Misfortune Teller td-115

by Warren Murphy

  They stared at one another for a long time across the well of the limousine. Finally, with no words spoken between them, they both broke away, staring out opposite windows.

  Man Hyung Sun repressed a smile. "Are we finished?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

  "Yes, we are," Chiun said coldly.

  And the way in which he spoke the words told Remo that the old Korean was speaking about more than just a simple breathing exercise.

  As he stared out at the dreary Korean countryside that was passing rapidly by the limo, Remo felt a welling hollowness slowly drag away the anger he was feeling. It pulled and pulled until there was no fury left.

  When it was gone, there was nothing inside him but a vast emptiness. So great was the sensation of isolation, he found himself longing for the rage. It was as if the blackness of eternity had opened up and swallowed his soul.

  It no longer mattered to Remo what happened here in Korea, or in the rest of the world for that matter. Let the world sort out its own problems. Remo had his own to deal with. In the blink of an eye, his entire life had ended.

  Chapter 28

  The wealth of information coming out of both Koreas was matched only by the amount Smith had yet to learn.

  He had hooked into the Central Intelligence Agency database at the outset of the latest crisis. The computer monitor buried in his high-tech desk showed him up-to-the-minute satellite images of the movements in the North. Scrolling text from CIA headquarters indicated what the Langley analysis teams were coming up with as explanations for the sudden, bizarre activity.

  Smith had his own theory.

  Remo.

  There were strange reports coming from the South. Only the Reunification Democratic Party was talking, and then only in cryptic statements. From what Smith could gather, there had been some kind of disruption at the National Assembly. Afterward, the president had gone into seclusion.

  Somehow, Remo had affected the man. To what end, Smith had no idea.

  He had only sent CURE's enforcement arm into Korea to await orders, not to stir up trouble. Smith could only guess that the problem Remo was having with the Master of Sinanju had caused him to act unilaterally in this crisis. And now it looked as if the divided country was ready to erupt because of his actions. Whatever they might be.

  Smith had tried to get in touch with the Master of Sinanju at the Sun estate. His hope was that Chiun could stamp out the fuse Remo had set. The CURE director was upset to learn that Chiun had departed with Sun to parts unknown. It was only when he tried to trace the old Korean that Smith, to his horror, had learned that the cult leader, and presumably the Master of Sinanju, had taken Sun's jet to North Korea. They had apparently landed without incident.

  And so both Remo and Chiun were likely there. Each with his own hidden agenda. Neither obeying orders from Smith.

  It was the worst crisis Smith could think of facing in recent memory, including his dire trip to the hospital. The two Masters of Sinanju were like rogue nuclear warheads, ready to blow the entire Korean Peninsula to kingdom come.

  And all Harold W. Smith could do was monitor the increasingly tense situation.

  The phone to the White House rang suddenly. Smith was relieved for the distraction.

  "Yes, Mr. President?" he asked, cradling the red phone between his neck and shoulder. He continued to access reports even as he spoke.

  "What the hell is going on in Korea, Smith?" demanded the President. He felt confident asking about the country now. Someone had shown him a map, and he was pretty sure he could find where it was without help.

  "Unknown at present," Smith said truthfully.

  "Didn't you send your people in?"

  "Not exactly," Smith hedged.

  "What's that supposed to mean? Did you or didn't you?"

  Smith stopped typing for a moment. He closed his eyes as he spoke. "As best as I can tell, they are both somewhere on the Korean Peninsula."

  "Somewhere?" the President asked. "That's pretty damned vague."

  "I cannot get more specific at the moment," Smith said. He quickly changed the direction of the conversation. "But I can tell you a few things. To begin with, the student protestors in the South have grown even stronger since the Tomahawk incident. The streets of the South-and those particularly in Seoul-are no longer safe. The reports I have read detail rioting on a huge scale."

  "What about their president? Some of my people are saying that he's gone underground."

  "I have heard similar reports, though they are unconfirmed at the present time."

  "Whew," the President said. "It sounds like it's falling apart in the South."

