With a slow breathing balance he seemed to run his hand along a five-foot-high stone that must have weighed three to four tans. Then he simply cocked a knee into it, and it seemed to come out of the wall on him, resting on his knee. But the strange thing about it was that it seemed so absolutely un-strange. It seemed so incredibly normal the way the stone rested on the vertical thrust of his body. He simply plugged the passageway.
Only when the stone went in did she realize the massive force Remo had exerted. Several stone stairs splintered into dust.
"That was the only way out," said Kathy.
"Shh. It'll work," said the man.
"What will work? You've plugged our only escape," whispered Kathy.
"C'mon. Shh," said Remo.
"We can't get out of here," she whispered. What a fool. Was this Remo like all the others after all?
"I want to get you out of here. I could go up those steps and make it out in one piece, but you couldn't. So shut up."
"I don't know what you're doing," said Kathy. Beyond the heavy stone she heard noises. Men were beginning to heave at the stone.
"Do you want to know?" said the man. He guided her to a side of the stone, not even bothering to look at her, but concentrating on the blocked passageway.
"Yes," she said.
Remo gave it to her exactly as he had learned it. "What language is that?" she said angrily.
"Korean."
"Would you mind translating it?"
"Sure, but it loses something in the translation. It means 'the strong flower never grows to its food but lets its food come to it.'"
"That makes absolutely no sense," said Kathy, putting on her blouse and smoothing her skirt.
"I told you it lost something in translation," said Remo.
He moved her against the wall, and then when the bodies started to drop, she realized what he had been talking about. To move the stone, several men in the passageway had to put their shoulders into it. And when the stone came rumbling out, she saw that the men had guns. Those guns might have killed her. When she observed the smooth speed of Remo's execution of the guards, she realized he might have easily escaped the gunfire. What he had done was let the danger to her mass itself outside the stone and come in with a rush, clearing the tunnel of danger to her. He took her quickly up the passage where only a single last guard stood at the upper level. It was a yeoman warder who did not know who was who, apparently, but who did see a stranger and, in stout British tradition, attacked same stranger. Also in tradition, he gave his life for Queen and country.
Outside, after they had run through the squares and tunnels, Remo found the car was gone. Eluding several bobbies, they finally came to rest in a charming Italian restaurant off Leicester Square. There, Kathy asked Remo how he knew his plan would work.
He seemed puzzled by that question.
"They were . . ." He didn't quite have an English word for it, but the closest ones were: "too anxious. Too bunched up. They were set on going in. I guess when the tunnel was blocked they had to surmise they couldn't get in and forced it."
"Yes. But how did you know they were going to do that?"
"I don't know. I just knew. Look, grab a bite. And let's get to the source of your experiment. Do you know the whole world may be wiped out?"
I already have been, thought Kathy, looking at this magnificent dark-eyed man who killed so well and easily and smoothly.
"No," she said. "That's awful."
Then she heard how their fluorocarbon stream had somehow panicked another country, and was believed by some American agency to be threatening to destroy the world by removing the entire ozone shield. She could have told him that that danger was past. She could have told him they had solved that problem with the short duration of the shield opening. The blue light that bothered this man was really the shield closing again.
Rather, she told him that all she knew about the experiment was that it came from a company in America. She gave him the phony cover address she had given to the British.
"No good," said Remo. "That's a phony."
"Oh, my lord. These people are evil," said Kathy O'Donnell. But there was not much tension in her voice. She was as warm and content as a milk-full kitten by a warm winter stove.
Chemical Concepts might as well be on the moon, she thought. "Do you remember anything about the people who hired you?" he asked. He didn't eat the food. Kathy sucked contentedly on a breadstick.
"I remember a bit. You look married."
"Not married. What were they like?"
"Never been married?"
"No. Were they Americans? What did they tell you about themselves? What didn't they tell you about themselves?"
She picked a name at random. Someone far away, someone who it might take some time getting to. She also picked one of the deadliest men in the world. He was in a jungle somewhere in South America.
"Do you like jungles, Remo? I hate jungles."
"Which jungle? Lots of jungles in the world."
"It was a jungle. You know, if you don't like Italian food we can leave. What do you eat?" she asked.
"I eat rice and sometimes duck entrails and sometimes certain fish eyes."
"What does it taste like?"
"Tastes like shit. What do you think it tastes like?" said Remo. She identified the jungle. She identified the man positively.
"He promised me it would be for the good of mankind," said Kathy O'Donnell. She said she could lead Remo to him. She did not know what they would do when they got there. But at least she would have Remo for a flight across the Atlantic.
A sign of hope. Remo had phoned in and not only gotten the person in charge of the experiment in Maldon, but had found the whereabouts of at least one machine.
It was not the most secure rope to hold a world together, but it was a rope. And there was no one better to put an end to that machine than the man who was on his way to South America. If only someone could get into Russia and somehow find out why they were linking a first strike buildup to that machine, Smith would feel that both fronts were being covered. But in Russia, America was limited so far to normal means. Normal means could get all manner of technical information, such as missile counts and the kinds of missiles being deployed. This was the stuff of wiring and electrodes. But the why of things, the human factor of things, was as mysterious to the CIA as the farthest side of the dark universe.
