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  "Chiun," Remo said under his breath.

  An hour later, Pyongyang was framed in the bugsplattered windshield. It was a city of imposing white buildings with a stone torch-the North Korean version of the Statue of Liberty-dominating the skyline.

  Remo drove through the checkpoint because he was in a hurry. Red tape always annoyed him anyway. He was not stopped, because he was driving a foreign car. Only high-ranking members of the North Korean government drove foreign cars. Or any cars, for that matter.

  Pyongyang was not like Moscow. It was not like Peking. It was not one of the drab Communist capitals that give the Eastern bloc a bad name. The buildings were immaculate. Gorgeous trees lined the banks of the Taedong River. Happy children marched, singing, to school. Workers marched, singing, to work. Nobody walked anywhere in Pyongyang. Everyone marched and sang. The difference was, the children sang because they enjoyed it. The adults sang because not to sing carried criminal penalties. Many marble statues of the Great Leader, Kim Il Sung, dotted the spacious parks, and dozens of posters of him smiled benignly from the sides of buildings.

  Remo, who had met Kim Il Sung, knew the statues and posters were a lie. They showed a black-haired and rosy-cheeked politician, when in fact Kim Il Sung's cheeks had fallen in, he wore spectacles, and his hair was the color of soiled cotton.

  As Remo drove around the city looking for the airport, he was amazed at the wide and very modern street system. "There were five lanes, but very few cars. The only cars were occasional Volvos or Toyotas. For some reason, none of the autos used the center lane. To save time, not that there was much traffic in the first place, Remo drove down the center lane.

  He had not gone very far when one of the little white military police cars began to chase him. The officer waved him over to the side of the road.

  "Where's the airport?" asked Remo in Korean.

  "Over! Over!" the officer yelled hack.

  Remo, figuring he could get directions to the airport faster by obeying, obliged.

  The officer came up on him with a drawn pistol. "I wasn't speeding, was I?" asked Remo politely.

  "Out of the car," the officer said. "Out!"

  Remo got out. The officer got a clear look at him for the first time. He yanked his whistle free of his tunic and blew on it furiously.

  "What's the problem?" Remo wanted to know.

  "You are under arrest. Driving down the lane reserved for the official use of the Leader for Life, Himself, Kim Il Sung."

  "You gotta be kidding," said Remo. "He's got his own freaking lane?"

  "And for being an unregistered foreigner," the officer added, blowing on the whistle again.

  The officer nudged Remo with the muzzle of his pistol. That was a mistake.

  Remo plucked the pistol from the man's fingers before he could react. He held it up before the man's widening eyes.

  "Watch," said Remo. "Magic." He closed one hand around the pistol barrel and rubbed it very fast, and when he took his hand away, the muzzle began to droop like a limp rubber hose.

  Remo handed the man back his weapon.

  The officer blinked incredulously. If he pulled the trigger now, he would unquestionably emasculate himself. "Sinanju?" he stammered.

  Remo nodded. "I'm the new Master."

  "White?"

  "Not entirely. It depends on who you ask."

  The officer bowed. "I am at your service."

  "I like your attitude. I'm looking for the older Master, my teacher."

  "He has been here. There was great trouble at the airport. He caused difficulty with the officials there. No one knows why. He had only to ask, and we would have obliged him. But he refused to identify himself."

  "Where is he now?" Remo asked.

  The officer shrugged. "They say he was flown to the unfortunate South. No one knows why. Paradise is here in the North."

  "If you're the Leader for Life, it is," said Remo. "How about a police escort to the airport?"

  "At once," said the officer.

  At the airport, they were more than delighted to assist the new Master of Sinanju, white or not.

  The chief of airport security smiled his delight until a nerve in his cheek started to twitch. He softened the smile into a less stressful expression.

  "When's the next flight out of here?" Remo asked.

  "Moscow or Peking?"

  "Neither," Remo said. "I'm heading for America, I think. "

  "You should know," said the head of security, "but I regret I cannot accede to your wish, as much as I would like."

