The Eleventh Hour td-70

by Warren Murphy

  Before Remo, Smith had fought his own private war through his computers, sifting computer links for tipoffs to improper stock transactions, large bank transfers that might reveal bribes received or the movement of drug money. Through unsuspected connections to the IRS and Social Security Administration files, he possessed unmatchable identification facilities. An army of informants in all walks of life reported to Smith through these computers, never suspecting they were reporting to an unknown organization called CURE. In the pre-Remo days, Smith anonymously tipped off the proper law-enforcement agencies to crimes in the making. Now he did that with only the routine problems. On the big stuff he sent in Remo Williams.

  It was illegal, of course, but CURE was not a legal entity. Just a necessary one. Data streamed into Smith's computer, were sorted and tagged. Criminal patterns, aberrations in money and stock transfers, in arms and goods, triggered red flags built into the software. Important criminal activity in the making was thus targeted and offered to Smith as a probability readout, for possible action.

  With the end in sight, Smith could see a day when more of his work would return to those days before he had ordered Remo Williams pressed into CURE's service. Maybe ordinary law-enforcement agencies could take up the burden. For a brief second Smith thought about retirement, then dismissed it.

  There could be no retirement for a CURE operative. Just death. Near the basement computer bank there was a coffin with Smith's name on it. It was there in case a presidential directive ordered Smith to disband CURE for security reasons. A secret such as CURE could not be saved for retirement. Smith was prepared to die.

  Smith dismissed the thought from his mind. Something was wrong with the computer, the screen was dimming. Brownout.

  CURE's computers ran off Folcroft's supposedly dormant backup generators, but they were failing. Smith touched a switch beside the terminal, switching power from the generators to Folcroft's main lines.

  The screen brightened.

  "Memo to Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said into a pocket memo recorder. "Have the emergency generators overhauled."

  The phone rang.

  "Harold?" an older woman's voice asked. It was Smith's wife. Even she called him Harold. It was never Harry or Hal.

  "Yes, dear?"

  "Will you be home for lunch?"

  "No. I will be working through the day."

  "I worry about you, Harold. Working all night like this."

  "Yes, dear," Smith said absently, watching the screen.

  "Don't forget to have a good breakfast." The CURE line began blinking.

  "One moment," Smith said. "I have another call." He switched to the other phone, putting his wife on hold.

  "Yes, Remo. You were successful?"

  "Chiun is dying," Remo blurted out.

  Smith said nothing for a long moment. "You are sure?" he asked carefully.

  "Of course I'm sure. Dammit, would I say something like that if I wasn't sure? The doctors say it's so and even Chiun says it's so."

  "What's wrong with him?"

  "No one knows."

  Smith thought Remo sounded close to tears. He said, "I'll arrange a special flight. We'll bring Chiun back to Folcroft. The finest doctors will examine him."

  "Forget all that crap. Chiun wants to go home. He says he wants to die there."

  "There are no medical facilities in Sinanju," Smith said flatly. "We can do more for him here."

  "Look, Chiun wants to go home. So he's going home. Set it up, Smitty!"

  "It's not that simple," Smith pointed out with implacable logic. "Chartering a U.S. nuclear sub isn't like calling a cab. The Darter is in San Diego being refitted for the annual shipment of gold to Chiun's village. It leaves in two weeks. We'll bring Chiun here and attend to him until the sub is ready."

  "We're going to Sinanju, Smitty. Now. Even if I have to steal a plane and fly it myself."

  Remo's tone of voice was shocking in its vehemence. "Very well," Smith said, with more calmness than he felt. "I will arrange a flight to the west coast. A submarine will be waiting at the usual spot. You know the drill."

  "Thanks, Smitty," Remo said suddenly.

  "I want you back when this is over," Smith said without warmth. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Irma is on the other line."

  "Irma? Who's Irma?" Remo asked.

  "My wife."

  "I thought your wife's name was Maude."

  "It is," Smith said evenly. "Irma is her pet name."

