No other human being was allowed in this place. No guards. They guarded the elevators and stairwells and the roof. Not even a secretary, because the secrets of Kim Jong II were too secret even for a trusted secretary to know.
The office was the size of a city block and contained exactly sixty-seven telephones, all but one with their bells shut off.
Few persons were entrusted with that particular number. For Kim Jong II was master of every North Korean and beloved by none. Especially did the Korean military despise him, for he had been installed as their supreme commander despite having never served his country in uniform or worn a medal that he had actually earned.
Even his immediate family did not have the number.
Actually Kim Jong II found it necessary to avoid his family. His stepmother and her children also despised him. It was known that they lusted for the power that Kim II Sung held so firmly for so long and Kim Jong II had only lately touched.
In fact, in the halls of power that Kim Jong II controlled but dared not personally walk, it was being said that once Kim II Sung passed on, the reign of Kim Jong
It would wither as quickly as the kimilsungia flowers of spring.
Kim Jong II had heard these rumors. This was the chief reason why his entire existence was limited to the great office overlooking the future capital of the world.
The single phone with a bell began ringing. Heart leaping, Kim Jong II seized it. It was the direct line to the People's Hospital, where his father lay dying. He did not know whether to hope for good news or bad. In fact, he was not quite certain which was which.
"Yes? What news? Has my illustrious father died?"
"He has not," said a warm, generous voice in impeccable Korean.
"Comrade!"
"Yes."
"It has been a long time, Comrade."
"The supercomputer I supplied last time. It functions satisfactorily?"
"Indeed. I don't know how I would keep track of my enemies without it."
"I understand your father is near death."
"Alas, yes."
"And your enemies plot to usurp you."
"I have more enemies than friends now," admitted Jong.
"And I have a solution," said Comrade.
Jong gripped the receiver eagerly. "Yes?"
"The Master of Sinanju has returned to the village of his birth."
"The Master of Sinanju! My father told me that he died many years ago."
"He has been working for America." "I can see why my father would say such a thing. It is better that the Master of Sinanju had died than shame himself so."
"But he has fallen out with the West. This might be the solution to your quandary. With him at your side, your enemies would melt from view."
"This is a very good suggestion, Comrade."
"Which comes at a price."
"What price?"
"I had an arrangement with a Captain Yokang of the frigate SA-I-GU, and it appears that he has reneged."
"Arrangement? What kind of arrangement?"
"A salvage arrangement. The U.S. submarine that the world is wondering about lies sunken in the West Korea Bay, along with its secret cargo of gold bullion. Yokang was to split it with me."
"What do you want?"
"The gold. All of it. And Yokang's execution."
"Done."
"Do not renege on this promise, Kim Jong II."
"I will not. I wonder. Can you get me a 70 mm Panaflex camera? My latest opera gees before the cameras next week. It is about my illustrious father's glorious life, but I am thinking of changing the names and making it the revised chronicle of my own life, should he die before we roll."
"The camera will be shipped promptly," Comrade promised.
Kim Jong II hung up the phone and immediately grabbed the yellow hotline to the army. It was a good thing his father had the foresight to appoint him supreme commander. A very good thing indeed. And with his extensive directorial skill, he knew exactly how to crack the whip on these military types.
Soldiers, like actors, were but sheep. Especially in the last worker's paradise left on earth.
Chapter 25
Pyongyang huddled like a ghost town under the stars of the Silvery River—Remo had long ago stopped thinking of it by its Western name, the Milky Way— when the tank column rolled into it, with Remo and Chiun sitting on the rounded turret of the lead T-67 tank.
The broad avenues were silent. They passed rank upon rank of featureless gray apartment towers and office buildings that had sat uninhabited because they had been built to show the citizens of Pyongyang that North Korea was as advanced as any Western city—but there was no economy to support them.
From his perch in the turret hatch, the tank commander pointed out the stone torch that was the monument to the juche idea of Korean self-reliance, and Remo yawned.
He indicated with pride the seventy-foot bronze statue of Great Leader Kim II Sung, and Remo snorted.
When they passed the 105-story Ryugyong Hotel, the tank commander began to expound on its undeniable magnificence. "It is the largest structure in all Asia, containing three thousand rooms. The sports complex alone was erected at a cost of 1.5 billion U.S. dollars."
Remo looked at the great pyramid shape and asked, "Is it supposed to sag like that?"
The tank commander turned beet red.
"I have heard," offered Chiun, "that after only two years, it became uninhabitable. So defective was its design that the elevators cannot function."
"I have not heard this," the tank commander said grudgingly, and was silent for the remainder of the journey.
"What do you know of Jong?" Remo asked Chiun in English.
"He is said to be more ruthless, more cruel than Sung."
"That's bad."
"No, it is good. If one works for him. For only in the West are the qualities of goodness and sensitivity valued in a leader."
The tank dropped them off before the grim grandeur of the People's Palace on the banks of the Tae- dong River.
The sergeant of the guards stepped out, flanked by Kalashnikov-toting soldiers and demanded that the Master of Sinanju prove his identity before being permitted to set eyes upon the glory of Dear Leader.
