Bidding War td-101 Read online

  "Don't you mean counterweapon?" asked the President.

  "I do not. I mean countermeasure. A counterweapon presupposes a first strike. I am not advocating a first strike here."

  Heads nodded around the table. Nobody wanted a first strike. Especially when no one knew what the terror weapon was.

  "On CIA maps of North Korea, this installation is called Sin-an-ju. Inasmuch as understanding Korean syllables requires knowledge of the precise Chinese characters the Koreans used to record the name, we cannot with certainty translate this name. CIA thinks it means 'New-blank-far.' Other possible translations are 'New Peace Sandbank' or 'New Place of Peace.'"

  "Doesn't sound very threatening," the President said.

  "Neither does brainwashing or ethnic cleansing. Or concentration camp—until you understand the terrible reality the words cloak."

  "I see your point."

  "And do not forget that North Korea calls itself the Democratic People's Republic of Korea. There are at least two lies in that name."

  "Three if you count the fact the real Korea is South Korea," the secretary of defense muttered.

  The JCS chair grew intent. "Mr. President, consider this suggestion. We target New Peace Sandbank with a submarine-launched SS-20 missile."

  "As a countermeasure?"

  "As a warning to North Korea and the world. We quietly inform Pyongyang that we have acquired this Sinanju as a retaliatory nuclear target. And then wait."

  The President's forehead wrinkled up in slow grooves. "For what?"

  "For a global response. If we assume North Korea and these other nations all acquired this new technology from a single arms source, Pyongyang will communicate this intelligence to their suppliers. These suppliers will in turn report this to their clients. Enemy nations will, of course, understand if U.S. satellites can acquire the Sinanju target we can also acquire—" he consulted a sheet of paper "—El Diablo, Al Quaaquaa, Turul and the remaining threat sites."

  "This will—"

  "—deter," whispered the secretary of defense in the President's ear.

  "—these other nations?"

  "Exactly."

  "Mutually assured deterrence," the President said firmly.

  "Close enough," the JCS chair commented. "It will buy us valuable time while CIA discovers exactly what this brute does."

  "Do it," the President said decisively. Then, turning to his wife, he asked. "That okay with you, hon?"

  Off in the corner away from the table, the First Lady sat firmly on her pillow and gave her spouse a sheepish thumbs-up sign.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  They were welcomed in Athens. Girls danced. Men danced and lyres not sounded since the days of Ho Megas Alexandros were plucked.

  At the presidential palace, Remo asked the Master of Sinanju a simple question. "I thought we don't serve democratic rulers."

  "We do not serve presidents. This man is a prime minister. It is different."

  "It's not that much different," said Remo, ducking to avoid an attempt to kiss him on the lips by a wine-besotted Greek cabinet minister who was overjoyed that the House of Sinanju would return to storied Athens.

  The prime minister was overjoyed, too. Rice lay heaped at their feet in the state dining room. There was fish of all kinds, steamed, broiled and prepared with special sauces. Duck was available. As was goose.

  Remo dug in.

  "The Greeks know how to throw a shindig," he said happily.

  "We have yet to see the color of their gold, or sink our mighty teeth into its legendary softness."

  "Soft gold is good, right?"

  "Soft gold is best."

  The prime minister was making a speech in his native tongue. It went in one of Remo's ears and out the other. Food was going into the hole that mattered. But his tongue craved corn.

  "With the House of Sinanju with us, Pseudo-Macedon will never threaten Athens."

  "Macedonia wouldn't threaten a flea," said Remo. "They have all of two cannon."

  "Bah. They are monsters who have stolen our heritage."

  "Says you."

  Toasts were drunk next. Remo and Chiun declined all wine and entreaties to sample more exotic fare. That it was offered them was enough, Chiun whispered.

  As the evening wore on, the alcohol took hold, and the Greeks began telling sad stories of their fallen glory. Alexander was cited often. As was Philip of Macedon. But Alexander was the name that fell from every lip most often.

