"Your wife's name and her nickname," said Remo. "Wasn't that risky? Suppose someone else had used them?"
"That was the idea. It's common to use a wife's name as an access code. Anyone who knew those two names would obviously know about me. That kind of unauthorized knowledge by itself would signal that we were compromised, and file erasure would be just a prelude to disbanding."
"Well, that's that," said Remo.
"Not really," Smith said grimly. "I was supposed to be erased with them."
In Rye, New York, in the basement of Folcroft Sanitarium, the computer banks containing every particle of data belonging to CURE, the government agency that officially did not exist, and now no longer existed unofficially, received the microwaved transmission from Sinanju and initiated the code request sequence.
There was a pause while the access-code request was sent back to Sinanju. The computers hummed softly, awaiting the proper code word. Or the improper one, which would strip their memory banks of all data. File tapes twitched in quarter cycles. Lights blinked. The computers waited.
Then the lights went out.
"Oh my goodness," said Mrs. Mikulka, who was at her desk several floors above.
Then she remembered. The electrical contractor. She took the stairs to the basement because the elevators were inoperable.
She found the contractor examining the backup generator in the dark with a flashlight.
"What happened?" Mrs. Mikulka demanded.
"Sorry about this, lady. I tried switching from the mains to this baby and-boom!-she blew. Completely. This is going to take a few days to fix now."
"Dr. Smith will be furious," said Mrs. Mikulka.
"Can't help it. This unit is pretty worn out. Can't figure out why. It's supposed to be for backup only. Am I right?"
"That's right."
"Well, you must have bought this baby used. It's worn down to nothing."
"Never mind," said Mrs. Mikulka. "What about our power? We have patients."
"No problem. Give me a minute to throw the circuit breakers on the mains."
Mrs. Mikulka felt her way back up the stairs, wondering what she would tell Dr. Smith when he returned.
Then the lights came back on.
Behind a concrete wall in the basement, not far from the faulty generator, a secret bank of computers resumed their operation, awaiting transmission of the CURE access code.
When, after several minutes, no signal was received, the computers resumed normal operations, searching nationwide data links for signs of potential criminal activity, as they had for over twenty years of continuous operation.
Chapter 15
The Russians arrived exactly at sunset. Five Chaika automobiles led by a Zil limousine pulled to a halt at the edge of the village of Sinanju. The people of the village, seeing uniformed men bristling with weapons emerge from the cars, scattered to their huts in fear.
Remo saw the Russians coming down the rocks, one in KGB green, the rest in black uniforms like none he had ever seen before. He ran to the treasure house and burst in.
"Chiun. I'm not letting this happen," Remo said. Chiun handed a freshly-rolled scroll to the caretaker, Pullyang, and waved for him to leave.
"You do not have to let anything happen, egotistical one," he said quietly. "It is happening without you."
"We'll fight them, Little Father."
Chiun shook his head wearily. "I cannot fight them."
"Then I'll do the fighting. There's only about a dozen of them. Piece of cake."
"Yes," said Chiun. "You could easily best the dozen. But what about the next dozen? And the two dozen who will show up at my village when the others do not return? And the legions who will surely follow. We are safe from the dogs at Pyongyang, but they are vassals to the Russian bear. The bear will keep coming until he has filled his stomach. No matter how many Russian corpses we pile in the village square to show our might, in the end my village will be lost." Chiun shook his head sadly. "No. This way is better."
"Bull!" said Remo.
"Once before, a Master of Sinanju was in service to an emperor, and when that emperor lost a war, his goods became the property of the conquering emperor. This calamity would not have happened had not the Master of that time, whose name was Tipi, been away at a crucial time. Have I told you that tale, Remo?"
"Screw the story. If I'm stuck in Sinanju, you're staying here,too."
"You have made up your mind?"
Remo folded his arms across his chest. "Definitely."
"Very well. Then bring me the sword of Sinanju. Quickly. Before the Russians are knocking at this door."
