The tank dropped them off before the grim grandeur of the People's Palace on the banks of the Tae- dong River.
The sergeant of the guards stepped out, flanked by Kalashnikov-toting soldiers and demanded that the Master of Sinanju prove his identity before being permitted to set eyes upon the glory of Dear Leader.
The Master of Sinanju stepped up and identified himself by raising a single ivory fingernail before the face of the sergeant of the guards. The sergeant's eyes crossed comically.
The fingernail drove into his brow with the sound of bone being pierced, and the sergeant of the guards found himself being spun in place. The sound of his skull being carved like a coconut hurt the ears.
Impelled by the upward hooking of the terrible fingernail, the top of his head popped like a champagne cork. A kicking sandal sent the fallen crown skittering away, and the sergeant of the guards went scurrying after it in the last moments of his life.
The others, satisfied as to the Master of Sinanju's identity, dutifully stepped aside.
"You were lucky you didn't ask me," Remo told them in Korean. "I'm a master of the Wedgie of Death."
The elevator was big enough to hold a square dance in and it took them to the top so fast Remo thought they were being launched into orbit.
Kim Jong II, resplendent in a silver race driver's suit and aviator glasses, met them. He was so squat and wide he looked as if he had been raised in a box. His fingers resembled fat yellow worms, and his pudgy face lacked all trace of character or personality.
"It is a very great pleasure to meet you, Gracious Master," he said, smiling. "My father has spoken of you often."
Chiun offered the slightest of bows with his head. "How fares he?"
"Near death, with a goiter almost the size of his fist protruding from his neck." Jong grinned. "He would make a good movie monster the way he looks now."
Chiun frowned. This was not the Jong he had heard of. His ways were soft.
"I understand your sadness," Kim Jong II said, noting the look that crossed the Master of Sinanju's face. "For my father told me the glorious story of how he personally led the victorious forces in the legendary Battle of Sinanju."
"Your father told you that?" Chiun said quickly.
"Many times."
"Then he is a many-times liar."
Kim Jong II blinked. "It would not be the first time," he admitted glumly. Kim noticed Remo then. "I see you have brought back a slave from America. I myself have several Japanese tourists that I have had kidnapped from other countries. The geisha are particularly squishy."
Chiun's hands coming together were a thunderclap. "Enough of this prattle."
"Yes, I called you here for a very excellent reason."
"And we came for an even better one," snapped Chiun.
"Ah?"
"A submarine of the West lies crushed and broken off the sweet shore of my village."
"I know nothing of this," said Kim Jong II.
"He's lying," said Remo in Korean.
"I know," said Chiun coldly. To the younger Kim, he said, "It is only the respect that I hold for your illustrious father that prevents me from disemboweling you where you stand, whelp. Know that the submarine of the West carried the gold of Sinanju, and that gold is now gone."
"That was your gold?" Kim Jong II blurted.
"Hah!" Remo said. "The truth comes out."
"Damn," said Jong. "I was never good at this intrigue stuff. Listen, if I come clean, will you do me a favor in return?" "If you come clean," Chiun said, "my white son will not clean your innards of your smoking bowels."
"Fair enough," said Jong. "I just had a tip telling me you two were in town. He happened to mention the gold and who has it now."
"Speak!"
"Captain Yokang Sako of the SA-I-GU. It is he."
"On whose authority?"
"His own. He was in collusion with someone."
"Name that person."
Kim Jong II bit his plump upper lip. "He is called Comrade."
Remo advanced, saying, "Do better than that. Everybody in this black hole is called that."
"I do not know that person by name," Jong protested. "I only know the voice. He is what you call a wheeler-dealer. I have wheeled many deals with him."
"Why did he call you with this information?" demanded Chiun.
"He is upset with Yokang and wants me to recover the gold for him."
"In return for what?"
"It is the other way around. I promised I would recover the gold in exchange for his tip that the Master of Sinanju was available for service, no longer being under contract to America."
"This Comrade told you this?" Chiun said.
"Yes."
Remo and Chiun exchanged glances. "Someone knows too much about our business," Remo said.
"Yes. Far too much." "I hope it is not I, for I would greatly like to hire you to protect my life, Master of Sinanju."
"I'm not working for this blivot!" Remo snapped.
"Blivot. That's American golf slang, isn't it? But I don't catch the connection."
"A blivot," Remo said, "is ten pounds of manure in a five-pound sack."
Kim Jong II looked injured. "You remind me of my mother, you know that?"
"How much gold do you offer, son of Kim?" asked Chiun.
Kim Jong II picked up a phone at random. "How about that missing gold? I can have the SA-I-GU recalled to port. I'm supreme commander, you know."
"You will do that in order to preserve your worthless life," Chiun said coldly.
"Deal," said Jong. "Now, about hiring you. Don't you think it's high time Sinanju worked for Koreans again? This Western flirtation of yours has gone on long enough."
"No way, Chiun!" said Remo.
"I will consider it," said Chiun.
"Great!" Jong said, beaming.
"Once I have the gold in hand," added Chiun.
"And the surviving sailors are returned safely to America," added Remo.
"Which surviving sailors?" asked Jong.
"Those ones who have been granted sanctuary in Sinanju."
Kim Jong II frowned like unbaked dough shrinking. "That would be a bad move on my part. Tantamount to admitting my navy committed the aggression. No can do."
Remo growled, "It did. And you will."
"Don't you think you should confer with your Master before you go threatening his future employer, white boy?"
Remo advanced, taking Kim Jong II by the throat.
"Urk," said Kim Jong II.
"I'll give you a choice." Remo said politely. "The Wedgie of Death or the Sinanju Swirlie."
"I'll take the Swirlie," gasped Jong, figuring how bad could it be if it didn't include the word "death"? Besides, American customs fascinated him. He gave them to the bad guys in his operas.
"Fine. Where's the men's room?"
Jong cocked a thumb, and suddenly his feet left the floor and he was being carried by his neck to his personal washroom, legs swinging like logs hanging by lifting chains.
"Master of Sinanju," he called through the squeezing hand, "this would be an excellent time to discipline your white slave."
Chiun fluttered his hands in mock helplessness. "He is a white and therefore uncontrollable."
"Shit," said Kim Jong II.
The bathroom door splintered under a hard kick, and Jong found himself on his knees before his solid gold commode. The lid lifted, and he was looking into the bowl where the blue chemically cleaned water lapped in sympathy with the inferior water system of the city.
"What are you—"
There was a splash as Kim Jong Il's face went into the water. He held his breath. The flushing sound was very loud in his ears. It filled them. So did the water. In a way it was quite exhilarating, except for the inconvenient lack of oxygen.
The white flushed a second time, and Kim's cheeks were swelling even as his lungs began to labor.