The Eleventh Hour td-70

by Warren Murphy

  "Into the cooking fires of the village stepped Wang, unharmed by the flames though they lapped at his bare legs. And in a voice like the thunder of an earthquake, he said unto them:

  "'Lo, I am the new Master of Sinanju. I bring with me a new light and a new era, for I have discovered the sun source. No more will there be many Masters. From this day forward, only one Master and one pupil will be worthy to learn the art of'Sinanju. No more will there be suffering and hunger. No more will it be necessary for other men of the village to fight and die.'

  "And saying those words, the Master Wang, who we now call the Great Master Wang, fell upon the night tigers of Sinanju. And thak, thak, thak, these carrion were no more.

  "And standing amid the dead, he proclaimed that from this day forward, the mightiest hand of Sinanju would never be raised against one who was of the village. And then he made a prophecy, though not even Wang knew whence his words had come. And he said:

  "'One day there will be a Master of Sinanju who will find among the barbarians in the West one who was once dead. This Master will be so enamored of money that for great wealth he will teach the secrets of Sinanju to this pale one with the dead eyes. He will make him a night tiger, but the most awesome of night tigers. He will make him kin to the gods of India, and he will be Shiva, the Destroyer; Death, the shatterer of worlds. And this dead night tiger whom the Master of Sinanju will one day make whole will himself become the Master of Sinanju, and a new era will dawn, greater than any I am about to create.' "

  Chiun sat back in his teak throne, his eyes shining with a beatific light.

  "You, Remo," he said softly.

  "I know the legend," Remo said. "You told it to me many times. I'm not sure I believe it."

  "Do you remember the day you died?" asked Chiun.

  "They strapped me in the electric chair. But it didn't work."

  Chiun shook his head. "A sham death. It has no meaning. No. I mean that time after your training had begun. A coward attacked you with a pistol. You were not yet one with Sinanju, so he succeeded."

  "I remember. You brought me back to life somehow," Remo said.

  "I was prepared to let you die. I brought you back only because, in death, your body had aligned itself with the universe. You had taken Sinanju to your heart, as none since Wang had. I could not let you die, though you were white and ungrateful."

  "That's when you started thinking I was the fulfillment of that freaking legend?" Remo asked.

  "Yes, But it was not until much later that I was certain. It was in China. Do you remember our time in China?"

  Remo nodded, wondering where all this was going. "Yeah. It was one of our earliest assignments. We were there to stop a conspiracy against the opening of diplomatic relations between the U S. and China. It seems like a long time ago."

  "A moment in history," Chum said. "Do you remember how the deceivers in Peking poisoned you?"

  "Yeah, I almost died."

  "The poison was enough to kill ten men-no, twenty men. But you did not die. Near death, between death, surrounded by your assassins, you vomited up the poison, and so you lived. That's when I knew for a certainty that you were the true avatar of Shiva the Destroyer."

  "Because I upchucked?"

  "Many are the tales of Shiva," said Chiun calmly, ignoring Remo's outburst. "There was a time in the days before man when the gods of India were at war with demons. The gods of India were strong, but stronger still were the forces they battled. And so the gods took the great serpent called Vasuki and used him to churn the ocean of milk, for to make ambrosia which the gods would drink and so become more powerful. But the serpent called Vasuki, hanging upside down, began to vomit forth poison into the ocean of milk. And the gods, seeing this, knew that Vasuki's poison would contaminate the ambrosia and deprive them of the strength they needed to ensure victory and their continued existence.

  "And lo, down descended Shiva, the red god of storms. Now, Shiva was a terrible god. Three faces had he. Six was the number of his arms. Great might had he. And when he saw the poison vomit forth, he stepped under the serpent called Vasuki and caught the awful poison in his mouth. And so Shiva sacrificed himself to save the world.

  "But he did not die, Remo. His wife, who was called Parvati, seeing her consort sacrifice himself, flew swiftly to his side, and before Shiva could swallow the poison, she wrapped a scarf about his throat, strangling it, until Shiva vomited up the poison."

  "She strangled him so he wouldn't die of poisoning," Remo said. "That doesn't make any sense."

