"I'm not working for this blivot!" Remo snapped.
"Blivot. That's American golf slang, isn't it? But I don't catch the connection."
"A blivot," Remo said, "is ten pounds of manure in a five-pound sack."
Kim Jong II looked injured. "You remind me of my mother, you know that?"
"How much gold do you offer, son of Kim?" asked Chiun.
Kim Jong II picked up a phone at random. "How about that missing gold? I can have the SA-I-GU recalled to port. I'm supreme commander, you know."
"You will do that in order to preserve your worthless life," Chiun said coldly.
"Deal," said Jong. "Now, about hiring you. Don't you think it's high time Sinanju worked for Koreans again? This Western flirtation of yours has gone on long enough."
"No way, Chiun!" said Remo.
"I will consider it," said Chiun.
"Great!" Jong said, beaming.
"Once I have the gold in hand," added Chiun.
"And the surviving sailors are returned safely to America," added Remo.
"Which surviving sailors?" asked Jong.
"Those ones who have been granted sanctuary in Sinanju."
Kim Jong II frowned like unbaked dough shrinking. "That would be a bad move on my part. Tantamount to admitting my navy committed the aggression. No can do."
Remo growled, "It did. And you will."
"Don't you think you should confer with your Master before you go threatening his future employer, white boy?"
Remo advanced, taking Kim Jong II by the throat.
"Urk," said Kim Jong II.
"I'll give you a choice." Remo said politely. "The Wedgie of Death or the Sinanju Swirlie."
"I'll take the Swirlie," gasped Jong, figuring how bad could it be if it didn't include the word "death"? Besides, American customs fascinated him. He gave them to the bad guys in his operas.
"Fine. Where's the men's room?"
Jong cocked a thumb, and suddenly his feet left the floor and he was being carried by his neck to his personal washroom, legs swinging like logs hanging by lifting chains.
"Master of Sinanju," he called through the squeezing hand, "this would be an excellent time to discipline your white slave."
Chiun fluttered his hands in mock helplessness. "He is a white and therefore uncontrollable."
"Shit," said Kim Jong II.
The bathroom door splintered under a hard kick, and Jong found himself on his knees before his solid gold commode. The lid lifted, and he was looking into the bowl where the blue chemically cleaned water lapped in sympathy with the inferior water system of the city.
"What are you—"
There was a splash as Kim Jong Il's face went into the water. He held his breath. The flushing sound was very loud in his ears. It filled them. So did the water. In a way it was quite exhilarating, except for the inconvenient lack of oxygen.
The white flushed a second time, and Kim's cheeks were swelling even as his lungs began to labor.
When his head felt ready to pop, he was pulled back into the welcome world of air.
"Take a deep breath. Got it? Okay, here we go again."
The toilet was flushed again.
Three times the Dear Leader was forced to endure the dreaded Sinanju Swirlie, and when his head came out for the third time, he was allowed to take more than one breath.
"Change your mind now?" Remo demanded.
"Yes. Yes. I will return the Americans alive with full and complete apologies. Just do me a favor."
"What's that?"
"Make sure Captain Yokang pays dearly for all this unfortunate trouble he's caused each and every one of us."
"That," said Remo, "comes at no extra charge."
Captain Yokang Sako of the frigate SA-I-GU had divided the gold among his crew, keeping the greater portion for himself. He removed the batteries from his cellular telephone so that the mysterious Comrade could not reach him with demands for half of the gold that would never be his and was going through the motions of his routine patrol as he considered his next move.
Defecting appealed to him. But to where could he defect? Not to China. Beijing would confiscate his gold and send him back to Pyongyang in irons. The hateful islands of Japan held no appeal. And with all the crazy talk of unification, who knew that within a few years Kim Jong II would be in control of the south, and Yokang Sako would find himself swinging from a scratchy rope.
More and more it was beginning to look as if remaining in the North Korean Navy made the most sense. After all, with the gold now in his hands, he could live like a king, assuming he did so quietly and without attracting notice to himself.
There remained the problem of his crew. Not all could be trusted to keep this secret. Still, what alternative did they have? They had all been party to an illegal aggression punishable by death.
Unless, of course, Pyongyang decided to retroactively bless their adventure.
The thought brought a frown to Captain Yokang's face. Those who bless, he knew, required blessings in return. He went to his personal closet and admired the neat gold ingots stacked there. There was more in a storeroom under lock and key. He could well afford to spread half of the gold on those in power—but what if they wanted all?
A knock at the door to his private cabin brought a gruff "What is it?" from Captain Yokang.
"A radio message from fleet, sir."
"What do they want?"