"Only when it is in Sinanju will it be safe. Until that time, make haste."
"Fine," Remo said. "Just try not to kill any cops on the way to the airport."
"I make no promises," Chiun sniffed.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Remo sighed.
"And do not invoke the gods of Charlemagne," Chiun warned. "It is unseemly not only in the eyes of my ancestors, but in those of the greater deities.
Remo thought of a few things he would have liked to invoke. Instead, he held his tongue.
He drove slowly, and the taillights of the Berlin police paddy wagon turned back out on the main drag. The truck quickly disappeared in traffic, heading off in the direction of Tegel Airport.
Chapter 9
The unmarked private elevator whisked Michael Princippi up through the glass-enclosed atrium of Man Hyung Sun's exclusive Fifth Avenue apartment building.
Through smoky one-way glass, Princippi could see placid fountains gurgling soothing, colored water far below.
The centerpiece of the lobby area was a huge marble fountain that shot water four stories into the air. Princippi was above the apex of the spurting water by five stories and was moving swiftly toward the penthouse.
He hung away from the glass wall, huddling into himself near the closed elevator doors. Princippi never thought he could feel more miserable than he had back when he lost the 1988 presidential race. He was wrong.
The Loonie infomercial had hit the airwaves the previous day. Tongues were already wagging about his participation in the program-length commercial.
"The buying of American politics," FOX's Brit Hume had dubbed it. He had done a five-minute cable hit piece on the former governor that reopened all the old wounds of his failed campaign. The reporter had stopped just short of bringing up Mrs. Princippi's substance-abuse problem.
As far as his wife was concerned, it was a good thing she was already hospitalized when the news struck. She had been discovered that morning in a maintenance closet at the Betty Ford Clinic mixing a cocktail of Clorox and Pine Sol.
"If it wasn't over before, it is now," Princippi announced glumly. As if in response, the elevator doors slid efficiently open.
Sighing, Princippi stepped out into the hallway.
The hall was more a foyer. It stabbed off to the right, where the servants' elevator was located, and went equally far on the left, where it stopped at a fire door. Directly across from the elevator was a closed oak door. And standing directly in front of the door was the Loonie, Roseflower.
It was amazing how much bigger and more menacing he looked since the abduction. It was the soothing pink robes that had fooled him. Draping, they hid a lot.
The kid obviously worked out constantly. Crossed over his barrel chest, his huge bare forearms were like pale tree trunks. They could easily have lifted Mike Princippi into the air and snapped him like a twig.
"Good morning, Michael," Roseflower said.
The idiotic smirk again. For some reason, the smile was more disconcerting than if the Loonie had scowled at him.
"Hello," Princippi said, trying to smile, as well. As was usually the case, his smile lacked sincerity or warmth.
Roseflower didn't seem to mind.
"Reverend Sun is expecting you. Have a wonderful day."
The Loonie bodyguard stepped aside, allowing Princippi to enter the penthouse apartment.
Michael Princippi couldn't wait to close the door between him and the perennially perky lapdog.
"Come in," Sun's voice called from deep within the apartment before the door had even shut.
The cult leader's city residence was tastefully and expensively furnished. A broad curving staircase of highly polished wood led to an upstairs balcony lined on one side by a delicately carved balustrade.
Sun's voice had come from this direction. Princippi climbed the stairs, noting as he went the original works of art that were tastefully displayed along the wall.
Upstairs, the smell told him which way to go.
It was a sickly stench. Rotten eggs left too long in a garbage disposal. Sulfur.
Princippi had read before that particular odors were known to trigger specific memories, emotions of a time long ago. He had not really believed it until that moment. He now knew that it was abundantly true.
They were not so much memories that came to him now as he followed that sick sulfur stench to the far end of the hallway. It was more a feeling. Stirring awake after a long slumber. The emotion he felt was fear.
Princippi found Sun in a small room off of the cultist's opulent bedroom.
The room was only tiny in comparison to the rest of the apartment. Actually, it looked as if it was supposed to be a good-size closet. But the clothes were all gone. A few wooden hangers hung on empty racks.
Sun was in the middle of the room. The Korean sat on a plain three-legged stool.
The room was fetid. A greasy yellow smoke clung visibly to the foul air. It was not like smoke produced by burning. It was more a Hollywood interpretation of what smoke should be. A sort of dry-ice fog.
The stench was like a solid mass that Princippi had to push from his path as he stepped inside the room.
"Close the door," Sun ordered. His voice was muffled.
Reluctantly, Princippi did as he was instructed.
Sun's head had been invisible beneath a thick bathroom towel until now. Sitting on his low stool, he was bent forward, the towel draping across something at his feet. He was like a man fighting cold symptoms. Three humidifiers hummed incessantly around him.
Once the door was closed, Sun came up from beneath the towel. He was breathing deeply at the air of the room-a hiker catching his breath atop a mountain.
"What news have you for me?" Sun asked, draping his towel across the mysterious object at his feet.
"I, um, just talked to Bergdorf at Channel 8. The, uh, Sun Source infomercial has been distributed around the country as per your instructions."
Princippi was finding it difficult to speak. Sun's eyes held the same weird yellow glow they had taken on back at the Washington Guardian offices. It looked as if someone had screwed two yellow Christmas bulbs into his eye sockets.
"What of the switchboards? