Bidding War td-101 Read online

  "Got it," said Remo. And turning in his seat, he asked the hostage Red Chinese generals if they too understood the lesson of the Master of Sinanju.

  Whether they did or did not, they smiled and nodded appreciation even though it was doubtful if very many of them grasped basic English. They nodded because they didn't want to anger the white foreign devil imperialist running-dog tool of the Master of Sinanju, who had removed the head of General Yang in seat 12B, the only general neither smiling nor nodding in agreement.

  When the plane landed at Moscow's Vnukovo II Airport, the Chinese generals threw themselves upon the mercy of the Russian generals with the big army hats that looked like landing pads for toy helicopters. No general wore bigger hats than the generals of holy Russia. It had always been so, Chiun explained to Remo. Her armies were now so small and pitiful they had to intimidate their enemies any way they could. Imposing hats were also less expensive than new tanks or improved training.

  After the Russian generals had accepted the defection of the Red Chinese generals, the former turned their attention to the Master of Sinanju.

  "We have come in answer to an entreaty from the premier of Russia."

  "The premier is indeposed," the general with the largest hat of all told them coldly.

  "You mean 'indisposed' as in 'drunk again,' or 'deposed' as in 'thrown out of office'?" asked Remo.

  "Yes," said the huge-hatted general.

  Remo turned to the Master of Sinanju.

  "I think we're out of luck here, too, Little Father. Looks like the generals own the town now."

  "I seek transportation to Pyongyang," Chiun said then. "Where our skills are welcome."

  Remo groaned.

  The Russian generals looked stony of face, hard of eye and uncompromising of spirit.

  Until the head of the general with the biggest hat disappeared into the hat itself.

  There was a clap like near thunder. No one saw the hand of the Master of Sinanju move. Neither did the other man move.

  But suddenly the hat of the great General Kulikov settled onto his broad, many-starred shoulders.

  From the rear—for the other generals stood respectfully behind General Kulikov—the general presented a weird sight. It was as if he was playing a trick, hunkering his thick shoulders so his head slid down turtle fashion and his hat covered the gap.

  Except no one could possibly hunker his shoulders so deeply that his head all but vanished.

  After a long minute dragged past, in which General Kulikov neither spoke nor moved, the general with the second biggest hat touched him on the shoulder. And the big hat fluttered to the tarmac.

  There was no head on the general's impressive shoulders. Just a stump, cut so cleanly that blood failed to spurt. Although it did bubble desultorily.

  Gasps came. A hunt was organized for the general's missing head. It was not to be found on the tarmac, nor in the voluminous fallen hat nor in the general's big pockets—the only remaining possibility.

  In fact, it was never found at all.

  When that cold knowledge settled into everyone's stomach, the Master of Sinanju restated his simple request. "I seek transportation to Pyongyang."

  The Red Chinese jet was refueled, and this time the Russian generals agreed to accompany the Master of Sinanju as a guarantee that Russia antiaircraft batteries would not cause the jet to fall from the sky.

  The huge-hatted generals were very surprised to land intact in Pyongyang, capital of North Korea, because they assumed their superiors would shoot the plane down anyway and fete them as heroes of the motherland afterward.

  That they dared not do even that testified to the stark fear the House of Sinanju had driven into the generals of the world. For to fail was to surely perish.

  In Pyongyang, the Russian generals asked for asylum because they understood they would be shot as failures should they return to their ungrateful motherland.

  They were instead shot as betrayers of the socialist cause. Moscow had long ago cut off subsidies to Pyongyang, and now Pyongyang suffered greatly. Including its generals.

  After the bodies were hauled away by emaciated bullocks, the general with the greatest number of stars on his shoulder boards presented himself to the Master of Sinanju.

  "I am General Toksa."

  "The Master of Sinanju brings greetings to the illustrious premier of the Democratic People's Republic of Korea, which is neither democratic nor a republic," said Chiun in the formal voice reserved for heads of state he respected. "All hail Kim Jong II, friend of Sinanju. Great is his glory."

  The generals were silent as the Master of Sinanju finished speaking.