Only Chiun's Oriental formula, that Smith had never quite understood, explained in equally unexplainable terms why Russia did things. But Chiun was even more unreachable now than Remo. In desperation, Smith again attempted to work the formula translated into numbers, and then back into English. Often, when all else failed, this strange combination of mysticism and mathematics worked.
And sometimes it didn't. The translation came out "the bear hides in the cave." Was Russia afraid? Was fear prompting those new irresponsible missiles? But why were the Russians so incredibly afraid of America when the ozone shield was something that protected everyone?
And then Chiun got through again. The phone connect to Pyongyang had been reactivated.
"Chiun, we have a problem about the bear and the cave . . ."
"They shall breathe their blood in their vile throats that have dared profane thy magnificence," said Chiun. "But first a humble matter. You, of course, forwarded my message to Remo."
"I did give it to him when he made contact."
"Good. Then he will understand. I can be reached through the North Korean embassy in France."
"Are you working for them now?"
"Only for the greater glory of your throne, Emperor Smith. This is a personal matter."
"We can increase shipments. The future of the world . . ."
"Is the past, O Graciousness. I am defending the past. What did Remo say when you told him about the passage? Did he read it? Did he say anything?"
"I secured the book. It was a school textbook for North Korea. I read it to him."
"In English?"
>
"I had to. I had it translated. I don't know Korean."
"And he said?"
"He said, 'Anything else?' "
"That was all? Just 'Anything else?' "
"Yes."
"It loses everything in the translation."
"Look, whatever anyone is paying you, we will pay you more."
"Can you give me yesterday?"
"I don't understand," said Smith.
"Can you give me Alexander the Great making his Greek phalanx stand in salute? Can you give me the dipped banners of the moguls, or the homage of the shogun? Can you give me the Roman legions stopping in Syria because an emperor was told that his foot soldiers could take not one more step east? Can you give me knights giving way in a court, and king and emperor saying in tongues, some now unspoken by human lips: 'You Sinanju have found the triumph of man'?"
"Chiun, we can give what we can give. And it will be anything you ask."
"Get the original text to Remo."
"And then you will perform this service for us?"
"As surely as the lotus petal kisses the dark smooth waters of night."
"That is yes, then?" said Smith:
And Chiun had to wearily explain that rarely had a stronger yes been expressed anywhere. It was a yes worthy of such a great one as Emperor Harold W. Smith.
"Well, good then. Thank you. I suppose," said Smith. This one, thought Chiun, is especially slow in understanding. If he had time, Chiun would have tried to fathom what was behind the white's plan to "save tomorrow for the world," as he called it. Was it finally the secret maneuverings of a genius like Charlemagne of the Franks, playing one nation against the other until his desire for world conquest manifested itself? Or was Smith just crazed with his talk of secrecy and saving the world? If he had no intention of conquering it, why did he want to save all of it? Chiun certainly would not care if Bayonne, New Jersey, disappeared from the face of the earth. Why should Smith care about Sinanju or Pyongyang?
Only briefly did Chiun, Master of Sinanju, contemplate such puzzles. For he was in Paris of the old Frankish nation now called France, civilized to these many years since the Romans had called it Gaul, and trod their crude nailed sandals upon its dusty roads.
Chiun was about to give this land its first great history. Paris would be known forever as the city where Chiun, the Great Chiun hopefully, had recovered the treasure of Sinanju.
Chapter 8
It was the rarest auction ever held by the House of Arnaud. And since it was the rarest auction in the House of Arnayad, it was the rarest in Paris. And if it were the rarest in Paris, then most naturally it was the rarest in the world.
Only the most select bidders had been invited to the great marble building on Rue de Seine, District Seven. On either side, the posh art galleries had closed their doors in respect for what was going to happen this day. One hundred gold Alexanders were for sale. The gold alone would have been worth a half-million strong American dollars. But these coins, 2,500 years old, were as shiny as if minted yesterday. And rarer yet, no other coin ever saved from antiquity bore such markings.
On one side was the unmistakable strong head of Alexander, seen so often in brass, gold, and silver; the flowing locks, the proud nose, the sensuous lips. Alexander the Great, Conqueror of the World.
But on the other side, instead of the sign of the city, such as Athens' owl, was a phalanx of Greek foot soldiers, their spears raised in salute. And Greek lettering for a word unknown in the Greek tongue. The sound could be translated roughly as:
"Sinadu."
The first thought of some was that it was a forgery. Yet scholars identified the tooth-edged die markings as typically Greek. The head of Alexander was also typical. So was the lettering of the strange word.
And then, of course, there was the history itself. The hundred-gold-coin tribute minted by Alexander as he approached India. What the tribute was for, what god of the East he was honoring, history did not tell. But he had minted the coins, and there were one hundred and no more with the saying in Greek. Here was the hundred.
