The Eleventh Hour td-70

by Warren Murphy

  Pullyang said nothing. He lowered his head. "You have something else to tell me."

  "Forgive me, Master of Sinanju, for I have committed a grave trespass."

  "I cannot forgive what I do not understand."

  "This American was here before. A week ago. He asked many questions, and I, being proud of my village, told him many stories of the magnificence of Sinanju."

  "Advertising pays," said Chiun. "There is no fault in that."

  "This American carried a machine with him, the same one he had yesterday. He pointed it at me when I spoke."

  "Fetch this machine."

  When Pullyang returned, he offered the videocam to the Master of Sinanju, who took it in hand as if it were an unclean fetish.

  "The receptacle for words and pictures is missing," Chiun said. "It was not missing last night."

  "It is so, Master of Sinanju."

  Chiun's eyes lowered as he thought. A man had recorded the words of the caretaker Pullyang one week ago. Now he had returned to record more of the same. But this time, he had recorded the Master of Sinanju and his pupil, for Chiun knew that the dragon dancer at yesterday's breakfast feast was Sammy Kee.

  What did this mean? Chiun did not fear for Sinanju. Sinanju was inviolate. The dogs of Pyongyang, from the lowliest to the header for Life, Kim Il Sung, had made a pact with Sinanju. There would be no trouble from them.

  The mad Emperor Smith was not behind this. Chiun did not always understand Smith, but Smith's mania for secrecy was the one constant of his deranged white mind. Smith would not dispatch persons to record the secrets of Sinanju.

  Enemies of Smith perhaps, seeking gain. Or enemies of America. There were many of those. Even America's friends were but slumbering enemies, presenting a smiling visage but clutching daggers behind their backs.

  Presently Chiun's eyes refocused.

  "I forgive you, Pullyang, for in truth you are, compared to me, young, and unwise in the ways of the outer world."

  "What does this mean?" asked Pullyang gratefully.

  "Where is Remo?" asked Chiun suddenly.

  "He has not been seen."

  "By no one?"

  "Some say he walked toward the house of the beast."

  "Go to the house of Mah-Li the unfortunate and fetch my adopted son to me. I do not understand what transpired last night, but I know that it must concern my son. Only he can advise me in this matter."

  "Yes, Master of Sinanju." And Pullyang, greatly relieved that no blame was attached to him, hied away from the house of the Master, who suddenly sank into his seat and closed his eyes with a great weariness.

  The tape cassette arrived from Pyongyang by diplomatic pouch. In the pouch was a note from the Soviet ambassador to the People's Republic of Korea demanding to know why the head of embassy security, Colonel Ditko, was sending packages directly to the Kremlin through the ambassador's pouch.

  As he loaded the cassette into his private machine, the General Secretary made a mental note to inform the Soviet ambassador to mind his own business regarding the activities of the People's Hero, Colonel Ditko.

  The General Secretary watched the tape to the end. He saw an old man and a Caucasian exhorting a crowd of peasant Koreans. According to the note from Colonel Ditko, the tape showed the legendary Master of Sinanju and his American running dog confessing to espionage, genocide, and other crimes against the international community on behalf of a renegade United States government agency known as CURE.

  There was a crude transcript with the tape, and an apology from Colonel Ditko, who explained that his Korean was not good, and that for security reasons he had not had the tape translated by someone more fluent. And by the way, the Korean-American, Sammy Kee, had met an unfortunate death in the course of making this tape.

  The General Secretary called the supreme commander of the KGB.

  "Look through the non-persons list and find me someone who speaks fluent Korean," he ordered. "Bring him to me."

  Within the day, they had exactly the right person, a dissident history teacher who specialized in Oriental studies.

  The General Secretary ordered him locked in a room with only a videotape machine, pen and paper, and instructions to translate the cassette tape from Korea.

  By day's end, the transcript was delivered, sealed, to the office of the General Secretary.

  "What shall we do with the translator?" asked the courier.

  "He is still locked in the viewing room?"

  "Da."

  "When the smell of death seeps into the corridor, in a week or two, you may remove the body."

