyatin to ask why they were using a British safe house. Then he could boast that it was a unit within British intelligence that they controlled; that the Americans had sent someone, and that the KGB British desk had intercepted him. There was even more if this old man would allow the true technological brilliance of the younger generation to show itself. The old man had probably started by throwing gasoline in old vodka bottles at czarist police.

  "How do you know this woman is connected with the weapon?"

  "She is the one who hired Pomfritt Laboratories, the British firm, to conduct the test. Not only did she do this, but she gave an artificial company as the one hiring. CIA of course. It was a cover."

  "We know she lied. Do you have any verification that she is from the CIA?"

  "Not yet. But we will. We will have everything," said the young general. He offered more brandy. Zemyatin shook his head. He had not touched the first glass.

  "Be so kind as to indulge me. But how do you know she will cooperate?"

  "How do you know the sun will rise, sir?" said the general.

  "I don't," said Zemyatin. "I only presume it will because it has done so all my life and according to all the historians of mankind it has risen in the past. But I don't."