Remo took the sword, a two-handed weapon with jewel-encrusted hilt and a seven-foot blade, from its place of honor on one wall. He brought it to Chiun, offering it flat in his palms, blade turned inward.
"I do not wish to hold it," snapped Chiun. "It is for you. Now, quickly, strike off my head," and the Master of Sinanju bowed his head, giving Remo a clean opening to the back of his wattled neck.
"No," said Remo, horrified.
"Do it!" commanded the Master of Sinanju. "If you wish to spare me the pain of exile, then spare me the shame of willfully violating my sacred duty. And grant the Master who has made you whole a clean death."
"No!"
"Why do you hesitate, my son? With one stroke, you would cut yourself free of your obligations to me, and to my village."
Remo dropped the sword. He was in tears.
"You could return to the land of your birth ... with the maiden Mah-Li, if that is your wish."
"I can't. I love you."
"But not enough to grant me release from an odious responsibility," said the Master of Sinanju, lifting his face to meet Remo's streaming eyes.
"I'm sorry, Little Father."
"So be it," said Chiun, rising to his feet like a time-lapse film of a sunflower growing. "I go now to meet my future clients. I will expect you not to interfere."
"What about the investment ceremony?" asked Remo.
"There is no time. I will dispense with it. Consider yourself the new reigning Master of Sinanju."
"I'm not sure I'm ready," Remo said weakly.
"And I am sure you are not," said the Master of Sinanju. "But fate has decreed it otherwise. But you may take comfort in the story of the Master Tipi. I have placed the scroll describing his career under his new emperor beside my throne. It was not so terrible. He, too, was in his end days."
And Chiun went out of the house of his ancestors without a backward glance.
Colonel Viktor Ditko waited in the square of the village of Sinanju, surrounded by a crack team of black-clad Special Military Purposes Unit soldiers. Spetsnaz commandos. A cross between the American Green Berets and the old Nazi Stormtroopers, they were the most vicious soldiers in the entire Soviet Army. And Colonel Ditko was prepared to unleash them.
The word had come from the Kremlin. He was to personally take possession of the Master of Sinanju at sunset, and bring him instantly back to Russia.
When Colonel Ditko saw the crowd of villagers scatter like frightened pigeons, he was surprised to see an elderly Korean being escorted into the square by another. He recognized the younger of the two as the one in the original tape made by Sammy Kee, but not the other, who wobbled as he walked.
Then, with a shock, he realized it was the Master of Sinanju himself. He looked older, shrunken and feeble in his funereal black robes.
"What is this?" demanded Ditko of the Master of Sinanju.
And the Master of Sinanju replied in excellent if haughty Russian.
"This is the Master of Sinanju, Soviet dog. What are you?"
"I am Colonel Viktor Ditko. I have come to take you to my country."
"You make it sound simple."
"I understood there would be no resistance," said Ditko, a little nervously.
"And there will be none. But there must be a ceremony. Where is Smith?"
"Here," said Dr. Harold W. Smith, stepping out from behind
a group of huts, where he had observed the Russian advance. He carried a very large scroll under one arm, edged in gold and tied with a blue ribbon.
"Who is this?" asked Ditko.
"My former employer," said the Master of Sinanju. "With our contract. He must sign it and you must sign it before I can enter into your service."
"Very well," Colonel Ditko said impatiently. "Give it to me."
Chiun took the scroll, opened it to the very end, and held it stiffly in the air while Smith signed the bottom. And then the Master of Sinanju turned to Colonel Ditko and offered the document for signing.
"Do you not wish to read it first?" asked Chiun politely.
"No," snapped Ditko. "We have little time."
"Such wisdom from a Russian," said the Master of Sinanju, a faint smile tugging at his parchment lips. "It augurs well for my service in your country."
When the contract was properly signed, the Master of Sinanju made a show of rolling up the document and with a little bow handed it to Colonel Ditko.