  "Only you, Smitty, would give a woman named Maude a pet name like Irma," said Remo. "If you had a dog, you'd call it Fido. Or Rover. I'll be in touch."

  "Don't forget to come back," Smith said, and hung up.

  "You were saying, dear," Smith said into the other phone.

  "I said don't forget to have a good breakfast."

  "Yes, dear. Mrs. Mikulka always brings my unsweetened grapefruit juice and prune-whip yogurt from the commissary when she somes in."

  "Good. I'll see you at dinner." The line went dead. Smith returned to his computer. He began keying in the commands that would, through people in the United States military, initiate the movements of aircraft that would evacuate Remo and Chiun to Miramar Naval Air Station in California, and from there by helicopter to the USS Darter, stationed at the San Diego Naval Base. The sub would require emergency orders from COMSUBPAC to leave its station early, but Smith could accomplish that by remote control.

  He had that power. And no one knew it.

  Colonel Viktor Ditko pored over a map of North Korea and found Sinanju on the west coast. It was on a bay at the edge of one of the most heavily industrialized sectors of the North. A tiny dot indicated the location.

  Going to a more detailed map, Ditko found, to his dismay, that only another tiny dot indicated Sinanju's location.

  He swore under his breath. North Korean maps. They were no more reliable than North Koreans. Ditko dug out a map so detailed that it showed city blocks in the nearby towns of Chonju and Sunchon. Sinanju was simply a blank area at the edge of Sinanju Bay.

  "Do they not have streets in Sinanju?" he asked himself.

  Colonel Ditko got on the phone. He called his liaison in the North Korean government.

  "Captain Nekep speaking," said an oily voice.

  "I must ask you a question. You must not repeat this question to anyone."

  "Done," said Captain Nekep, who had been a lowly corporal until Colonel Ditko tipped him off to a planned assassination attempt against North Korea's Great Leader, Kim Il Sung. As a result, Nekep had been promoted and Colonel Ditko had a potentially valuable ally in the North Korea Army.

  "What do you know of Sinanju?" Ditko asked.

  "On our official maps, it is designated as a restricted area with a double red line."

  Ditko whistled soundlessly. The Presidential Palace in Pyongyang rated only a single red line.

  "It is a military installation, then?"

  "No. It is a fishing village."

  "Does it not seem strange to you, Captain, that a mere fishing village is kept off limits?"

  "I do not ask questions about matters when to know the answer carries a hanging penalty."

  "I need to get a person into Sinanju."

  "I do not know you," said Captain Nekep, and hung up.

  "Ingrate," Colonel Ditko hissed. But the captain's reaction had satisfied him that the videotape recording made by the Korean-American journalist Sammy Kee was indeed valuable.

  He would take the tape to Moscow personally. It was risky, but great rewards might result from the taking of such a risk. And Colonel Viktor Ditko had known disgrace in his career. He did not fear it.

  In the basement of the Russian embassy, Colonel Ditko unlocked the interrogation room, which he had ordered off limits.

  Sammy Kee awoke with a start. He had been sleeping on a mat. He slept a lot. At first, he couldn't sleep from nervous exhaustion, but after a day and a half of captivity, depression had set in like a nagging cold. He slept a lot when he was depressed. It
was a blessing now.

  "Get up," Colonel Ditko ordered.

  Sammy got up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Listen to me. Here is food and water and a bowl for your bodily functions. I will not be able to let you out to go to the bathroom for at least three days. Do not fear that I have abandoned you. I am going to Moscow, to speak with the General Secretary personally. In the meantime, you will stay locked within this room. I am taking the only key with me. Do not cry for help. Do not call attention to yourself. I am the only person in the compound who knows you are here. If others find you, your death would be certain."

  "I understand," said Sammy Kee dully.

  "You are a long way from San Francisco," Colonel Ditko reminded him.

  "I know."

  "Good. I will return within three days."

  "What if you don't?"

  "It will be better for you to starve to death in this room than if you are discovered. You know that?" And Sammy Kee slipped to the floor as the door locked shut.

