There was a man standing there in the darkness. He was tall and looked American. But he wore some kind of black outfit that made Sergeant Murdock think of the Vietcong's black pajama uniforms.
"Shake a leg," the guy said, giving the glass another hard tap.
"What?"
"We gotta get across."
"You're defecting?"
"No, you are defective," a squeaky voice said from Murdock's right. He whirled.
Standing on the other side was a little yellow man, all in black. He was looking up at Sergeant Murdock with hard hazel eyes and a face that was a cobwebby mask. "I can't let you across the bridge," Murdock said.
"You would not need to if you idiots had not destroyed my personal tunnel."
"Your personal-"
"Constructed with the cooperation of Pyongyang for the convenience of the Master of Sinanju, and destroyed by careless cretins."
"Move it or lose it, pal," said the white guy.
"I can't. I have my orders."
"Suit yourself," said the white guy, tapping the glass. This time he tapped once, gently, and the glass spiderwebbed and fell into the hollow of the door like candy glass.
A hand at the end of a thick wrist came into the cab, and Sergeant Murdock reached for his side arm.
He touched the butt of the revolver, scooting away from the driver's-side door and the reaching hand. Before he could clear the holster, the passenger door fell open and he fell with it. Right into the dirt.
A sandal stamped down like a punch press, and Sergeant Murdock found himself holding a useless twist of steel instead of an Army-issue Colt .45 automatic.
The old Korean leaped into the passenger's seat as the white claimed the driver's seat, and both doors slammed shut. The Truck slammed into reverse, tires spitting hard dirt into Sergeant Murdock's stunned face.
It rolled onto the Bridge of No Return, and kept going.
In the dark the UN blue helmets jumped to the wrong conclusion.
"Retreat! Retreat to defensive positions."
Only Sergeant Murdock knew it was a false alarm, but the way the UN troops were pulling back, firing as they ran, he had no choice but to pull back with them. That or be shot by his own people.
As he sought the safety of a UN bunker, he wondered about the white guy. He sounded as American as can be. What kind of American would defect to North Korea in this day and age?
COLONEL KYUNG CHO CHI saw the Truck approaching his control bunker in reverse.
He recognized it as an American deuce and a half, and since it was coming from the direction of the Bridge of No Return in reverse, he leaped to a logical conclusion.
It was the Truck, the one the Americans kept on standby in case Colonel Kyung received the order to storm the Bridge of No Return.
It was supposed to block the bridge, but it was clearly coming toward his fortified post. And it was alone.
"What kind of lunatic attack is this?" he muttered, dropping his field glasses from his narrowed eyes. "Shoot out the tires!" he yelled.
The word went up and down the line, and the gunfire commenced.
"Cease fire!" he ordered when the Truck slewed to a wild stop, ending up facing forward.
"Capture the driver!"
Commandos went out, but they started back the instant they reached the Truck. They came back in parts. An arm here. A leg spun there. A helmeted head bounced and rolled to a stop at Colonel Kyung's feet like a turtle whose legs are pulled in from fright.
Not a shot was fired. Not by his men. Not by the Americans-unless one counted the distant shooting too far away to hit anyone under Colonel Kyung's command.
"The next northern dog who fires at the Master of Sinanju," a booming voice resounded, "will cause the deaths of himself and all who run with him."
"Sinanju!" Colonel Kyung barked. Lifting his voice, he demanded, "Who comes?"
"Chiun. Reigning Master."
"Why did you not use the tunnel?"
"The idiot whites filled it with clods of dirt."
Colonel Kyung stood up. "They are barbarians whose days are numbered."
"Their empire will outlast the regime in Pyongyang by a thousand years," the Master of Sinanju flung back.
Stung, Colonel Kyung did not respond to this. He was a good Communist, and fully half his men were political officers whose task it was to shoot any defector headed south in the back and report disloyalty directly to Pyongyang.
"You wish transportation north?" Colonel Kyung asked after an awkward silence.
"Send a jeep to fetch us. I will walk no farther now that you have stupidly broken the truck of the Americans with your clumsy bullets."
"Us? Who is with you?"
"My nephew."
Colonel Kyung personally drove the jeep to the spot in no-man's-land where the US. truck sat on three blown tires.
The Master of Sinanju stood with his hands unseen in the sleeves of his kimono. Beside him stood a tall man, also in black, Colonel Kyung recognized it as the two-piece fighting uniform of the ancient night tigers of Sinanju.
Remembering to bow first, he addressed the Master of Sinanju. "It is an honor to ferry you to Pyongyang."
"We go to Sinanju."
"Once Pyongyang authorizes this, I will be honored to take you to Sinanju."
"If Pyongyang learns of my presence before the Master of Sinanju is ready for Pyongyang to know, dire will be your fate."
"Understood," said Colonel Kyung, who was a good Communist but preferred his internal organs to remain within the warm bag of his body and not be torn from them in anger.
In the dark he noticed the face of the tall night tiger. It was white.
"This man is white," Colonel Kyung said suspiciously,
"Half-white."
"Half?"
"He is my American nephew." "You have an American nephew?"
"His mother was from my village. His father was a soldier in the invasion."
Colonel Kyung spat on the ground. "He looks all white."
"Consider at his eyes."
Colonel Kyung stepped up to the unflinching eyes. The eyes of the white night tiger were very dark in the dim moonlight. They were also very dead. They gave Colonel Kyung the chills. They were the eyes of a dead man who had refused to lie down and relinquish his life.
"They do look Korean," he admitted. "A little." The Master of Sinanju smiled. The white frowned. He seemed to understand Korean.
"What name does this half-breed go by?" Colonel Kyung demanded.
"He is called Gung Ho."
"That is no name for a Korean."
"It is good enough for a half Korean. Now I must be to my village."
Colonel Kyung waved to his waiting jeep. The Master of Sinanju and his half-white night tiger took the hard seats in back. And Colonel Kyung set the jeep rolling north; stopping only to warn his men not to leak word of the Master of Sinanju's advent.
He felt certain that none would. All were loyal to Pyongyang, but even Pyongyang feared the wrath of Sinanju.
In the back of the jeep, Remo nudged the Master of Sinanju.
"Gung Ho?" he asked in English.
Chiun shrugged. "You were a Marine. It suits you."
"And that fib about me being half-Korean?"
"How do you know that you are not?"
Remo folded his arms and said nothing. He did not like being back in North Korea. It was as alien to him as the moon.
As they pushed north, he began noticing how much like New England the trees and hills were, and it suddenly occurred to him why Chiun had taken to living in New England so well. It was probably as close to North Korea as he could get in America.
It was as dangerous a risk as Harold Smith had contemplated in all his years as head of CURE.
He sat facing the placid sound, brows knit, wiping his rimless eyeglasses, thinking hard.
He stood at a crossroads. He had lost every advantage that his position as head of CURE afforded him. All his secrets were known and laid bare before his unknown foe. Except one. Smith's discovery that he had a hidden opponent. In that one fact not recorded on his mainframes lay the advantage of surprise. For Harold Smith, bereft of his enforcement arm, was about to enter the field personally.