The Eleventh Hour td-70 Read online

  "Would you like tea?" Mah-Li asked shyly.

  "Tea would be fine," said Remo.

  Mah-Li got to her feet. Remo saw that she was short, like all Sinanju woman, but not so stocky. Most of the woinan of Sinanju were built like Eskimos. Mah-Li was slim and delicately boned. Her natural scent wafted to Remo's nostrils and he found it surprisingly pleasant.

  There was a little charcoal stove on the floor in one corner, typical of Korean homes. Mah-Li got a cooking fire going with some flint and wood shavings.

  Remo watched her delicate movements in silence. He saw grace and poise, and whatever Mah-Li's face must look like, her form was as supple as the willow tree.

  When the water was boiled, she poured it into a blue-green ceramic tea server and set two matching cups without handles-like those Remo had seen in many Chinese restaurants, except that these were wonderfully ornate-and set them before him.

  "Very pretty," Remo said.

  "They are celadon," Mah-Li said. "Very precious. The server is carved in the shape of a turtle, which to us symbolizes long life."

  "Huh? Oh, the tea," Remo said, flustered.

  "Of course. What did you mean?"

  Remo said nothing. He hadn't meant the tea service. He wasn't exactly sure what he meant. The words had just come.

  Mah-Li poured the tea and handed one cup to Remo. Her slim fingers lightly brushed Remo's outstretched hand, and he felt a tingle that ran up his arm and made his toes curl involuntarily.

  There was something intoxicating about being in her presence. Intoxicating, but somehow soothing. The inside of the house was mellow in the light of the stove. It threw shadows that made Remo think of safety and security.

  Was Mah-Li some kind of Korean witch? Remo thought suddenly.

  "Drink," said Mah-Li.

  "Oh, right." Remo took a sip, and watched surreptitiously as Mah-Li bent forward so that she could drink without Remo seeing her veiled face. But her eyes caught the light, and Remo was suddenly overcome by an intense curiosity to see behind that tantalizing veil.

  Impulsively he leaned forward, his hands ready to pull the gauze free.

  Mah-Li, sensing Remo's intent, stiffened, but curiously, she did not move to block Remo's hands. There came a knock at the door.

  The windows were shuttered. It was impossible to see inside.

  Sammy Kee searched for some chink in the walls, and found none.

  He had gotten some of what he'd returned to Sinanju for. A videotaped confession of the Master of Sinanju's service in America, and a nearly complete account of the workings of a secret arm of the United States government, known as CURE. For a moment, Sammy Kee's half-forgotten journalistic instinct had taken over. It was the story of the century. Any television network would pay a small fortune for it.

  And so Sammy Kee had quietly followed the American named Remo after he'd stormed away from the town square of Sinanju. If only he could get more. Who was this Remo? What was his last name? How had he come to be chosen to be the next Master of Sinanju?

  Sammy wondered if he knocked on the door and asked to borrow a cup of rice, could he get Remo to talk directly to the camera, maybe trick him into an interview without Remo realizing it.

  No, too risky. He had to get this new tape back to Colonel Ditko. Maybe it would be enough to satisfy him. And he was afraid to linger much longer. But Sammy was also a journalist, and to him, the story was everything.

  But hours passed, and Remo did not reappear.

  What was he doing in there? Sammy Kee wondered. Colonel Ditko was waiting for him back along the road. He was almost certain he had enough footage. But what if Ditko sent him back for more? And there was the body of the boy whose skull Sammy had crushed with a stone. What if someone missed the boy?

  Crouching in the rocks, the chill winds of the Yellow Sea cutting through the paper of his costume, Sammy Kee grew impatient.

  And so, he made a terrible mistake. He knocked on the plain wood door.

  Remo answered it. He took one look at the dragon dancer and said, "Tell Chiun I'll see him later."

  Sammy asked, "Can you spare some rice?" in Korean. He pressed the trigger of the video camera.

  "Rice?" Remo looked puzzled. "I don't-" Remo's hand drifted out so suddenly that Sammy Kee didn't notice it. His dragon head went sailing into the air. Looking into the viewfinder, Sammy only saw Remo's face. It twisted in anger.

  "What the ding-dong hell?" Remo yelled, lapsing into English.