The Master of Sinanju stepped up and identified himself by raising a single ivory fingernail before the face of the sergeant of the guards. The sergeant's eyes crossed comically.
The fingernail drove into his brow with the sound of bone being pierced, and the sergeant of the guards found himself being spun in place. The sound of his skull being carved like a coconut hurt the ears.
Impelled by the upward hooking of the terrible fingernail, the top of his head popped like a champagne cork. A kicking sandal sent the fallen crown skittering away, and the sergeant of the guards went scurrying after it in the last moments of his life.
The others, satisfied as to the Master of Sinanju's identity, dutifully stepped aside.
"You were lucky you didn't ask me," Remo told them in Korean. "I'm a master of the Wedgie of Death."
The elevator was big enough to hold a square dance in and it took them to the top so fast Remo thought they were being launched into orbit.
Kim Jong II, resplendent in a silver race driver's suit and aviator glasses, met them. He was so squat and wide he looked as if he had been raised in a box. His fingers resembled fat yellow worms, and his pudgy face lacked all trace of character or personality.
"It is a very great pleasure to meet you, Gracious Master," he said, smiling. "My father has spoken of you often."
Chiun offered the slightest of bows with his head. "How fares he?"
"Near death, with a goiter almost the size of his fist protruding from his neck." Jong grinned. "He would make a good movie monster the way he looks now."
Chiun frowned. This was not the Jong he had heard of. His ways were soft.
"I understand your sadness," Kim Jong II said, noting the look that crossed the Master of Sinanju's face. "For my father told me the
glorious story of how he personally led the victorious forces in the legendary Battle of Sinanju."
"Your father told you that?" Chiun said quickly.
"Many times."
"Then he is a many-times liar."
Kim Jong II blinked. "It would not be the first time," he admitted glumly. Kim noticed Remo then. "I see you have brought back a slave from America. I myself have several Japanese tourists that I have had kidnapped from other countries. The geisha are particularly squishy."
Chiun's hands coming together were a thunderclap. "Enough of this prattle."
"Yes, I called you here for a very excellent reason."
"And we came for an even better one," snapped Chiun.
"Ah?"
"A submarine of the West lies crushed and broken off the sweet shore of my village."
"I know nothing of this," said Kim Jong II.
"He's lying," said Remo in Korean.
"I know," said Chiun coldly. To the younger Kim, he said, "It is only the respect that I hold for your illustrious father that prevents me from disemboweling you where you stand, whelp. Know that the submarine of the West carried the gold of Sinanju, and that gold is now gone."
"That was your gold?" Kim Jong II blurted.
"Hah!" Remo said. "The truth comes out."
"Damn," said Jong. "I was never good at this intrigue stuff. Listen, if I come clean, will you do me a favor in return?" "If you come clean," Chiun said, "my white son will not clean your innards of your smoking bowels."
"Fair enough," said Jong. "I just had a tip telling me you two were in town. He happened to mention the gold and who has it now."
"Speak!"
"Captain Yokang Sako of the SA-I-GU. It is he."
"On whose authority?"
"His own. He was in collusion with someone."
"Name that person."
Kim Jong II bit his plump upper lip. "He is called Comrade."
Remo advanced, saying, "Do better than that. Everybody in this black hole is called that."
"I do not know that person by name," Jong protested. "I only know the voice. He is what you call a wheeler-dealer. I have wheeled many deals with him."
"Why did he call you with this information?" demanded Chiun.
"He is upset with Yokang and wants me to recover the gold for him."
"In return for what?"
"It is the other way around. I promised I would recover the gold in exchange for his tip that the Master of Sinanju was available for service, no longer being under contract to America."
"This Comrade told you this?" Chiun said.
"Yes."
Remo and Chiun exchanged glances. "Someone knows too much about our business," Remo said.
"Yes. Far too much." "I hope it is not I, for I would greatly like to hire you to protect my life, Master of Sinanju."
"I'm not working for this blivot!" Remo snapped.
"Blivot. That's American golf slang, isn't it? But I don't catch the connection."
"A blivot," Remo said, "is ten pounds of manure in a five-pound sack."
Kim Jong II looked injured. "You remind me of my mother, you know that?"
"How much gold do you offer, son of Kim?" asked Chiun.
Kim Jong II picked up a phone at random. "How about that missing gold? I can have the SA-I-GU recalled to port. I'm supreme commander, you know."
"You will do that in order to preserve your worthless life," Chiun said coldly.
"Deal," said Jong. "Now, about hiring you. Don't you think it's high time Sinanju worked for Koreans again? This Western flirtation of yours has gone on long enough."
"No way, Chiun!" said Remo.
"I will consider it," said Chiun.
"Great!" Jong said, beaming.
"Once I have the gold in hand," added Chiun.
"And the surviving sailors are returned safely to America," added Remo.
"Which surviving sailors?" asked Jong.
"Those ones who have been granted sanctuary in Sinanju."
Kim Jong II frowned like unbaked dough shrinking. "That would be a bad move on my part. Tantamount to admitting my navy committed the aggression. No can do."
Remo growled, "It did. And you will."
