The man, of course, was telling the truth. That was the sadness of it. It was a thing to ponder. They were tribute coins from Alexander. Not enough to make up for all the good markets he ruined by removing his kings of the West to his control, the reason the young Greekling Alexander did have to die.
As, of course, did the Frankish lord who spoke the good French so badly.
He had dealt in stolen goods. And with his good hand, the Count of Lyon wrote out a promise that he regretted having dealt in the treasures of Sinanju. Then he was allowed to join his ancestors.
When the body was found, secrecy was immediately installed around the whole episode. SDEC's sister intelligence factions, the Deuxieme, most noticeably investigated every aspect of the killings in the house. The fact that the check was not stolen. The strange manner of death of both de Lyon and his men.
They were sure, in their final report to the President, that there was a link between the sale of the coins and the death of the director of the SDEC, strange because so many in the international scene had tried to kill him, and now a peculiar personal matter had done him in.
They were sure it was the personal matter of the coins because the same strange word appeared both in the note and on the ancient coins themselves. The word was: "Sinadu."
In the note, a Latin inscription. On the coin of Alexander, a Greek one.
Having recovered the coins, Chiun accepted the services of the North Korean government that flew him back to Pyongyang. At the airport was an honor guard led by Sayak Cang, the Pyongyanger who knew the true history of Korea.
There had been no calls, he reported, from the man called Remo, but the number established for the House of Sinanju had indeed been transferred to the man called Smith.
"And was there any other word? Did the man called Remo read your wonderful little truth?"
"The man called Smith gave no information about anything."
"He is white, you know," said Chiun. He said nothing else as he silently brought the coins by car to the village on the West Korea Bay. There in silence he returned the coins to the great house of many woods, the house that had held the tributelof centuries. And there he placed the coins in their corner, alone, a few pitiful coins in a very big house.
This house had been given to Chiun when his father knew that his time to pass the body into the earth had come. Chiun had spent all his life preparing to receive this house, preparing to pass it on properly. Even during the darkest times, when it looked as though there would be no one to pass the house on to, he had not despaired like this.
For he, Chiun, had lost all that had been gained; all the references in the scrolls of Sinanju to this treasure and the other were now cast in doubt because coin and ingot, gem and bullion, had vanished into the world.
Still and all, the reference to the Greekling with blond hair who ventured too close to the House of Sinanju could be proved again with the tribute coin.
But he who would one day have all of this was squandering his time and Sinanju-taught talents on unworthy causes. Chiun had lost both the treasure to pass on and the one who would value receiving it.
The House of Sinanju, if it was not dying, wished it was dying on that day of dark gloom on the chill shores of the West Korea Bay.
Chiun could feel tremors and then heard far-off explosions. Eventually even the villagers heard them, and with great fear they came to him, saying, "Protect us, O Master."
And Chiun turned them away, saying, "We have always protected you, but what have you done to protect the treasures we left in your care?"
He did not tell them it was just another war going on. Wars never came to Sinanju because generals were taught that they would not survive a battle, no matter who won.
The ground continued to shake and many planes roared overhead, dropping bombs on soldiers in gun emplacements. The battle went on until the morning when the guns on shore were silenced. And then the villagers came again up the path to the house where the Master was and they said:
"Master, Master, two submarines have come with your tribute. They are heavy-laden, and they seek thy presence. "
"What color are the bearers?"
"White, the color of those who used to bring tribute."
"Is there a thin white man there with thick wrists?" said Chiun. He did not know how many could recognize Remo. Long noses and round eyes all tended to look alike to these good simple people.
"There are many whites."
Remo has come, thought Chiun. And while the house was empty still, there would now be two chasing the treasure. They had the coins, he and Remo would get the rest, would make the world respect the property of Sinanju. Who knew what all this public retribution might earn? Governments might bring back the golden age of assassinry, disbanding large expensive armies for the more civilized hand in the night.
Chiun moved quickly into the village and to the loading docks as the people parted for him. He looked on the two submarines. Remo was not there. Gold bullion was being off-loaded onto the dock that groaned under the weight. The white captain wanted to speak to him.
"What happened to the agreement with your government? We had to fight our way in here. We had to bring the fleet and bomb the shore batteries. What happened to our deal?"
"That is a minor diplomatic matter. I will fix it. Tell Remo I do not wish to speak to him. Tell him he cannot make up to me his desertion in an hour of need."
"Who?"
"Remo," said Chiun. "Tell him he cannot leave one day and expect to find me waiting for him with joy. I am coming down for my gold."
"Look, you have ten times the amount of gold ever delivered before, and one message. Contact someone called Smith. You know the number."
"I am going to take my gold and return to the house he should have loved from the very beginning. Tell Remo he is not welcome in Sinanju anymore. One must serve Sinanju to be welcome here."
"We don't have any Remo," said the white captain of the submarine. "Do you want us to drop the gold here on the wharf or carry it up to that warehouse you people keep?"
"Remo is not with you?" asked Chiun.
"No. No Remo. What do you want done with the gold?"
"Oh, whatever. Whatever."
"You will make the phone call to the Smith person?"
"Certainly," said Chiun, but his voice was as dreary as the bay. He walked slowly back through the village to the house.
He had lost the treasure of Sinanju, but more important, he had lost the person who should have cared about it. He had lost tomorrow as well as yesterday.
A child came to the door with a message. A great battle had taken place and Korea had lost. Still, there was a man who wished entrance to Sinanju, for the greater battle might yet be won. The man was Sayak Cang, and he entered the village bowing.
Chiun sat in the empty treasure house, his legs crossed, his eyes vacant as Cang talked. They had thought the extra submarine signaled an invasion, but now that they had seen it was tribute, they would allow future submarines in as before.
"For the tribute to Sinanju is a tribute to everything proud in our great race." Thus spoke Sayak Cang before he gave the important information.
His intelligence network had found yet another who dared to sell the treasure of Sinanju. This time it was the modern form of the old Roman office, Pontifex Maximus. The modern people called him pope.
"A Christian holy man," said Chiun.
"Yes. It is disgusting how their shamans add to material treasure already so great."
"Yes, holy men are sometimes not holy," said Chiun, who now knew who had really stolen the treasure. It explained why the Frankish knight had told the truth, and why people could move so freely into the village of Sinanju.
"The pope must die," said Sayak Cang, the Pyongyanger.