  Sammy Kee felt the videocam leave his hands. The electrical cable drawing the power from his belt battery pack snapped. Sammy's hands were suddenly numb. He looked at them. They were stuck in the stricture of holding the camera. But the camera wasn't there.

  "Who the hell are you?" Remo demanded.

  "Don't hurt me! I can explain," Sammy babbled in English.

  Remo grabbed Sammy by the shoulder, tearing off the top of the beautiful dragon costume. Underneath, he saw Sammy's dirty peasant clothes.

  "You're an American," Remo said accusingly.

  "How did you know?" Sammy asked.

  You smell like an American. Everyone smells like something. Koreans smell of fish. Americans smell of hamburger."

  "I admit it. Don't hurt me!"

  "Smith send you?"

  "What?"

  "Smith," Remo repeated angrily. "He sent you, right? You're here to spy for him, to make sure I come back to the States after ... after . . ."

  Remo didn't complete the sentence. The very thought of Smith sending a spy all the way to Sinanju to monitor Chiun's dying was too much, even for a cold-blooded tightass like Smith.

  "Come on," Remo said, yanking Sammy Kee along.

  "Where are you taking me?" Sammy wanted to know.

  "Don't talk. Don't say a word. Just walk."

  Sammy looked back in the shadows of the open door, a small figure stood in a forlorn posture, her face concealed by a impenetrable veil. She waved farewell timidly, but Remo didn't notice the gesture. His eyes were on the road ahead. The beach road leading back to the village.

  The Master of Sinanju was troubled. He had tricked Remo into declaring himself as his true heir. But at what cost? Remo had been very angry. It made Chiun heavy of heart. And so Chiun had retired to his beautiful house, deciding in his mind that he would not go to Remo, but would instead wait for Remo to seek him out.

  And if the Master of Sinanju expired before Remo's anger had subsided, then that would be on the head of Remo Williams.

  Pullyang, the caretaker, entered upon knocking. "He returns, O Master," Pullyang said as he bowed.

  "His face?" asked Chiun.

  "Full of wrath."

  Chiun looked stricken, but he said, "I will meet with him."

  "He is not alone. One is with him."

  "Which?" asked Chiun. "Speak his name."

  "I am told this person is not of the village."

  "This too, I will deal with." And Chiun was puzzled. Remo barged in without knocking. Chiun was not surprised. But he was surprised when Remo threw down a Korean whom Chiun did not recognize.

  "If this is a peace offering, Remo," Chiun said, "it will not do. I have never seen this wretch before."

  "Forgive me, great Master of Sinanju," pleaded Sammy Kee, falling to his knees.

  "But I will consider your offering," added Chiun, who enjoyed proper respect.

  "Smell him," Remo said. Chiun sniffed delicately.

  "He smells of excrement," the Master of Sinanju said disdainfully. "And worse, the dreaded hamburger."

  "A present from Smith," Remo said, holding up the video camera. "He was spying on us."

  Chiun nodded. "Emperor Smith is concerned that the line of succession is being transferred correctly. The mark of a wise ruler. I would not have credited him so. Too bad his contract is with the current Master of Sinanju, and not the next one."

  Chiun addressed Sammy Kee.

  "Return to your homeland and inform Emperor Smith that the Master of Sinanju lives yet. And
that Remo will not be returning, having agreed to take my place as the head of my village."

  Sammy Kee trembled in silence.

  "But," Chiun went on, "if he should wish to employ the next Master on a nonexclusive basis, this could be discussed. But the days of Sinanju having only one client are over. Sinanju is returning to its honored tradition of employment, which you Americans have only lately discovered. I believe you call it diversification."

  "What'll we do with him?" Remo asked. "There's no submarine in the harbor. I checked."

  "Hold him until the vessel reveals itself."

  "I found something else in the harbor, Chiun."

  "Your manners?" asked Chiun.

  "No. A body. Some kid."

  Chiun's wispy facial hair trembled. "A drowned child," he said sadly.

  "His head was bashed in. The crabs got him." Chiun's hazel eyes turned to Sammy Kee. They blazed.

  And the fear Sammy Kee felt deep inside him sweated out of his pores and proclaimed to the sensitive nostrils of the Master of Sinanju, better than any admission by word and deed, the undeniable guilt of Sammy Kee.

