"You were there," Dilkes said.
"For a few," the Korean admitted. "Not for most. But I, like you, kept track."
Dilkes frowned. "But you're the pupil of the Master of Sinanju. And these-" he hesitated, searching for the right word "-events have spanned the past thirty years. Shouldn't you have been there for most of them?"
The Korean still studied the maps. At Dilkes's question, there was a slight twitch at the corner of the Asian's mouth. A hint of buried emotion. When he spoke, his voice was so soft Dilkes had to strain to hear.
"I was Master before any of these took place," the Korean said coldly. "I was Master when you first began your pitiful business of breaking necks and setting fires for money in barbarian African backwaters. These are all the result of an anomaly. The handiwork of an old man who stayed beyond his time. One who would betray everything he claims to hold dear. A pathetic shell of dust and bone who would take as a pupil a worthless white mongrel and present it to the world as something other than the unfit cur that it is." He shook his head. "This will end."
With that the Asian raised his foot five inches off the floor. With a look of icy determination, he dropped the sole of his black leather shoe hard to the carpet.
The thunder rattled the room. The vibrations seemed to find focus on the wooden easels that held up the world maps. One by one the tiny red tacks popped out, clattering to carpet like hard rain. The last tack to rattle loose was that of Jean-Pierre Sevigne. The plastic-capped pin that had become a grave marker for the French assassin fell to the floor and was lost in the scattering sea of red thumbtacks.
"It is one thing to follow a trail," said the Asian. "Quite another thing to blaze one. We are going to tear down a house and build a new one on its foundation."
As he spoke, the small man walked over and retrieved the plastic case from the nightstand.
Dilkes shook his head. "I don't understand."
The Asian turned. "You and the pins in this box are going to help me, Benson Dilkes. When I am done, not one stone will be left on another. Our task is a simple one. Builders do it all the time. The destruction of a house."
The Korean took two fresh pins from the case. Rolling them in his palm, he brought them over to the map. One after the next, he flipped them to the tip of his thumb and flicked them with his index finger. With near simultaneous whirs they flew at a map, burying themselves deep in the corkboard.
Dilkes saw that the tacks had embedded themselves near the Korean peninsula. Just at the edge of the curve of the West Korean Bay. When he turned back to the Asian, there was a look of excited wonder on his face.
Dilkes had been dragged from Africa, from the comfort of retirement. Practically kicking and screaming. He had thought his new life of leisure suited him. He was wrong.
Benson Dilkes-the man who lectured others about the power of the House of Sinanju, the man who twenty-five years before had run rather than encounter the most feared practitioner of that most ancient art-felt an old tingle in the pit of his fluttering stomach.
He thought it was long gone. The excitement of youth. The thrill of the kill. Replaced by drudgery and mechanics and, finally, by retirement, by uselessness. But it was back. Blazing bright and newborn. In a flash, the certainty of death that had loomed above his head all these months was replaced by the exciting possibility of ultimate success.
Benson Dilkes turned to the Korean, his tan face flushed with youthful energy.
"I understand, Master," Dilkes drawled, his Virginia twang suddenly as thick as the day he had made his first kill. "Just tell me what you need. I am yours to command."
The killer offered a deep, formal bow of submission.
And, unseen by Dilkes, in the corner of the room the silent, blond-haired man flashed a demented smile.
Chapter 17
Remo was hoping that Chiun's gloomy mood would dissipate by the time they reached Charles de Gaulle International Airport. But the old Korean remained somber and silent from the cab to the curb to the terminal. His dour mood was infectious. Remo felt his own spirits sink with every cheerless step.
"Where to next?" Remo asked glumly as they headed to the ticket windows.
"Germany," the wizened Asian replied. He screwed his mouth up, refusing to say more.
"Great," Remo grumbled. "Snails for schnitzel. At least we're trading up the food chain."
He ordered the tickets at the counter, paying with his Remo Bednick American Express card. The two Masters of Sinanju had walked only a dozen feet away from the counter when a squat airport representative with a thick neck and a thicker French accent touched Remo on the elbow.
"Please excuse the intrusion," the man said, "but monsieur has a telephone call. If you would come this way."
Remo shot a glance at the Master of Sinanju. Chiun seemed uninterested. It was apparent he was still worrying about the words of the Russian monk.
"I'm warning you," Remo said to the Frenchman.
"I'm on my way to Germany. If this isn't on the level, I'm gonna throw a bratwurst over the Rhine and holler 'fetch.'"
The confused airport employee insisted he was telling the truth. With a sigh of surrender-the first ever uttered by a foreign national on French soil-Remo followed the man to a private lounge and a waiting telephone.
Remo expected the phone would be wired to sizzle him with electricity or spit poison gas. When he heard the bile-fueled wheezing on the other end of the line, he realized it was even worse than an assassin's booby trap.
"What is it, Smitty?" Remo sighed.
"Remo, thank goodness," said the lemony voice of Harold Smith. "We have been searching for you for several hours. Until you used your credit card, we were unable to find you."
"I'll have to remember to pay cash from now on. What do you want? And make it snappy, 'cause somewhere in Germany there's a killer waiting to zap me, and we all know how patient Germans are."
"Actually I was not looking for you. I need to speak with Master Chiun. Is he with you?"
Remo glanced at the Master of Sinanju. The old Korean was at the window of the lounge. Button nose upturned, he was staring out at the plane lights in the night sky, his face a mask of mummified concern.
"He's here," Remo said warily. "But he's not exactly in a chipper mood. I don't know if he wants to talk."
Twenty yards across the crowded lounge, the Master of Sinanju waved an angry, dismissive hand. His back remained to Remo as he studied the night.
"He wants me to take a message," Remo said. Smith cleared his throat.
"There has been an incident in Sinanju. I am afraid Master Chiun's caretaker is dead."
If Remo had even for a moment thought he might have to repeat Smith's words to the Master of Sinanju, he knew for certain in the next instant that it would not be necessary.
Across the room, the old man's head whipped around. Hazel eyes frowned in deep concern. The old Korean flounced across the lounge, snatching the phone from his pupil's hand.
"Speak," he demanded.
"Oh, Master Chiun." Smith did his best to mask his worried disappointment. Although he had called in search of the Master of Sinanju, he preferred to talk to Remo. "I was just telling Remo about your caretaker, Pullyang."
"Yes, yes," Chiun hissed. "What happened?"
"Well, his daughter called here a few hours ago," Smith said. "I believe her name is Hyunsil."
In the French airport lounge, the Master of Sinanju rolled his impatient eyes heavenward. Of course he knew the name of his caretaker's daughter. Just as he knew the names of all the villagers who lived under his protection. What was it in the white mind that made them state the obvious?
"How did my caretaker die?" Chiun pressed.