At one point during a particularly devastating famine a few years before it was discovered that Shan Duk was hoarding food. This was when the young man was a mere guard at the People's Bureau of Revolutionary Struggle headquarters. To fuel the massive machine that was his body, Duk had been going from door to door in his neighborhood, shaking down neighbors for portions of their meager rations. When that wasn't enough to sate him, he brought the practice to work. On their way in to work every morning, half-starved coworkers at the PBRS were forced to line up and turn over large chunks of their food allotment to the behemoth. As the starving, hollow-eyed government workers watched Shun Duk gorge himself on their rations, their empty bellies grumbling, the big man always insisted, "Take heart. It is in the interest of the people's glorious revolution that I not go hungry. Is there any soup in that thermos?"
When the complaints about the young guard filtered up to General Pun, the head of Korean intelligence considered disciplining the young soldier. But how? A reprimand seemed too weak for such an infraction. He doubted there was a prison strong enough to hold the monster. He would have had him shot if he thought it just wouldn't have made him mad. In the end Pun had opted for the most prudent alternative.
Shan Duk's promotion to personal bodyguard of General Kye Pun was a win-win situation. Kye Pun got the toughest bodyguard on the Korean peninsula, and Shan Duk got an increase in pay that lessened the need to shake down the intelligence agency staff. He now only did so when he was really, really hungry.
At brutality, few men on Earth showed as much natural talent as Shan Duk. When it came time to select the champion who would carry the banner for North Korea in the Sinanju Time of Succession, there was only one logical choice.
Some found it odd that the premier hadn't recruited the big man for his personal security force. Although Shan Duk was clearly the most formidable individual in the North Korean government, Kim Jong 11 had never considered bringing the man over to work for him for one simple reason: Shan Duk scared the living bejesus out of the Communist leader.
As the plane from the South landed, the premier stood at the center of his entourage, a few men away from the fearsome intelligence officer. On a good day he kept his distance from Shan Duk. But for a moment as the final alcohol buzz burned off, he wished that the most terrifying thing he had to face was a half-starved brute of a bodyguard.
Sober and shaking, Kim Jong Il listened to the plane tires squeal. It rolled to a stop before the group of men.
The air stairs were quickly put in place. When the door opened a minute later, a lone man stepped into the cold air.
At the sight of the Master of Sinanju, Kim Jong Il felt his bowels clench.
"It's show time," he said with a reluctant moan. Entourage in tow, he headed to the base of the stairs.
The Master of Sinanju descended like a floating mummy. His eyes were as hard and cold as the Korean terrain.
"Master of Sinanju!" Kim Jong Il enthused, a phony smile plastered wide over his face. "Welcome home. We weren't expecting you so soon. So where's that sonny boy of yours?" He stood on tiptoes, looking worriedly up the stairs.
Chiun's voice was glacial. "He is not here." A spark of hope lit the Korean premier's eyes. "Oh, no," he said, attempting a sympathetic tone as insincere as his vanishing smile. "I sure as heck hope no one got the better of him in this contest thing."
Chiun gave him a cancerous look that told the Korean leader that Remo was alive and well.
"Sorry," Kim Jong II said, holding up his hands in apology. "I can't help it. That kid of yours gives me a serious case of shit-the-pants. The way he's always smacking me around, busting the place up when he's in town. I don't think he likes me. But you and me. That's a whole 'nother story. We understand each other."
Smiling again, he offered the Master of Sinanju his hand in friendship.
Chiun took the premier's hand. The premier was glad Chiun took his hand. Shaking hands was nice. Friendly people shook hands. And they were both Koreans, after all. Koreans understood each other with the sort of understanding that was sealed with friendly handshaking niceness.
"There." Kim Jong Il beamed. "One, big happy Korean fam- Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!" He was down on his knees before he even realized that Chiun hadn't warmed to a shared bond of Korean niceness after all. He hadn't shaken the premier's hand. Instead, the old man took the web of flesh between the premier's thumb and forefinger and squeezed. The pain was unbelievable. Blinding.
Kim Jong Il's shocked brain couldn't register what had happened. To help it along in understanding, the Master of Sinanju squeezed again.
"Ahhhhhhhh! " Kim Jong Il screamed again.
All around came metallic clicks, like winter crickets suddenly popping from hibernation.
Kim Jong Il's eyes grew wild.
"Hold your fire!" he yelped at his troops, who had quickly taken aim with rifles and handguns on the little man who had brought the Leader for Life of North Korea to his knees on the bitterly cold tarmac of Pyongyang airport. "Back off, back off! That is a goddamn order! Ahhhhhhhhh!" he cried anew, falling farther to the ground. He propped himself up with his free hand. "What's wrong?" he begged.
The old man's eyes were frozen hazel shards. "Are you responsible?" the Master of Sinanju demanded. The premier didn't have time to answer.
As ordered, the men with the guns had backed off. They stood at a short, anxious distance, unsure what to do. But amid the crowd one man had decided on a course of action.
Puffs of angry white steam shot from the flaring nostrils of Shan Duk. He looked like a Korean bull. And like a bull, Shan Duk charged, howling with rage.
No one there was quite sure what happened next. Things moved so quickly they saw only the result. They were certain that Shan Duk had attacked the little old man. They were reasonably certain that he had succeeded in crushing the tiny man to paste, for the old man vanished very briefly underneath the towering mountain of meat that was Shan Duk.
But then Shan Duk was in the air. Floating. And then they saw the bony arm.
It held the mighty North Korean Communist warrior in the air by his back like a waiter's serving tray. The arm was attached to the little old man who, with his free hand, continued to assault North Korea's Leader for Life even as he held the big bodyguard aloft.
Shan Duk was like a turtle on his shell. His big arms were useless as he tried to grab around to the bony hand that propped him up by his meaty back. His tree-trunk legs kicked helplessly at the air.
There was no strain on the hard face of the Master of Sinanju. He continued to stare cold accusation at Kim Jong Il. The premier cowered under the huge, flailing shadow of Shan Duk.
"Are you responsible?" Chiun demanded once more.
"For what?" the premier begged.
"There was an atrocity committed in my village. A man is dead who was more honest and decent than any born of the slatterns in this brothel city. And so I ask again, on pain of a thousand deaths, are you responsible?"
"No!" Kim Jong Il shrieked. "God, no! I swear on a stack of outlawed Bibles. Sinanju is off-limits now. I made sure everyone knows that."
Chiun detected no deception coming from the North Korean premier. He released Kim Jong Il's hand, spinning in a whirl of kimono silk.
For an instant he suddenly seemed to remember Shan Duk, all 270 pounds of which was still balanced on his fingertips. As an afterthought, Chiun lobbed the bodyguard-who was thrashing by this point into the mob of soldiers. The men fell like bowling pins.
Chiun twirled through the toppled mass of men, heading across the tarmac. As he walked he shouted, "I require an automobile."
And all around, terrified men produced jangling sets of car keys. Mostly Chryslers and Subarus. The finest cars the Communist leadership of North Korea could buy.
IT WAS GENERAL KYE PUN who was elected to drive the Master of Sinanju home. Chiun remained silent in the back seat of the car.
A major highway, the likes of which existed nowhere else in all of Nort
h Korea, led to the coast. It stopped dead at a frozen mud road.
When the intelligence officer slowed to a gravelly stop at the end of the paved road, the Master of Sinanju got out of the back. He padded wordlessly away from the car.
The car turned for the ride back to the capital. When General Kye Pun looked in the rearview mirror, he saw the solitary figure of the elderly Master of Sinanju walking up the old mud path between the clumps of winter weeds.
"May we never cross paths again, old one," the general muttered to himself as he drove back down the road.
Alone on the path, Chiun heard the general's softly spoken words. He listened to the sound of the car engine driving away. It was an ugly sound. A modern intrusion into a place otherwise untouched by time.