  "Dear Leader Kim Jong II has been dead these many months."

  And hearing these words, the Master of Sinanju flew into a rage. "Liar! Do not lie to the House that has made Koreans the most feared race ever to sanctify the soil with his sandal prints. You lie. I know you lie. You know you lie. Spit out these lies or surrender your lying tongues. Take me to the son of Kim II Sung."

  "This will be done," said General Toksa.

  At the presidential palace, the Master of Sinanju and his pupil were taken to a sumptuous basement office where sat a cunning, waxy-faced man in an ostentatious green uniform.

  "You are not the son of Kim II Sung," Chiun said.

  The man placed his naked hands on the desk, smiling thinly. "I am the son of Kim II Sung. I am by name Kim Pyong II."

  "Where is Kim Jong II?"

  "My half brother has joined his father and his ancestors."

  "I will brook no more lies," said the Master of Sinanju, slashing out a hand that seemed only to graze the belly of an attending general. His belly gaped a big red smile and disgorged his bowels.

  This impressed Supreme Leader Premier for Life Kim Pyong II, who stood up and said, "My brother is in the countryside doing the work that he loves best."

  "Whoring?" asked Chiun.

  "No. Directing."

  "Take us to him, for I will serve no emperor of Korea other than the true eldest son of Kim II Sung."

  Remo rolled his eyes. The last place he wanted to work for was North Korea. But he knew he had no say. Not if he wanted to stay in Chiun's good graces.

  Kim Jong II, Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces of North Korea, sat in his director's chair in the soundstage outside Pyongyang. He was happy. For the first time he was happy. He was doing what he wanted. And no one wanted to kill him anymore.

  Not that they hadn't tried. If it wasn't the generals who hated him, it was his half brother who feared him or his stepmother who despised him.

  All had tried to kill him—and failed. It was getting to be ridiculous. Bombs in his pillows. Poisoned Bim Bam Bop. Diseased courtesans. Nothing worked.

  In the end they had cut the unkillable Dear Leader a deal.

  Surrender the reins of power to his ambitious half brother and lead a life of luxury and privilege.

  It was too good to be true. But since they were all holding pistols and rifles on him and he was soaking in his gold-plated tub, he had agreed.

  They marched him out at gunpoint, his stepbrother looking especially nervous, and into a waiting army truck. Naked.

  He was sure he was going to be shot. But as they drove, their seething rage suggested otherwise. If he was really going to be killed, they would be gloating over him. Certainly spitting in his hapless face. Kicking him, too. Especially his stepmother, who did that a lot since his father had died.

  Instead, they had set him up in production.

  "I don't get it," he said in his Hollywood-style Korean as he surveyed the converted aircraft hangar now emblazoned with a Hangul sign that read Dear Leader Productions.

  "It is simple," his half brother had barked. "The Western markets are open to us. We need their currencies. To get their currencies, we need the product they want. The Chinese are making a fortune selling epic motion pictures starring a tart named Gong Li."

  "Ah," sighed Kim Jong II. "I would give anything to dir
ect Gong Li. She was magnificent in Red Sorghum."

  "Make movies the West will pay to watch," said his half brother, slapping him on the head as if he were a naughty child instead of the greatest director in the history of Korean cinema.

  And so Kim Jong II had returned to his first love, directing. After a while it all made sense. A dead Kim Jong II, after so many botched assassination attempts, would bring down the whole flimsy regime. For he had been groomed to be the next Dear Leader of North Korea, and all the people knew it. They would accept no substitute.

  On the day the South Korean forces rolled across the Thirty-eighth Parallel, Director Kim Jong II was lounging in his Dear Leader director's chair trying to get his leading actress to pout correctly for the camera and wishing he had Gong Li, the hottest Asian actress on the planet, instead of this simpering country-faced wench.

  But one worked with what one could scrounge. It was hard to get anyone to visit North Korea in these post-Iron Curtain times, much less settle here.

  In the middle of the pivotal scene where Princess An jilts King K'on, sirens began wailing so loudly they pierced the soundproof former bomber hangar.

