Chiun addressed Sammy Kee.
"Return to your homeland and inform Emperor Smith that the Master of Sinanju lives yet. And that Remo will not be returning, having agreed to take my place as the head of my village."
Sammy Kee trembled in silence.
"But," Chiun went on, "if he should wish to employ the next Master on a nonexclusive basis, this could be discussed. But the days of Sinanju having only one client are over. Sinanju is returning to its honored tradition of employment, which you Americans have only lately discovered. I believe you call it diversification."
"What'll we do with him?" Remo asked. "There's no submarine in the harbor. I checked."
"Hold him until the vessel reveals itself."
"I found something else in the harbor, Chiun."
"Your manners?" asked Chiun.
"No. A body. Some kid."
Chiun's wispy facial hair trembled. "A drowned child," he said sadly.
"His head was bashed in. The crabs got him." Chiun's hazel eyes turned to Sammy Kee. They blazed.
And the fear Sammy Kee felt deep inside him sweated out of his pores and proclaimed to the sensitive nostrils of the Master of Sinanju, better than any admission by word and deed, the undeniable guilt of Sammy Kee.
"To murder one of Sinanju is an unforgivable crime," said Chiun in a low voice. "But to murder a child is abomination."
Chiun clapped his hands twice to signal. The sound hurt Sammy's eardrums and set the wall hangings to fluttering.
The caretaker, Pullyang, entered, and seeing Sammy Kee, recognized him. But he said nothing. "Find a place for this wretch. He will be sentenced at my leisure. And send men to the harbor to claim the body of the poor child that lies there."
Sammy Kee tried to bolt from the room.
"Not so fast, child-killer," Remo said. He tripped Sammy Kee with the toe of one Italian loafer. Sammy crashed to the floor and Remo touched his spine down near the small of the back.
Sammy Kee suddenly discovered that his legs wouldn't work. He tried to crawl, but his lower body was so much dead weight. He cried.
"What will happen to him?" Remo asked casually.
"The crabs in the harbor have eaten sweet today. Tomorrow they will eat sour," Chiun said.
"Smith won't like it."
"Smith is a memory to the House of Sinanju from this day forward. You have renounced him."
"I'm not sure I've renounced anything, Little Father. Just because I agreed to support this place doesn't mean I can't work for Smith."
"You are a cruel child, Remo."
"How do you feel?" Remo asked in a softer tone.
"The pain is less when you are with me," he said.
"Can we talk later?"
"Why not now?"
"I have something to do," said Remo. He seemed strangely eager to leave.
"Something more important than comforting an old man?"
"Maybe."
Chiun turned his face away. "You will do what you will do, regardless of the hurt you cause."
"I still have to think this through," Remo said.
"No," Chiun shot back. "You have yet to think. The day you think is the day you feel compassion. I have decided not to move from this spot until that day arrives."
And when Remo didn't answer, Chiun looked back. But Remo was gone.
Chiun gasped at the blatant lack of respect. His brow furrowed. It was beyond understanding. Remo had not appeared angry with him, but he clearly was not responding to Chiun's blandishments.
Chiun wondered if Shiva were stirring in Remo's mind again.
Chapter 11
Colonel Viktor Ditko waited outside the invisible wall surrounding Sinanju until night fell.
Cold crept into the darkened interior of his Chaika. It made his right eye ache beneath his new eyepatch. The doctors had repaired the ruptured cornea, but it would be weeks until Colonel Ditko would know if the eye was any longer good.
Colonel Ditko shivered in his winter uniform, cursing the name of Sammy Kee under his breath. He dared not turn the heater on and use up all his gasoline. Gasoline was not easily come by in North Korea, where automobiles were for the privileged only, and gas stations nonexistent. Colonel Ditko couldn't afford to seek out an official gas depot, where there would be questions about his presence here, far from his post in Pyongyang.
Colonel Ditko wondered if Sammy Kee had escaped. But Sammy Kee would not have done any such foolish thing. There was no escape in North Korea. Only through Colonel Ditko could Sammy Kee ever hope to escape North Korea. So, watching the full moon rise above the low hills, Colonel Ditko shivered and settled deeper into the cushions, waiting for Sammy Kee to come up to the road from Sinanju.
But Sammy Kee did not come up the road from Sinanju. No one came up the road from Sinanju. It was as if Sinanju had gobbled up Sammy Kee like a hungry bear.
The night had nearly elapsed when Colonel Ditko came to the only possible conclusion left to him. Sammy Kee had been captured or killed in Sinanju. Colonel Ditko had tasted failure before in his career. Failure, it might be said, was a hallmark of Colonel Ditko's KGB career. It was the only hallmark, according to his superiors, which was why they frequently transferred him from one career-crushing post to another. Colonel Ditko could live with failure. Ordinarily.
But not this time. This time he had sacrificed an eye to ensure success. This time he had promised success to the General Secretary himself. He could admit failure to his immediate superiors-they expected no better from him-but not to the General Secretary. He would have him shot. Worse, he might be exiled to the worst possible KGB post in the world. Back to India, this time to stay.
This time, Colonel Viktor Ditko decided, stepping from the half-warmth of his closed car, he would not settle for failure.
He walked down the road toward Sinanju, the moonlight making an excellent target of his slight form, and his Tokarev handgun clenched tightly in one hand. It was the hardest walk Ditko ever undertook, because to get into Sinanju, he had to walk through a wall. Even if he couldn't feel it.
Sammy Kee lay in the darkness of the hut where they had thrown him. It was not so bad now. Before, the door was left open and the villagers paraded past to see the child-killer. Sometimes they spit upon him. Some came in and kicked him until blood climbed up his throat.
The worst moment was the woman though. She was a fury. She was young, but with the seamed young-old face of the childbearing women of Korea. She screamed invective at Sammy Kee. She spat on his face. Then she flew at him with her long-nailed claws. But the others dragged her back just in time, before she could rake his face to peelings.
Sammy understood that she was the boy's mother and he felt sick all over again.
With the coming of night, they locked the door and left Sammy with the horror of his situation. He could move his arms, but his legs were useless. There was no feeling below his waist. He massaged his dead legs in a vain effort to restore circulation and nerve feeling, but all that happened was that his bladder gave and he soaked his cotton trousers.
Finally, Sammy gave up trying to restore his legs. He dragged himself to the videocam which they had tossed in like a piece of junk, and laid his head on it, using the rubber handle as a kind of pillow. He was desperate for sleep.
The fools, Sammy thought, the greatest journalist of the century and they had treated him like a dead cat. And then the peace of sleep took him.
Sammy awoke from his slumber without knowing why.
The door opened cautiously. Moonlight shimmered off a pair of eyeglasses, turning the lenses into blind milky orbs.
Sammy recognized the slight unathletic form. "Colonel Ditko," Sammy breathed.
"Quiet!" Ditko hissed. He shut the door behind him and knelt down in the darkness. "What has happened?"
"They caught me," Sammy said breathlessly. "They're going to kill me. You must help me escape."