The automobile sound faded, replaced by the howl of the wind and the roar of the nearby sea.
As always when he returned to the village of his birth, Chiun soaked in the history of his surroundings. Countless centuries ago, the sandals of the first Master of Sinanju had walked this very path. Chiun returned along that road. The same path he had walked as a young man when first he ventured out as Reigning Master.
Usually a return to Sinanju was cause for rejoicing. But this was not a happy homecoming. With a heavy heart he walked the path of his ancestors to the village proper.
The homes and shops were closed up tight. Windows were shuttered against the relentless wind. No one was about.
It was not the elements that kept the people inside. Chiun had sensed it even before he reached the village. Fear hung heavy in the cold air.
He walked through town unchallenged.
The House of Many Woods sat on a bluff beyond the far end of the main road. Buffeted by wind, Chiun climbed the hill and entered the house of his ancestors.
The treasure was where it belonged. To his sharp eye it was clear nothing had been disturbed.
That he had not been robbed was a small consolation. There were things larger than mere robbery. Greater even than if bandits had come in and whisked away all the centuries' worth of accumulated treasure.
He was coming out of a back room when he heard the sound of the front door opening.
An old woman waited for him in the main room. Her eyes were dark from lack of sleep. She was draped in the traditional white garments of mourning.
Chiun needed only to gaze upon Hyunsil, daughter of his caretaker, to see that Smith had been right. "So," the Master of Sinanju said quietly. "It is true."
Hyunsil nodded. "Yes, Master," she said, her voice heavy with sorrow. Though burdened, she tried to straighten herself. "Hail, Master of Sinanju, who sustains the village and keeps the code faithfully, leader of the House of Sinanju. Our hearts cry a thousand greetings of love and adoration. Joyous are we upon the return of him who graciously throttles the universe."
That in her sorrow she would remember the traditional greeting for a returning Master of Sinanju-the greeting her father had taught her-filled Chiun's heart with love.
"You honor me, child, to remember the words," he said, padding over to her. "Even more, you honor the memory of your father. But do not bother with formalities now."
"As you wish, Master," Hyunsil said, studying the dust on the floor with tired eyes.
Chiun sensed her spirit. "You blame the Master for your father's death," he announced, nodding sagely.
The old woman looked up with a start, shocked that her secret heart had become known. But then she realized to whom she was speaking.
"My father would be angry at me for thinking such a thing," Hyunsil said, hanging her head in shame. "He taught me to revere the Masters of Sinanju, whose labors have sustained our village for generations."
And the Master of Sinanju did take great pity on the old woman. Reaching out, Chiun took Hyunsil's chin in his slender fingers. He gently raised her eyes from the floor.
"Your father was a good man," Chiun said. "Not great, for that is another thing altogether, most often bestowed by shallow men who are easily impressed by flash and showmanship. In many ways it is more difficult to be good than great. Your good father taught you well. He was right to tell you that Sinanju survives by the labors of the Masters of Sinanju, the sworn protectors of our village." The old man offered a wise smile. "But in this matter, daughter of Sinanju, it is not wrong for you to blame the Master, for you are correct, as well. I have failed."
This time when she looked up, there was amazement in the old woman's bloodshot eyes.
"You are surprised that I would admit to failure," Chiun said. "I tell you now it is so, for if I had not failed in some way this terrible thing would not have happened."
And although he did not say it to the woman, his thoughts were of the reputation of the House of Sinanju. A reputation that had kept the village safe for generations.
Somewhere was someone who scorned that reputation. Who dared visit death to the Pearl of the Orient.
All this did Chiun think but did not say. He turned his attention to the crone who stood before him.
"I would see the body," intoned the Master of Sinanju.
THEY FOLLOWED the remote path from the main village.
Chiun knew at once where they were heading, for the road led to one place only.
"He was missing for many days," Hyunsil said as they walked. She struggled to keep strength in her voice. "At first a few of the other women from the village helped me look. But they gave up after a day. After that no one would help me search. They said he was an old fool who had probably stumbled into the bay and drowned. Someone saw blood on the shore that morning. But he did not drown." Her head hung low. "I was alone when I found him."