  "Cut!" shouted Kim Jong II, bouncing off his director's chair, his plump body encased in an electric blue silk jogging suit like so much sausage in a foil package. "What the bleep is going on!"

  An old gaffer cried, "The Americans are back with their B-52s!"

  "Don't be ridic," snorted Kim Jong II. "They're more savvy than all that."

  But when he poked his head out the soundstage door, he saw clear skies and a string of official limos coming up the road, their sirens screaming their approach.

  "Uh-oh. Dear Leader doesn't like the looks of this setup."

  Ducking back, he went in search of a place to hide. But the soundstages had glass offices just like in Hollywood—he had insisted on that, and the glass wasn't exactly bulletproof.

  They caught him climbing into the princess's kimono with the actress who was still occupying it and screaming that she was being raped.

  "Hail the son of Kim II Sung," boomed a squeaky voice.

  And recognizing the voice of the Master of Sinanju, Kim Jong II blurted, "Oh, shit. I'm dead. They hired the best."

  Falling to his knees, Kim Jong II implored the Master of Sinanju with these words. "Just make it quick, okay? No pain, no blood, but a clean death. I'll go quietly, I promise."

  "I have come because a year ago you offered work to the Master of Sinanju."

  Kim Jong II blinked. Was he hearing correctly? "You want to work for me?"

  "As eldest son, you have the right of first refusal."

  Kim Jong II opened his closed fingers and climbed to his feet. His vision, which had irised down into a gray tunnel with a peephole at the end of it, began to clear.

  He saw the Master of Sinanju, resplendent in a poppy-red kimono, along with a white he recognized with a start.

  "Does your white slave come in the bargain?" he asked, indicating Remo.

  "What's it to you?" Remo demanded.

  "Hey! Cool it, baby. I remember you from last time. No hard feelings. Just saying is all."

  "Where do you get that talk?"

  "Movies. Where else?"

  "My son in spirit will serve whatever emperor the House favors," intoned the Master of Sinanju.

  "Don't count on it," said Remo.

  "Okay. Deal," said Kim Jong II.

  "Not without agreeing on payment," Remo said quietly.

  "Excellent point," said Chiun. "We must come to terms."

  "Gold I ain't got."

  Chiun frowned.

  "I have gold," said Kim Pyong II from the shadows. He stepped out, surrounded by stern-faced generals.

  "Who invited you?" Jong said sourly.

  "I must have gold," said Chiun.

  "I have something more valuable than gold," said Kim Jong II. "Assuming you want it, that is."

  Chiun sniffed, "There is nothing more valuable than gold."

  "Depends on how you look at it."

  "I too have something more valuable than gold," said Kim Pyong II.

  "Here we go. Dueling despots," groaned Remo.

  "I will listen to both offers and choose," declared Chiun.

  "Me first," said Kim Jong II. And stepping forward, he whispered into the receptive ears of the Master of Sinanju.

  "This is an interesting offer," mused Chiun. Then, turning to the other Kim, he asked, "What is your offer?"

  "I have no gold to offer, either, but rather information of inestimable importance to you."

  "I cannot trade my services for information my ears have not heard nor my brain evaluated," returned Chiun stonily.

  "When I reveal my information, it will sing to your ears and fire your spirit."

  "I will listen and if this is true, I will respond accordingly."

  Just then the air raid sirens wailed a song that froze the blood and brought the color of cold stone to the faces of the two Kims.

  Kim Pyong II sucked in a deep breath. "I regret to inform the Master of Sinanju, guardian of our honor and fountain of our glory, that the hated Americans have targeted the Pearl of the Orient with their vicious missiles."

  "Nice try," said Remo.

  "Is this true?" Chiun demanded, cold of voice.

  "You know it isn't true," Remo said.

  "It's true," insisted Kim Pyong II. "Having lost Sinanju to the East, the reactionaries desire its destruction."

  Chiun's wispy hair quivered delicately. "But Sinanju dwells not in my village, but in the heart of the Master."

  "And his pupil," said Remo.

  "Nevertheless, Master, it is so."