  The courier left swiftly, his kindly opinion of the worldly new General Secretary forever shattered. The General Secretary read the transcript through once, quickly. And then again, to absorb all the details. And a third time to savor the sweetness of this greatest of intelligence coups.

  A smile spread over the open features of the General Secretary, making him look like someone's well-fed and content grandfather.

  It was all there. The United States had a secret agency known as CURE, one unknown even to the Congress of the United States. It was illegal, and indulged in assassinations both in America and abroad. The assassins were trained in Sinanju. In theory, they could go anywhere, do anything, and never be suspected.

  And then the General Secretary remembered stories that had circulated in the upper levels of the Politburo before he had assumed his current rank. Fragmentary rumors. Operations that had been stopped by unknown agents, presumably American. Strange accidents that defied explanation. The liquidation of Soviet Treska killer teams during the time when America's intelligence services had been emasculated. The strangeness during the Moscow Olympics. The failure of the Volga, a space device that would have become the ultimate terror weapon had not unidentified American agents neutralized it. The disappearance of Field Marshal Zemyatin during the ozone-shield crisis two years ago.

  In a locked cabinet in this very office, the General Secretary had a file of KGB reports of those mysterious incidents. The file was marked "FAILURES: UNKNOWN CAUSE."

  But now the General Secretary knew the cause was no longer unknown. It could be explained in one word: CURE.

  The General Secretary laughed to himself. Privately, he admired the boldness of the American apparatus. It was brilliant. Exactly what America needed to deal with her internal problems. He wished he could steal it.

  But that wasn't the way the General Secretary did business. His predecessors would have tried to steal it. Not him. He would simply ask for it. No harm in that, thought the General Secretary. And he laughed. He picked up the red telephone which connected directly to the White House and which he was reserved to use only in times of extreme international crisis. This would wake up the President of the United States, the General Secretary thought, as he listened to the tinny feedback ring from Washington. And he laughed again.

  Chapter 12

  Remo Williams wondered if he was falling in love.

  He barely knew the maiden Mah-Li. Yet, even with Chiun weakening daily, Remo was drawn back to the house of the girl the village of Sinanju had ostracized as the beast, like a poor sailor who had heard the siren call of Circe.

  Remo could not explain the attraction. Was it the mystery of her veil? Fascination with the unknown? Or was it just that she was an understanding voice in a troubled time? He did not know.

  It bothered Remo terribly that Chiun, in his last days, continued to carp and try to lay guilt on him. Remo wanted to be with Chiun, but Chiun was making it impossible to be around. And, of course, Remo felt guilty about that, too.

  So Remo sat on the floor of Mah-Li's house, telling her everything, and wondering why the words kept coming out. He usually didn't like to talk about himself.

  "Chiun thinks I'm ignoring him," Remo said, accepting a plate of a Korean delicacy that Mah-Li had baked just for him. It smelled good in the darkened room.

  "What is this?" he asked, starting to taste a piece.

  "Dog,"
said Mah-Li pleasantly.

  Remo put it down abruptly. "I don't eat meat," he said.

  "It is not meat," laughed Mah-Li. "Dog is rice bread, filled with dates, chestnuts, and red beans."

  "Oh," said Remo. He tried it. "It's good."

  "Aren't you?" asked Mah-Li.

  "What?"

  "Ignoring the Master?"

  "I don't know. I'm all confused. I don't know how to deal with his dying. I've killed more people than I can count but I've never lost anyone really close to me. I've never had anyone really close to me. Except Chiun."

  "You do not wish to face the inevitable."

  "Yeah. I guess that's it."

  "Ignoring the dying one will not keep him breathing. He will die without you. Perhaps sooner."

  "He seemed okay when I talked to him. It's so hard. He doesn't look like he's dying. Just tired, like he's a clock that's winding down."

  "Will you go back to your country when it is over?" Mah-Li asked. Remo realized she had the knack for saying just enough to keep him talking.

  "I want to. But I promised Chiun I'd support the village, and I'm not sure what I would be returning to. Chiun has been my whole life. I see that now. Not CURE, not Smith. And I don't want to lose him."

  "It can be pleasant living in Sinanju. You will take a wife and have many children."

  "I don't want any of the village girls," Remo said vehemently.

  "But you cannot marry a white girl," said Mah-Li.

  "Why not? I'm white. Although Chiun doesn't think so."

  "No? What does the Master think?" she asked.

  "That I'm part Korean. It's crazy. With one breath he castigates me as a clumsy white. With the other he tries to convince me of my Korean heritage. According to him, somewhere in the line of Sinanju, there's an ancestor of mine. Isn't that crazy?"

  Mah-Li looked at Remo through her veil and he studied her. Mah-Li's face was a pale oval behind the gauze but he could not discern her features. He felt drawn to look, even though it made him uncomfortable.

  "I think there is a little of Korea in your face, around the eyes. Their shape, but not their color. The people of my village do not have brown eyes."

  "Chiun just wants to justify giving Sinanju to a white man," Remo said.

  "Have you ever heard the story of the lost Master of Sinanju, Remo?" Mah-Li asked quietly.

  Remo liked the way Mah-Li pronounced his name. She had to force the R and she rolled it in the Spanish style.

  "Lost Master? Was that Lu?"

  "No, that was another Master."

  "You know the story?"

  "Everyone knows the story," said Mah-Li. "It was many years ago. There was a Master who was known as Nonga, whose wife bore him many daughters, but sadly no sons. Many were the daughters of Nonga, and each year another was born. And Master Nonga grew sullen, for he was unable to sire a male heir. By law, Sinanju could only be passed through the male line."

  "Another strike against this place," said Remo. "One year, when Master Nonga was very old, his wife, who was not so old, finally bore him a son. And the Master named this son Kojing, and he was very proud. But his wife kept a secret from Nonga, for she had in truth borne him two sons, as identical as snow peas. She hid the other son, whom she named Kojong, for she feared that the Master would slay Kojong, for there was a law in Sinanju that only the firstborn could be taught Sinanju. And Kojing and Kojong were born at the same time. She feared the Master Nonga, to solve this dilemma would drown one son in the cold waters of the bay."

  "How did she keep the second one hidden?" asked Remo. "This isn't a big place, even now."

  "She was very clever, this wife of Master Nonga. She hid the babe in the hut of a sister during Kojong's baby years. And when Kojong was a boy, he was in all ways identical to Kojing, and so she enlisted Kojing and Kojong in a game. On even days Kojing would live with Master Nonga and be his son, eating with the family and knowing parents, and on the other days, Kojong would live in the hut, and pretend to be Kojing. And this went on until the two boys were two men."

  "You mean the old guy never caught on?"

  "He was very old, and his eyesight, although excellent for seeing far things, was not good for things near. Master Nonga did not suspect he had two sons. When the time came to teach Kojing Sinanju, the trickery continued. Kojing learned the first day's lesson and at night taught it to Kojong, who took the lesson of the second day and passed it on to his brother, and so this went until both had absorbed Sinanju.

  "On the day Kojing was invested as the next Master, Master Nonga died, for in truth he lived only as long as he needed to fulfill his obligations, for he was very tired of baby-making and being the father of so many useless girls."

  "I bet," Remo said.

  "And on that day, Kojong revealed himself. But there could be only one Master of Sinanju, and so Kojong, because he was not Kojing, the boy Master Nonga thought he was training alone, announced that he was leaving Sinanju, and leaving Korea, to live. He pledged not to pass along knowledge of the sun source, but instead to pass along only the spirit of his ancestors, the many Masters of Sinanju, saying to the village, 'The day may come when a Master will sire no sons and the line of Sinanju will face extinction. On that day seek out the sons of Kojong, and in them find a worthy vessel to carry on the traditions.' And so Kojong sailed into the cold mists of the bay."

  "Did any Master of Sinanju ever turn to an ancestor of Kojong?" Remo asked.

  "No one knows."

  "Chiun never told me that story."

  "It is the way of the Master to do what he does. We do not question it here."

  "Maybe I'm descended from Kojong."

  "If so, Kojong's spirit has at last returned to Sinanju," she said.