  It was sound psychology, Colonel Ditko knew. The Korean-American might hate him and fear him, and that would be useful later. But for the next few days, Sammy Kee would live for Colonel Ditko's return, because Ditko's return meant fresh food and relief from the claustrophobic smell of his own excrement.

  It was so easy to manipulate these soft Americans, Colonel Ditko thought to himself. In his home environment, Sammy Kee would not think twice about his next meal. Bathroom facilities he took for granted. Colonel Ditko had made them more important than anything else-including Sammy Kee's desire to escape. That would safeguard his own secret until he returned to North Korea.

  Returning to his own quarters, Colonel Viktor Ditko removed his glasses and dropped them to the hardwood floor. They did not shatter. So he crushed them under the heel of his boot.

  Picking up the largest shard of one lens, Colonel Ditko walked to his bunk. In the Soviet KGB there were no transfers home, not by request or bribe. Only for medical emergency.

  But Colonel Ditko had to get back to Moscow. And so, he sat on his bunk and, steeling himself, slowly sliced the pupil of his left eye with a piece of broken eyeglass.

  The rewards, he told himself as he ground his teeth in agony, would be worth the pain.

  Chapter 6

  "Little Father, are you comfortable?" Remo asked tenderly.

  Chiun, Master of Sinanju, lay on a reed mat on the floor of the submarine cabin. They had been given the largest officers' stateroom, which meant that, with the folding bunk up, it was slightly more spacious than a pantry. Two fluffy pillows cradled Chiun's aged head. His hazel eyes were dreamy, half-closed.

  "I will be comfortable when this voyage is at last over."

  "Me too," said Remo, kneeling beside Chiun. The room pitched ever so slightly. Incense curled from brass bowls Remo had placed in every corner of the cabin to smother the stale metallic taste of the recirculated air that was inescapable on even the most modern nuclear submarine. Remo had spent half the afternoon covering the false wood paneling of the walls with tapestries from the fourteen steamer trunks that contained Chiun's personal possessions.

  "The captain said we should be arriving before evening," Remo said.

  "How would he know? There is no evening in this filthy vessel."

  "Hush," said Remo, trying to soothe Chiun's mood. "We were lucky that this sub was ready to go."

  "Did you check the gold, as I asked?"

  "Twice in the last hour. It is safe."

  "It is well. This may be the last gold the village of Sinanju will receive from the mad Emperor Smith."

  "Don't say that, Chiun."

  "Still," Clriun continued, his eyes still half-closed, "I am at peace, for we are going home. To Sinanju."

  "You are going home, Little Father. Sinanju is your home, not mine. Smith expects me to return to America."

  "How can you return to that land? And leave your wife? Your children? Your village?"

  Remo forgot himself and asked, "Wife? Children? What are you babbling about?"

  "Why, the wife you will take once we are in Sinanju. And the children she will bear you. It is your duty, Remo. When I am gone, you must carry on the traditions. And Sinanju must have an heir."

  "I am honored, Little Father, but I don't know that I can do that."

  "Do not be shy, Remo. If you cannot find a Sinanju maiden who will accept your whiteness, I will find one for you. I promise."

  "Oh no," said Remo. "Not more matchmaking. Remember what happened last time you tried to fix me up with a Korean girl? I'm not going through that again."

  "I am dying, without a true heir, bereft of grandchildren, and you are burdening me with your childish concerns."

  "I am sorry you do not have grandchildren, Little Father. I cannot help that."

  "Perhaps if you hurry, I will live long enough to see your bride fat with child. I could go peacefully into the Void then. That would be enough. It is not the same as bouncing a grandchild on my knee, but I have been cursed by misfortune all my life."

  "You've made more money from America's contract than all of the Masters in Sinanju history combined."

  "I have not gotten respect. I have not worked for a true emperor, but for a doctor, and a quack at that. In Egypt, the court physician always walked a full two paces behind the royal assassin. Now we are reduced to working for bloodletters."

  "The village can live comfortably for centuries on the stuff in your treasure house."

  "How many times have I instructed you that Masters of Sinanju do not touch capital?" Chiun demanded. "I am the first Master to change his name in shame. Have I told you that story, Remo?"

