"Irma? Who's Irma?" Remo asked.
"My wife."
"I thought your wife's name was Maude."
"It is," Smith said evenly. "Irma is her pet name."
"Only you, Smitty, would give a woman named Maude a pet name like Irma," said Remo. "If you had a dog, you'd call it Fido. Or Rover. I'll be in touch."
"Don't forget to come back," Smith said, and hung up.
"You were saying, dear," Smith said into the other phone.
"I said don't forget to have a good breakfast."
"Yes, dear. Mrs. Mikulka always brings my unsweetened grapefruit juice and prune-whip yogurt from the commissary when she somes in."
"Good. I'll see you at dinner." The line went dead. Smith returned to his computer. He began keying in the commands that would, through people in the United States military, initiate the movements of aircraft that would evacuate Remo and Chiun to Miramar Naval Air Station in California, and from there by helicopter to the USS Darter, stationed at the San Diego Naval Base. The sub would require emergency orders from COMSUBPAC to leave its station early, but Smith could accomplish that by remote control.
He had that power. And no one knew it.
Colonel Viktor Ditko pored over a map of North Korea and found Sinanju on the west coast. It was on a bay at the edge of one of the most heavily industrialized sectors of the North. A tiny dot indicated the location.
Going to a more detailed map, Ditko found, to his dismay, that only another tiny dot indicated Sinanju's location.
He swore under his breath. North Korean maps. They were no more reliable than North Koreans. Ditko dug out a map so detailed that it showed city blocks in the nearby towns of Chonju and Sunchon. Sinanju was simply a blank area at the edge of Sinanju Bay.
"Do they not have streets in Sinanju?" he asked himself.
Colonel Ditko got on the phone. He called his liaison in the North Korean government.
"Captain Nekep speaking," said an oily voice.
"I must ask you a question. You must not repeat this question to anyone."
"Done," said Captain Nekep, who had been a lowly corporal until Colonel Ditko tipped him off to a planned assassination attempt against North Korea's Great Leader, Kim Il Sung. As a result, Nekep had been promoted and Colonel Ditko had a potentially valuable ally in the North Korea Army.
"What do you know of Sinanju?" Ditko asked.
"On our official maps, it is designated as a restricted area with a double red line."
Ditko whistled soundlessly. The Presidential Palace in Pyongyang rated only a single red line.
"It is a military installation, then?"
"No. It is a fishing village."
"Does it not seem strange to you, Captain, that a mere fishing village is kept off limits?"
"I do not ask questions about matters when to know the answer carries a hanging penalty."
"I need to get a person into Sinanju."
"I do not know you," said Captain Nekep, and hung up.
"Ingrate," Colonel Ditko hissed. But the captain's reaction had satisfied him that the videotape recording made by the Korean-American journalist Sammy Kee was indeed valuable.
He would take the tape to Moscow personally. It was risky, but great rewards might result from the taking of such a risk. And Colonel Viktor Ditko had known disgrace in his career. He did not fear it.
In the basement of the Russian embassy, Colonel Ditko unlocked the interrogation room, which he had ordered off limits.
Sammy Kee awoke with a start. He had been sleeping on a mat. He slept a lot. At first, he couldn't sleep from nervous exhaustion, but after a day and a half of captivity, depression had set in like a nagging cold. He slept a lot when he was depressed. It was a blessing now.
"Get up," Colonel Ditko ordered.
Sammy got up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Listen to me. Here is food and water and a bowl for your bodily functions. I will not be able to let you out to go to the bathroom for at least three days. Do not fear that I have abandoned you. I am going to Moscow, to speak with the General Secretary personally. In the meantime, you will stay locked within this room. I am taking the only key with me. Do not cry for help. Do not call attention to yourself. I am the only person in the compound who knows you are here. If others find you, your death would be certain."
"I understand," said Sammy Kee dully.
"You are a long way from San Francisco," Colonel Ditko reminded him.
"I know."
"Good. I will return within three days."
"What if you don't?"
"It will be better for you to starve to death in this room than if you are discovered. You know that?" And Sammy Kee slipped to the floor as the door locked shut.
It was sound psychology, Colonel Ditko knew. The Korean-American might hate him and fear him, and that would be useful later. But for the next few days, Sammy Kee would live for Colonel Ditko's return, because Ditko's return meant fresh food and relief from the claustrophobic smell of his own excrement.
It was so easy to manipulate these soft Americans, Colonel Ditko thought to himself. In his home environment, Sammy Kee would not think twice about his next meal. Bathroom facilities he took for granted. Colonel Ditko had made them more important than anything else-including Sammy Kee's desire to escape. That would safeguard his own secret until he returned to North Korea.
Returning to his own quarters, Colonel Viktor Ditko removed his glasses and dropped them to the hardwood floor. They did not shatter. So he crushed them under the heel of his boot.
Picking up the largest shard of one lens, Colonel Ditko walked to his bunk. In the Soviet KGB there were no transfers home, not by request or bribe. Only for medical emergency.
But Colonel Ditko had to get back to Moscow. And so, he sat on his bunk and, steeling himself, slowly sliced the pupil of his left eye with a piece of broken eyeglass.
The rewards, he told himself as he ground his teeth in agony, would be worth the pain.
Chapter 6
"Little Father, are you comfortable?" Remo asked tenderly.
Chiun, Master of Sinanju, lay on a reed mat on the floor of the submarine cabin. They had been given the largest officers' stateroom, which meant that, with the folding bunk up, it was slightly more spacious than a pantry. Two fluffy pillows cradled Chiun's aged head. His hazel eyes were dreamy, half-closed.
"I will be comfortable when this voyage is at last over."
"Me too," said Remo, kneeling beside Chiun. The room pitched ever so slightly. Incense curled from brass bowls Remo had placed in every corner of the cabin to smother the stale metallic taste of the recirculated air that was inescapable on even the most modern nuclear submarine. Remo had spent half the afternoon covering the false wood paneling of the walls with tapestries from the fourteen steamer trunks that contained Chiun's personal possessions.
"The captain said we should be arriving before evening," Remo said.
"How would he know? There is no evening in this filthy vessel."
"Hush," said Remo, trying to soothe Chiun's mood. "We were lucky that this sub was ready to go."
"Did you check the gold, as I asked?"
"Twice in the last hour. It is safe."
"It is well. This may be the last gold the village of Sinanju will receive from the mad Emperor Smith."
"Don't say that, Chiun."
"Still," Clriun continued, his eyes still half-closed, "I am at peace, for we are going home. To Sinanju."
"You are going home, Little Father. Sinanju is your home, not mine. Smith expects me to return to America."
"How can you return to that land? And leave your wife? Your children? Your village?"
Remo forgot himself and asked, "Wife? Children? What are you babbling about?"
"Why, the wife you will take once we are in Sinanju. And the children she will bear you. It is your duty, Remo. When I am gone, you must carry on the traditions. And Sinanju must have an heir."