Ordinarily the House of Arnaud would announce a major auction of which even the most famous of treasures were only one object. But such was the magnificence of this collection of one hundred coins that they were given the unique privilege of being the only item on the agenda for the day. Not even the Mona Lisa had had that honor.
The auction was scheduled for three in the afternoon. An invitation to this event quickly became the most sought-after social item in Paris and much of Western Europe.
Even more intriguing was the fact that the owner was listed simply as anonymous. Of course, this famous anonymous was Valery, Comte de Lyon. The joke was that he was the most famous anonymous in all France.
The Count of Lyon was head of SDEC, Service de Documentation Exterieure et de Contre. While most of the rest of the world had heard of the famous Deuxieme, it was the SDEC that ran the most formidable opposition to Russia in the world of espionage. The count had beaten them time and again, and lived on their death list, everyone knew.
It was said among the knowledgeable that to remove the count would be more valuable to an enemy of France than seizing Paris.
Therefore no one, of course, expected him to show up at the auction. And he didn't, for his whereabouts were always secret. The questions abounded. Were these coins in his family for centuries? Where had he gotten them? Could they have been some bribe?
These questions were not entertained long, however, among the fashionable elite entering the marble floors of the House of Arnaud.
For one, any financial dealings of a man in such a delicate position were always secretly investigated by the government. And many in this audience knew what the investigation had found because they ran the government.
First, the package had been mailed from a Paris post office to the postal drop used by the SDEC. It carried a fraudulent French return address. Since there had been several attempts at destroying the SDEC, all packages were opened by robotic arms in a bombproof room.
Then the logical question posed to the investigators was, had the Count of Lyon accepted a bribe and had it mailed to himself?
Possibly. Except every paper and package he handled was counterinvestigated, because the French, like the Russians, had enough experience in the affairs of men to understand that they were not dealing with a reliable species.
The count had probably not sent the package to himself. Third, had he accepted a bribe and used this as a cover? Maybe. But why a bribe of this nature? Why a bribe of such rare and perfect coins as to become a major item of Paris gossip?
The conclusion was that the coins, as the accompanying note had said, were a gift from someone for the Count's service to France. The paper and ink were French. The handwriting-printing-was somewhat shaky, as if done by someone not used to French script.
The count immediately had the package shipped to Arnaud for auction.
"I have no time to waste men guarding one hundred coins," he had said.
Now, under a glass case, the gold Alexanders sat on one hundred small velvet pillows. Each bidder was allowed to pass by the case twice. Some lingered.
"It is strange. I have the feeling they were just paid out this morning. They're so real. So modern," said one woman. Her bosom was raised in the modern fashion by her white silk gown. Diamonds of inordinate brilliance graced her neck. When she looked down the rows of Alexanders, each on its own velvet pillow, she would have traded all her jewels and all her wealth, including the gown and what was in it, to own them.
"It is like owning eternity," said one French official. The bidding floor was ten million dollars. It was established by an Arab whose main contribution to the economy of the world was having been born over a lot of oil and then having figured out how to gouge the rest of the world for it.
The figure was topped immediately by a million. This from a man who had figured out how to transfer thoughts more quickly from one computer chip to another.
&
nbsp; And that was topped, with applause from the audience, of course, by a Frenchman whose family had owned most of a province since Charlemagne forced illiterate bandit kings into a grand nation of Franks.
At twenty-two million American dollars the coins were sold, bid final. A Texas financier, who felt something that fine ought to be his, had made the winning bid. He was planning to make the "little fellers," as he called them, into cufflinks.
"Give 'em out to fifty friends, but shoot, I don't have no fifty friends. Ain't fifty people in the world I know who are worth a set of them little fellers."
Applause echoed through the great hall of the House of Arnaud. Even the auctioneer applauded. The guards stood at attention. They too knew they were part of something important. It was history.
And then amid the applause came the high squeaky voice in a French so ancient that it resembled Latin tinged with Gallic.
"Woe be to you, Franks whose fathers were of the Gaulish race. Heed now a warning. These coins are not yours, but meager tribute to ones who deserved them. Do not traffic in stolen goods but save your lives if you do not have the decency to save your honor."
Guards ran into closets looking for the voice. Detection devices searched out hidden microphones. The best of France in that marble bidding hall looked for the voice and found nothing.
Later the Texan, ashen-faced, would say he happily gave the coins back to the real owner, but would not describe the owner. He would repeat over and over again:
"What ain't mine, ain't mine, and I was durned glad to give it back."
But the Master of Sinanju that day of infamy in Paris did not care who had bought the coin tribute to Sinanju, did not care which thief passed goods to which.
The goods were Sinanju. They would be reclaimed. What the Master sought that day among the Franks was he who had dared defile the House of Sinanju. And the answer to that was not in the coin. The answer came later that night when the proceeds were tallied.
The chief accountant prepared the check for the director of the House of Arnaud. Since the Count of Lyons' whereabouts were always a secret, the director would not even have the joy of mailing such a huge sum. It was to be given in a plain white envelope to a squad of SDEC. The plan was, of course, after such a public display involving the director of the SDEC, to move the check itself through a warren of what were called street baffles.
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