  "Yeah, but I'm not carrying the spirit of Kojong inside me, according to Chiun. I'm carrying the spirit of Shiva."

  "In Sinanju, we believe that we have lived many lives. The spirit does not change, just the color of the eyes that the spirit sees with."

  "Before, sometimes I've known things," Remo said. "It's like I'm carrying memories of Sinanju inside of me, memories of Masters who have gone before. I never understood it before. But the way you just explained it to me, I think I understand now."

  "You belong here, Remo."

  "I do, don't I?"

  "It is your destiny. You should accept it."

  "I could live here, Mah-Li. If you would share this life with me," Remo said.

  Mah-Li turned away. "I cannot."

  "Why not?"

  "It is forbidden."

  "I am the next Master of Sinanju," Remo said with conviction. "I decide what's forbidden around here." Impulsively Remo leaned forward and with both hands lifted the veil from the hidden face of Mah-Li, the beast.

  Remo, who had seen many strange things in his life, was unprepared for the sight which greeted his eyes.

  He gasped.

  For Mah-Li was beautiful. Her face was intelligent and animated, her skin smooth as poured cream. Hair as black as a raven's wing framed the delicate beauty of her beautifully modeled features like a setting for the work of a master artisan. Laughter lurked well back in her eyes, as if waiting to be released, but it was there. Her eyes were Western eyes, like Remo's, not slanted, and he laughed aloud as he realized that was why the villagers called her ugly.

  "Maybe I'll stay here," Remo said suddenly. "Maybe you'll marry me?"

  "It is for the Master of Sinanju to give his approval of what you ask."

  "Then I'm going to see him-right now," Remo said, jumping to his feet.

  Remo ran into the caretaker, Pullyang, on the way to Chiun's house.

  "The Master wishes your presence," Pullyang said.

  "I'm on my way."

  Chiun was sitting on his throne in the treasure house of Sinanju when Remo entered. The Master of Sinanju looked like an old turtle, slowly lifting his head at Remo's approach.

  "Are you surprised to find me still among the living?" Chiun asked, seeing the sho
cked expression on his pupil's face.

  "You look awful," Remo said. "How do you feel?"

  "Betrayed."

  "I had to be by myself," Remo said defensively.

  "Then why were you with the one known as Mah-Li, if you had to be by yourself?" Chiun asked.

  "Don't be a grouch," Remo said, taking a lotus position before the Master of Sinanju. "You never told me about her."

  Chiun shrugged. "I have news."

  "So have I. I've decided. I'm staying."

  "Of course. You pledged yourself before the entire village."

  "You're welcome," Remo said sarcastically. "Don't make this more difficult than it is, okay?"

  "I am listening," Chiun said.

  "I won't wear a kimono."

  "The investment kimono has been handed down the line since before Wang the Greater," Chiun said slowly. But his eyes grew brighter.

  "Okay. Maybe then. But not after."

  "Done," said Chiun.

  "And I won't grow my fingernails long."

  "If you wish to deprive yourself of the proper tools with which to ply an assassin's trade, who am I to correct you? You are beyond correction."

  "But I will choose a Sinanju girl."

  Chiun perked up in his seat. He beamed. He took Remo's hand in his two yellow claws.

  "Speak her name. I know it will be music to my aged ears."

  "Mah-Li."

  Chiun dropped Remo's hand as if it were a gutted fish.

  "She is not appropriate," he snapped.

  "Why not? I love her."

  "You do not know her."

  "I know enough to know I love her. And why didn't you tell me about her before? She's gorgeous."

  "What do you know of beauty? Have you ever listened to one of my Ung poems without leaving in the middle?"

  "Six-hour recitals about bees and butterflies don't do it for me, Little Father. And what's wrong with Mah-Li?"

  "She is ugly. She will bear ugly children. The Master of Sinanju who will come from your seed must one day represent us in the outside world. I will not have my house shamed by hideous emissaries."

  "That reminds me. Whose idea was it for her to go veiled? Yours?"

  "The women of the village decreed it, so that she would not frighten the children or the dogs."