"Don't you think you should confer with your Master before you go threatening his future employer, white boy?"
Remo advanced, taking Kim Jong II by the throat.
"Urk," said Kim Jong II.
"I'll give you a choice." Remo said politely. "The Wedgie of Death or the Sinanju Swirlie."
"I'll take the Swirlie," gasped Jong, figuring how bad could it be if it didn't include the word "death"? Besides, American customs fascinated him. He gave them to the bad guys in his operas.
"Fine. Where's the men's room?"
Jong cocked a thumb, and suddenly his feet left the floor and he was being carried by his neck to his personal washroom, legs swinging like logs hanging by lifting chains.
"Master of Sinanju," he called through the squeezing hand, "this would be an excellent time to discipline your white slave."
Chiun fluttered his hands in mock helplessness. "He is a white and therefore uncontrollable."
"Shit," said Kim Jong II.
The bathroom door splintered under a hard kick, and Jong found himself on his knees before his solid gold commode. The lid lifted, and he was looking into the bowl where the blue chemically cleaned water lapped in sympathy with the inferior water system of the city.
"What are you—"
There was a splash as Kim Jong Il's face went into the water. He held his breath. The flushing sound was very loud in his ears. It filled them. So did the water. In a way it was quite exhilarating, except for the inconvenient lack of oxygen.
The white flushed a second time, and Kim's cheeks were swelling even as his lungs began to labor.
When his head felt ready to pop, he was pulled back into the welcome world of air.
"Take a deep breath. Got it? Okay, here we go again."
The toilet was flushed again.
Three times the Dear Leader was forced to endure the dreaded Sinanju Swirlie, and when his head came out for the third time, he was allowed to take more than one breath.
"Change your mind now?" Remo demanded.
"Yes. Yes. I will return the Americans alive with full and complete apologies. Just do me a favor."
"What's that?"
"Make sure Captain Yokang pays dearly for all this unfortunate trouble he's caused each and every one of us."
"That," said Remo, "comes at no extra charge."
Captain Yokang Sako of the frigate SA-I-GU had divided the gold among his crew, keeping the greater portion for himself. He removed the batteries from his cellular telephone so that the mysterious Comrade could not reach him with demands for half of the gold that would never be his and was going through the motions of his routine patrol as he considered his next move.
Defecting appealed to him. But to where could he defect? Not to China. Beijing would confiscate his gold and send him back to Pyongyang in irons. The hateful islands of Japan held no appeal. And with all the crazy talk of unification, who knew that within a few years Kim Jong II would be in control of the south, and Yokang Sako would find himself swinging from a scratchy rope.
More and more it was beginning to look as if remaining in the North Korean Navy made the most sense. After all, with the gold now in his hands, he could live like a king, assuming he did so quietly and without attracting notice to himself.
There remained the problem of his crew. Not all could be trusted to keep this secret. Still, what alternative did they have? They had all been party to an illegal aggression punishable by death.
Unless, of course, Pyongyang decided to retroactively bless their adventure.
The thought brought a frown to Captain Yokang's face. Those who bless, he knew, required blessings in return. He went to his personal closet and admired the neat gold ingots stacked there. There was more in a storeroom under lock and key. He could well afford
to spread half of the gold on those in power—but what if they wanted all?
A knock at the door to his private cabin brought a gruff "What is it?" from Captain Yokang.
"A radio message from fleet, sir."
"What do they want?"
"They are recalling us to port."
"We are not due back at Pipa-got Naval Base for five days."
"They are telling us to put in at Nampo."
Nampo! Yokang thought. Narnpo was not the home port of the SA-I-GU. But at the terminus of the Tae- dong River, it was the nearest port to the capital. Could Pyongyang have gleaned the truth behind the lost U.S. submarine?
"Send acknowledgments," Yokang said. "And inform the first mate that we are defecting to South Korea."
"Why?"
"Because somehow Pyongyang has learned the truth!" Yokang snapped, locking the door to his closet.
All choice had fled in the night. All that remained was to save their skins. It was something Captain Yokang Sako had learned to do very well over the course of his career.
Chapter 26
Chip Craft was having second thoughts as he drove downtown to his Park Avenue town house in his frosted gold Idioci coupe.
Maybe he had been too hasty. After all, Friend had made him wealthy and powerful beyond his dreams as a mere installer not so many years ago. He had catapulted XL into the stratosphere of information-systems technology and was poised to take complete advantage of the coming new age of fully integrated interactive computer and television and telephone networks.
Personally Chip couldn't imagine what people would want with five hundred channels. And being able to send and receive faxes at the beach or on roller coasters seemed to defeat the point of beaches and roller coasters.
But it was progress. And if there was money to be made from it—and the numbers being floated were incalculable—Chip Craft figured he deserved a big chunk of it.
A little matter of blackmailing the US. government seemed almost incidental, given the power and position the new technological revolution promised.
Chip seat his Idioci into the cool confines of the building garage and took the elevator to his town house with his mind actually humming.
Yeah. Why not? He was thirty-five years old in a business climate that almost guaranteed that you were washed-up once you turned forty. Unless you turned forty as king of the mountain.
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