And so he sat, staring into the abyss, helpless to stop his countrymen from taking that last step into madness.
"I cannot help but say that we saw this coming." The ranking delegate of the Reunification Democratic Party had taken the stage. The smugness oozed like snake oil from every pore. "The Americans cannot possibly understand us or our culture. Some of you have had trepidations when we have discussed the inevitable union with our northern cousins. You must all admit now that the North would understand us better than America. The United States bombs us and then they say they are sorry. That might be good enough for our president, but it is not good enough for us."
"What if we say we're really, really sorry?" called a voice from the rear of the assembly hall.
Faces shocked, the assembly turned as one to see who it was who had the audacity to shout out during a floor speech. Their expressions grew even more amazed when they saw that the speaker-though he spoke flawless Korean-was distinctly non-Korean in appearance.
Remo Williams strode up the aisle toward the speaker's stand. At his seat above and behind the podium, the president of South Korea was as alarmed as the members of the National Assembly.
"You see?" shouted the highest-ranking member of the Reunification Democratic Party over the murmurs of the crowd. "Do you see how they feel as if they can just storm in here? We are not an ally-we are but a servant!"
Remo hopped up to the platform. "And you are a whore to your masters in Pyongyang," he said.
The speaker's microphone amplified his words, carrying them back across the National Assembly. There was a gasp from the crowd.
The Reunification Democratic Party member's face turned red with rage. Forgetting all decorum, he lunged at Remo, arms outstretched.
Remo sidestepped the man, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck as he passed by. He hefted him high into the air before the assembly. "See the true servant," he announced in perfectly accented Korean. "People like this want you to surrender your freedom to the idiot son of Kim Il Sung."
A look of disgust creasing his hard face, Remo flung the man to the floor of the assembly.
The president had found a microphone by now. "Who are you?" he demanded of Remo.
Remo looked over at the man. "I am the son of the Master of Sinanju," he announced.
There were gasps from the crowd. Remo heard many of the men whispering "Sinanju" to one another. Good. By the looks he was getting, many of them had heard of the ancient house of assassins.
"I have heard the Master of Sinanju had taken a white as his heir," the president said, nodding. "But I have heard that you work for America."
"That's right."
"Then you are here on behalf of American interests," the president of South Korea pressed.
"I am here in the interest of sanity," Remo replied. "There doesn't seem to be a heck of a lot around here lately."
"How do we know you are truly of Sinanju?" one of the members of the Democratic Justice Party shouted from the assembly floor.
"Yes!" yelled the embarrassed member of the Reunification Democratic Party. "You are not Sinanju! He is CIA!" he cried to his fellow assemblymen.
"A spy!" shrieked another.
The murmuring, which had been more confused than anything else until now, began to grow more hostile. Things were getting out of hand. Remo had to find a way to calm the assembly down.
He glanced around. The nearest thing available was the podium at which the representatives to the assembly had been taking turns denouncing America and calling for reunification talks with the North.
Slapping his hands to either side of the quarterton slab of wood, Remo tossed the big stand up into the air. The National Assembly gasped as the huge stand rose impossibly toward the vaulted ceiling of the chamber.
All at once, the podium reached the crest of its arc, dropping like a lump of lead to the stage. The assembly held its collective breath, expecting the impact to be deafening. But five feet before it was set to crash, its movement was abruptly arrested.
The men and women watched in astonishment. The podium had landed on the tip of Remo's raised index finger.
With his free hand, Remo began spinning the huge podium in place-like a kid in a schoolyard performing a simple basketball trick. As it whirred, the stand began to hum a loud, even purr.
Remo's hand flew faster and faster until the stand was a blur. It eventually moved so fast that it seemed to disappear altogether. That was when the sawdust appeared.
Wooden powder flew off in large clouds with each invisible spin of the podium. If someone had thought to check his watch, he would have seen that it all took no more than forty seconds.
The whirring stopped. The podium reappeared.
It was now only a narrow piece of wood, fatter at the top and bottom. Like an apple that had been eaten to the core. Remo stood in an ankle-deep pile of dark sawdust.
He set the remains of the podium down.
"I am the future Reigning Master of Sinanju," Remo announced to the crowd. "Does anyone still doubt me?"
No one dared dispute his claim. None in the assembly dared to even speak.
"Good," Remo said, satisfied. He glanced around, finding the president. "You," he said, pointing to the terrified Kim Dae Jung. "We've got to talk."
He grabbed the president by the scruff of the neck and hauled him from the room. No one in the astonished assembly attempted to stop him.
"ARE YOU HERE to kill me?" the president asked nervously once the two of them were alone. They were in a private office off the main assembly chamber.
"I could have picked a less public way of doing that, don't you think?" Remo asked blandly.
The president thought about some of the things he had heard about the Masters of Sinanju. If only a handful of them were true, he would not be alive now.
"Then you are not here to kill me," he said. The president breathed a relieved sigh and was immediately annoyed with himself for being so concerned for his own life.
"No," Remo said. "I'm here to figure out what the hell is going on."