  "Why not?"

  "The People's Democratic Republic cannot afford to lose any more pilots transporting Masters of Sinanju to unfriendly places."

  "Did Chiun kill them?"

  "No, they committed suicide upon landing. They knew that the South is a terrible place. They chose to extinguish their lives rather than live without the beneficence of Himself, our glorious leader."

  "Tell you what," Remo offered. "Give me one pilot and I'll make sure he comes back. Fair enough?"

  The security chief shook his moon face.

  "Not possible," he said. He knew that the next pilot might not believe the official propaganda and decide that South Korea was a place worth living in, after all. "What is possible?"

  "A land escort to, say, ten miles north of the thirty-eighth parallel. You could walk from there."

  "I'm used to curb-to-curb service," said Remo, picking up a brass spittoon from beside the security chief's desk and squeezing it until it squeaked. He placed the mangled remains in the security chief's hands.

  "I will drive you personally," the Korean decided suddenly, feeling the sharp metal edges cut his palms. Hours later, the security chief's enclosed jeep came to the barbed-wire fortification that North Korean policy claimed was designed to keep the devils of the South out of the People's Republic. In fact, it was there to keep the people of the North from spilling down to freedom.

  "I leave the rest to you," said the security chief.

  "Thanks," said Remo.

  "I wish your teacher had been so reasonable. If only he had identified himself, we could have come to some realistic accommodation."

  "I think he wanted to be followed."

  "Then why maim two of our soldiers instead of revealing himself?"

  "I think he wanted to be subtle," said Remo, melting into the trees.

  Chapter 14

  Everyone knew that Ferris D'Orr was in hiding. The whole world knew that the federal government had placed him in a safe house ever since the first announcement that Ferris D'Orr, discoverer of the secret of cold-casting titanium, had been the target of a kidnapping attempt.

  And the whole world knew, thanks to the ever-present news media, that the safe house was not a house at all, but a penthouse in downtown Baltimore.

  "This is correspondent Don Cooder, reporting from outside the Lafayette Building, the probable-but not definite-location of the safe house where FBI agents have secreted metallurgical genius Ferris D'Orr, the man who may revolutionize defense applications of titanium. Can you confirm any of that for me, Field Agent Grogan?" the newsman asked, shoving his microphone into the face of a big stone-faced man in a blue jacket with the yellow plastic letters FBI on the back.

  "No comment," said the FBI man. He cradled an automatic rifle in his arms. Behind him, the glass entrance to the Lafayette Building was sealed off by wooden sawhorses. Other men, all wearing FBI jackets and brandishing firearms, loitered outside the doors. Overhead, a helicopter flew in noisy circles. The letters FBI were stenciled on it too.

  The whole FBI team had been moved into the street only an hour ago.

  "Our information is that Ferris D'Orr has set up a laboratory in the penthouse suite, where he is continuing his work," the newsman persisted. "Can you confirm that?"

  "No comment," the FBI man said laconically.

  "Then explain for me, if you can. Agent Grogan, why there is a highly visible FBI presence in front of this building at this
particular time."

  "To control the media. We weren't called in until you people practically stormed the place."

  "Are you saying that you are not here to protect Ferris D'Orr, possibly the most important scientist in America today?"

  "I know what Ferris D'Orr is," Agent Grogan said testily. "You don't have to give me the man's whole history. And yes, I am categorically denying that my team is guarding Ferris D'Qrr. I just finished explaining to you. Here it is again. We're on station to control the media. You don't muster a force like this to guard a safe house. That's like hanging out a shingle that says 'Hostage for Rent.' "

  "But you're not denving that Ferris D'Orr is hiding twenty floors above our heads in fear of his life?"

  "No comment," said FBI Agent Grogan, rolling his eyes heavenward.

  "How about the attempted kidnapping of Mr. D'Orr? Are there any leads on that?"

  "You'd have to talk to the district supervisor on that one."

  "But you expect another attempt, do you not?"

  "No comment."

  The newsman turned toward his cameraman and fixed the videocam with a steely gaze.

  "There you have it, ladies and gentlemen of the audience. Not quite proof positive, but certainly a revealing indication, that scientist Ferris D'Orr is being held in protective custody on this very block. What does this say about our governinent's ability to protect important members of the defense community? Is security so lax that just anyone can uncover a so-called 'safe' house? A discussion on these disturbing questions and a special background feature, 'Titanium and Your Taxes,' will air on a CableTalk Special tonight at eleven, ten central time. Until then, this is Don Cooder, CableTalk Network News, Baltimore."

  After the news crews had gone home, confident that they had satisfied the American people's pressing need to know that a man crucial to America's defense future was safely-if no longer secrety-protected by the FBI, a taxi pulled up before the Lafayette Building and a man stepped out.

  The man was barely five feet tall, Oriental, and wore a gray kimono, and he informed the FBI agents that they could go home.

  "You are no longer needed now that I am here," the little man said in a pleasant, squeaky voice.

  When FBI Agent Grogan politely requested the citizen's name, the citizen waved him away. And when the FBI man attempted to lay hands on the Oriental, he found himself clutching air.

  "Stop that guy," he yelled to the guards at the door. Five FBI agents barred the door. There was a sudden flurry of movement, a flash of gray, and a sound similar to that of coconuts being cracked together.

  Five highly trained FBI agents sank to the pavement, their eyes glazing, their heads bobbing on their unsteady necks after the old Oriental had knocked their heads together in sets of two.

  Agent Grogan lunged for the old Oriental. The Oriental turned, and Grogan had a momentary glimpse of two yellowish fingers coming at his eyes. That was usually enough time for the human blinking reflex, one of the fastest reflexes in nature, to react. In this case, the fingers were swifter than the blink and Agent Grogan found himself sitting on the street clutching his face. Tears streamed between his fingers and he could not see.

  The squeaky voice called back, "Remind me to kill you later."

  A few minutes later, the district supervisor arrived, trailed by a battery of camouflaged agents.

  "What happened here?" he demanded.

  Agent Grogan stumbled to his feet, stabbing at his tearing eyes with a handkerchief.

  "I think he poked me in the eyes," he said. "A little guy. An Oriental. Did you get him?"

  "No-but he obviously got you. All of you."

  "We've got to stop him."

  "No, we don't. We've got to go home. We're relieved."

  "Relieved! By who?"

  "By the little Oriental who played Moe to your Six Stooges. Don't ask me to explain. I don't understand it any more than you do. But the word came from the top. Let's call it a night."

  The next morning, when the network news returned for more no-comments, it found every trace of FBI presence mysteriously gone. They instantly assumed Ferris D'Orr had been removed to an even more secure safe house, and frantically scattered to chase it down, so that the American people would sleep better in the knowledge that he was still in safe hands. In their quest for truth and a higher ratings share, they neglected to do a simple thing. They forgot to enter the building to confirm that Ferris D'Orr had, in fact, been moved.

  Ferris D'Orr could not believe his ears.

  "One man?" he yelled. "One man is supposed to protect me? Are you crazy? Do you have any conception of how valuable I am to our Defense Department right now?"

  "Yes, sir," said the FBI field supervisor. "I understand my superior received word of the change from the Secretary of Defense himself."

  "Why would he do a crazy thing like that?" cried Ferris. "Wait a minute. What's his name-Somethingberger, right? He must be Jewish. That's it! This is a Zionist plot, isn't it?"

  "I'm sure the Secretary of Defense knows what he's doing," the FBI man said.

  "Are you Jewish?" Ferris asked suddenly, suspiciously.

  "Sir?"

  "I asked you an important question."

  "Well, actually, no."

  "Yon probably wouldn't admit it if you were."

  "I have my orders," the FBI supervisor said stiffly. "Now, if you'll excuse me . . ."

  The FBI supervisor led his men away, shaking his head. It had been a while since he'd seen such rabid religious hatred. Funny thing was, the guy looked Jewish himself.

