"You persist in your unbelief in the face of overwhelming evidence?"
"I don't have six arms," Remo pointed out. "So I can't be Shiva."
"If those who have died amid the fury of your attack were to stand before us, they would swear that you possessed six times six arms," Chiun said.
Doubt crossed Remo's face. "I've got only one face that I know of," he said finally.
"And how many times has the Emperor Smith altered your face for his own devious purposes?"
"Once when I first joined the organization, so I wouldn't look like my old self," Remo said slowly, counting on his fingers. "Once to cover our tracks after an assignment, and one last time when I made him give me my old face back."
Remo looked at the number of fingers he had counted with surprise.
"Three," said Chiun, raising his eyes to the ceiling.
"You see, the legends are but pretty songs that conceal the true reality, like paint on a woman's face."
"If I were a god, I wouldn't come back to earth as a Newark cop," Remo shot back, almost angrily. "I know that much."
"You are not a Newark cop now. You are something greater. Soon, perhaps, you will take an even greater step toward your ultimate destiny."
"It doesn't add up."
"When you were a child, did you imagine yourself a Newark cop?" asked Chiun. "Children cannot comprehend their inevitable maturity. They do not think past today's desires. You are still like a child in many ways, Remo. But soon you will have to grow up."
The Master of Sinanju bowed his head, and added in a wan voice, "Sooner than I would have thought."
Remo returned to his place at Chiun's feet. "Sometimes I hear a voice in my head," he admitted. "It's not my voice."
"And what does this voice say?" asked Chiun.
"Sometimes it says, 'I am Shiva. I burn with my own light.' Other times, 'I am created Shiva, the Destroyer; Death, the shatterer of worlds.' "
"And?" Chiun asked, his face hopeful.
"And what?"
"There is more?"
"'The dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju,' " Remo said.
Chiun relaxed. "You could not complete the prophecy the other night."
"What other night?"
"Why, the night in the burning house, Remo. What did you think we were talking about?"
"In times past, when you heard that voice in your head, it was the shadow of Shiva taking hold of your mind, warning you, preparing you, calling you to preserve your body, for it is the vessel of the Destroyer. Now, Shiva had many incarnations. At times he is Shiva Mahedeva-Shiva the Supreme Lord. And other times as Shiva Bhairava-Shiva the Destroyer. In those times when you heard the voice speaking to you, or through you, you had become Shiva Remo."
"Sounds like a fifties song. Shivaremo doowop doowop."
"Do not jest. This is one of the sacred mysteries of Sinanju. Now, I have always thought the day would come when you would become Shiva Remo for good, and take my place as the next Master of Sinanju. But in that night, with your throat blue and your face smeared with ashes as Shiva's face is portrayed in the histories, you spoke against me, Remo. You were not Remo. Your voice was not Remo's. You were not Shiva Remo. You were Shiva Mahedeva, and you knew me not. Less did you care for me, who have made you whole."
"I'm sorry for the words I spoke, Little Father. But I do not remember them."
"I forgive you, Remo, for in truth you were not yourself. But I am worried. When Shiva is ready, he will take possession of your fleshly envelope. I do not want him to take over your mind too."
"But if that is my destiny, what can I do?"
"You must fight, Remo. You must assert yourself. You must remember Sinanju, and your responsibilities. Above all, you must continue my line."
Remo got to his feet and stood with his face to the wall.
"I don't want to lose you, Little Father," he said, his voice trembling.
"Become the next Master of Sinanju, and I will be with you always," Chiun said sadly. "This is my vow to you."
"I don't want to lose myself, either. I don't want to be anything except Remo Williams. That's who I am. That's all I know."
"You have been chosen by destiny. It is not for us to rail against the cosmos, but you have a choice before you, Remo Williams, my son. You must make it soon. For soon, I may be gone. And at any time the terrible god of the Hindus may return to claim you as his own. And you will be lost forever."
Chapter 9
Colonel Viktor Ditko knew he was near Sinanju when the stink of dead fish filled his nostrils.
He hastily rolled up the window of his Russianmade Chaika automobile.
"We are nearly there," Ditko called over his shoulder.
In the back, on the floor, Sammy Kee huddled under a rug.
"I know," said Sammy Kee. "I can smell it too."
"Is it always this bad?"
"No. It's actually worse when the wind is from the east. The smog."
Colonel Ditko nodded. For the last hour he had driven through some of the most heavily industrialized landscape he had ever imagined. Great smokestacks belched noxious fumes. Everywhere he looked there were factories and fish-processing plants. Once, they had driven over a rude iron bridge and the sluggish river below was a livid pink from chemical wastes. He saw few residential areas. He wondered where all the dronelike workers who must toil in the endless factories lived. Perhaps they slept at work. More likely, they slept on the job. It would not have surprised Colonel Ditko, who held a low opinion of Orientals in general and the North Koreans in particular.
Ditko followed the macadam road until it petered out into a dire pathway that actually made for smoother driving, so bad had been the potholes in the paved road-which was alleged to be a main highway.
Suddenly the land opened up. The factories ceased to dominate the landscape. But curiously there were no houses, no huts, no signs of habitation. Before, peasants could be seen riding their ubiquitous bicycles down the road. No longer. It was as if the land that lay at the end of the road was poisoned. Ditko shivered at the eeriness of it.
When he ran out of road, Ditko drew the car to a stop next to a crude signpost of wood on which was burned a Korean ideograph that looked like the word "IF" drawn between two parallel lines.
"I think we are lost," he said doubtfully. "The road stops here. There is nothing beyond but rocks and an abandoned village."
Sammy Kee slid up from the protective depths of the rear seat. He blinked his eyes in the dull light. "That's it."
"What?"
"Sinanju," said Sammy Kee, watching for North Korean police.
"Are you serious? This is a security area. Where is the barbed wire, the walls, the guards?"
"There aren't any."
"None? How do they protect their village, these Sinanjuers? And their treasure?"
"By reputation. Everyone knows about the Master of Sinanju. No one dares to approach Sinanju."
"Fear? That is their wall?"
"The old man in the village explained it to me." said Sammy Kee. "You can climb over walls, dig under them, go around them, even blow them apart. But if the wall is in your mind, it is infinitely harder to bring down."
Colonel Ditko nodded. "I will let you out here."
"Can't you escort me to the village? What if I get picked up by the North Korean police?"
"I will watch you until you enter the village, but I will not go any closer."
Colonel Ditko watched Sammy Kee slip out the back seat and pick his careful way from boulder to rock until he had passed from sight, down into the village of Sinanju. In his peasant clothes, the American was as much a part of North Korea as his fear-haunted face. Sammy Kee would be safe from the North Korean police, Ditko knew. They would not dare pass beyond the wall.
Colonel Viktor Ditko was certain of this, for he could see the wall himself, as clearly as if it were built of mortar and brick.