Chiun detected no deception coming from the North Korean premier. He released Kim Jong Il's hand, spinning in a whirl of kimono silk.
For an instant he suddenly seemed to remember Shan Duk, all 270 pounds of which was still balanced on his fingertips. As an afterthought, Chiun lobbed the bodyguard-who was thrashing by this point into the mob of soldiers. The men fell like bowling pins.
Chiun twirled through the toppled mass of men, heading across the tarmac. As he walked he shouted, "I require an automobile."
And all around, terrified men produced jangling sets of car keys. Mostly Chryslers and Subarus. The finest cars the Communist leadership of North Korea could buy.
IT WAS GENERAL KYE PUN who was elected to drive the Master of Sinanju home. Chiun remained silent in the back seat of the car.
A major highway, the likes of which existed nowhere else in all of North Korea, led to the coast. It stopped dead at a frozen mud road.
When the intelligence officer slowed to a gravelly stop at the end of the paved road, the Master of Sinanju got out of the back. He padded wordlessly away from the car.
The car turned for the ride back to the capital. When General Kye Pun looked in the rearview mirror, he saw the solitary figure of the elderly Master of Sinanju walking up the old mud path between the clumps of winter weeds.
"May we never cross paths again, old one," the general muttered to himself as he drove back down the road.
Alone on the path, Chiun heard the general's softly spoken words. He listened to the sound of the car engine driving away. It was an ugly sound. A modern intrusion into a place otherwise untouched by time.
The automobile sound faded, replaced by the howl of the wind and the roar of the nearby sea.
As always when he returned to the village of his birth, Chiun soaked in the history of his surroundings. Countless centuries ago, the sandals of the first Master of Sinanju had walked this very path. Chiun returned along that road. The same path he had walked as a young man when first he ventured out as Reigning Master.
Usually a return to Sinanju was cause for rejoicing. But this was not a happy homecoming. With a heavy heart he walked the path of his ancestors to the village proper.
The homes and shops were closed up tight. Windows were shuttered against the relentless wind. No one was about.
It was not the elements that kept the people inside. Chiun had sensed it even before he reached the village. Fear hung heavy in the cold air.
He walked through town unchallenged.
The House of Many Woods sat on a bluff beyond the far end of the main road. Buffeted by wind, Chiun climbed the hill and entered the house of his ancestors.
The treasure was where it belonged. To his sharp eye it was clear nothing had been disturbed.
That he had not been robbed was a small consolation. There were things larger than mere robbery. Greater even than if bandits had come in and whisked away all the centuries' worth of accumulated treasure.
He was coming out of a back room when he heard the sound of the front door opening.
An old woman waited for him in the main room. Her eyes were dark from lack of sleep. She was draped in the traditional white garments of mourning.
Chiun needed only to gaze upon Hyunsil, daughter of his caretaker, to see that Smith had been right. "So," the Master of Sinanju said quietly. "It is true."
Hyunsil nodded. "Yes, Master," she said, her voice heavy with sorrow. Though burdened, she tried to straighten herself. "Hail, Master of Sinanju, who sustains the village and keeps the code faithfully, leader of the House of Sinanju. Our hearts cry a thousand greetings of love and adoration. Joyous are we upon the return of him who graciously throttles the universe."
That in her sorrow she would remember the traditional greeting for a returning Master of Sinanju-the greeting her father had taught her-filled Chiun's heart with love.
"You honor me, child, to remember the words," he said, padding over to her. "Even more, you honor the memory of your father. But do not bother with formalities now."
"As you wish, Master," Hyunsil said, studying the dust on the floor with tired eyes.
Chiun sensed her spirit. "You blame the Master for your father's death," he announced, nodding sagely.
The old woman looked up with a start, shocked that her secret heart had become known. But then she realized to whom she was speaking.
"My father would be angry at me for thinking such a thing," Hyunsil said, hanging her head in shame. "He taught me to revere the Masters of Sinanju, whose labors have sustained our village for generations."
And the Master of Sinanju did take great pity on the old woman. Reaching out, Chiun took Hyunsil's chin in his slender fingers. He gently raised her eyes from the floor.
"Your father was a good man," Chiun said. "Not great, for that is another thing altogether, most often bestowed by shallow men who are easily impressed by flash and showmanship. In many ways it is more difficult to be good than great. Your good father taught you well. He was right to tell you that Sinanju survives by the labors of the Masters of Sinanju, the sworn protectors of our village." The old man offered a wise smile. "But in this matter, daughter of Sinanju, it is not wrong for you to blame the Master, for you are correct, as well. I have failed."
This time when she looked up, there was amazement in the old woman's bloodshot eyes.
"You are surprised that I would admit to failure," Chiun said. "I tell you now it is so, for if I had not failed in some way this terrible thing would not have happened."
And although he did not say it to the woman, his thoughts were of the reputation of the House of Sinanju. A reputation that had kept the village safe for generations.
Somewhere was someone who scorned that reputation. Who dared visit death to the Pearl of the Orient.
All this did Chiun think but did not say. He turned his attention to the crone who stood before him.
"I would see the body," intoned the Master of Sinanju.
THEY FOLLOWED the remote path from the main village.
Chiun knew at once where they were heading, for the road led to one place only.
"He was missing for many days," Hyunsil said as they walked. She struggled to keep strength in her voice. "At first a few of the other women from the village helped me look. But they gave up after a day. After that no one would help me search. They said he was an old fool who had probably stumbled into the bay and drowned. Someone saw blood on the shore that morning. But he did not drown." Her head hung low. "I was alone when I found him."
The hut of the dead shaman was at the end of the path.
Chiun knew well the family that had called the pathetic pile of stone and thatch home. The last shaman had died many years ago. His daughter, Sonmi, who had been the last of the family's pure bloodline, had vanished many months ago.
As he approached the crooked little path that led to the front door, the Master of Sinanju could not help but think of another who had once called the hut home.
The ghosts danced cold around his ankles. For this reason did Chiun approach the building with quiet care.
This was a place where few in the village dared venture. It was not a surprise that this was the last place Hyunsil had looked for her missing father. Halfway up the path, Hyunsil stopped.
"He is inside," the old woman said. Tears welled anew in eyes tired from weeping.
Chiun took her hands in his, patting them gently. He left the sobbing woman on the path.
It was cold in the hovel. Colder than outdoors. Ice formed on the insides of the stone walls.
The freezing temperature had preserved the body. With great sadness Chiun looked on the frozen corpse of his faithful caretaker.
Pullyang lay on his back in peaceful repose in the center of the dirt floor. As if arranged by a mortician. The daughter had said that he had been murdered. For the sake of delicacy Chiun hadn't asked the method of death, not wishing to further upset the woman. But upon initial examination he couldn't see anything obvious.