Suddenly he said, "Remo, you are my son?"
"Yes."
"You would do anything I ask?"
"Within reason. Yeah."
"Protect Kim Jong II from all harm."
Remo groaned. "Don't ask me to do that."
But it was too late. With a cry of rage, the Master of Sinanju spun like a top and dervishlike whirled into the personal guard of Kim Pyong II.
Hands clawed for Tokarev side arms, and heads began jumping like pineapples being sickled.
No one screamed. No one had time to scream. Only to die. And die they did. Violently, magnificently, surrendering blood, bone and internal organs until they lay in steaming heaps upon the soundstage floor, the final and ultimate tribute to the Master of Sinanju.
When the blood harvest was complete, the Master of Sinanju emerged from his frenzied dance of death to a position of cold calmness. His bloodless hands, clean as if just washed, retreated to the hollow of his joined kimono sleeves.
"You are restored to your throne," he told Kim Jong II.
"Actually I'd just as soon make movies. But if you could tell the surviving generals to leave me the bleep alone, I'll call it even."
"Agreed. Once you have surrendered to me the valuable prize you promised."
"Let me make a few phone calls."
"What's the name of the movie?" Remo asked, looking around at the lavish set.
Jong grinned happily. "King K'on."
"It's been done."
Kim Jong II looked stricken. Then he went to make his calls.
When he came back, he said. "It's all set. By the way, we have a new problem. The South is overrunning the Thirty-eighth Parallel. Won't be long before they're all over Pyongyang like white on rice. Next thing you know, they'll be souvenir hunting in Sinanju."
"Never," said Chiun. And the Master of Sinanju and the newly installed Leader for Life of Korea huddled for some minutes.
Chapter Forty-six
The president of South Korea was as safe as a South Korean could be with red war returning to the peninsula. Of that, there could be to doubt, no question.
There were bunkers all over the land. But a bunker by its very nature had been rejected as a likely target for bombs. And if the madmen in Pyongyang had developed a nuclear bomb, no bunker built could preserve the life of the South Korean leader if the bunker found itself at ground zero.
As he sat at a simple card table deep in the lava tubes of Man Jang Caves on the southernmost Korean island of Cheju-do, listening to a shortwave radio, the president of South Korea didn't feel safe.
He chain-smoked Turtle Ship cigarettes as he wondered if Seoul still stood. If the North had a nuke, they would unleash it upon Seoul. If two, then Seoul would be doubly destroyed. And if Seoul fell under Pyongyang bombs, the Americans wouldn't hesitate to nuke Pyongyang flat. There would be no pieces to pick up after that.
But the president of South Korea would survive. Even if the peninsula were overrun, he would survive. The entire North would be crushed by the Americans in time, and even if some surviving Pyongyanger controlled Sinanju after all was radioactive dust, Sinanju wouldn't look for the president of South Korea in Cheju-do Island. They would assume him obliterated in the fireball that consumed Seoul.
But to be certain of survival, there were ROK Tiger Marines stationed at the entrance to the network of lava tubes that in peacetime served as a tourist attraction. His most trusted aide had control of the innermost circle of defense. His second-most-trusted aide controlled the middle perimeter. The outer shield defense belonged to his third-most-trusted aide.
That was the mistake of the president of South Korea, he soon discovered.
There had been no warning. No warning was possible. All telephone and other communications using wire were forbidden in Man Jang Cave lava womb. Only shortwave, which could not be traced.
And since his defense teams had no shortwaves of their own, they were unable to alert him that a typhoon had descended upon Cheju-do Island in the form of a wispy little man.
And so in silence they fell, unbeknownst to the president of South Korea, who smoked in nervous ignorance.
The final door was not lava but steel. It opened with no more sound than a breath of subterranean air. Trying to listen through the crackle and static of his shortwave headset, the president paid it no mind.
The ghostly tap on his shoulder made his heart leap into his mouth, and without turning, he knew.
"Sinanju?" he croaked.
A thin, merciless voice intoned, "You erred."
"How?"
"For the three rings to work correctly, the most trusted ones must take up the outer ring. For they will fight more fiercely. The second ring nearly as fiercely. Thus, your assassin will be fatigued by the time he reaches the least trustworthy ring, and might succumb." The voice cooled. "Unless your assassin is of Sinanju."
The president of South Korea groaned, the cigarette falling from his bloodless lips.
"Turn and face me, man of Seoul."
Woodenly the Korean president obeyed. He found no strength in his legs and merely turned in his chair.
The eyes of the Master of Sinanju were like agates of deep hardness.
"You have come for my life___"
"No. I have come for your surrender."
"Seoul has fallen?"
"No. Nor Pyongyang, either. Your forces own the mountains. But only those."
"I cannot surrender to Pyongyang and face my ancestors."
The Master's papery mask of a face softened. "Well spoken. The South is not as spiritless as I have heard. No, you will not surrender to Pyongyang. Nor will Pyongyang surrender to Seoul. But both must surrender so that this conflict ends well and face is preserved."
The South Korean president looked perplexed. "If neither can surrender to the other, who will we surrender to?"
And the Master of Sinanju whispered a name.