The first thing Sammy Kee did was to find the spot where he had buried his video equipment. The flat rock he'd used for a marker was still there. Sammy dug into the wet sand with his bare hands, the coldness numbing them, until he uncovered the blue waterproof vinyl bag. He pulled it free and undid the drawstring neck.
The video equipment-camera, recorder, belt battery pack, and spare cassettes-was intact. Sammy quickly donned the battery pack and hooked it up. He shivered, but it was still early. He hoped the sun would come out to warm his body.
Sammy climbed an outcropping of rock, feeling the rip and scrape of the brown conelike barnacles which were like the eyes of certain lizards. He had a perfect view of the village of Sinanju. There were the houses, mostly of wood and sitting on short wood stilts, and scattered on the ground like many thrown dice. In the center was a great open space, called the village square, although it was just a flat pancake of dirt. And facing the square, the splendid treasure house of Sinanju, the only building with windows of true glass and a granite foundation. It was the oldest structure, and it looked it, but even its carved and lacquered walls gave no hint of the great secrets those walls contained.
Sammy brought the video camera to his shoulder, sighted through the viewfinder, and filmed a ten-second establishing shot. He rewound the tape and played it back through the viewfinder. The equipment functioned perfectly. He was ready to begin.
As Sammy watched, the sleepy village came to life. Cooking fires were lit and a communal breakfast began in the square. But something was different. The villagers were not dressed in their faded cotton, but in glorious silks and furs. Sammy watched for the old man who had talked to him so much of Sinanju-the caretaker, Pullyang. He would wait until Pullyang was alone and he would approach him. The old man knew everything there was to know about Sinanju. Perhaps he could force him to open the treasure house.
When Pullyang finally emerged, from, of all places, the treasure house itself, Sammy Kee was surprised. But his surprise turned to shock when, on a litter of sorts, a very old man was carried out into the plaza to the adulation of the crowd.
Walking beside the litter, tall and erect and proud in a way unlike the subservient villagers, was a white man. He wore Western-style clothes, slacks and a high-necked shirt.
And Sammy Kee knew with a sickness in the pit of his empty stomach that the Master of Sinanju had returned to the village.
Sammy half-slipped, half-fell from the boulder. He landed on his rump, wondering what he should do. He dared not attempt to enter the treasure house now. That would be impossible. Not to mention fatal.
Escape, too, was impossible. Only one road led away from the sheltered cove that was Sinanju. And Colonel Viktor Ditko, as they had agreed, sat in his car, awaiting Sammy's return.
Sammy crawled on his hands and knees down toward the water. He did not know why he did that. He was frightened. He was sick of being frightened, but he had to do something-anything.
A teenage boy crouched down near the water, washing something. Sammy thought he must be a fisherman, cleaning his nets, but then he remembered the legends of Sinanju. Nobody fished in Sinanju. Not to eat, at least.
When the boy stood up, Sammy saw that he was not wetting a fishing net, but cleaning a stain from a great costume. A blue-and-green dragon. Sarnmy knew it was a dragon because the head lay beside a rock.
The boy, satisfied that the stain was gone, began to slip into the costume.
It was then that Sammy Kee understood what he had to do. After all, whose life was important?
He sneaked up behind the boy and struck him on the head with a rock.
The boy folded like a paper puppet. Quickly Sammy stripped the lax form of his costume, which was of colored rice paper and silk. It was full, voluminous, and would fit him with room to spare so that his battery pack belt was not obvious.
Sammy pulled on the silken folds. No one would recognize him in this. He shouldered the camera, and, balancing carefully, pulled the stiff paper dragon mask over his head.
The camera fit. The lens pointed down the open snout, and Sammy tested the angle of field. The camera, roving around, saw without obstruction. By accident, the crushed skull of the boy came into the viewfinder.
The boy was dead. Sammy hadn't meant to kill him. But it was too late for regrets. He was just another peasant anyway. Sammy Kee was a journalist.
Sammy paused to drag the boy's body into the cold sea before he trudged into the village of Sinanju, his head light with excitement, but his stomach heavy with fear.
Remo wasn't hungry, but that didn't stop him from taking offense.
The villagers of Sinanju were squatting all over the plaza, dipping their ladles into bowls of steaming soup and yanking gobs of meat off a roasted pig. In the center, the Master of Sinanju sat on his low throne, eating rice, the caretaker, Pullyang, beside him.
Remo sat downwind. Like Chiun's, his body was purified, he could not eat red meat or processed food. Or drink anything stronger than mineral water. So the smell of roasted pig offended his nostrils.
But it was the behavior of the villagers which offended Remo more. Here he was, the next Master of Sinanju-if Chiun had his way-the future sustainer of the village, and no one offered him so much as a bowl of white rice. Instead, they treated him like an idiot child the family only let out of the attic on special occasions.
Remo was disgusted. He had never understood why Chiun continued to support his lazy, ungrateful fellow villagers. They did nothing but eat and breed.
And complain. If they were Americans, they would all have been on welfare.
Remo laughed to himself to think that Sinanju had pioneered the concept of welfare. But so it seemed to him. He couldn't imagine living in Sinanju permanently, or taking one of the flat-faced, broad-hipped Sinanju women for a wife.
He wondered if he had a choice anymore.
"Remo, to me," Chiun called suddenly. Breakfast was over.
Remo walked through the squatting villagers. No one bothered to move aside for him.
"Remo, my son," Chiun whispered in English. "Help an old man to stand. But do not be obvious about it."
"Yes, Little Father," Remo said respectfully. He took Chiun by the arm and carefully helped him to his feet, making it look like Remo simply moved the throne aside in a gesture of courtesy. Chiun seemed smaller, slower, and Remo fought back a wave of emotion.
"Stand by my side now," Chum said.
Remo stood. A sea of Korean faces looked up at him. They were as blank and expressionless as apple dumplings.
The Master of Sinanju shook his arms free of his flowing black sleeves, and raised them to draw attention to himself.
"My children," he intoned, "great is my joy, for I have at last come home. But deep is my sorrow, for my days as your Master are drawing to a close."
And at that a low hush fell upon the crowd. Remo saw tears appear on some faces. He wondered if they were for Chiun or because their meal ticket was fading before their eyes.
"Despair not, my children," Chiun continued, his voice lifting. "For I have not returned empty-handed. I have brought gold. I have increased our treasure manyfold. Lo, richer than ever is the House of Sinanju-thanks to Chiun."
And a cheer came up from the crowd. Some villagers, dressed in ornamental costumes, danced in joy. There, Remo saw a leaping heron, here a furry bear, representing Tangun, progenitor of the Korean race. Out from the rocks a man dressed as a dragon came running clumsily. He, too, joined in the dance, although his movements were awkward and less fluid than those of the others.
"Know that the Master of Sinanju suffered greatly in the land of the round-eyed whites," proclaimed Chiun, and Remo thought his voice, as he waxed flowery, also grew more vital. "In America, I served not the emperor, for America has no emperor, no king, not even a lowly prince."