"I suspect you know already as much as I do." The president took a seat behind the cluttered desk in the room. He looked old. And tired. "It is madness. All of it."
"We didn't launch the missile on purpose," Remo insisted.
The president waved a dismissive hand. "I know this," he said. "It was a stupid mistake."
"Maybe not," Remo said.
This caught the South Korean leader's attention. "You say it was not deliberate, then you hint it might have been. Which is it?" he asked.
"It's not deliberate on behalf of the U.S. government," Remo explained. "But according to my information, the men who fired the cruise missile into Seoul all committed suicide afterward. That tells me they were protecting someone."
The president shrugged. "A theory," he said.
"What else would it be?" Remo asked.
"I do not know," the president admitted wearily. "It makes sense-I will admit that. But I am tired of making sense to that mob out there." He motioned vaguely in the direction of the assembly hall. "The young cry out for reunification with the North. They do not know what it would be like. Our population is greater, but Kim Jong Il's tanks are stronger. Without the involvement of the United States, we would fall under the treads of the invaders from the North."
"Tell them that, then," Remo argued, his tone exasperated. "Tell them we didn't have anything to do with the bombing, that it was probably part of some bigger scheme and that they'll have a certifiable nut running things around here if they don't smarten up."
The president looked at him, eyes dead. "You drove to get here, presumably?"
"What's that got to do with anything?" Remo asked. "Yeah, I drove."
"You saw the conditions in the streets. The student demonstrators have been a problem for us for a long time. Blessed with the ignorance of youth, they refuse to believe the world's harsh realities. But whereas before they were merely an annoyance, they have gained
great strength in the wake of the bombing. They have stronger sympathizers now who are powerful in government. Reunification is no longer a dream. I fear it is an eventuality."
"You're just going to roll over and play dead?"
"What more can I do?" the president asked.
Remo's face was fierce. "You think the students here are weak, blind fools?" he demanded. "I say you are. You're the one who should be out there screaming at the top of your lungs against that crackpot Kim. Hell, he might be the one behind all of this."
"Perhaps." The president shrugged.
It was the feeble indifference in the move that did it to Remo. The willingness to betray freedom because it was easier than standing up to a tyrant.
Remo's mouth set in a firm line, thin lips pressed into bloodless white strips.
Reaching across the desk, he grabbed the president of South Korea by the front of his shirt. Lifting by a bundle of shirt and tie, he hauled Kim Dae Jung out over the rubble of the desk, toppling an angry shower of papers and envelopes to the floor.
Wordlessly, Remo hauled the president from the cramped office. His eyes were filled with visions of death.
Chapter 26
The squadron of six North Korean Foxbat fighters intercepted the Reverend Man Hyung Sun's personal jet as it was flying west across the Sea of Japan.
The Sunnie pilot tried to calm the flaring tempers of the MiG-25 pilots, but the military fliers seemed more hostile than usual. As if something had recently ruffled their feathers.
Chiun was sitting in his normal seat above the left wing when he was asked to step into the cockpit by one of Sun's comely stewardesses at the urging of the harried flight crew. Annoyed, the Master of Sinanju hustled up the aisle.
"We're still over international waters," the pilot explained when Chiun stepped into the small cockpit. Sweat dripped down his broad forehead. "I think that's the only reason they haven't shot us down yet."
"I would speak with them," Chiun announced.
"Gladly," the pilot said.
The Sunnie copilot operated the radio while the Master of Sinanju spoke.
Chiun cleared his throat. "Whoresons of Pyongyang harlots-" he began.
"We're dead," moaned the pilot.
"-begone from the skies around this most holy aircraft, or face the awesome wrath of the Master of Sinanju."
The two Foxbats that were visible through the cockpit windows remained locked in place. The twin AA-6 Acrid rockets on the nearest wings of each fighter were reminders that there were four more planes just like them somewhere behind Sun's jet; each was equipped with four of the deadly missiles. One would be enough to blow the unarmed jet from the sky.
The Foxbats matched the speed of the civilian jet, never wavering a fraction. For a few tense moments, not a sound issued from the lead fighter.
Chiun stared over at the port MiG. The pilot's domed head was visible through the cockpit glass. The old Korean stared daggers at the man.
"We're about to pass into North Korean airspace," the copilot announced worriedly after a short time.
As they watched their controls with steadily increasing apprehension, the MiGs remained glued to their positions beside them.
Mere seconds before they were to pass into North Korean airspace, a voice crackled over the radio. The MiG pilot sounded as if he would choke on the message he had been ordered to deliver.
"Proceed, Master of Sinanju. And welcome home."
Only then did Chiun tear his eyes away from the man in the Foxbat. Turning abruptly, he left the bewildered cockpit crew and returned to his seat.
"Is there a problem?" Man Hyung Sun asked. The cult leader had been napping in his seat across from Chiun and had just awakened.
"None, O Holy One," the Master of Sinanju replied.
Chiun settled in to watch the wing. He had heard that sometimes they dropped off during takeoffs and landings.
COLONEL NICK DESOUZA couldn't believe his eyes. The CIA spook who had crossed the DMZ only a few hours before had not only made it safely through the gangs of student rioters running amok through South Korea, but was already returning. And he was not alone.