  "Indeed," Smith echoed. "And it looks as though the North might be capitalizing on the social instability. Even as we speak, a line of vehicles is approaching the border between the countries."

  "I've heard," the President told him. "My people are saying it's an invasion force."

  "They are wrong," Smith said crisply. "I am looking at highly detailed images right now. While there are military vehicles in the convoy, there are also civilian cars. I seriously doubt even Kim Jong Il is insane enough to mount an invasion of the South using limousines."

  "There are limos?"

  "Yes, Mr. President."

  The chief executive sounded more than a little annoyed. "I wonder why my people didn't tell me that," he complained.

  "Perhaps they were preparing you for the possibility of invasion," Smith suggested. "However, it is never my intention to deliberately mislead a President. I will give you the facts, and allow you to make a judgment. For good or bad."

  "Thanks for not sugarcoating it for me," the President said levelly. It was obvious he was irritated by Smith's contention that he might make a bad decision. "So what do we do about the situation?"

  "Nothing."

  The President was surprised. "Shouldn't we do something?" he asked. "It won't look good to the world if I just sit on my fanny during all this."

  "It is not always necessary, Mr. President, to respond to every little thing that happens in the world. Sometimes, when left alone, things work out on their own."

  "So we should take a wait-and-see attitude?"

  "Yes," Smith agreed. "But I think none of us need worry about a long wait. Whatever is going on there, things appear to be progressing at a brisk pace."

  "Armageddon is supposed to happen fast, isn't it?"

  Smith did not respond to the pointless question.

  "Our troops along the Thirty-eighth Parallel are on high alert for any eventuality," the CURE director said. "They had been prepared for many years for an assault from the North. The last few days, they have had to worry about the South. Now it appears as if they have to be concerned with both directions. If you are looking for something to do, I would recommend that you have your strategists prepare some sort of withdrawal plan for our men on the ground."

  "Retreat?" the President asked.

  "The social order of the South is on the verge of collapse. The North will most certainly sweep in to fill the power vacuum. If the Koreas unify under Pyongyang, it goes without saying that our troops will no longer be welcome."

  The President sighed. "I'll get on the horn with the Pentagon," he said "With any luck, your people will be able to iron out this mess before it gets any worse." He broke the connection.

  Smith dropped the cherry-red phone to its cradle. He stared for a long time at his computer screen.

  The images of the cars were fuzzy. The resolution on the satellite over the Koreas was not particularly great. But it was clear enough.

  There were a lot of them, snaking back along the road to the North's capital. But were there enough vehicles for an invasion force?

  He had assured the President that it was not possible. That Kim Jong Il was not that crazy. But was he?

  Smith realized all at once that he had been looking blankly down at the computer screen for almost ten minutes. He was frozen in place, hand still resting on the open desk drawer with it
s dedicated White House phone.

  Things would work out. For better or worse.

  He slammed the desk drawer shut. Spinning away from his computer screen, Smith stared out through the one-way picture window behind his desk at Long Island Sound.

  Above the waters, the winter sky was sallow. The weathermen promised snow today. Smith would watch for the first flake to fall. He had nothing better to do.

  Chapter 29

  At a signal from Sun's limousine, the convoy containing the leaders of both Koreas paused on its way to the historic reconciliation. The many vehicles slowed to a stop two miles shy of the demilitarized zone.

  The hundreds of North Koreans who had followed Sun from Pyongyang swarmed reverentially around the prophet of the Great Korean Age. Soldiers and politicians alike got to their knees on the bitterly cold road, hands raised above their heads in supplication. Sun waded through the mass of humanity like a conquering god.

  "Is something wrong, O Seer?" Kim Jong Il asked from a spot near the second limousine. He, too, was kneeling on the ground, alongside the South Korean president.

  "I fear so," Man Hyung Sun admitted. "Tell me," he said, turning to the South Korean leader, "how will our journey to the border be interpreted by your people?"

  "Our people," the president corrected.