"It is done," said the Master of Sinanju. "Your emperor, and you as his representative, are now responsible for all provisions and guarantees described in this contact."
"Of course."
"One provision is that my village is sanctified from harm and that my pupil, the new Master of Sinanju, be allowed to govern in peace."
"If he does not wish to work for us, that is his right as an American," said Colonel Ditko stuffily. "But it is understood he works for no other country."
"For the duration of my services to you," agreed Chiun.
Smith, who understood some Russian, was surprised at the ease with which the transfer of employment took place. There was no haggling over price, none of the last-minute i-dotting and t-crossing that had characterized his dealings with Chiun. But it was clear to Smith that Chiun was a shadow of his former self. He looked so shaky that a stiff breeze might have toppled him.
"Take him to the car," ordered Colonel Ditko, who relished commanding the elite Spetsnaz team. "I will join you at the airport."
"I must say good-bye to my pupil, Remo," Chiun insisted.
"There is no time. The aircraft is waiting," said Colonel Ditko.
Chiun bowed stiffly. "I obey, because I am now in your service."
Two Spetsnaz commandos started to take Chiun by his spindly arms, but he shook them off.
"Unhand me," he snapped. "I am old and frail, but I can still walk. Allow me to leave my village with dignity."
Gathering up the hem of his robes, he strode up the road, the two commandos on either side of him, walking a respectful two paces behind. The Master of Sinanju did not look back. Nor did he say goodbye to Smith or the handful of villagers who had ventured out into the square. Smith wondered if the old man would survive the plane trip. He looked that far gone.
While everyone's eyes were following the slow departure of the Master of Sinanju, Smith slipped away, heading for the beach. It was done. Now there was just one last detail.
Smith found a quiet place among the cold rocks. He dug into the watch pocket of his vest and removed a small case. In it was a coffin-shaped pill. He had carried it ever since that day many years ago when he had assumed his duties as director of CURE. Duties, he knew, which were lifelong, because when they ended they could only end with his death.
"Good-bye, Maude, Vickie. I love you both very much."
And there, on the empty beach so far away from the nation he loved, Dr. Harold W. Smith swallowed the pill.
And choked on it. It caught in his throat. It wouldn't go down.
Smith, frantic that his suicide attempt might fail, plunged into the cold surf and drank a long swallow of salt water to wash down the pill.
The water was so cold, it numbed his taste buds so he couldn't taste salt. But he felt the pill go down. Shivering from his sudden immersion, he threw himself on the fine beach sand and waited for the end to come.
Dimly he heard the percussive stutter of automatic-weapons fire.
There were screams. The haunting screams of the dying.
Faintly he understood that the Russians had betrayed them all. And deep within him, a cold rage swept all thoughts of death-his death-from his mind.
Dr. Harold W. Smith pulled himself to his feet. The poison was supposed to act quickly, but he was still alive. He stumbled up into the rocks. The sporadic fire grew constant.
Smith swore and started running, not sure what he could accomplish in his last moments of life, but determined to inflict a final blow.
He tripped over his automatic, lying in the sand where Remo had thrown it. Smith grabbed it, checked the action. There was no clip, but he had an extra in his pocket. He loaded the gun and pushed on, praying that he had time to take out a few of them before he succumbed. A spreading coldness filled his stomach.
Remo Williams stood among the heaped treasures of Sinanju, his mind stunned at Chiun's strange actions, when he heard the shooting.
"Chiun!" he cried. He pitched out the door. There was no sign of Chiun. The Russians were going from hut to hut, dragging people out into a huddled mass in the village square. To expedite their work, they fired into the air. Sometimes, not into the air.
A running woman bumped into Remo. He caught her in his arms, then noticed the hole in her chest gushing blood. She gave out a little sigh and died.
A clot of soldiers came around the corner. Their eyes locked with Remo's.
Remo moved on the Russian commandos, his senses coming alive in a way they had never done before. He could see the bullet tracks erupting in his direction, and each individual bullet in each track.
