"Before you, young man," said Chiun, "Sinanju was. During the Mongol invasion, Sinanju was. During the Chinese lords, Sinanju was. During the Japanese lords, Sinanju was. During the Russian lords, Sinanju was. They are all gone and we are here as we will be here after Kim Il Sung was. But I would speak with you for, lo, after these many years Korea has a leader who is of her own. And that is you, although you are but a Pyongyanger."
And hearing these words, Sung sat. But he neither bowed nor did he remove his shoes as in the old ways. And Myoch'ong listened with great apprehension. But when Chiun spoke, he knew all would be well for there was much wisdom in the Master.
"You come here seeking the wisdom of Sinanju, otherwise why would a premier come to this poor village?" said Chiun.
And Sung agreed.
"You call me lackey," said Chiun.
And Sung agreed.
"Yet who is the lackey? Have I joined Sinanju to the Russians? Have I made compacts with the Chinese? Do I on every occasion support Arab and African and even whites just because they profess a belief in one form of government?"
"They are our allies," said Sung. "The Russians give us arms. The Chinese fought Americans for us."
And Chiun smiled.
"The Russians gave arms because they hate the Americans. The Chinese fought because they hate the Americans. Lucky are we that these two hate each other for they would sit in Pyongyang and not you. As for Africans, Arabs, and whites, they are far away and not even yellow. The Japanese are greedy, the Chinese despicable, the Russians swine, and as for our own southerners, they would sleep with ducks if birds had big enough openings."
At this, Sung roared in laughter.
"This man has a proper outlook," he said to Myoch'ong. "Who is responsible for calling him a lackey? Who has given me such misinformation?"
And Chiun spoke again. "But we must look with more sympathy upon our southern brothers because they are of the south and cannot help themselves. This is their nature."
Myoch'ong gasped. For never had anyone dared say any kind thing about those beneath the thirty-eighth parallel.
"I too have often thought such. They cannot help being what they are," said Sung.
"And Pyongyang is not the nicest of places. It is where good people go wrong," said Chiun.
"I was not born in Pyongyang but in Hamhung," said Sung.
"A fine village," said Chiun.
"Sinanju is fine also," said Sung.
"I am of Paekom," said Myoch'ong.
"But he has risen above it," said Sung.
"Some of our best friends come from Paekom. They transcend their origins," said Chiun.
Now Kim Il Sung was satisfied that here was a man of good heart and proper thinking. But he was troubled.
"I hear you teach Sinanju to whites. To an American."
Now Chiun knew this to be a great offense, one that could not be laid before the premier with all honesty, so he was careful with his words, and he spoke with slowness and with caution.
"In my own village, in my own family, none I found was worthy. There was laxness and sloth and deceit. Among ourselves, we can admit these things."
Sung nodded for he too knew of the problems of governing.
"There was ingratitude for what was offered," said Chiun.
How well did Sung know this also.
"There was backsliding and lack of discipline," said Chiun.
Oh, how truly did the Master of Sinanju know this, proclaimed Sung.
"The son of my own brother took the preciousness given him and used it for selfish gain."
How well did Sung know this trait. He looked somberly at Myoch'ong.
"He acted like a southerner, "said Chiun.
Sung spat and this time Chiun nodded approval. For it was a proper moment for such things.
"And so I sought another, that this knowledge of our people should not die."
"A wise thing," said Sung.
"I would have chosen one of us. But in all the village, in all the North, I did not find one with a Korean heart. I did not know you at the time."
"I had my problems," said Sung.
"So I sought a Korean heart like yours. One of us."
"Good for you," said Sung, placing a strong hand on the shoulder of the Master of Sinanju by way of congratulation.
"This man of our heart happened to have suffered a misfortune at birth. A catastrophe."
Sung's countenance became exceeding sad.
"What was this misfortune?"
"He was born white and American."
Sung gasped at the horror.
"Each morning he had to look at his round eyes in the mirror. Each meal he had to eat hamburger. Each day, naught but others with that same affliction for company."
"And what did you?"
"I found him and saved him from the Americans. From their thinking and ill manners."
"You did well," said Sung. But Myoch'ong, being of a suspicious nature, asked how Chiun knew this was not just another American but a Korean heart in an American body.
"Because he learned correctness exceeding well, and to prove the point he will demonstrate what he has learned when he comes to honor his heritage here in Sinanju."
"How do we know," asked Myoch'ong, "that it is not just an American to whom you have taught all of Sinanju?"
"An American?" said Chiun with a scoffing laugh. "Did you not see Americans in the great war with the south? Did you not see Americans when you had them with their ship? An American?"
"Some Americans are hard," said Myoch'ong. But so taken with the words of the Master was Kim Il Sung that he forgot his own truth and looked at Myoch'ong with scorn. Of course, this white man has a Korean heart, he said.
"His name is Remo," said Chiun.
And thus it was that evening, in the large People's Building in Pyongyang, when the name Remo was mentioned again to the Premier, Kim Il Sung recognized it. He was told a message had been received that an American named Remo would be disgraced in the village of Sinanju, and that he would be disgraced by a man named Nuihc.
And the sender of this message was himself Nuihc and he pledged the devotion of his soul to Kim Il Sung and the People's Democratic Republic of Korea. And he signed his message in this fashion:
CHAPTER NINE
"I'd like a million dollars, lady, in singles. Don't count it, weigh it."
Lynette Bardwell looked up at her teller's cage and smiled at Remo.
"Hiya," she said. "Missed you last night."
"You were among the missing last night," Remo said. "But I thought there's always tonight. You almost done here?"
Lynette looked at the clock in the center of the bank lobby, high up over Remo's head. The craning of her neck caused her bosom to rise.
"Ten minutes more."
"Dinner okay? Your husband won't mind."
"I guess he won't," said Lynette. "I haven't heard from him. I guess he did go away for awhile."
Remo waited in front and Lynette came boobily bobbing out in precisely ten minutes.
"Take my car?" she said. Remo nodded. In her car in the parking lot, she leaned over to brush his cheek with her lips. The top of her body pressed against his right shoulder. Remo grimaced.
"What's the matter? You hurt your shoulder?"
Remo nodded.
"How'd that happen?"
"Would you believe I ran into a barrel of basketballs?"
"No."
"Good. Don't."
Lynette drove and Remo picked the dinner spot this time, an even darker restaurant than the night before, but one that looked as if it could cook rice.
It could, and Remo joined Lynette in eating.
"Did you see Wetherby?" she asked.
"Yes. But he couldn't help."
"Couldn't help you what? You know I don't know what it is you're after."
"I'm doing a book on Oriental fighting. Your husband, Wetherby, they all have some special training, something unique. I know enough about it to know that. But they won't tell. I think I've stumbled onto some new training secret, and, well, I'm stubborn."