  After he had left, Ferris D'Orr dazedly sank into a chair. His face was drained of color.

  "You poor man," said the Master of Sinanju, entering the room. "Let me help you."

  "Who? What? How did you get in here?"

  "The elevator," said the Master of Sinanju, pushing the titanium nebulizer into another room.

  Ferris jumped to his feet. "What are you doing? Where are you going with that?"

  The Oriental stopped momentarily. "I am Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju. You are Ferris?"

  "Ferris D'Orr. "

  "You are a metallurgist?"

  "That's right."

  Chiun nodded. "I am removing the offending metals from this room. It is a good thing I am here. Those who guarded you before me should have known better than to leave you alone with the cause of your illness."

  "What illness?" demanded Ferris D'Orr, blocking Chiun from leaving the room with the nebulizer.

  "You are a metallurgist. You said so."

  "We've been through that."

  "You are allergic to metal. I am removing the metals."

  "I didn't ask for a cleaning person," said Ferris D'Orr haughtily. "Certainly not one who can't speak the language. "

  "I was speaking English before you were born," Chiun said. "But I will not hold your insult against you. You are obviously in a weakened mental state from this cruel exposure to metal. Look at this room. It is filled with blocks of metal, all ugly and dull and useless."

  "This is my laboratory,' said Ferris D'Orr, trying to shove the nebulizer back into the room. For some reason, it would not budge, even after he pushed with all his might. It was as if the device was bolted to the floor.

  "You are beginning to sweat, poor man. Come. It will be better if I take you into the next room."

  "I don't want to go into the next room!" said Ferris D'Orr, and although the old Oriental only took his wrist between two delicate fingers, Ferris found himself pulled into the next room as if by a tow cable.

  "I have a very dangerous guard coming to protect me," Ferris warned after he was gently but firmiy deposited on an overstuffed chair. "This man is so dangerous he's replacing a crack team of FBI agents. So you better get outta here, pal."

  The Master of Sinanju, receiving a compliment, bowed and allowed the faintest of satisfied smiles to etch his features.

  "I am Chiun. I have only today returned to your wonderful land, which I see with new e
yes. I will therefore allow you to call me Chiun, as other Americans familiarly call one another by their first names."

  "Wonderful. But my warning still goes. This guy is a killer."

  "I am that guy, the killer," said Chiun.

  "You?"

  "Me."

  "I never saw a killer who looked like you."

  "You never saw a killer who killed like me," Chiun said reasonably.

  "What do we do now?"

  "You have a television set?"

  "Right behind you."

  The Master of Sinanju turned. "I see no such thing," he sniffed.

  "The cabinet. It's a projection TV. You lift it by the handle. "

  Puzzled, the Master of Sinanju walked over to a false wood table with a hand slot on the top, He reached in, and the hinged top lifted, exposing not the glass tube of the usual TV set, but a large white screen. Then the Master of Sinanju saw the familiar knobs. He pressed the On button.

  The news appeared on the screen and Chiun quickly changed the channel.

  "What are you doing?"

  "I am trying to find one of my beautiful dramas of happier days. I did not bring my tapes with me, alas."

  "Beautiful dramas?"

  "Is Edge of Darkness still shown?"

  "I think it was canceled."

  Chiun's face wrinkled. "It was probably the violence. It had fallen far from the heights of Mrs. Lapon's hysterectomy, and the unfortunate drug addiction of her son, who she mistakenly believed was fathered by her ex-husband, and not Darryl, the doctor."

  "Who's going to protect me while you watch the soaps?"

  "Me, of course."

  "And what am I supposed to be doing?"

  "Sitting here recovering from your unfortunate exposure to ugly metal objects."

  "You're going to guard me and watch soaps at the same time?"

  "Masters of Sinanju are ambidextrous," said Chiun, flipping the channel selector in search of something familiar.

  "Masters of what?"

  "Sinanju,"

  "Sinanjew? You don't look Jewish," said Ferris D'Orr.

  "That is because I am not Jewish."

  "Good. I don't like Jews."