  "Yes," Sun said, smiling tightly. "This was not an attempt to trick you. There is still a government in place in Seoul. They will have heard of our caravan."

  "That is likely," the president admitted with a frown. "They will not be pleased. However, there are other concerns in the South right now. Our streets are dangerous. Unrest and violence run rampant through our capital. I am certain that my kidnapping is also troubling. I suppose it is possible that we have not been noticed."

  "They know," the Master of Sinanju said. He stood behind Sun, hands tucked inside the sleeves of his kimono.

  Remo was the only other person besides Sun and the Master of Sinanju still standing. He remained several yards away from Chiun. As his teacher spoke, he turned away.

  "The capitalist troops along the border will be prepared," Kim Jong Il interjected. "Even if the South does not know, they certainly will."

  Sun nodded. "Precisely," he said. "It is far too dangerous for us all to proceed, though I know you all wish to share in this glorious moment. Our number must be trimmed to only the most essential, lest we risk destroying all we hope to achieve."

  "Can't you see the future?" Remo mocked.

  Sun turned to him. "I see," he said, blandly. "And I interpret. It is not my place to tell all."

  "Convenient out," Remo snorted. Crossing his arms, he stared off at a frozen rice paddy. As he looked at the barren expanse, he could feel Chiun's eyes boring angry holes into the back of his head.

  "The leaders of this divided land should come with me," Sun announced to the crowd. "As should the Master of Sinanju. The rest must stay here."

  There was a disappointed groan from those gathered.

  Sun raised his hands. "Any slight sadness you feel now will turn to unbridled joy with the coming of pyon ha-da."

  With that, the cult leader pushed back through the kneeling throng to the open door of his limousine.

  The president of South Korea and the premier of the North followed behind him. Padding silently in the wake of all three men came the Master of Sinanju.

  Remo stuffed his hands in his pockets. Sullenly, he left the crowd and wandered over to the waiting car.

  When Remo reached the limo and began to climb in, an arm suddenly barred his way.

  "You cannot come," Man Hyung Sun announced from the back seat. His eyes were flat.

  "Move it or I break it off," Remo warned, indicating the cult leader's arm with a nod.

  "Remo!" snapped Chiun. He had been getting in the other side of the black limousine. His head bobbed above the roof now as he stared furiously at his pupil.

  "I mean it, pal," Remo said to Sun, his voice perfectly level. "If you don't want to go through the rest of your life with one wing, you'll move. Now."

  This was the last straw for Chiun. The old Korean flapped around the rear of the car, coming up beside Remo.

  "Forgive this one, Great Seer," Chiun spit. "He is a fool."

  "Better a fool than a stooge," Remo countered.

  Chiun bridled at the insult.

  "This is a holy moment," Sun interjected. "It is not open for disbelievers."

  "I don't know what kind of half-assed, get-rich-quick scheme you've cooked up," Remo said. "But there's no way you're going without me."

  Remo felt Chiun move in closer. His steady voice chilled Remo to the icy center of his barren soul.

  "Leave," the old Korean commanded.

  Slowly, like the deliberate movement of a glacier through a mountain-rimmed valley, Remo turned to his teacher.

  "Make me."

  The challenge was given. Remo did not need to wait to see what Chiun's response would be.

  Stepping sideways, the Master of Sinanju moved away from Sun and the limousine, keeping Remo in sight at all times. He circled until he felt that he was a safe distance from the man he had sworn to protect.

  Careful to keep up his guard, Remo matched Chiun's moves, becoming the mirror image of his teacher. As they danced around one another, the limo melted farther and farther away.

  The crowd of Koreans broke out around them, forming a concentric circle outside the much smaller center that was the two combatants. Even the two Korean leaders scampered back out of the waiting car to watch the inevitable fight. Only Sun did not trail them.

  "You are a blasphemer," Chiun hissed as he circled Remo.

  Remo shook his head. "He's a liar, Chiun. You know it on some level, I'm sure."

  They were far enough away from the limo. Sun had still not followed them.

