"What about the investment ceremony?" asked Remo.
"There is no time. I will dispense with it. Consider yourself the new reigning Master of Sinanju."
"I'm not sure I'm ready," Remo said weakly.
"And I am sure you are not," said the Master of Sinanju. "But fate has decreed it otherwise. But you may take comfort in the story of the Master Tipi. I have placed the scroll describing his career under his new emperor beside my throne. It was not so terrible. He, too, was in his end days."
And Chiun went out of the house of his ancestors without a backward glance.
Colonel Viktor Ditko waited in the square of the village of Sinanju, surrounded by a crack team of black-clad Special Military Purposes Unit soldiers. Spetsnaz commandos. A cross between the American Green Berets and the old Nazi Stormtroopers, they were the most vicious soldiers in the entire Soviet Army. And Colonel Ditko was prepared to unleash them.
The word had come from the Kremlin. He was to personally take possession of the Master of Sinanju at sunset, and bring him instantly back to Russia.
When Colonel Ditko saw the crowd of villagers scatter like frightened pigeons, he was surprised to see an elderly Korean being escorted into the square by another. He recognized the younger of the two as the one in the original tape made by Sammy Kee, but not the other, who wobbled as he walked.
Then, with a shock, he realized it was the Master of Sinanju himself. He looked older, shrunken and feeble in his funereal black robes.
"What is this?" demanded Ditko of the Master of Sinanju.
And the Master of Sinanju replied in excellent if haughty Russian.
"This is the Master of Sinanju, Soviet dog. What are you?"
"I am Colonel Viktor Ditko. I have come to take you to my country."
"You make it sound simple."
"I understood there would be no resistance," said Ditko, a little nervously.
"And there will be none. But there must be a ceremony. Where is Smith?"
"Here," said Dr. Harold W. Smith, stepping out from behind a group of huts, where he had observed the Russian advance. He carried a very large scroll under one arm, edged in gold and tied with a blue ribbon.
"Who is this?" asked Ditko.
"My former employer," said the Master of Sinanju. "With our contract. He must sign it and you must sign it before I can enter into your service."
"Very well," Colonel Ditko said impatiently. "Give it to me."
Chiun took the scroll, opened it to the very end, and held it stiffly in the air while Smith signed the bottom. And then the Master of Sinanju turned to Colonel Ditko and offered the document for signing.
"Do you not wish to read it first?" asked Chiun politely.
"No," snapped Ditko. "We have little time."
"Such wisdom from a Russian," said the Master of Sinanju, a faint smile tugging at his parchment lips. "It augurs well for my service in your country."
When the contract was properly signed, the Master of Sinanju made a show of rolling up the document and with a little bow handed it to Colonel Ditko.
"It is done," said the Master of Sinanju. "Your emperor, and you as his representative, are now responsible for all provisions and guarantees described in this contact."
"Of course."
"One provision is that my village is sanctified from harm and that my pupil, the new Master of Sinanju, be allowed to govern in peace."
"If he does not wish to work for us, that is his right as an American," said Colonel Ditko stuffily. "But it is understood he works for no other country."
"For the duration of my services to you," agreed Chiun.
Smith, who understood some Russian, was surprised at the ease with which the transfer of employment took place. There was no haggling over price, none of the last-minute i-dotting and t-crossing that had characterized his dealings with Chiun. But it was clear to Smith that Chiun was a shadow of his former self. He looked so shaky that a stiff breeze might have toppled him.
"Take him to the car," ordered Colonel Ditko, who relished commanding the elite Spetsnaz team. "I will join you at the airport."
"I must say good-bye to my pupil, Remo," Chiun insisted.
"There is no time. The aircraft is waiting," said Colonel Ditko.
Chiun bowed stiffly. "I obey, because I am now in your service."
Two Spetsnaz commandos started to take Chiun by his spindly arms, but he shook them off.
"Unhand me," he snapped. "I am old and frail, but I can still walk. Allow me to leave my village with dignity."
Gathering up the hem of his robes, he strode up the road, the two commandos on either side of him, walking a respectful two paces behind. The Master of Sinanju did not look back. Nor did he say goodbye to Smith or the handful of villagers who had ventured out into the square. Smith wondered if the old man would survive the plane trip. He looked that far gone.
While everyone's eyes were following the slow departure of the Master of Sinanju, Smith slipped away, heading for the beach. It was done. Now there was just one last detail.
Smith found a quiet place among the cold rocks. He dug into the watch pocket of his vest and removed a small case. In it was a coffin-shaped pill. He had carried it ever since that day many years ago when he had assumed his duties as director of CURE. Duties, he knew, which were lifelong, because when they ended they could only end with his death.
"Good-bye, Maude, Vickie. I love you both very much."
And there, on the empty beach so far away from the nation he loved, Dr. Harold W. Smith swallowed the pill.
And choked on it. It caught in his throat. It wouldn't go down.
Smith, frantic that his suicide attempt might fail, plunged into the cold surf and drank a long swallow of salt water to wash down the pill.
The water was so cold, it numbed his taste buds so he couldn't taste salt. But he felt the pill go down. Shivering from his sudden immersion, he threw himself on the fine beach sand and waited for the end to come.
Dimly he heard the percussive stutter of automatic-weapons fire.
There were screams. The haunting screams of the dying.
Faintly he understood that the Russians had betrayed them all. And deep within him, a cold rage swept all thoughts of death-his death-from his mind.
Dr. Harold W. Smith pulled himself to his feet. The poison was supposed to act quickly, but he was still alive. He stumbled up into the rocks. The sporadic fire grew constant.
Smith swore and started running, not sure what he could accomplish in his last moments of life, but determined to inflict a final blow.
He tripped over his automatic, lying in the sand where Remo had thrown it. Smith grabbed it, checked the action. There was no clip, but he had an extra in his pocket. He loaded the gun and pushed on, praying that he had time to take out a few of them before he succumbed. A spreading coldness filled his stomach.
Remo Williams stood among the heaped treasures of Sinanju, his mind stunned at Chiun's strange actions, when he heard the shooting.
"Chiun!" he cried. He pitched out the door. There was no sign of Chiun. The Russians were going from hut to hut, dragging people out into a huddled mass in the village square. To expedite their work, they fired into the air. Sometimes, not into the air.
A running woman bumped into Remo. He caught her in his arms, then noticed the hole in her chest gushing blood. She gave out a little sigh and died.
A clot of soldiers came around the corner. Their eyes locked with Remo's.
Remo moved on the Russian commandos, his senses coming alive in a way they had never done before. He could see the bullet tracks erupting in his direction, and each individual bullet in each track.
Dodging them was the same as dodging cork guns. He took an inside line, evading the streams of bullets as if they were harmless flashlight beams wielded by nervous children.