He was quite careful, of course, not to enter himself. The child returned, saying the Master of Sinanju did not wish to speak to any Pyongyanger, and it was as though the officer had heard his own death sentence.
With trembling hands, he picked up the radiophone made in Russia, as was all North Korean equipment, and phoned the number of Sayak Cang. He had seen men who had displeased Cang. He had seen one tied to posts begging to die while Sayak Cang exhorted the rest of the man's company to laugh at his pitiful cries.
"The Master of Sinanju does not wish to come to Pyongyang although he was begged by myself to do so. Begged."
"Exactly what did he say?" asked Sayak Cang.
The officer felt the cold sea winds from the West Korea Bay blow through his thin uniform, but he did not mind the cold. He saw his own breath make puff clouds before him, and he wondered how long his own body would be warm.
"He said, comrade sir, that he did not wish to speak to a Pyongyanger."
It must have been the faulty Russian equipment because the officer could have sworn that he heard laughter from Sayak Cang himself at the other end of the phone.
"Tell a child, any child from the village, to show the Glorious Master a history book. Any history book. Then beg the Master to go to a neighboring village and see any history book that the children read."
"And then what, comrade sir?"
"Then tell him that Sayak Cang ordered these histories written. Tell him where I am, and that I would gladly come to him."
The officer sent the child back with a coin for himself and the message for the Master of Sinanju. The child disappeared into the mud and filth of the fishing village. Within moments Chiun's flowing gold kimono could be seen coming up from the village, the winds blowing the wisps of hair, the gold like a flag of conquest whipping in triumph.
The Master of Sinanju held a schoolbook.
"Take me to another village," said Chiun.
Hurriedly, the officer made way in his car for the Master of Sinanju and drove five miles to a farming town. Unlike Sinanju, there were red flags everywhere and in every building was a picture of Kim Il Sung.
Here people came to attention and hurried at the officer's command. Here he did not need a coin for people to do his bidding.
The Master of Sinanju was brought one history book and then another. He wanted to see every grade's text. Finally he said:
"Almost correct."
"The man who insisted they be written like that is in Pyongyang," said officer. "He will come to you, or if you wish, you may come to him."
"Pyongyang is an evil city of much corruption. But I will go because in all the darkness of this day, one light shines from Pyongyang," said Chiun. "Would that my own pupil had shown such understanding."
The officer bowed profusely. Chiun kept the books. The building that covered the eight-story excavation into bedrock was a simple one-story government office. But the elevators were lavish by comparison, with full use, of aluminum and chrome and the most expensive metals. The elevator descended to the lowest level and there, with his face oddly changed, was Sayak Cang.
The change was noticed by those who worked on this lowest level, those who knew him. Sayak Cang, with great pain to his facial muscles, was smiling.
"You caused this to be written?"
"I did, Glorious Master of Sinanju."
"It is almost correct," said Chiun. "I interrupted a grave situation to tell you that."
"A thousand thank-yous. A million blessings," said Sayak Cang.
Chiun opened the books he had with him. They told of the misery of Korea. They told of filthy foreigners with their hands at the pure maiden's throat. They told of strangulation and humiliation. And then there was a chapter called "Light."
It read:
"Amid the darkness shone pure and glorious the light of the Masters of Sinanju. They alone paid no homage to foreign lands, but received it. They alone like the sunlight shone eternal, invincible, magnificently glorious, keeping alive the true superiority of Koreans while the rest of their nation waited, humiliated in darkness, with only Sinanju to foretell the coming of the true destiny of the Korean people."
Sayak Cang nodded at every sentence.
"Basically you have got this right," said Chiun. "But instead of 'light,' wouldn't 'awesome light' be more correct? A light could be a little match."
"But in darkness a match is glorious."
"Are you talking about the glory of Sinanju or the darkness of the rest of you?"
"Most correct. Every book will be changed."
"Usually, young man, historians lie and shade the truth for their own convenience. But here in Korea we have a passage that can be called absolute truth."
Sayak Cang bowed. One of the secretaries on the floor almost gasped. No one even knew that his vertebrae moved, much less bowed.
"But you have thieves in this country," said Chiun. And then he told him of the treasures of Sinanju.
On the lowest floor of the most secure building in North Korea came a scream of horror. It came from the lips of Sayak Cang.
"This is a disgrace to the Korean people. This is an indignity. A shame that knows no bounds. Better our mothers and daughters sold into slavery to whore for the Japanese than this insult to our history. When they have robbed the House of Sinanju, they have robbed us of our past."
At that moment the entire intelligence network of North Korea was laid at the feet of the Master of Sinanju that his treasure should be recovered for all the people.
Of course there was a saying in Sinanju that light from a Pyongyanger was like darkness from an honest man. But who, after all, could argue with what Chiun had seen being taught to schoolchildren?
Then again, within not too long a time, a North Korean embassy discovered that one of the treasures of Sinanju was being sold. At an auction no less. In a white country.
Shortly before noon, the gruesome luck of the Western world seemed to change. Chiun was putting through a phone call to Folcroft.
Smith almost wanted to breathe a thank-you to the heavens. But he said:
"Look. We have something we need immediately. We promise to replace much if not all of your treasure. We need you now."
"The House of Sinanju is honored to exalt your glory," came Chiun's voice. "But first, are you in touch with Remo?"
"Yes," said Smith.
"Good. Take this down, and be very careful. Do you have ink?"
"I have a pencil and a computer," said Smith.
"Use the pencil," said Chiun. "Now, write down, 'The Glorious Struggle of Korean Peoples Under the Leadership of Kim Il Sung, grades one through five.' "
"I have it."
"Pages thirty-five and thirty-six," said Chiun. "Good."
"Tell Remo he must read that now."
"All right. Will do. Now, we have. . ." said Smith, but he was unable to finish his sentence. Apparently an operator from the other side had cut them off after Chiun had hung up.
Chapter 5
Alexei Zemyatin did not trust good news, especially from the modern KGB. He remembered how they had been under Felix Dzerzhinsky, their founder. Then, they were frightened, angry, and ruthless. Many of their leaders were in their teens then. They were all learning, those early state police known as the Ogpu: trying to copy the late czar's Cheka, afraid of making mistakes, yet also afraid not to act.
If one of those ragamuffins had told him they had made a major breakthrough in finding out the source of this deadly, invisible new American weapon, he would have felt reassured. But when the KGB general in his tailormade green uniform told him, plump with imported chocolates and fruits and sporting a wristwatch from Switzerland which would tell him the time to return to his lush dacha in the quiet suburbs of Moscow, Alexei Zemyatin felt only suspicion.