  "To murder one of Sinanju is an unforgivable crime," said Chiun in a low voice. "But to murder a child is abomination."

  Chiun clapped his hands twice to signal. The sound hurt Sammy's eardrums and set the wall hangings to fluttering.

  The caretaker, Pullyang, entered, and seeing Sammy Kee, recognized him. But he said nothing. "Find a place for this wretch. He will be sentenced at my leisure. And send men to the harbor to claim the body of the poor child that lies there."

  Sammy Kee tried to bolt from the room.

  "Not so fast, child-killer," Remo said. He tripped Sammy Kee with the toe of one Italian loafer. Sammy crashed to the floor and Remo touched his spine down near the small of the back.

  Sammy Kee suddenly discovered that his legs wouldn't work. He tried to crawl, but his lower body was so much dead weight. He cried.

  "What will happen to him?" Remo asked casually.

  "The crabs in the harbor have eaten sweet today. Tomorrow they will eat sour," Chiun said.

  "Smith won't like it."

  "Smith is a memory to the House of Sinanju from this day forward. You have renounced him."

  "I'm not sure I've renounced anything, Little Father. Just because I agreed to support this place doesn't mean I can't work for Smith."

  "You are a cruel child, Remo."

  "How do you feel?" Remo asked in a softer tone.

  "The pain is less when you are with me," he said.

  "Can we talk later?"

  "Why not now?"

  "I have something to do," said Remo. He seemed strangely eager to leave.

  "Something more important than comforting an old man?"

  "Maybe."

  Chiun turned his face away. "You will do what you will do, regardless of the hurt you cause."

  "I still have to think this through," Remo said.

  "No," Chiun shot back. "You have yet to think. The day you think is the day you feel compassion. I have decided not to move from this spot until that day arrives."

  And when Remo didn't answer, Chiun looked back. But Remo was gone.

  Chiun gasped at the blatant lack of respect. His brow furrowed. It was beyond understanding. Remo had not appeared angry with him, but he clearly was not responding to Chiun's blandishments.

  Chiun wondered if Shiva were stirring in Remo's mind again.

  Chapter 11

  Colonel Viktor Ditko waited outside the invisible wall surrounding Sinanju until night fell.

  Cold crept into the darkened interior of his Chaika. It made his right eye ache beneath his new eyepatch. The doctors had repaired the ruptured cornea, but it would be weeks until Colonel Ditko would know if the eye was any longer good.

  Colonel Ditko shivered in his winter uniform, cursing the name of Sammy Kee under his breath. He dared not turn the heater on and use up all his gasoline. Gasoline was not easily come by in North Korea, where automobiles were for the privileged only, and gas stations nonexistent. Colonel Ditko couldn't afford to seek out an official gas depot, where there would be questions about his presence here, far from his post in Pyongyang.

  Colonel Ditko wondered if Sammy Kee had escaped. But Sammy Kee would not have done any such foolish thing. There was no escape in North Korea. Only through Colonel Ditko could Sammy Kee ever hope to escape North Korea. So, watching the full moon rise above the low hills, Colonel Ditko shivered and settled deeper into the cushions, waiting for Sammy Kee to come up to the road from Sinanju.

  But Sammy Kee did not come up the road from Sinanju. No one came up the road from Sinanju. It was as if Sinanju had gobbled up Sammy Kee like a hungry bear.

  The night had nearly elapsed when Colonel Ditko came to the only possible conclusion left to him. Sammy Kee had been captured or killed in Sinanju. Colonel Ditko had tasted failure before in his career. Failure, it might be said, was a hallmark of Colonel Ditko's KGB career. It was the only hallmark, according to his superiors, which was why they frequently transferred him from one career-crushing post to another. Colonel Ditko could live with failure. Ordinarily.

  But not this time. This time he had sacrificed an eye to ensure success. This time he had promised success to the General Secretary himself. He could admit failure to his immediate superiors-they expected no better from him-but not to the General Secretary. He would have him shot. Worse, he might be exiled to the worst possible KGB post in the world. Back to India, this time to stay.

  This time, Colonel Viktor Ditko decided, stepping from the half-warmth of his closed car, he would not settle for failure.

