For Sinanju. For home.
Chapter 2
His name was Remo and he could feel a thousand sets of eyes following his every move even though he was alone.
When the sensation first manifested itself all those months ago, he hadn't known what it was. For Remo Williams, the not knowing had been a frightening thing.
Remo was a Master of Sinanju, the most ancient and deadly of all the martial arts. The other, lesser martial arts were but splintered rays. Sinanju was the sun source.
The very hum of life was white noise to most people. Their senses were dead to the world around them. As a Master of Sinanju, Remo was trained to the pinnacle of human perfection. His environment was alive. He was able to see and sense things the rest of the world tuned out.
One of the things Remo was able to detect were the telltale signs that signalled to him he was being watched. As a professional assassin, this honed sense was oftentimes the difference between life and death. The ability was as much a part of him as hands or eyes or breath itself. And so when he'd gotten up that morning almost a year ago and felt an audience crammed into his small bedroom alongside his sleeping mat, he thought his senses were going screwy. There was no one else with him. He was certain of it. No heartbeats, no nothing. He was alone. Yet not alone.
With great worry he sought the counsel of the man who had taught him everything important in his life. "Little Father, something's wrong," Remo said, the worry evident in his voice and on his face.
The very old Asian to whom he spoke was in the process of packing. They were scheduled to move soon.
The tiny Korean had skin like ancient leather, dry and weathered. Twin puffs of yellowing white hair clutched the age-speckled flesh above his shell-like ears. He looked frail. He was anything but.
Chiun, Remo's Master and teacher in the ancient art of Sinanju, understood his pupil's unspoken question.
"Your senses do not lie," the wizened Asian explained in his singsong voice. "That which you feel is called the Hour of Judgment. It is the time when the spirits of masters past scrutinize the Transitional Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju. As my successor, they will judge if you are worthy to become Reigning Master."
It was unnerving. The invisible eyes had trailed Remo from his sleeping quarters out to the common living room he shared with his teacher.
There was no one there. Remo was certain of it. But he had seen much in the many years since his training began. He had grown to grudgingly accept things that in his youth he used to dismiss as hocus-pocus.
"The spirits are all here?" Remo asked worriedly.
Chiun tipped his head. "There are probably a few dawdlers who have yet to arrive."
Remo felt his flesh crawl, cold and clammy. As if a too close spirit had just brushed the exposed skin of his arms.
"Can you feel them?" Remo asked.
"No. This is your time, not mine."
Remo exhaled. The knowledge of what was happening didn't bring him the relief he'd hoped for. "So this is normal? It feels like I'm the Super Bowl half-time show for a stadium full of Peeping Tom ghosts."
"You are being watched with great interest. After all, you are the first outsider to achieve such greatness."
Sinanju the discipline had originated in the North Korean village of the same name. In its five-thousand-year history, Remo was the only individual born outside the village to reach this level.
"Swell," Remo had said. "So should I just stand here, or do they want me to do a little dance or something?"
"If you want me to die of embarrassment, go ahead."
Remo folded his arms and studied his surroundings with forced casualness. The basement rooms with the painted cinder-block walls were empty. He and Chiun were all alone. Yet his senses screamed otherwise. "This happens to all Masters?"
"All who reach your level."
"And what if they don't judge me worthy?" Remo whispered from the corner of his mouth.
Chiun had returned to his packing. "There is little they can do now," the old Korean had admitted. He dropped his voice low. "But when you die, they can make your life miserable. If the Masters' Tribunal judges you unworthy, you will be banished with the other outcasts of the Void."
"Great," Remo muttered. "I had to join a heaven with a caste system. I guess I can stand this for a couple of days."
The days stretched into weeks. Moving day came and went. Remo and Chiun settled into their new lodgings, yet still the weird sensation that he was being watched didn't go. When Remo couldn't take it any longer, he again approached his teacher.
Chiun was watching television.
Of late, the Master of Sinanju had developed a fondness for Mexican soap operas. Remo wouldn't dare interrupt the programs themselves. Years ago, when his teacher used to watch American daytime dramas, fatal results came to anyone foolish enough to intrude on the old man's moments of joy. A Spanish-language commercial for Crest toothpaste came on, replacing the bright colors of Mexican TV studio sets and ultraclose close-ups that made the actors' pores look like flesh-draped lunar craters.
"So how long does this judging thing go on?"
"It depends," Chiun replied, his eyes glued to the flickering television set. "It could be brief or long."
"It's been weeks," Remo complained. "I feel like a freaking zoo exhibit."
"Said the monkey to the chimp."
"Ha-ha. It's gotten so I can't even go to the can in peace. Did it take this many weeks for you?"
"For me?" Chiun bristled, insulted. "Of course not. Why would the ghosts of my ancestors need to waste their precious time watching for a mistake from someone who obviously doesn't make mistakes? The dead have better things to do, Remo."
"So how long will they watch me?"
"Ten million years," Chiun replied. "Shush." The old man's program was back on.
It wasn't ten million yet, but it was right around one year since he'd first awakened to his supernatural spectators and they hadn't left him alone for a minute. Even though it had gone on for what seemed like an eternity, it remained a feeling Remo doubted he'd ever get used to.
They were with him always. Watching, judging. Remo had thought his teacher's gaze during training was bad. After all, Chiun hadn't been the most forgiving instructor. Multiplied by a thousand, it was worse than he'd ever imagined.
The invisible eyes were there morning, noon and night.
They were with him earlier that afternoon when he was watching the twelve-o'clock news in the Stamford, Connecticut, duplex he now shared with the Master of Sinanju.
As a rule, daytime reporters and anchors were usually even more frivolous and dim-witted than their evening counterparts. But for some reason this day, everyone seemed very businesslike. Remo soon learned why.
There was a breaking news story out of nearby Milford.
An office worker at a small software company had gone berserk an hour before. According to the reporter on the scene, the heavily armed man had entered the building where he worked, guns blazing.
There were a dozen confirmed dead, seven more wounded.
The killer was holed up in the rear of the building. A handful of office workers were unaccounted for. The police had not yet stormed the building, fearing for the safety of any survivors that might still be inside.