"I cannot trade my services for information my ears have not heard nor my brain evaluated," returned Chiun stonily.
"When I reveal my information, it will sing to your ears and fire your spirit."
"I will listen and if this is true, I will respond accordingly."
Just then the air raid sirens wailed a song that froze the blood and brought the color of cold stone to the faces of the two Kims.
Kim Pyong II sucked in a deep breath. "I regret to inform the Master of Sinanju, guardian of our honor and fountain of our glory, that the hated Americans have targeted the Pearl of the Orient with their vicious missiles."
"Nice try," said Remo.
"Is this true?" Chiun demanded, cold of voice.
"You know it isn't true," Remo said.
"It's true," insisted Kim Pyong II. "Having lost Sinanju to the East, the reactionaries desire its destruction."
Chiun's wispy hair quivered delicately. "But Sinanju dwells not in my village, but in the heart of the Master."
"And his pupil," said Remo.
"Nevertheless, Master, it is so."
Chiun turned to Remo. "Could this be true? Would Smith be so foolish?"
"Maybe yes. Maybe no. Why don't we ask him?"
"He would never admit this."
"I do not know who Smith is," said Kim Pyong II, "but I have an official cable from Washington warning that this is so."
"Where is this cable?"
And the attending General Toksa proffered the cable. The Master of Sinanju took it. Remo read it over his shoulder.
"Looks authentic to me," Remo said.
"Why does it say Sinanju Scorpion?" wondered Chiun.
"I do not know," the premier of North Korea said, licking his pale lips.
"You lie!"
Eyes shifted guiltily.
"My information is correct and true," Kim Pyong II said stiffly, "and I must have your answer and allegiance."
"And I will give it when the full truth is revealed."
Eyes shifted again.
"He's hiding something," Kim Jong II said. "I know him. He's my little half brother, the weasel."
"You should talk," Remo grunted.
"Go on, tell the Master of Sinanju. Tell him the truth."
Remo stepped up and took Kim Pyong II by the back of the head, lifting him off his booted feet. "There are ways and there are ways."
"An announcement was made," Kim Pyong II said. "It was premature. We did send you an offer, did we not?"
"The House has come to Pyongyang, has it not?" Chiun countered.
"We announced to our enemies and the world that Sinanju again serves Korea. The true Korea. Yes?"
No one spoke. Chiun's eyes were chilling with every passing second.
"The hated enemies, loathsomely jealous, employed their sky spies to seek out the new seat of Korean power and, finding your village, placed it in the cross hairs of their thousand guns."
"They have threatened Sinanju?"
"You have read the cable yourself. Never before have they been so bold."
"This isn't like Smith," Remo said. "Or Washington, for that matter."
Chiun's glittering eyes fixed Kim Pyong II. "You have placed my village and its people in danger."
"No. I swear I did nothing deliberate. It was merely counterreactionary propaganda."
At that point Kim Jong II stepped up and said, "Kill him and I can get you out of this."
Chiun turned his head, fixing Jong with a steely eye. "How?"
And Kim Jong II whispered in the ear of the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun stood there for a long moment. His hazel eyes narrowed and lengthened, and his crafty brain processed the conundrum before him.
Suddenly he said, "Remo, you are my son?"
"Yes."
"You would do anything I ask?"
"Within reason. Yeah."
"Protect Kim Jong II from all harm."
Remo groaned. "Don't ask me to do that."
But it was too late. With a cry of rage, the Master of Sinanju spun like a top and dervishlike whirled into the personal guard of Kim Pyong II.
Hands clawed for Tokarev side arms, and heads began jumping like pineapples being sickled.
No one screamed. No one had time to scream. Only to die. And die they did. Violently, magnificently, surrendering blood, bone and internal organs until they lay in steaming heaps upon the soundstage floor, the final and ultimate tribute to the Master of Sinanju.
When the blood harvest was complete, the Master of Sinanju emerged from his frenzied dance of death to a position of cold calmness. His bloodless hands, clean as if just washed, retreated to the hollow of his joined kimono sleeves.
"You are restored to your throne," he told Kim Jong II.
"Actually I'd just as soon make movies. But if you could tell the surviving generals to leave me the bleep alone, I'll call it even."
"Agreed. Once you have surrendered to me the valuable prize you promised."
"Let me make a few phone calls."
"What's the name of the movie?" Remo asked, looking around at the lavish set.
Jong grinned happily. "King K'on."
"It's been done."
Kim Jong II looked stricken. Then he went to make his calls.
When he came back, he said. "It's all set. By the way, we have a new problem. The South is overrunning the Thirty-eighth Parallel. Won't be long before they're all over Pyongyang like white on rice. Next thing you know, they'll be souvenir hunting in Sinanju."
"Never," said Chiun. And the Master of Sinanju and the newly installed Leader for Life of Korea huddled for some minutes.
Chapter Forty-six
The president of South Korea was as safe as a South Korean could be with red war returning to the peninsula. Of that, there could be to doubt, no question.
There were bunkers all over the land. But a bunker by its very nature had been rejected as a likely target for bombs. And if the madmen in Pyongyang had developed a nuclear bomb, no bunker built could preserve the life of the South Korean leader if the bunker found itself at ground zero.
As he sat at a simple card table deep in the lava tubes of Man Jang Caves on the southernmost Korean island of Cheju-do, listening to a shortwave radio, the president of South Korea didn't feel safe.
He chain-smoked Turtle Ship cigarettes as he wondered if Seoul still stood. If the North had a nuke, they would unleash it upon Seoul. If two, then Seoul would be doubly destroyed. And if Seoul fell under Pyongyang bombs, the Americans wouldn't hesitate to nuke Pyongyang flat. There would be no pieces to pick up after that.
But the president of South Korea would survive. Even if the peninsula were overrun, he would survive. The entire North would be crushed by the Americans in time, and even if some surviving Pyongyanger controlled Sinanju after all was radioactive dust, Sinanju wouldn't look for the president of South Korea in Cheju-do Island. They would assume him obliterated in the fireball that consumed Seoul.
But to be certain of survival, there were ROK Tiger Marines stationed at the entrance to the network of lava tubes that in peacetime served as a tourist attraction. His most trusted aide had control of the innermost circle of defense. His second-most-trusted aide controlled the middle perimeter. The outer shield defense belonged to his third-most-trusted aide.
That was the mistake of the president of South Korea, he soon discovered.
There had been no warning. No warning was possible. All telephone and other communications using wire were forbidden in Man Jang Cave lava womb. Only shortwave, which could not be traced.
And since his defense teams had no shortwaves of their own, they were unable to alert him that a typhoon had descended upon Cheju-do Island in the form of a wispy little man.
And so in silence they fell, unbeknownst to the president of South Korea, who smoked in nervous ignorance.
The final door was not lava but steel. It opened with no more sound than a breath of subterranean air. Trying to listen through the crackle and static of his shortwave headset, the president paid it no mind.