Dodging them was the same as dodging cork guns. He took an inside line, evading the streams of bullets as if they were harmless flashlight beams wielded by nervous children.
To the eyes of the Russians, Remo seemed to float toward them, his feet barely touching the ground-but in actuality he was striking with the nervous speed of a fer-de-lance.
Remo hit the nearest Russian with an openhanded palm. The soldier's rib cage was instantly turned to Jell-O. He collapsed from the sudden lack of skeletal support.
"We have found him!" called another soldier. "The American."
"Right," said Remo, chopping him down like a sapling. "I'm the American."
The Russians broke in all directions, seeking cover in the higher rocks. Remo moved toward the nearest group, pulled them off the rocks like bugs off a wall. He appeared only to tap them, but they did not rise from where they fell.
"American," called Colonel Ditko from the rocks above where Remo stood amid a pile of Soviet corpses. "What?" Remo shot back.
"We do not wish to slaughter everyone. We only want you."
"I'm not going to Russia," snapped Remo.
"And Russia does not want you. But we will exchange your surrender for the lives of these people."
"You can't get them all," Remo said, trying to bluff. "But I'll get all of you."
"If you wish a war, than so be it," said Ditko, whose orders were to erase all traces of the village of Sinanju and its people. "I will order my men to fire into the crowd."
Remo saw the villagers huddled behind their homes, their faces wearing that soul-shocked look that he had seen a thousand times in Vietnam. He felt a wave of pity for them. They were not-and never had been-masters of their own fate. Centuries of dependence on the Masters of Sinanju had stripped them of all self-reliance. It was not their fault they had turned out the way they had. They were no longer Chiun's people. They were his now.
Remo hesitated, calculating the positions of the Russians. Only a handful remained. Maybe there was time to get to them before they picked their shots.
But then Remo saw Mah-Li being dragged into view by one of the Russians. She struggled. "Mah-Li!" he said under his breath. She was not wearing her veil. Her delicate face shone with anxiety. "Okay, you win," said Remo. And he put up his hands.
They came down from the rocks carefully, their Kalishnikov rifles pointed un
waveringly at Remo's head.
"Bring him," ordered Colonel Ditko. "And round up the rest of the villagers. We will execute the American as an example to them."
"This wasn't the deal," said Remo.
"Wrong. This is the deal our leader made with your leader."
"Where's Chiun?"
"On his way to Pyongyang airport. And I must hurry to join him. I am to present him to the General Secretary myself. It will be a great day for me. Now I must leave you."
And Colonel Ditko hurried back to a waiting car and drove off.
His second in command marched Remo to the wall of the nearest hut and stood him up against it. He gave sharp orders and the five remaining commandos lined up in single file, their rifles aimed at Remo's chest.
"No blindfold?" asked Remo.
The soldiers ignored him. They squinted down the sights of their weapons.
"Ready!" ordered the second in command.
Remo saw Mah-Li fall to the ground and cover her face. Her shoulders shook with emotion.
"Aim!"
"If you harm these people after I'm gone," said Remo in a brittle voice, "I'm coming back after you all."
"I do not believe in ghosts," said the second in command.
"Maybe not. But if you don't listen to me, you'll be believing in Shiva the Destroyer."
There was something about the tone of the American's threat. The second in command hesitated. It was a very big mistake.
Before the firing order could be given, five spiteful shots rang out from the high rocks. And, one by one, all five members of the firing squad fell with their skulls shattered.
Remo broke his bonds with a hemp-splitting tug. The second in command never saw the hand that reduced his face to raw meat.
Remo looked up. Smith lay on his stomach, smoke drifting from the muzzle of his gun. Then he collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been clipped. Smith closed his eyes.
Remo ran to him and saw that he was going into convulsions.
Remo flipped Smith over on his back. The older man's face was turning the color and texture of blue cheese. Poison.
"Dammit, Smitty!" Remo screamed at him. "Did you have to go through with it? Couldn't you have waited?"
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