"Tell Master Chiun that-semantics notwithstanding-he is absolutely, unequivocally not a representative of the North Korean government," Smith deadpanned.
"You're not a diplomat, Little Father," Remo called.
"Do not 'Little Father' me, flipper of trucks," Chiun snapped back.
"He says he's not talking to me," Remo explained to Smith. "Of course, as usual, that only lasts until he can come up with the next insult."
"Nitwit," Chiun called.
"See?" Remo said.
"This is insane," Smith said, aghast at Remo's flippant attitude. "How can you not realize the seriousness of this situation? My God, Remo, they filmed you."
"Videotaped, actually," Remo said. "And while we're at it-no, they didn't."
"I can see you!" Smith snapped. The image of the battered truck was replaced by a vapid news anchor.
"You see a truck, Smitty," Remo explained patiently. "You didn't see either of our faces. You know how Chiun and I can avoid being shot by cameras."
"That is irrelevant," Smith said. "You are found out. According to reports, the Berlin police have the embassy surrounded. The German government has gotten involved in the situation. North Korea is stonewalling for now, but that will not last. The two of you are sitting in the middle of a growing storm of international scrutiny."
"Not for long," Remo said confidently. "We're getting out tonight."
"How?" Smith asked, instantly wary.
"Don't you worry your pretty little head," Remo said soothingly. "Just rest assured that those police barricades won't stop us. We should be fine on this end as long as we don't get turned in first."
"Is there a danger of that?"
"Unlikely. The ambassador is scared to death of us. He knows all about Sinanju, so he doesn't want to cross us. The guy who worries me is his aide. I think he's with the secret police or something."
Smith closed his eyes as he considered the predicament. "I told you I was not comfortable with your going to the North Korean government for help," he said.
"You're the one who told us we were on our own."
"And I stand by that. CURE's facilities are not at your disposal when you wish to smuggle the Nibelungen Hoard out of Germany," Smith said, restating his earlier position.
"Which is why Chiun turned to North Korea," Remo said. "It's easier this way, Smitty. That dipshit Kim Jong Il pees his pants whenever he hears Chiun's name. He couldn't wait to loan us his personal jet. Diplomatic pouch. No searches. Zip, bang, boom into Pyongyang Airport. Every trip has been flawless. We were home free until today."
Eyes still closed, Smith pinched the bridge of his nose. "How much treasure is left?" he asked wearily.
"Not much," Remo said. "Luckily, we were on our last run. A couple of boxes. Maybe twenty, twenty-five in all. About as big as orange crates."
"You can get them out undetected?"
"Bet on it," Remo said.
"I would prefer not to," Smith said dryly. He exhaled a loud, painful puff of stale air. "Do what you have to as quickly as you possibly can. I want you both off of German soil and back here at the absolute earliest. Is that clear?"
"Not a problem," Remo said amiably. "Consider us already gone. By the way, you don't sound too chipper. How are you feeling, Smitty?"
Smith did not even bother to reply. With an exhausted stretch of his tired arm, he dropped the blue receiver back into the old-fashioned cradle.
Chapter 7
Whenever Dan Bergdorf slept, he had nightmares. The dream pattern was always the same. He was in the middle of some grand disaster movie from the 1970s. Not the actual film itself, but the making of the film. Dan would be on a plane with Burt Lancaster, directing an epic crash. Cameras would roll, Dan would call "Action" and all at once the dummy bomb from props would somehow wind up being real. The explosion would rip through the fuselage, and the plane would make a screaming beeline for the ground thirty thousand feet below. Unlike in the movies, all aboard perished.
Sometimes he was putting out skyscraper fires with Steve McQueen. Other times he was crawling through greasy passageways of a capsized luxury liner with Gene Hackman. Always, the phony disaster would wind up being all too real. At the terrifying moment his dream alter ego perished in whatever the latest calamity might be, Dan would scream himself awake.
Sweating, panting, disoriented, Dan would realize as he came back to his senses that it had all been a bad dream.
And as the horror of reality sank in, he would realize that his sleeping nightmares were nowhere near as bad as his waking one.
Unlike in his dreams, Dan did not work in motion pictures. He was an executive producer of special projects for a small television station in Passaic, New Jersey.
WAST-TV Channel 8 had tried to make a name for itself in the syndication market a few years before. Right out of the box, they had a major hit that the station's top brass was certain would propel them into the vanguard of television's burgeoning new frontier.
New York radio shock jock Harold Stein had branched out into low-budget TV. The marriage between the raunchy radio-show host and Channel 8 seemed to be one made in heaven. Or perhaps somewhere farther south. In any event, The Harold Stein Show was a syndicated sensation. In some markets, it even beat out the tired Saturday Night Live in the ratings.
As executive producer for the Stein show, Dan and Channel 8 had ridden the crest of a wave that would surely take them all on to bigger and better things.
Or so they thought.
After only two seasons working on the hourlong show, Stein called it quits, citing his intense displeasure with the cheapness of the program as his primary reason. Channel 8's stock and reputation instantly took a nosedive.
After a few years of desperate scrambling-in a twist right out of Charles Dickens-the failing station was bought up by a mysterious benefactor. An immediate infusion of cash from this unknown source instantly brought Channel 8 back into the black. Prospects brightened. Some new staff were even hired. For the first time since the Stein debacle, Dan Bergdorf had allowed himself to get his hopes up. That lasted until the day he was brought into the general manager's office to meet the new owner.
All hope for a future in legitimate television and films vanished the moment he learned who his new employer was.
Dan instantly recognized Man Hyung Sun. It was the night of that very first meeting that the dreams had started.
His nightmares had only gotten worse over the years. By the time Sun showed himself as the owner of Channel 8, it was already too late for Dan. He was branded a Loonie by every station in the country.
The flurry of resumes he sent out was ignored. Phone calls to supposed friends who had made it in the industry were not returned. Dan became an outcast. With no other prospects in life, he was forced to remain at Channel 8.
AT WAST, Dan was put in charge of special projects. That was the Channel 8 term for infomercials.
These program-length commercials usually involved cellulite cream, "magic" abdominal exercises or real-estate scams. Apparently, the glut already on the market was not enough to prevent Channel 8 from making a tidy little profit on these syndicated half-hour ads. It seemed that people could not get enough of them.
Dan, of course, was not one of those people.
"What kind of asshole is up at 3:00 a.m. watching 'Professor Brilliant's Amazing Patented Exfoliation Sensation'?" he demanded of his secretary one day after seeing the New York ratings for the infomercial.
"Have you seen it?" she asked. "It's pretty funny."
"I don't have to watch it, honey," Dan deadpanned. "I was there when they shot that disaster. First, it ain't that funny. Plus, Professor Brilliant's wig looks like a dead poodle. Plus, the sets are cheesier than a Wisconsin dairy farm. Plus, get me a cup of coffee now or you're fired."