"I could have picked a less public way of doing that, don't you think?" Remo asked blandly.
The president thought about some of the things he had heard about the Masters of Sinanju. If only a handful of them were true, he would not be alive now.
"Then you are not here to kill me," he said. The president breathed a relieved sigh and was immediately annoyed with himself for being so concerned for his own life.
"No," Remo said. "I'm here to figure out what the hell is going on."
"I suspect you know already as much as I do." The president took a seat behind the cluttered desk in the room. He looked old. And tired. "It is madness. All of it."
"We didn't launch the missile on purpose," Remo insisted.
The president waved a dismissive hand. "I know this," he said. "It was a stupid mistake."
"Maybe not," Remo said.
This caught the South Korean leader's attention. "You say it was not deliberate, then you hint it might have been. Which is it?" he asked.
"It's not deliberate on behalf of the U.S. government," Remo explained. "But according to my information, the men who fired the cruise missile into Seoul all committed suicide afterward. That tells me they were protecting someone."
The president shrugged. "A theory," he said.
"What else would it be?" Remo asked.
"I do not know," the president admitted wearily. "It makes sense-I will admit that. But I am tired of making sense to that mob out there." He motioned vaguely in the direction of the assembly hall. "The young cry out for reunification with the North. They do not know what it would be like. Our population is greater, but Kim Jong Il's tanks are stronger. Without the involvement of the United States, we would fall under the treads of the invaders from the North."
"Tell them that, then," Remo argued, his tone exasperated. "Tell them we didn't have anything to do with the bombing, that it was probably part of some bigger scheme and that they'll have a certifiable nut running things around here if they don't smarten up."
The president looked at him, eyes dead. "You drove to get here, presumably?"
"What's that got to do with anything?" Remo asked. "Yeah, I drove."
"You saw the conditions in the streets. The student demonstrators have been a problem for us for a long time. Blessed with the ignorance of youth, they refuse to believe the world's harsh realities. But whereas before they were merely an annoyance, they have gained great strength in the wake of the bombing. They have stronger sympathizers now who are powerful in government. Reunification is no longer a dream. I fear it is an eventuality."
"You're just going to roll over and play dead?"
"What more can I do?" the president asked.
Remo's face was fierce. "You think the students here are weak, blind fools?" he demanded. "I say you are. You're the one who should be out there screaming at the top of your lungs against that crackpot Kim. Hell, he might be the one behind all of this."
"Perhaps." The president shrugged.
It was the feeble indifference in the move that did it to Remo. The willingness to betray freedom because it was easier than standing up to a tyrant.
Remo's mouth set in a firm line, thin lips pressed into bloodless white strips.
Reaching across the desk, he grabbed the president of South Korea by the front of his shirt. Lifting by a bundle of shirt and tie, he hauled Kim Dae Jung out over the rubble of the desk, toppling an angry shower of papers and envelopes to the floor.
Wordlessly, Remo hauled the president from the cramped office. His eyes were filled with visions of death.
Chapter 26
The squadron of six North Korean Foxbat fighters intercepted the Reverend Man Hyung Sun's personal jet as it was flying west across the Sea of Japan.
The Sunnie pilot tried to calm the flaring tempers of the MiG-25 pilots, but the military fliers seemed more hostile than usual. As if something had recently ruffled their feathers.
Chiun was sitting in his normal seat above the left wing when he was asked to step into the cockpit by one of Sun's comely stewardesses at the urging of the harried flight crew. Annoyed, the Master of Sinanju hustled up the aisle.
"We're still over international waters," the pilot explained when Chiun stepped into the small cockpit. Sweat dripped down his broad forehead. "I think that's the only reason they haven't shot us down yet."
"I would speak with them," Chiun announced.
"Gladly," the pilot said.
The Sunnie copilot operated the radio while the Master of Sinanju spoke.
Chiun cleared his throat. "Whoresons of Pyongyang harlots-" he began.
"We're dead," moaned the pilot.
"-begone from the skies around this most holy aircraft, or face the awesome wrath of the Master of Sinanju."
The two Foxbats that were visible through the cockpit windows remained locked in place. The twin AA-6 Acrid rockets on the nearest wings of each fighter were reminders that there were four more planes just like them somewhere behind Sun's jet; each was equipped with four of the deadly missiles. One would be enough to blow the unarmed jet from the sky.
The Foxbats matched the speed of the civilian jet, never wavering a fraction. For a few tense moments, not a sound issued from the lead fighter.
Chiun stared over at the port MiG. The pilot's domed head was visible through the cockpit glass. The old Korean stared daggers at the man.
"We're about to pass into North Korean airspace," the copilot announced worriedly after a short time.
As they watched their controls with steadily increasing apprehension, the MiGs remained glued to their positions beside them.
Mere seconds before they were to pass into North Korean airspace, a voice crackled over the radio. The MiG pilot sounded as if he would choke on the message he had been ordered to deliver.
"Proceed, Master of Sinanju. And welcome home."
Only then did Chiun tear his eyes away from the man in the Foxbat. Turning abruptly, he left the bewildered cockpit crew and returned to his seat.
"Is there a problem?" Man Hyung Sun asked. The cult leader had been napping in his seat across from Chiun and had just awakened.
"None, O Holy One," the Master of Sinanju replied.
Chiun settled in to watch the wing. He had heard that sometimes they dropped off during takeoffs and landings.
COLONEL NICK DESOUZA couldn't believe his eyes. The CIA spook who had crossed the DMZ only a few hours before had not only made it safely through the gangs of student rioters running amok through South Korea, but was already returning. And he was not alone.
DeSouza thought he recognized the Korean passenger as the battered jeep bounced back into view up the road to the old iron bridge.
"It's a little worse for wear," Remo said as the jeep skidded to a stop. There were various dings all around the vehicle. One of the front windshield panels had been shattered at the corner. The telltale burn marks of Molotov cocktails were all around the hood and sides.
"You signed the insurance form. It's your problem, not mine," DeSouza deadpanned as Remo hopped down to the ground.
"Things still quiet?" Remo asked.
"The kids haven't attacked yet, if that's what you mean," the colonel said. "No troop movements out of the North, either, according to intelligence."
"A silent coup," Remo commented dryly.
Glancing past the idling truck on the Bridge of No Return, he noted that Rim Kun Soe still sat morosely on the opposite side of the bridge. Remo was certain that, left to his own devices, the Korean security officer would have hightailed it out of there by now.
Trotting, Remo went over and collected his North Korean jeep tires from their resting spot on the southern side of the bridge.
"Let's go," Remo said to his passenger.
The South Korean president had yet to get down from the American Army jeep.
"I will not," Kim Dae Jung announced.