Turning to Pullyang, the Master of Sinanju said, "Go. I will decide your fate later."
Old Pullyang lost no time in finding his way out of the House of the Masters.
"If there's nothing missing," Remo said after some thought, "then there's no real harm done."
"Yes, there is. Whoever entered this dwelling knew how to work the locks. That is a secret reserved for Masters of Sinanju only."
"I didn't do it," protested Remo.
"Nor did I. "
"Then who?"
"I know not. But I will find out. Perhaps as early as the morning. But for now, I am weary and require sleep. Tomorrow will be a stressful day, for I must watch helplessly while the white upon whom I have bestowed the gift of Sinanju weds a maiden he barely knows."
"I'll ignore that crack," said Remo. "But only because I'm in a good mood."
"No doubt you would tell jokes at your own execution."
Chapter 22
He changed planes in London for a KAL flight to Seoul.
He had been a Spaniard during the first leg of his journey, with haughty Castilian features and an inner composure that made people hesitate to intrude upon his thoughts. The simulacrum kept the couple occupying the adjoining seats from bothering him with tourist chatter. For good measure, he had held a paperback book open on his lap, focusing on it, but not reading. It kept the beast inside of him under control.
The flight was uneventful.
Phase One was complete. Remo and Chiun were cut off from their American employer. They would never again work for that country.
At the KAL counter he insisted upon a window seat. The ticket girl was happy to oblige.
"Here you are, Mr. . . ." She paused to look at the ticket. "Mr. Nuihc," she said smilingly.
"Thank you," he said. His name was not Nuihc. Nor was it Osorio, the name he had used on the earlier flight. Now he was a moon-faced Korean, impassive and soft of voice. In the men's room he checked himself in the mirror. Even the mirror reflected the lie that was his face. Yes, it was a good face. No one would bother him during the flight. And that was good, because if the beast started killing, it would kill them all, including the flight crew. And that would be suicide because he did not know how to pilot the big airliner.
As it happened, the seats next to him were empty. He relaxed. This was better than he had hoped. He shut his eyes and dozed.
He awoke when the stewardess screamed.
Smoke boiled from the forward galley. Yellow oxygen masks dropped from the overhead compartments.
A steward in a neat uniform grabbed a dry chemical extinguisher from an overhead rack and doused the flames. After a few minutes the captain came over the intercom and joked that he shouldn't have turned off the no-smoking signs so soon. He explained that a microwave in the galley had shorted and caught fire. An accident.
"Mr. Nuihc" did not think it was an accident. It must have been the beast, the beast inside him that wanted everyone on the plane dead. It had caused the short.
He decided not to sleep for the remainder of the flight. The blond woman came down the aisle after lunch had been served. He had not noticed her during the preboarding wait at Heathrow. She had been seated in front. She was tall and athletic, her blond hair braided in coils on either side of her womanly face. Her eyes were cornflower blue, but as she passed down the aisle they shifted color like a turbulent sea, going from blue to green and green to gray and back again.
She led a small child-who was practically her image except for some residual baby fat in the cheeks-to the rest rooms at the rear of the aircraft.
He recognized the mother, but not the little child, who was bundled up in a snowsuit and parka hood.
Averting his gaze, he gripped the seat armrests tightly. No, not now, he told himself. Please, not now. This was too good, too perfect. You can have her later, beast. Not now. Later. I promise. Later.
But the beast was raging within him. It would have to be unleashed. Below, the ocean sparkled. Desperately his eyes sought a target, a release for the unstoppable force building within. An oil tanker slid into view. Perfect. He focused on it. Silently, it went up in a ball of fire. The plane vibrated in the turbulence of the shock wave.
The blond woman and the child passed him, clutching the seats to keep their balance. Satiated, the beast allowed them to live.
He closed his eyes tightly and kept them shut until the faint natural scent of the woman passed him on the return trip and he knew they were seated and out of his line of sight.
He relaxed again.
In Seoul he would hire a vehicle and see how far north the driver would take him. If necessary, he would walk across the demilitarized zone. It would not be hard. He would walk all the way to his destination if he had to. There was no rush. In North Korea the beast would be fed. And there would be plenty of food for the beast within him, because he knew that the tall woman's ultimate destination, like his own, was the village of Sinanju.
Chapter 23
Mah-Li wept.
She knelt in the middle of the floor of her house, her eyes downcast, regarding the bamboo floor. Rice-paper squares were pasted over her eyes to inhibit her vision. Her long black hair had been put up at the back of her neck and her face was powdered the traditional bridal white. Her tears soaked the rice paper and cut channels through the face powder.
"I long so to see my Remo," she said.
"Hush, child," cautioned one of the elder women of the village, a crone name Yuli, as she repaired the streaks in Mah-Li's makeup. "Custom must be observed. You will see your husband tomorrow at the wedding. You have waited a year. Is one more night too much?"
"I must know if he still loves me," Mah-Li said plaintively. "He did not write. He always writes. What if he rejects me? What if he has found a new lover in the land where he was born?"
"Master Chiun has proclaimed that the wedding will take place tomorrow. Is that not assurance enough? Think upon your fortune, to marry the future Master of the village. That he is white is not important. After all, you are an orphan. You would have no dowry without Master Chiun, and no prospects for marriage."
Mah-Li bowed her head low. Not in shame, but because custom demanded a bride-to-be feign humility on the night before her wedding.
"I know," she said.
"A year ago you were Mah-Li, the orphan. Tomorrow at this time you will be Mah-Li, the next Master's wife."
"I know," repeated Mah-Li. "But a feeling of dread has come over me ever since the purple birds came. Something clutches at my heart. I know not what it is. I wish Remo were here."
"He is not far. Think on that. I must go now."
After Yuli had gone, Mah-Li tried to keep the rice-paper squares in place over her eyes, but she could not. Her tears had soaked into the flour adhesive.
Mah-Li did not hear the footsteps approach the house. The door was not locked, because in Sinanju ordinary homes were never locked. Out of the corner of her eye Mah-Li saw the door open, and she caught a glimpse of a tall figure.
Her indrawn breath was quick and sharp. Remo she told herself. But why had he come? It was against tradition for the groom to invade the bride's quarters before the wedding.
Mah-Li kept her eyes riveted to the floor. Her peripheral vision told her that the man was white. It must be Remo. There were no other whites in all of Sinanju, and no whites in all the world, so far as Mah-Li knew, who walked with the soft cat-padding step of a Master of Sinanju.
Mah-Li's heart pounded within her, wild and uncertain. Whatever Remo wanted, she decided, it was up to him to speak first. Even if it was to tell her that he no longer wanted to marry Mah-Li, poor Mah-Li, the orphan.