  "Shiva did not die," Ghiun corrected. "He vomited up the poison and Parvati undid her scarf. Shiva was unharmed, but for his throat."

  Chiun leaned forward and with both hands pushed the collar of Remo's jersey down to expose his throat. "His throat had turned a bright blue. Like your throat, Remo."

  "Coincidence," Remo said, standing up suddenly.

  "You persist in your unbelief in the face of overwhelming evidence?"

  "I don't have six arms," Remo pointed out. "So I can't be Shiva."

  "If those who have died amid the fury of your attack were to stand before us, they would swear that you possessed six times six arms," Chiun said.

  Doubt crossed Remo's face. "I've got only one face that I know of," he said finally.

  "And how many times has the Emperor Smith altered your face for his own devious purposes?"

  "Once when I first joined the organization, so I wouldn't look like my old self," Remo said slowly, counting on his fingers. "Once to cover our tracks after an assignment, and one last time when I made him give me my old face back."

  Remo looked at the number of fingers he had counted with surprise.

  "Three," said Chiun, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

  "You see, the legends are but pretty songs that conceal the true reality, like paint on a woman's face."

  "If I were a god, I wouldn't come back to earth as a Newark cop," Remo shot back, almost angrily. "I know that much."

  "You are not a Newark cop now. You are something greater. Soon, perhaps, you will take an even greater step toward your ultimate destiny."

  "It doesn't add up."

  "When you were a child, did you imagine yourself a Newark cop?" asked Chiun. "Children cannot comprehend their inevitable maturity. They do not think past today's desires. You are still like a child in many ways, Remo. But soon you will have to grow up."

  The Master of Sinanju bowed his head, and added in a wan voice, "Sooner than I would have thought."

  Remo returned to his place at Chiun's feet. "Sometimes I hear a voice in my head," he admitted. "It's not my voice."

  "And what does this voice say?" asked Chiun.

  "Sometimes it says, 'I am Shiva. I burn with my own light.' Other times, 'I am created Shiva, the Destroyer; Death, the shatterer of worlds.' "

  "And?" Chiun asked, his face hopeful.

  "And what?"

  "There is more?"

  "'The dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju,' " Remo said.

  Chiun relaxed. "You could not complete the prophecy the other night."

  "What other night?"

  "Why, the night in the burning house, Remo. What did you think we were talking about?"

  "In times past, when you heard that voice in your head, it was the shadow of Shiva taking hold of your mind, warning you, preparing you, calling you to preserve your body, for it is the vessel of the Destroyer. Now, Shiva had many incarnations. At times he is Shiva Mahedeva-Shiva the Supreme Lord. And other times as Shiva Bhairava-Shiva the Destroyer. In those times when you heard the voice speaking to you, or through you, you had become Shiva Remo."

  "Sounds like a fifties song. Shivaremo doowop doowop."

  "Do not jest. This is one of the sacred mysteries of Sinanju. Now, I have always thought the day would come when you would become Shiva Remo for good, and take my place as the next Master of Sinanju. But in that night, with your throat blue and your face smeared with ashes as Shiva's face is port
rayed in the histories, you spoke against me, Remo. You were not Remo. Your voice was not Remo's. You were not Shiva Remo. You were Shiva Mahedeva, and you knew me not. Less did you care for me, who have made you whole."

  "I'm sorry for the words I spoke, Little Father. But I do not remember them."

  "I forgive you, Remo, for in truth you were not yourself. But I am worried. When Shiva is ready, he will take possession of your fleshly envelope. I do not want him to take over your mind too."

  "But if that is my destiny, what can I do?"

  "You must fight, Remo. You must assert yourself. You must remember Sinanju, and your responsibilities. Above all, you must continue my line."

  Remo got to his feet and stood with his face to the wall.

  "I don't want to lose you, Little Father," he said, his voice trembling.

  "Become the next Master of Sinanju, and I will be with you always," Chiun said sadly. "This is my vow to you."

  "I don't want to lose myself, either. I don't want to be anything except Remo Williams. That's who I am. That's all I know."