  Remo started to say yes, but Chiun was already into the tale.

  "I was not always known as Chiun. I was born Nuihc, son of Nuihc, grandson of Yui. My line was a proud line, for I was the bearer of the great tradition of Sinanju. But my house fell on hard times. First there were the terrible European wars that blanketed the world, when there was no proper work for the assassin. Just for foot soldiers. My prime years were spent in idleness and inglorious tasks.

  "I married unwisely. For my wife, who was sharp of tongue and avaricious of nature, bore me no heirs. This was a tragedy, but not without salvation. At her insistence, I agreed to train as the next Master of Sinanju a nephew, also named, after me, Nuihc. I trained him in the sun source. He was a good pupil. He learned slowly, but he learned thoroughly. Unlike some."

  Remo didn't know if that last was a dig or a lefthanded compliment. He let it pass.

  "When the day came that I stepped down as Master of Sinanju, Nuihc went off on his first task. The days passed in silence, they turned to weeks, and months. And when years passed, I heard how this Nuihc, this fat-faced deceiver, was practicing Sinanju willy-nilly all over the world. Not a dram of tribute came back to the village of Sinanju. It looked as if hard times were back, and soon we would be sending the babies home to the sea."

  Remo nodded. Sending the babies home to the sea meant drowning them. The Village of Sinanju was poor, the soil unplantable, the waters of the bay too frigid to yield food fish. In olden times, when there wasn't enough food for everyone, the babies were drowned in the cold bay in the hope that they would be reborn in a better time. First the girls, then, as a last resort, the boys. In Sinanju, they called it "sending the babies home to the sea" to ease the pain of the terrible necessity.

  "And so," Chiun continued, "at an age when Masters before me were happily retired from world travel and raising many grandchildren, I again took up the responsibility of my ancestors. In my shame, I reversed the letters of my name, Nuihc, so that none would think I was related to the base traitor, also called Nuihc. And I became Chiun. So I was known when we first met, Remo."

  Remo remembered. It was in Folcroft's gymnasium. It seemed like a long time ago. Chiun was the trainer MacCleary and Smith had picked to transform Remo into CURE's killer arm. At first, Chiun merely taught Remo karate, a little Ninjutsu, and some other light skills. But afte
r a few weeks, Chiun suddenly told Remo to forget everything he had learned up till then.

  "Child's games," Chiun had whispered. "Tricks stolen from my ancestors by thieves. They are the rays of the sun source. Sinanju is the source. I will now teach you Sinanju."

  And so it had begun.

  "I remember when MacCleary first came to my village," Chiun continued in a faraway voice. "I had again retired, this time for lack of employment. MacCleary asked for something no one had asked for in many centuries. He asked, not for the Master of Sinanju's service, but for his help training another in the sun source. In more plentiful times, I would have slain him where he stood just for suggesting such a thing. But those were not plentiful times. And so I agreed, shamed as I was."

  "You weren't sorry long, Little Father." Remo smiled. "I took to Sinanju better than anyone before."

  "Silence," said Chiun, this time opening his eyes. "Who is telling this story? You or I? And if you were a good pupil-which I do not admit-it is only because you had perfection for a teacher."

  "Excuse me," Remo said, but he was secretly glad. Chiun seemed to be coming out of his half-drowse. There was a little of the old fire in his eyes again, and it made Remo's heart rise.

  "This MacCleary told me I would be training an orphan, one who had been found in a basket on a doorstep. I was pleased to hear this. The younger they are the better they absorb Sinanju."

  Chiun turned his face to Remo.

  "Imagine my disgust when I learned you were fully grown, except in mind."

  "You got over it," Remo said gently.

  "What I did not get over was your whiteness. I could have trained another Korean. Even a Chinese or a Filipino. Any properly colored person. But a white-worse, an American white of uncertain parentage. I nearly went home when I first cast eyes upon you. That was when I decided to teach you karate and other lesser arts stolen from Sinanju. Who would know the difference?"