  "Tell us. Tell us what your histories say of Alexander," the Greek prime minister insisted.

  Chiun pursed his lips. "The House served Philip, Alexander's father."

  "Yes, yes, of course. Philip was a great man, in his way. But he was no Alexander, who was a true Greek. Favor us with tales of Alexander, who was truly great."

  "I do not know those stories, I am sorry," Chiun said hastily. "The greatness of Alexander came at a time when the House was preoccupied with the Peacock Throne."

  "The Persians were great, but not so great as Alexander, who conquered them," a cabinet minister said loudly. "But surely you have tales to tell us."

  "Go ahead, Little Father," Remo prompted. "Tell them."

  "I know these tales imperfectly and would not wish to sully the memory of your Alexander with my poor attempts."

  Someone pointed at Remo. "You! Tell us stories if you know any."

  "He knows nothing, being but a servant of Sinanju," Chiun said quickly.

  "I'm a full Master," Remo said hotly.

  "A servant full of ambition," Chiun sniffed. "He aspires to head the House."

  And everyone laughed at the idea of a white American heading the greatest house of assassins in human history.

  "You wouldn't laugh if Chiun told you the true story of Alexander and the House of Sinanju," Remo said.

  Chiun's eyes flashed in warning.

  "What story?" asked the prime minister. "We must hear this story."

  Since he'd eaten his fill and was growing tired of Greek men trying to kiss him with their wine-dyed lips, Remo decided it was time for a little payback.

  "When Alexander was trying to conquer the world, the House was between emperors. Alexander brought down the Persian empire, which was the best client the House had in those days, and so when the Master at that time heard about it, he swore to get Alexander."

  A hard silk-clad elbow caught Remo in the ribs.

  "Silence," Chiun hissed in Korean.

  "Go on, go on!" the Greeks urged.

  Chiun interrupted. "He knows no more, being only an apprentice Master of Sinanju."

  Remo grinned. Score one for him.

  "He must tell. We do not know this story. Please."

  "It is only a fable," said Chiun.

  "We accept fables. Many of the stories we tell are fables. We prefer fables to true stories, for they are truer."

  "Okay," said Remo. "The Master sent a message to Alexander by handpicked messenger. When he got it, Alexander threw it away because it was written in Korean. He didn't know Korean."

  A sea of Greek faces looked perplexed.

  "Yes, continue, please."

  "The handpicked messenger had a disease. Alexander caught the disease from the messenger. Then he died."

  The faces looked expectant. "Is there no more to the story?"

  "Just what the message said."

  "Yes…?"

  The hard elbow caught Remo in the ribs again, just as—but not before—he said, "Gotcha."

  "Gotcha?"

  A hushed silence fell over the state dining room.

  Whispering began.

  "Sinanju slew our precious Alexander," a man whispered in Greek. "It was not a natural death. It was an assassination. All these centuries and we did not know."

  "And after all these centuries, we have invited the filthy murderers into our country," said the Greek prime minister in a voice as tight as a violin string.

  Hearing this, Chiun groaned aloud.

  "Guess it's time to se
ek our fortune elsewhere," Remo undertoned. "Huh, Little Father?"

  Chiun said a steamy nothing.

  They were allowed to leave. Their departure was attended by a cold silence and stony regards.

  On the way to the Athens airport, their taxi—they were denied use of an official car—was strafed by matched Greek warplanes.

  Remo removed the door on his side and, leaning out of the hurtling cab, flung it up into the sky. It clipped off a wing, and that was the end of one plane.

  The other followed at a respectful distance, strafing only for show.

  Settling back in his seat, Remo said in a contrite voice, "Sorry. You ticked me off back there."

  "I will forgive you if you forgive me first," said Chiun.

  "Let me think about it. My feelings are really hurt."

  "My feeling are more hurt than your feelings, so you must be the first to grovel."

  "Groveling is out."

  "Then you may go to your grave unforgiven."

  "You first," said Remo.