  He walked down the road toward Sinanju, the moonlight making an excellent target of his slight form, and his Tokarev handgun clenched tightly in one hand. It was the hardest walk Ditko ever undertook, because to get into Sinanju, he had to walk through a wall. Even if he couldn't feel it.

  Sammy Kee lay in the darkness of the hut where they had thrown him. It was not so bad now. Before, the door was left open and the villagers paraded past to see the child-killer. Sometimes they spit upon him. Some came in and kicked him until blood climbed up his throat.

  The worst moment was the woman though. She was a fury. She was young, but with the seamed young-old face of the childbearing women of Korea. She screamed invective at Sammy Kee. She spat on his face. Then she flew at him with her long-nailed claws. But the others dragged her back just in time, before she could rake his face to peelings.

  Sammy understood that she was the boy's mother and he felt sick all over again.

  With the coming of night, they locked the door and left Sammy with the horror of his situation. He could move his arms, but his legs were useless. There was no feeling below his waist. He massaged his dead legs in a vain effort to restore circulation and nerve feeling, but all that happened was that his bladder gave and he soaked his cotton trousers.

  Finally, Sammy gave up trying to restore his legs. He dragged himself to the videocam which they had tossed in like a piece of junk, and laid his head on it, using the rubber handle as a kind of pillow. He was desperate for sleep.

  The fools, Sammy thought, the greatest journalist of the century and they had treated him like a dead cat. And then the peace of sleep took him.

  Sammy awoke from his slumber without knowing why.

  The door opened cautiously. Moonlight shimmered off a pair of eyeglasses, turning the lenses into blind milky orbs.

  Sammy recognized the slight unathletic form. "Colonel Ditko," Sammy breathed.

  "Quiet!" Ditko hissed. He shut the door behind him and knelt down in the darkness. "What has happened?"

  "They caught me," Sammy said breathlessly. "They're going to kill me. You must help me escape."

  "You faiied?" Ditko said hoarsely.

  "No, no! I didn't fail. Here. I made a new tape. It contains everything."

  Colonel Ditko scooped up the videocam.

  "Play it back through the viewfinder," Sammy said
eagerly. "You'll see."

  Ditko did as he was bidden. In his eagerness, he placed the viewfinder to his right eye. Annoyed, he switched to his good eye. He ran the tape, which played back minus sound.

  "What am I seeing?" Ditko asked.

  "The Master of Sinanju. He has returned. And he brought with him the American agent he has trained in Sinanju. They tell everything. They are assassins for America. It's all on that tape."

  Colonel Ditko felt a wave of relief. "You have succeeded."

  "Help me now."

  "Come then. We will leave before light."

  "You must help me. I can't move my legs."

  "What is wrong with them?"

  "The one called Remo. The Master's American pupil. He did something to them. I have no feeling in my legs. But you can carry me."

  Colonel Ditko unloaded the tape from the videocam. "I cannot carry this and you."

  "But you can't leave me here. They'll kill me horribly."

  "And I will kill you mercifully," said Colonel Ditko, who placed the muzzle of his Tokarev pistol into Sammy Kee's open mouth, deep into his mouth, and pulled the trigger once.

  Sammy Kee's mouth swallowed the sound of the shot. And the bullet.

  Sammy Kee's head slipped off the barrel of the gun with macabre slowness and struck the floor in several melonlike sections.

  Colonel Ditko wiped the backsplatter blood from his hand on Sammy's peasant blouse.

  "Good-bye, Sammy Kee," said Colonel Viktor Ditko. "I will remember you when I am warm and prosperous in Moscow."

  And Viktor Ditko slipped back into the night. This time he knew the walk through the invisible wall would not be that difficult.

  The caretaker, Pullyang, brought the word to the Master of Sinanju with the chill of the Sinanju dawn. "The prisoner is dead," he said.

  "Fear of the wrath of Sinanju extracts its own price," said Chiun wisely.

  "His head lies in pieces."

  "The mother," said Chiun. "She cannot be blamed for seeking revenge."

  "No rock ever burst a skull in this fashion," Pullyang insisted.

  "Speak your mind," said Chiun.

  "A western weapon did this," said Pullyang. "A gun."

  "Who would dare profane the sanctity of Sinanju with a shooter of pellets?" demanded Chiun.