"You are."
The tiny Asian's voice was firm. Remo could see that there would be no arguing. His shoulders slumped.
"Why don't you at least call home first before you waste a trip?" he said with a sigh. "Get a heads-up on what's going on. He was pretty old, Chiun. Maybe Smitty got it wrong. He said he was using some translation something-or-other. Maybe Pullyang died in his sleep."
"To call first might alert the dastards who did this wicked thing," Chiun insisted, "for the village telephone is in the Master's House and if they killed my trusted caretaker for my treasure, they are surely there plundering it now. If it is as you suggest and he met a natural end, I must still go, for he has been a good and faithful servant to me for many years. I must pay my last respects."
The words were spoken in a clear and reasonable tone. But they were a lie.
Another is dead already.
That was what the monk had said. At the time, the words had confused Chiun. Now he understood. The monk knew.
Another is dead already. Pullyang. Two Masters of Sinanju will die.
Whatever was coming for them had its beginnings in Sinanju. Perhaps it would be possible to cheat fate. But first Chiun had to learn exactly what the danger was.
"I don't even know where in Germany I'm supposed to go," Remo said. He seemed lost.
The old Korean looked up into his pupil's face. It was leaner now than it had been when they'd first met so many years ago. The baby fat had long since burned away. But it was still a young, innocent face. Guileless and unlined. Despite the buffeting hardships of a sometimes vicious and heartless world, it remained open and honest.
"I will tell you where to go," Chiun said softly.
"Super," Remo grumbled. "While you're at it, tell me what to do when I get there."
"I do not have to," the old man said. "For you will do as you always do. You will make me proud." And this time, unlike back at their Connecticut duplex, Remo Williams knew to worry. For this time the old man did not erase his words of praise with an insult.
Chapter 18
The chancellor of the Federal Republic of Germany paced back and forth on the stone floor. The soles of his black dress shoes clicked sharply with each step.
"You said we were ready," the chancellor snapped. His breath formed puffs of gray steam in the chill morning air.
Wind blew cold through the open window in the old castle, cutting to the bone. The chancellor hugged his crossed arms tight to himself as he glared at the portly man in the heavy woolen overcoat.
"We were ready," the defense ministry man insisted. "Up until yesterday. But he has not arrived this morning. He was supposed to meet with me over an hour ago."
"Call him," the chancellor commanded.
"I have already tried calling a dozen times."
The leader of Germany strained to dull the furious edge in his voice, "Try again," he snapped. Nodding, the red-faced man waddled off to a dank corner, cell phone in hand. As the man pressed out a number on the disposable phone he intended to throw away later that morning, the chancellor stepped to the window.
The land he looked out on was primeval forest. The acres of wilderness were as untamed as they had been a thousand years before when this castle was a stronghold of the Hohenstaufen Emperor Frederick Barbarossa.
The history of ancient Germany was stretched out before the chancellor's eyes. The German leader didn't seem to appreciate the view. That Frederick I had stood at the same window and looked out on the same forests was the last thing on the chancellor's mind this morning.
The leader of Germany was irritated. Why wouldn't he be? He had every right to be upset. They were supposed to be prepared. Until yesterday he had been assured over and over that Germany was ready.
He had flown by helicopter to this secret spot in the dark of night, secure in the knowledge that this bizarre business had been handled.
The special throne was already in place. It had been carted from its government storage facility in Berlin. The ancient wooden throne had been carved from the trees of this very forest. Lovingly preserved, it had been handed down from one generation to the next for centuries.
The throne weighed over a ton. It was part of the ceremony. The men who had been charged with hauling it to this lost castle had no idea what it was for.
But it was here. In place. As everything else was supposed to be. All that was supposed to happen from this point forward were formalities.
Only when the black night sky had begun to feed the ugly grays of dawn was the chancellor informed that his country might not be ready after all.
Far below the castle walls, the twisted trees stirred in the morning breeze. Somewhere close a bird began to shriek. Its cry was answered from far away in the forest depths.
As more birds took up the call, a muttered curse came from the corner of the big room. The chancellor turned from the window and the growing dawn. "Anything?"
Phone still pressed to his ear, the defense ministry man shook his head. His sagging jowls wobbled worriedly. "It now says that the number has been discontinued."
The chancellor's eyes opened wide with rage.
The fat man understood why the German leader was upset. He had done research. He knew exactly what they were dealing with. For weeks leading up to this, he had been having nightmares about what might happen if things went wrong.
The fat man held up a staying hand. "I know another number," he promised. "Give me a moment." As the ministry man dug through his pockets for the second number, the chancellor turned back to the window.
He couldn't believe his bad luck. How many chancellors had there been since the last time? Any one of them should have had to deal with this. Mocking fate had dropped him in office at this time.
At first the German leader thought he could dispense with all of this in a quick, efficient German manner. But his first chosen champion-the talented Swiss assassin, Olivier Hahn-had met an untimely end. After a scramble to find a replacement, they found the best money could buy. Better, perhaps, than the dead Swiss killer. And now this.
Behind him, the defense ministry man had found the backup number. The chancellor heard the beeps of the cell phone. The German leader tried to tune out the sound.
Across the forest the sky continued to brighten. The castle was a sacred spot. Ever since the time of Frederick Barbarossa this had been the traditional meeting place between the leaders of Germany and the mysterious assassins from the East. The castle had been maintained better in the earliest centuries. The outer walls and outbuildings had begun to crumble four centuries before. The modern age had brought the inner hall to partial ruin. But through many years, from the rule of the Hapsburgs through the reunification of East and West Germany at the end of the twentieth century, much of the castle still remained.
In the modern age the upkeep expenses were part of a black budget. No one outside a tight circle within the government even knew of the castle's existence. The small stipend earmarked for the Barbarossa castle was barely enough to maintain the main structure. Still, in spite of the ravages of time, it remained one of the best preserved castles of its age in Europe. And one that no government bureaucrat, college professor or camera-carting tourist would ever see.
For an instant as he looked out the window of the great hall, the current chancellor of Germany felt a tiny touch of the specialness of this place.
And as quickly as it came, the bubble that was his brief connection to the history of his country popped. "Hey, Sergeant Schultz, is this Barbarella's castle?" asked an American voice.
The German chancellor whirled.
There was another man standing in the vast hall. The intruder had come up the east stairs. Silently, for neither the defense ministry man nor the chancellor had heard him approach. The stranger was addressing the fat man on the phone, a perturbed look on his cruel face.
The fat man looked desperately from the stranger in the black T-shirt and matching chinos to the chancellor of Germany. The ministry man didn't know what to do. He had not expected to be interrupted in so clandestine an affair.
"Yo, Pudding Pop, I'm talking to you," Remo said, waving a hand in front of the man's frightened face.
"You cannot be here," the chancellor called. Remo glanced up as Germany's leader approached. The chancellor got between Remo and the throne, as if partially blocking the massive piece of furniture in the ancient stone hall would somehow hide his purpose.
"This is not a place for tourists," the chancellor said.