  As the taxi careened through the choked streets, evading an intermittent, steely rain, Chiun's mood brightened.

  "It is just like the old days where glorious danger lurked everywhere," he cackled.

  Remo just rolled his eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The president of South Korea smoked a filtered Turtle Ship cigarette as he listened to the report from the director of Korean Central Intelligence. The Minister for unification sat bolt upright, his features slack with concern.

  Seoul traffic hummed and blared outside the conference room of the presidential palace.

  "Radio Pyongyang has announced it controls Sinanju," he said simply.

  A grave hush filled the smoky room.

  At length the president said, "We are all doomed."

  "Northern disinformation cannot be ruled out," the Korean CIA director added.

  The president slammed his fist on the table. "Why did the Americans let him slip from their grasp! There is no protection from the Master of Sinanju. It is said he can walk through walls, swim underwater for a day without exhaling and in proper light seem invisible."

  "Disinformation," the director repeated.

  "We cannot assume that! We must know!"

  "Our spies in Pyongyang know only what they hear, which is what is coming out of Pyongyang and not necessarily the truth."

  "We must know!" the president repeated. "It means my life. All our lives."

  The Korean CIA director looked helpless. "What can we do?" he asked.

  The unification minister opened his mouth hesitantly. "We could consult a mansin," he said quietly.

  The Korean CIA director blinked through the haze of his own Milky Way cigarette smoke. "A fortuneteller?"

  "No," the president said firmly. "Better. A mudang!"

  Ah, they agreed. A mudang, yes. Much better. Everyone knew that country witches were more far-seeing than city witches.

  Twenty minutes later an unmarked black Pony sedan conveyed them from Seoul to the countryside, where they would learn the truth.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  In Hanoi, Remo and Chiun were met by generals who offered gold and jewels beyond compare, then escorted them to an armored vehicle that had a steel ring welded to the top.

  A giant helicopter dropped out of the sky, hooked onto the ring and lifted the armored vehicle up into the air only to drop it down the mouth of an extinct volcano. When the two victims subsequently climbed into the cockpit with him, the pilot was only too happy to fly them to the destination of their choice. And he got to keep his head.

  In Kabul there were more generals with smiling faces and plastic charges strapped about their ample middles. They approached with the helpless stares of living dead men, and before their fingers touched the detonators in their sweaty palms, Remo and Chiun threw themselves into high reverse and outran the flying bone fragments and shreds of human meat.

  On an Air India flight, a dewy-eyed stewardess with green fingernails tried to scratch them. But her nails smelled not of enamel but extract of cobra, and Remo caught up her hands while Chiun methodically extracted her nails one by one and made her swallow them.

  After that the other dewy-eyed, green-nailed stewardesses sat very still in their seats and offered them no food or drink.

  "Let's face it, Little Father," Remo said as they remained in their seats at the Bombay airport while the honor guard tried in vain to entice them from the refueling aircraft with discordant band music and songs of Sinanju's service to Moguls past. "No one can afford us except America."

  "And not even America. China is growing. We will go to China. And demand every peasant and rice farmer pay us a single coin if we agree to work for the Middle Kingdom."

  Remo whispered. "That's a lot of coins."

  "A lot is never sufficient."

  But in China there were problems, too. A little matter of a Long March ICBM.

  The Chinese bowed and scraped in their gray-and-green Mao jackets and swore deep and abiding fealty to the Master of Sinanju behind their bland smiles.

  "We offer you more than gold," said a functionary in the Great Hall of the People. He was the fifth functionary that had greeted them. And there remained a long ladder of functionaries between them and the premier, who some said was ill.

  "There is nothing more than gold," Chiun returned in the singsong language of the Han.

  "We have a space program now."

  "Sinanju already possesses a piece of the moon. It is but a gray rock. One is sufficient."

  "Did you know that no Korean has ever entered into space?"

  "There is nothing in space," countered Chiun with disdain even as his hazel eyes lit with slow interest.