  "He was a confidence man at one time," Chiun agreed hotly. "But are you so blind that you cannot see that is past? People change. The troublemaker Jew you so revere was a carpenter before the onset of celebrity."

  "A carpenter isn't a bunco artist," Remo advised.

  "No," Chiun admitted. "A bunco artist can sometimes make something of himself."

  Still circling and without yet making a single move toward each other, the two men slid off the road and out onto the frozen mud of the rice paddy. Their curious and expectant entourage followed.

  THROUGH THE SMOKY GLASS of the limousine, Sun watched them go. He had clicked the door shut after the crowd moved across the road. Now, as the huge group stepped out onto the broad wasteland, he bent over, collecting something from the floor.

  It was the package he had retrieved from his private jet back at Pyongyang airport. Tucking the flat box up under his arm, he slid out the far side of the limo.

  Stealing back down the long line of vehicles, he found the first jeep with a set of keys left inside. Climbing in, he glanced over to the field where Remo and Chiun and their crowd of followers stood.

  They were far away. Largely blocked by a line of official North Korean government cars.

  Smiling, Sun started the jeep. He pulled out on the side of the road opposite the crowd. He drove along the bumpy shoulder to the front of the line, nosing in front of the armor-plated limousine that he had never intended to take to the border.

  Driving off, he saw briefly in the wide expanse of the Korean countryside the blood-red arena of his waking dreams. It flickered in like a mirage.

  The wounded form of the Pythia hovered at the periphery of his consciousness. Although its cloak of yellow smoke seemed more faded than ever, there was a sense of satisfaction in the ancient spirit.

  "You have done well," the voice in his mind rasped. "All has happened as I have foretold."

  As he bounced down the long road to the Thirty-eighth Parallel, Sun felt his heart swell with pride. "And I will rule this united land?" he asked.

  "Of course, my vessel," said the vision as it began to slowly fade. "Of course."

  And if the demon force did
not cloud his mind so completely, Man Hyung Sun might have detected the hollow tone of untruth in the words.

  CAPTAIN YUN YONG GUN of the North Korean frigate Chosun had been defying orders for the better part of four hours.

  The increased student activity in the South had brought some concern to the North. Captain Gun was supposed to be patrolling farther up the Korean Bay near Nampo, where the waters of the Taedong-gang flowed out into the Yellow Sea. It was part of the muscle flexing that had been going on in the North Korean military for the past several days.

  Instead of sailing north, the captain of the Chosun was loitering farther south, in the North's territorial waters west of Haeju.

  There he waited.

  He smiled blissfully as the appointed hour approached, oblivious to the stares he was receiving from his men. It did not matter what they thought. Nothing mattered except the wisdom of the great holy man whose followers had shown him the proper path in life. His only regret was that he had not been able to share any of his revelations with the men under his command.

  When the time came, Captain Gun ordered his men to begin the prelaunch sequence for two of the Free Rocket Over Ground old Soviet tactical missiles that had been adapted for use aboard the Chosun.

  As his orders were followed, he fretted that the payloads of the two FROGs were conventional HE warheads and not nuclear. Nuclear would have been more fun. With atomic warheads, he would have been able to see the mushroom clouds from where his ship bobbed in the rough waters of the Yellow Sea.

  When all was ready, Captain Yun Yong Gun personally entered the new target sites into the system. When his weapons officer pointed out that one of the sites was within the boundaries of North Korea itself, Gun pulled out his automatic and shot the man between the eyes. In the resulting confusion, the captain fired both missiles.

  The frigate Chosun felt as if it would rattle apart as the two FROG 7s rumbled from their sleepy nests and arced up into the sky over the great black sea.

  Captain Gun did not witness the majestic sight. As the twin infernos of tail fire were clearing the launch tubes on deck, he was already pressing the barrel of his automatic against his own temple.

  The sharp explosion from the muzzle of his weapon was muffled by two things: Captain Yun Yong Gun's brains and the sound of the sleek missiles roaring inland.