  "You have been chosen by destiny. It is not for us to rail against the cosmos, but you have a choice before you, Remo Williams, my son. You must make it soon. For soon, I may be gone. And at any time the terrible god of the Hindus may return to claim you as his own. And you will be lost forever."

  Chapter 9

  Colonel Viktor Ditko knew he was near Sinanju when the stink of dead fish filled his nostrils.

  He hastily rolled up the window of his Russianmade Chaika automobile.

  "We are nearly there," Ditko called over his shoulder.

  In the back, on the floor, Sammy Kee huddled under a rug.

  "I know," said Sammy Kee. "I can smell it too."

  "Is it always this bad?"

  "No. It's actually worse when the wind is from the east. The smog."

  Colonel Ditko nodded. For the last hour he had driven through some of the most heavily industrialized landscape he had ever imagined. Great smokestacks belched noxious fumes. Everywhere he looked there were factories and fish-processing plants. Once, they had driven over a rude iron bridge and the sluggish river below was a livid pink from chemical wastes. He saw few residential areas. He wondered where all the dronelike workers who must toil in the endless factories lived. Perhaps they slept at work. More likely, they slept on the job. It would not have surprised Colonel Ditko, who held a low opinion of Orientals in general and the North Koreans in particular.

  Ditko followed the macadam road until it petered out into a dire pathway that actually made for smoother driving, so bad had been the potholes in the paved road-which was alleged to be a main highway.

  Suddenly the land opened up. The factories ceased to dominate the landscape. But curiously there were no houses, no huts, no signs of habitation. Before, peasants could be seen riding their ubiquitous bicycles down the road. No longer. It was as if the land that lay at the end of the road was poisoned. Ditko shivered at the eeriness of it.

  When he ran out of road, Ditko drew the car to a stop next to a crude signpost of wood on which was burned a Korean ideograph that looked like the word "IF" drawn between two parallel lines.

  "I think we are lost," he said doubtfully. "The road stops here. There is nothing beyond but rocks and an abandoned village."

  Sammy Kee slid up from the protective depths of the rear seat. He blinked his eyes in the dull light. "That's it."

  "What?"

  "Sinanju," said Sammy Kee, watching for North Korean police.

  "Are you serious? This is a security area. Where is the barbed wire, the walls, the guards?"

  "There aren't any."

  "None? How do they protect their village, these Sinanjuers? And their treasure?"

  "By reputation. Everyone knows about the Master of Sinanju. No one dares to approach Sinanju."

  "Fear? That is their wall?"

  "The old man in the village explained it to me." said Sammy Kee. "You can climb over walls, dig under them, go around them, even blow them apart. But if the wall is in your mind, it is infinitely harder to bring down."

  Colonel Ditko nodded. "I will let you out here."

  "Can't you escort me to the village? What if I get picked up by the North Korean police?"

  "I will watch you until you enter the village, but I will not go any closer."

  Colonel Ditko watched Sammy Kee slip out the back seat and pick his careful way from boulder to rock until he had passed from sight, down into the village of Sinanju. In his peasant clothes, the American was as much a part of North Korea as his fear-haunted face. Sammy Kee would be safe from the North Korean police, Ditko knew. They would not dare pass beyond the wall.

  Colonel Viktor Ditko was certain of this, for he could see the wall himself, as clearly as if it were built of mortar and brick.

  The first thing Sammy Kee did was to find the spot where he had buried his video equipment. The flat rock he'd used for a marker was still there. Sammy dug into the wet sand with his bare hands, the coldness numbing them, until he uncovered the blue waterproof vinyl bag. He pulled it free and undid the drawstring neck.

  The video equipment-camera, recorder, belt battery pack, and spare cassettes-was intact. Sammy quickly donned the battery pack and hooked it up. He shivered, but it was still early. He hoped the sun would come out to warm his body.

  Sammy climbed an outcropping of rock, feeling the rip and scrape of the brown conelike barnacles which were like the eyes of certain lizards. He had a perfect view of the village of Sinanju. There were the houses, mostly of wood and sitting on short wood stilts, and scattered on the ground like many thrown dice. In the center was a great open space, called the village square, although it was just a flat pancake of dirt. And facing the square, the splendid treasure house of Sinanju, the only building with windows of true glass and a granite foundation. It was the oldest structure, and it looked it, but even its carved and lacquered walls gave no hint of the great secrets those walls contained.

