The ghostly tap on his shoulder made his heart leap into his mouth, and without turning, he knew.
"Sinanju?" he croaked.
A thin, merciless voice intoned, "You erred."
"How?"
"For the three rings to work correctly, the most trusted ones must take up the outer ring. For they will fight more fiercely. The second ring nearly as fiercely. Thus, your assassin will be fatigued by the time he reaches the least trustworthy ring, and might succumb." The voice cooled. "Unless your assassin is of Sinanju."
The president of South Korea groaned, the cigarette falling from his bloodless lips.
"Turn and face me, man of Seoul."
Woodenly the Korean president obeyed. He found no strength in his legs and merely turned in his chair.
The eyes of the Master of Sinanju were like agates of deep hardness.
"You have come for my life___"
"No. I have come for your surrender."
"Seoul has fallen?"
"No. Nor Pyongyang, either. Your forces own the mountains. But only those."
"I cannot surrender to Pyongyang and face my ancestors."
The Master's papery mask of a face softened. "Well spoken. The South is not as spiritless as I have heard. No, you will not surrender to Pyongyang. Nor will Pyongyang surrender to Seoul. But both must surrender so that this conflict ends well and face is preserved."
The South Korean president looked perplexed. "If neither can surrender to the other, who will we surrender to?"
And the Master of Sinanju whispered a name.
Secretary General Anwar Anwar-Sadat was too busy drawing up the formal documents regarding the U.S.-Mexico observer group to worry about the end of the world. The phone rang constantly, and aides scurried in and out to announce this conflagration or that calamity. He would have none of it.
"I am very busy," he said testily. "It is not every day that I can impose the will of the United Nations upon the United States."
"But, my General—"
" 'Mr. Secretary.' "
"The two Koreas are at war."
"It is nothing. The Americans will solve that problem, and then we will step in and preserve the peace. Now begone."
It was late in the day when the under secretary for peacekeeping operations timidly approached the secretary general's desk and said, "The leaders of North and South Korea are on lines three and four. They wish to speak with you."
"About what?"
"Surrender."
The secretary general brightened as much as his stony face would allow. It was not every year two surrenders came his way. First Iraq, now this.
"Which one? Quickly, I must know."
"Both. Both wish to surrender. Neither will capitulate to the other."
"I do not understand."
"They are Asians. Saving face."
"Ah, yes, of course. Put them both on," said Anwar Anwar-Sadat, picking up two receivers and setting one to each ear as the under secretary performed the difficult task of working the line connections.
When the leaders of the two Koreas began chattering in his ears, the secretary general of the United Nations made his voice neutral. But his stony face softened in pleasure.
By the time this day was concluded, no one would wonder about the incident in the General Assembly again. He was solving the world's problems, alone and without outside assistance.
A Nobel Peace Prize was certain to be his.
When he had a working agreement, he returned to his final draft of UNUSMEXOG only to be told that that crisis was over, too.
"Over! I do not wish it to be over."
"Nevertheless, it is over. The Mexican forces have withdrawn from the U.S. border."
"This would have been my greatest moment, the culmination of my service as secretary general. Once the United States submits to the will of the world community, the last obstacle to my one-world order will have fallen like a stubborn domino."
"There is still the fiftieth-anniversary gala, my General."
"I would rather have my peacekeepers on the U.S. border," Anwar Anwar-Sadat said miserably.
Chapter Forty-seven
Harold Smith arrived at work the next morning like an automaton. He had hardly slept. He could barely think. But he was also helpless, and so he had gone home to sleep through the night hoping morning might come, if not for the world, at least for the United States—the only nation not immediately at risk, ironically, because it wasn't involved in the bidding war.
Remo and Chiun were waiting for him in his office. There was no sign of Mrs. Mikulka.
"My God!" Smith croaked.
"Hiya, Smitty," said Remo cheerfully.
"Greetings, Smith," the Master of Sinanju said in a severe voice. His kimono was a pale gold.
Then Harold Smith noticed the nuclear device. It was sitting on his desk in the form of a fat gravity bomb not very much unlike the one that had been dropped on Hiroshima.
"Is that what I think it is?" he said thickly.
"It is," said Remo.
"Where did you—er, what is it doing in my office?"
Remo spanked it once. "Kim Jong II gave it to us in trade."
"It is the North Korean atomic bomb?"
"Their only one."
Smith stepped back and fell into a sitting position on a green vinyl divan. "Why have you brought it here?"
"It is for sale," said Chiun loftily. "To the highest bidder."
"Actually we were thinking of a trade," said Remo.
"Trade?"
"Yeah." Remo addressed Chiun. "Can I handle this, Little Father?"
The Master of Sinanju nodded. "Do not fail, because the lives of my villagers are hanging in the balance."
"It's like this, Smitty. The good old USA has locked an ICBM on Sinanju. We want it declared a nontarget."
Smith started. "Where did you hear this?"
"Check it out if you don't believe me."
Harold Smith did. He rushed to his desk only to realize he couldn't access his system because of the bomb.
"Er, Remo. Could you… ?"
"Sure," Remo said brightly.
Stepping up, Remo wrapped his arms around the ungainly device and lifted it up and away. It went thunk on the hardwood floor.
"Be careful with that!" Smith gasped.
"Relax. It's not armed. At least, that's what they told us."
Smith booted up his desk computer and worked diligently for several minutes. He became utterly oblivious to his surroundings. When his patrician face came up, his gray skin was two shades paler and his voice had a frog in it.
"I can confirm that an SS-20 missile is currently targeted on the village of Sinanju. But why?"
"Washington thinks it's a secret-weapon installation."
"Where do they get that idea?"
"Pyongyang announced it controlled a secret weapon it called the Sinanju Scorpion," explained Remo. "Someone found Sinanju on a map, checked it out by satellite, noticed the three-lane highway Kim II Sung built for Chiun's convenience and decided the Horns of Welcome had to be some kind of death thingy."
"They are more correctly called the Horns of Warning," said Chiun.
"You've been to Sinanju, Smitty. You know what I'm talking about."
"Isn't it a natural rock formation?" Smith asked.
Chiun shook his aged head. "The rock is natural, but Master Yong carved it into the shape that welcomed seafaring clients and warned invaders that here was the inviolate seat of the Master of Sinanju. Ever since Yong, Korea has been conquered many times, but my village remains forever free."
Smith's prim mouth tightened to a bloodless knot. "You mentioned a trade."
"Yeah," said Remo. "According to Jong, this is the North's only nuke. It's yours if you de-target Sinanju."
"Done," said Harold Smith.
Remo blinked. "Can you do that?"
Smith nodded firmly. "Either through secret channels or directly through the President, but I assure you both it can and will be done."