He was prepared to hear that natural causes or an unfortunate accident had claimed the life of his elderly caretaker. The answer he received startled him to silence.
"According to his daughter, he was murdered." Remo was still standing next to the phone. At Smith's words, he shot a concerned look at his teacher.
The color had drained from Chiun's parchment face. His hand was a knot of petrified ivory as it clutched the black receiver. His wisps of hair shook with vibrations that emanated from the very core of his shocked being.
For a long time he couldn't speak. All words he might have said shriveled and died within the compressing cage of his stunned chest. Hot breath slipped from between his lips.
The phone squawked in his hand.
"Hello? Master Chiun?" came the lemony voice from the line. "Hello?"
Remo gently pressed his hand to the Master of Sinanju's bony shoulder. "Little Father?"
At long last the old Korean found his voice.
"The treasure," he breathed. "Is the treasure safe?"
"I didn't think to ask," Smith said. "The translation program wouldn't have worked fast enough anyway. She hung up the phone too quickly. I could try calling back, although that really is not necessary now that you-"
Whatever else Smith said, neither Master of Sinanju heard. Chiun had hung up the phone. Lost in thought, the old man turned slowly to his pupil.
"I must return to Sinanju," he announced.
Remo nodded. "I understand," he said. "I'll get us two tickets to South Korea. We'll postpone this Time of Succession stuff for later."
"No," Chiun insisted. "You will continue alone. I will deal with whatever has happened in my village."
Remo's face clouded. "That's nuts," he said. "You have to go with me for this."
"You are a full Master of Sinanju, not an infant needing me to hold your hand," Chiun spit. "You will go alone."
Remo felt the world spinning away from him. He shook his head. "Is that even allowed?"
Chiun nodded. "There have been times in the past. Extreme circumstances where the pupil went alone. Usually they involved the death of the Reigning Master before the time of the pupil's introduction to the courts of the world. It is rare, but not without precedent."
Remo shook his head. "I can't do this by myself. I know two languages, English and Korean. I know govnyuk is 'shithead' in Russian, but we've already done the czar, so even that won't come in handy unless we're going to Moscow."
"No, we are not," Chiun said.
"All right, then."
"You are."
The tiny Asian's voice was firm. Remo could see that there would be no arguing. His shoulders slumped.
"Why don't you at least call home first before you waste a trip?" he said with a sigh. "Get a heads-up on what's going on. He was pretty old, Chiun. Maybe Smitty got it wrong. He said he was using some translation something-or-other. Maybe Pullyang died in his sleep."
"To call first might alert the dastards who did this wicked thing," Chiun insisted, "for the village telephone is in the Master's House and if they killed my trusted caretaker for my treasure, they are surely there plundering it now. If it is as you suggest and he met a natural end, I must still go, for he has been a good and faithful servant to me for many years. I must pay my last respects."
The words were spoken in a clear and reasonable tone. But they were a lie.
Another is dead already.
That was what the monk had said. At the time, the words had confused Chiun. Now he understood. The monk knew.
Another is dead already. Pullyang. Two Masters of Sinanju will die.
Whatever was coming for them had its beginnings in Sinanju. Perhaps it would be possible to cheat fate. But first Chiun had to learn exactly what the danger was.
"I don't even know where in Germany I'm supposed to go," Remo said. He seemed lost.
The old Korean looked up into his pupil's face. It was leaner now than it had been when they'd first met so many years ago. The baby fat had long since burned away. But it was still a young, innocent face. Guileless and unlined. Despite the buffeting hardships of a sometimes vicious and heartless world, it remained open and honest.
"I will tell you where to go," Chiun said softly.
"Super," Remo grumbled. "While you're at it, tell me what to do when I get there."
"I do not have to," the old man said. "For you will do as you always do. You will make me proud." And this time, unlike back at their Connecticut duplex, Remo Williams knew to worry. For this time the old man did not erase his words of praise with an insult.
Chapter 18
The chancellor of the Federal Republic of Germany paced back and forth on the stone floor. The soles of his black dress shoes clicked sharply with each step.
"You said we were ready," the chancellor snapped. His breath formed puffs of gray steam in the chill morning air.
Wind blew cold through the open window in the old castle, cutting to the bone. The chancellor hugged his crossed arms tight to himself as he glared at the portly man in the heavy woolen overcoat.
"We were ready," the defense ministry man insisted. "Up until yesterday. But he has not arrived this morning. He was supposed to meet with me over an hour ago."
"Call him," the chancellor commanded.
"I have already tried calling a dozen times."
The leader of Germany strained to dull the furious edge in his voice, "Try again," he snapped. Nodding, the red-faced man waddled off to a dank corner, cell phone in hand. As the man pressed out a number on the disposable phone he intended to throw away later that morning, the chancellor stepped to the window.
The land he looked out on was primeval forest. The acres of wilderness were as untamed as they had been a thousand years before when this castle was a stronghold of the Hohenstaufen Emperor Frederick Barbarossa.
The history of ancient Germany was stretched out before the chancellor's eyes. The German leader didn't seem to appreciate the view. That Frederick I had stood at the same window and looked out on the same forests was the last thing on the chancellor's mind this morning.
The leader of Germany was irritated. Why wouldn't he be? He had every right to be upset. They were supposed to be prepared. Until yesterday he had been assured over and over that Germany was ready.
He had flown by helicopter to this secret spot in the dark of night, secure in the knowledge that this bizarre business had been handled.
The special throne was already in place. It had been carted from its government storage facility in Berlin. The ancient wooden throne had been carved from the trees of this very forest. Lovingly preserved, it had been handed down from one generation to the next for centuries.
The throne weighed over a ton. It was part of the ceremony. The men who had been charged with hauling it to this lost castle had no idea what it was for.
But it was here. In place. As everything else was supposed to be. All that was supposed to happen from this point forward were formalities.
Only when the black night sky had begun to feed the ugly grays of dawn was the chancellor informed that his country might not be ready after all.
Far below the castle walls, the twisted trees stirred in the morning breeze. Somewhere close a bird began to shriek. Its cry was answered from far away in the forest depths.
As more birds took up the call, a muttered curse came from the corner of the big room. The chancellor turned from the window and the growing dawn. "Anything?"
Phone still pressed to his ear, the defense ministry man shook his head. His sagging jowls wobbled worriedly. "It now says that the number has been discontinued."
The chancellor's eyes opened wide with rage.
The fat man understood why the German leader was upset. He had done research. He knew exactly what they were dealing with. For weeks leading up to this, he had been having nightmares about what might happen if things went wrong.