  "True. There is nothing in space. Nor will there be anything in space of value until a Korean breathes the clear, pure air of the Great Void."

  Chiun's eyes gleamed more. Sitting off to one side, Remo could only listen without clear understanding. He didn't know Chinese, the language they conversed in. Only the words Chinese and Korean shared in common.

  "Tell me more," whispered Chiun.

  "Men who journey into space are more renowned than any. Their names will be sung down through the ages."

  "As will mine. I expect to be known as Chiun the Great to my descendants, and those who follow. Perhaps Chiun the Great Teacher."

  All eyes went to the oblivious round-eyed foreign evil who had accompanied the Master of Sinanju to Bejing, and it was agreed that the honorific "Great Teacher" was certainly warranted.

  "Greater renown than even yours will befall the first Korean in space. You would not wish this to be a South Korean."

  "South Koreans are lazy and stupid."

  "All know northerners are more hardy and brave in the extreme."

  "I work for gold not glory," said Chiun.

  "Some gold can be yours."

  Chiun touched his wispy beard. "How much?"

  And an amount was mentioned. Delicately. It was so Chinese. The words might have been apricot blossoms falling onto grass. They caressed the senses.

  "That much gold and the opportunity to be the first Korean to venture alive into the Great Void is acceptable," said Chiun.

  "The rocket ship awaits."

  "Hold. Do not think you can trick me. Our bargain is not yet struck."

  The Chinese dignitaries sat unmoving. An expression of perplexity touched their still foreheads.

  "You offer payment before service. That is not the way of the Han."

  "The rocket ship is ready to depart. It will go with a Chinese celestial pilot if you do not go today. Consider this the down payment. The gold will come later."

  Chiun made a thoughtful face, deepening his wrinkles. In a corner of the room, Remo yawned broadly.

  "I have encountered enemies of late who cannot afford Sinanju and would do without if only Sinanju might be snuffed like a candle," Chiun remarked slowly.

  The Chinese expressed astonishment at such pe
rfidy existing in the modern world.

  "I will be transported into the Great Void?" Chiun asked next.

  "Yes," they agreed.

  "And returned?"

  "Absolutely," they promised.

  And so the bargain was struck in the Great Hall of the People.

  Standing up, Chiun strode over to Remo. "I must go now, but I will return."

  Remo stood up. "Where are you going?"

  "On a short journey."

  "To where?"

  "Where only a Reigning Master may venture. You cannot follow. I am sorry. Await me here."

  "You're not leaving me here with these guys, arc you?"

  "You may beg and you may grovel, but you cannot accompany me into the pure air of the realm I am about to plumb."

  "Give me a hint."

  "No, await me here."

  "Okay," said Remo. But as soon as Chiun left, he slipped out an unguarded window.

  People's police tried to stop him. Remo broke their rifles and handed them back. Then they tried to tackle him. Remo broke a few wrists and ankles by way of discouragement.

  Then they tried to run him down with a long black official car.

  Remo stopped perfectly still and let them.

  At the last possible second, with the grille bearing down on him, Remo executed a standing backflip and landed in a tiger's crouch on the strong steel car roof.

  The car circled and screeched and, when there was no sign of a flat dead American, it straightened out and raced after the line of official limousines bearing the Master of Sinanju.

  Atop the car Remo smiled tightly. Maybe he'd get to go with Chiun after all.

  Chapter Forty

  Her name was unknown, but in Suwon Province she was known as the Wart Woman. When she answered the door to her crumbling hovel, her face was aboil with warts through which she smiled toothless and foolish.

  "Enter," she cackled. She wore a faded cinnabar hanbok dress. A cataract clouded one eye. Her black hat rose to a scarlet peak.

  Inside, the room was filled with hanging costumes, arcane musical instruments and the dang shrine where she entreated the spirits of the dead.

  After they placed four hundred won into the mouth of a boar's head, she asked, "Which spirit general would you consult with? The Fire General? The Lightning Bolt General? General White Horse? Or—"