Then he hesitated.
"What if they have come for the gold?" he squeaked.
The gold lay in neat stacks on the other side of a triple-locked basement vault. Only Emperor Smith possessed the keys-not that Chiun would need keys to get at the gold, which was his payment for the coming year's worth of service. Normally it was shipped directly to the village of his ancestors. But the gold had been hijacked from the submarine conveying it to Sinanju, on the rocky and forbidding coast of North Korea, and had been recovered only with great difficulty.
Since the Master of Sinanju had recovered the gold himself, it was considered salvage. This was replacement gold, offered to seal the latest contract between America and Chiun, who headed the greatest house of assassins in human history, the House of Sinanju. Practitioners of the first and greatest martial art, also called Sinanju, the Masters of Sinanju had served the greatest thrones of the ancient world and now served the most powerful nation of the modern world, America.
While Smith-whom Chiun called emperor because it was traditional to do so-made arrangements for another submarine to convey this gold to Korea, it was being kept in the Folcroft basement. And as long as it remained upon American soil, Chiun had vowed to guard it with his life every waking moment. This was the reason he slept in ignominy.
Chiun regarded the triple-locked door, worry written in every spiderweb wrinkle in his parchment features. What to do? His emperor needed him. But emperors were mortal. Gold endured forever.
The firing continued. It was getting worse.
"What if they have come for the gold?" he squeaked. "I must remain here to guard it."
A man screamed, mortally wounded.
"But if they have come for Smith, it is my sacred duty to protect his life. For if I fail, the gold of America is forfeit."
The Master of Sinanju formed ivory yellow fists with his long-nailed fingers. He stood rooted to the dusty concrete of the floor, his body immobilized by the dire necessity of racing to the side of him whom he had sworn to protect and the equal need to safeguard the gold he had yet to earn. The wispy tail of his beard quivered with his torment. The puffs of snow over each ear likewise trembled. His hazel eyes squeezed into walnuts in his pain.
In the end the Master of Sinanju left the gold.
There was nothing else to do. His ancestors would either honor him or revile him after the events of this day. He did not know. But he would do his duty, and if his decision was a wrong one, a severe penalty would be exacted upon those who forced this odious decision upon him.
THE MASTER of SINANJU padded purposefully up the sloping concrete floor to the corrugated steel door of the loading dock. He did not slow as he approached it. Instead, he lifted one hand, extending his index finger with its long, curving nail that looked so delicate.
Chiun brought the nail up and then down, and when it came into contact with the steel corrugations, the metal squealed and parted vertically.
Taking the sharp edges of the rip in his hand, the Master of Sinanju exerted simple opposing pressure. The vertical rent exploded apart. He stepped through onto the loading dock.
Chiun disdained the steps and dropped off the dock, his black skirts billowing as he landed with a grace that belied his great age.
Keeping to the edges of the building, he moved along the walls, turning corners like a floating black rag dragged by a stick. Even in the clear morning light, a watcher would have not read his movement as those of man, but as something fitful and inanimate.
Thus did the Master of Sinanju come upon the invaders of his emperor's fortress, unheralded and unsuspected.
They stood around the entrance, relaxed in their manner, their weapons lowered.
The faithful guard in blue knelt at their feet in abject surrender, his holster empty, his hands tied behind his back with a plastic loop. It was shameful to behold. The man should have given his life before allowing this to come to pass.
The invaders in their black garments stood watch, obviously confident that their fellows had captured their prize. By their manner, it was already too late. Folcroft had fallen. The way their eyes fell voraciously upon the steel vehicles in the parking lot told him this.
Chiun withdrew. Stealth was called for now, not death. The Master of Sinanju would deal out death in his own time.
The walls of Folcroft were of brick. Coming to a point where he would not be seen, the Master of Sinanju stopped and took hold of the bricks where they met. He began climbing upward, hands and feet bringing him effortlessly to the second floor.
He paused on a windowsill, and the fingernail that had been hardened by years of diet and exercise and will showed that it could defeat glass as well as steel. Chiun traced a circle in the pane with a swift motion that compressed the squeak of the glass into a short bark that might be mistaken for a dog's.
Still, it was a sound, and it carried.
A man entered the room, gun in hand. His eyes swept the room and came to rest upon the figure of the Master of Sinanju floating on the other side of the window glass.
Bringing a weapon from under his coat, he identified himself.
"IRS!"
Tapping the circle, Chiun reached in in time to catch the circle of glass before it fell. He flicked his wrist. The disc of glass sailed across the room and through the open door, neatly separating the man standing there from his head.
Chiun entered through the circular opening and padded past the invader who lay quivering in two parts, an expression of wonderment on his upturned face. Chiun erased the expression with the heel of his sandal. It erased his face, as well.
"Barley drinkers," Chiun hissed.
Moving down the corridor, his ears captured sounds.
"Get a doctor," a man yelled. "He's choking!"
"Anybody know the Heimlich Maneuver? Get him to cough it up!"
The shouting was coming from the direction of Smith's office.
Chiun picked up his pace. His feet seemed to but brush the floor, but they propelled him along like a gazelle. His pipestem arms churning in his swishing kimono sleeves, and his pumping legs made his silken skirts swirl in agitation.
No one heard his approach; no one sensed his growing shadow.
They would not be aware of him until his hands were at their vitals--and the moment in which they would recognize their doom would be as brief as a spark.
FROM THE MOMENT he stepped into Folcroft Sanitarium, it only got worse for Jack Koldstad.
The lobby guard was standing in front of his desk, his hands in the air, his revolver at his feet. His arms trembled.
"These premises are hereby seized by order of the commissioner of the Internal Revenue Service," Koldstad barked.
"Okay by me," the guard said, his voice quavering. "Dr. Smith said to do whatever you fellas say."
An agent stiffened. "Did you hear that? He knew we were coming!"
"Where is Smith?" Koldstad barked.
"Second floor. Right off the elevator. Can't miss it."
Koldstad turned to his aide. "Hand this flunky off to DEA. It'll give them something to do besides scratching themselves while we secure the building."
Koldstad led his men up the stairs. An elevator could be stopped by cutting the power. It had happened to him twice before he learned to take the stairs even if it was fifty flights up.
There was an ample-bosomed woman about fifty years old trembling behind a second-floor reception desk. Her hands were caught up around her throat.