The hut of the dead shaman was at the end of the path.
Chiun knew well the family that had called the pathetic pile of stone and thatch home. The last shaman had died many years ago. His daughter, Sonmi, who had been the last of the family's pure bloodline, had vanished many months ago.
As he approached the crooked little path that led to the front door, the Master of Sinanju could not help but think of another who had once called the hut home.
The ghosts danced cold around his ankles. For this reason did Chiun approach the building with quiet care.
This was a place where few in the village dared venture. It was not a surprise that this was the last place Hyunsil had looked for her missing father. Halfway up the path, Hyunsil stopped.
"He is inside," the old woman said. Tears welled anew in eyes tired from weeping.
Chiun took her hands in his, patting them gently. He left the sobbing woman on the path.
It was cold in the hovel. Colder than outdoors. Ice formed on the insides of the stone walls.
The freezing temperature had preserved the body. With great sadness Chiun looked on the frozen corpse of his faithful caretaker.
Pullyang lay on his back in peaceful repose in the center of the dirt floor. As if arranged by a mortician. The daughter had said that he had been murdered. For the sake of delicacy Chiun hadn't asked the method of death, not wishing to further upset the woman. But upon initial examination he couldn't see anything obvious.
Perhaps the head. There was something not right with the way Pullyang's head sat in relation to his body.
Chiun circled the body.
He saw instantly. It had been obscured by Pullyang's clothing.
The head was no longer attached. It had been made to appear natural. The killer had tucked the head back up to the neck. A taunt. A grisly joke waiting to be discovered.
No tools or weapons of any kind had been used.
The initial blunt trauma to the bluish flesh of the neck indicated that the head had been removed by hand. The blow that had been used was unmistakable. Chiun quickly left the body, hurrying back out into the weak sunlight. Hyunsil was still on the walk, her back to the hut. She jumped when Chiun touched her elbow.
"Did you see anyone near here?" he asked sharply.
"No," she replied. "He was alone when I found him. "
<
br /> Hyunsil could see the look of deep worry that had suddenly appeared on the face of the Master of Sinanju.
"Master," she asked, "is something wrong?" Chiun had been glancing around the area. As if looking for something to jump at them from the scrub brush.
When he spoke, the Master of Sinanju's voice was grave.
"Go back to your home, daughter of Sinanju," he intoned, adding darkly, "and barricade the door."
Chapter 20
Remo's flight from Berlin dropped him in Madrid late in the morning. It was just over an hour's drive from the capital of Spain to his next meeting spot.
The Alcazar at Segovia was a massive castle that seemed to grow up out of solid rock. If it seemed postcard perfect, that was only when viewed from the comfortable side of civilization. The castle was largely gray and functional, built at a time when strong fortifications oftentimes meant the difference between life and death.
Remo parked his car far down the road from the castle. Ducking into the woods, he found the little clearing just where it was supposed to be. For generations groundskeepers at the Alcazar had no idea why they were ordered to keep this one lonely spot in the middle of nowhere neatly mowed.
Remo found the tallest tower of the castle. It rose up high in the air, casting shadows across the rock. He felt the watchful eyes of the deceased Masters of Sinanju following his every move. As usual, a vague sense of dissatisfaction emanated from the spirits of the Masters' Tribunal.
"You've all done this before," he grumbled. "You'd think one of you could rattle a chain in the right direction."
Careful to keep the tower over his right shoulder, he began walking away from the palace, counting as he went.
"...seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty."
He stopped at an angled wall of rock. It jutted from the ground far from the castle.
He looked back. The very top of the tall tower peeked at him over the nearby treetops.
Pushing aside the bushes that grew wild in front of the rock face, he found a cave entrance. Beyond the opening was a long tunnel. The scent of stale earth and old moss drifted from the tunnel's ancient mouth. "About damn time something went my way."
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