DeSouza thought he recognized the Korean passenger as the battered jeep bounced back into view up the road to the old iron bridge.
"It's a little worse for wear," Remo said as the jeep skidded to a stop. There were various dings all around the vehicle. One of the front windshield panels had been shattered at the corner. The telltale burn marks of Molotov cocktails were all around the hood and sides.
"You signed the insurance form. It's your problem, not mine," DeSouza deadpanned as Remo hopped down to the ground.
"Things still quiet?" Remo asked.
"The kids haven't attacked yet, if that's what you mean," the colonel said. "No troop movements out of the North, either, according to intelligence."
"A silent coup," Remo commented dryly.
Glancing past the idling truck on the Bridge of No Return, he noted that Rim Kun Soe still sat morosely on the opposite side of the bridge. Remo was certain that, left to his own devices, the Korean security officer would have hightailed it out of there by now.
Trotting, Remo went over and collected his North Korean jeep tires from their resting spot on the southern side of the bridge.
"Let's go," Remo said to his passenger.
The South Korean president had yet to get down from the American Army jeep.
"I will not," Kim Dae Jung announced.
"Wrong time to grow a backbone, pal," Remo said.
He dropped each of the tires one at a time, giving them a nudge with his toe the moment they hit the road. They each took off like a shot, rolling straight across the bridge and into the nose of the listing North Korean jeep.
Soe popped out of the driver's seat in a heartbeat, racing around to collect one of the tires. He vanished around the far side of the distant jeep.
"I give Soe one minute to reattach those wheels and bag out on us," Remo said to the president. "You either walk, or I carry you."
"That's the president of South Korea," Colonel DeSouza announced with the shock of sudden recognition. He had come in behind Remo.
"Your point being...?" Remo asked blandly.
"I have been kidnapped," the president said to the Army colonel. "This fool intends to deliver me into the hands of the North."
"I'm trying to defuse this bomb before the whole place goes up around our ears," Remo promised.
DeSouza seemed uncertain as to what he should do. He shot a glance at his men. They had not raised their weapons at Remo's appearance this time. Many of them stood at a distance, faces curious. The colonel could give them the order to fire at any time.
Remo sensed the military man's internal conflict.
"You've been carrying their water for how long?" Remo asked. "And you see how they're treating you. Who are you going to believe, me or him?"
"As president of your host country, I demand you defend me against this crazy man," Kim Dae Jung insisted.
DeSouza glanced from the president to Remo. He then looked out across the Bridge of No Return.
"You'd better hurry," the colonel said to Remo, eyes flat. He backed away from the jeep. "Your driver's already working on the second tire."
THE GREAT LEADER FOR LIFE of North Korea, Kim Jong Il, stood on the freezing tarmac. Wind whipped the flaps of the fur-lined Red Army-issue hat that was pulled tightly down over his ears.
All around him, men stood protectively. There were generals and foot soldiers and men from the government. All freezing and huddled in on themselves, afraid to stamp their feet against the cold.
The jet had appeared a few minutes before. It faded up out of the milky white winter sky like a reverse dissolve in one of his precious Hollywood movies.
Korean Foxbat fighters remained at a respectful distance from the civilian craft.
It was humiliating. To have two planes violate North Korean airspace twice in the same day was unthinkable under almost
any circumstances. Unpardonable under all but one.
Two, actually.
The first was gone, thank God. That white one always gave Kim Jong Il the screaming meemies.
The second had just touched down at the far end of the runway.
The premier thought it best to meet personally with the Master of Sinanju, considering the fact that it was he who was responsible for the deaths of some of the North Korean agents in New York. Although it was not authorized by Kim Jong Il's government, the dead agents had apparently gone off on some sort of murderous rampage that had put them in the path of the men from Sinanju. The premier wanted to make it absolutely clear that there was no animosity between his regime and Sinanju. That was why he was here.
There was also a part of him that thought a face-to-face meeting with the old one might help with the young one. The Reigning Master of Sinanju was frightening and quick to anger, but he was also occasionally deferential-at least on the surface. The young one was not like that at all, and was therefore all the more frightening. Kim Jong Il reasoned that if he got on the good side of the father, the son might like him more.
The premier's ruddy face was hopeful as he watched the cluster of aircraft swarming toward him.
As the MiGs soared off, the private jet raced over toward the premier's party, slowing quickly. It rolled to a stop near the Great and Wonderful Leader for Life.
Even as the engines were powering down, the rear door of the aircraft popped open. The short staircase descended, dropping neatly against the rough asphalt.
Kim Jong Il smiled so broadly he thought his frozen face would crack. He did not want to provoke even a hint of anger in the Master of Sinanju.
The soldiers and functionaries around him smiled, as well. They were one big, happy Communist reception party.
As the premier and his group watched, a man stepped down from the plane.
The Leader for Life blinked. For a moment, the frozen smile remained locked in place.
The man was not the Master of Sinanju. Even through his surprise, Kim Jong Il thought he recognized him. The face was from a time far away. He could not quite place...
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