  Sammy brought the video camera to his shoulder, sighted through the viewfinder, and filmed a ten-second establishing shot. He rewound the tape and played it back through the viewfinder. The equipment functioned perfectly. He was ready to begin.

  As Sammy watched, the sleepy village came to life. Cooking fires were lit and a communal breakfast began in the square. But something was different. The villagers were not dressed in their faded cotton, but in glorious silks and furs. Sammy watched for the old man who had talked to him so much of Sinanju-the caretaker, Pullyang. He would wait until Pullyang was alone and he would approach him. The old man knew everything there was to know about Sinanju. Perhaps he could force him to open the treasure house.

  When Pullyang finally emerged, from, of all places, the treasure house itself, Sammy Kee was surprised. But his surprise turned to shock when, on a litter of sorts, a very old man was carried out into the plaza to the adulation of the crowd.

  Walking beside the litter, tall and erect and proud in a way unlike the subservient villagers, was a white man. He wore Western-style clothes, slacks and a high-necked shirt.

  And Sammy Kee knew with a sickness in the pit of his empty stomach that the Master of Sinanju had returned to the village.

  Sammy half-slipped, half-fell from the boulder. He landed on his rump, wondering what he should do. He dared not attempt to enter the treasure house now. That would be impossible. Not to mention fatal.

  Escape, too, was impossible. Only one road led away from the sheltered cove that was Sinanju. And Colonel Viktor Ditko, as they had agreed, sat in his car, awaiting Sammy's return.

  Sammy crawled on his hands and knees down toward the water. He did not know why he did that. He was frightened. He was sick of being frightened, but he had to do something-anything.

  A teenage boy crouched down near the water, washing something. Sammy thought he must be a fisherman, cleaning his nets, but then he remembered the legends of Sinanju. Nobody fished in Sinanju. Not to eat, at least.

&n
bsp; When the boy stood up, Sammy saw that he was not wetting a fishing net, but cleaning a stain from a great costume. A blue-and-green dragon. Sarnmy knew it was a dragon because the head lay beside a rock.

  The boy, satisfied that the stain was gone, began to slip into the costume.

  It was then that Sammy Kee understood what he had to do. After all, whose life was important?

  He sneaked up behind the boy and struck him on the head with a rock.

  The boy folded like a paper puppet. Quickly Sammy stripped the lax form of his costume, which was of colored rice paper and silk. It was full, voluminous, and would fit him with room to spare so that his battery pack belt was not obvious.

  Sammy pulled on the silken folds. No one would recognize him in this. He shouldered the camera, and, balancing carefully, pulled the stiff paper dragon mask over his head.

  The camera fit. The lens pointed down the open snout, and Sammy tested the angle of field. The camera, roving around, saw without obstruction. By accident, the crushed skull of the boy came into the viewfinder.

  The boy was dead. Sammy hadn't meant to kill him. But it was too late for regrets. He was just another peasant anyway. Sammy Kee was a journalist.

  Sammy paused to drag the boy's body into the cold sea before he trudged into the village of Sinanju, his head light with excitement, but his stomach heavy with fear.

  Remo wasn't hungry, but that didn't stop him from taking offense.

  The villagers of Sinanju were squatting all over the plaza, dipping their ladles into bowls of steaming soup and yanking gobs of meat off a roasted pig. In the center, the Master of Sinanju sat on his low throne, eating rice, the caretaker, Pullyang, beside him.

  Remo sat downwind. Like Chiun's, his body was purified, he could not eat red meat or processed food. Or drink anything stronger than mineral water. So the smell of roasted pig offended his nostrils.

  But it was the behavior of the villagers which offended Remo more. Here he was, the next Master of Sinanju-if Chiun had his way-the future sustainer of the village, and no one offered him so much as a bowl of white rice. Instead, they treated him like an idiot child the family only let out of the attic on special occasions.