  Chiun turned to Remo. "Could this be true? Would Smith be so foolish?"

  "Maybe yes. Maybe no. Why don't we ask him?"

  "He would never admit this."

  "I do not know who Smith is," said Kim Pyong II, "but I have an official cable from Washington warning that this is so."

  "Where is this cable?"

  And the attending General Toksa proffered the cable. The Master of Sinanju took it. Remo read it over his shoulder.

  "Looks authentic to me," Remo said.

  "Why does it say Sinanju Scorpion?" wondered Chiun.

  "I do not know," the premier of North Korea said, licking his pale lips.

  "You lie!"

  Eyes shifted guiltily.

  "My information is correct and true," Kim Pyong II said stiffly, "and I must have your answer and allegiance."

  "And I will give it when the full truth is revealed."

  Eyes shifted again.

  "He's hiding something," Kim Jong II said. "I know him. He's my little half brother, the weasel."

  "You should talk," Remo grunted.

  "Go on, tell the Master of Sinanju. Tell him the truth."

  Remo stepped up and took Kim Pyong II by the back of the head, lifting him off his booted feet. "There are ways and there are ways."

  "An announcement was made," Kim Pyong II said. "It was premature. We did send you an offer, did we not?"

  "The House has come to Pyongyang, has it not?" Chiun countered.

  "We announced to our enemies and the world that Sinanju again serves Korea. The true Korea. Yes?"

  No one spoke. Chiun's eyes were chilling with every passing second.

  "The hated enemies, loathsomely jealous, employed their sky spies to seek out the new seat of Korean power and, finding your village, placed it in the cross hairs of their thousand guns."

  "They have threatened Sinanju?"

  "You have read the cable yourself. Never before have they been so bold."

  "This isn't like Smith," Remo said. "Or Washington, for that matter."

  Chiun's glittering eyes fixed Kim Pyong II. "You have placed my village and its people in danger."

  "No. I swear I did nothing deliberate. It was merely counterreactionary propaganda."

  At that point Kim Jong II stepped up and said, "Kill him and I can get you out of this."<
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  Chiun turned his head, fixing Jong with a steely eye. "How?"

  And Kim Jong II whispered in the ear of the Master of Sinanju.

  Chiun stood there for a long moment. His hazel eyes narrowed and lengthened, and his crafty brain processed the conundrum before him.

  Suddenly he said, "Remo, you are my son?"

  "Yes."

  "You would do anything I ask?"

  "Within reason. Yeah."

  "Protect Kim Jong II from all harm."

  Remo groaned. "Don't ask me to do that."

  But it was too late. With a cry of rage, the Master of Sinanju spun like a top and dervishlike whirled into the personal guard of Kim Pyong II.

  Hands clawed for Tokarev side arms, and heads began jumping like pineapples being sickled.

  No one screamed. No one had time to scream. Only to die. And die they did. Violently, magnificently, surrendering blood, bone and internal organs until they lay in steaming heaps upon the soundstage floor, the final and ultimate tribute to the Master of Sinanju.

  When the blood harvest was complete, the Master of Sinanju emerged from his frenzied dance of death to a position of cold calmness. His bloodless hands, clean as if just washed, retreated to the hollow of his joined kimono sleeves.

  "You are restored to your throne," he told Kim Jong II.

  "Actually I'd just as soon make movies. But if you could tell the surviving generals to leave me the bleep alone, I'll call it even."

  "Agreed. Once you have surrendered to me the valuable prize you promised."

  "Let me make a few phone calls."

  "What's the name of the movie?" Remo asked, looking around at the lavish set.

  Jong grinned happily. "King K'on."

  "It's been done."

  Kim Jong II looked stricken. Then he went to make his calls.

  When he came back, he said. "It's all set. By the way, we have a new problem. The South is overrunning the Thirty-eighth Parallel. Won't be long before they're all over Pyongyang like white on rice. Next thing you know, they'll be souvenir hunting in Sinanju."

  "Never," said Chiun. And the Master of Sinanju and the newly installed Leader for Life of Korea huddled for some minutes.

  Chapter Forty-six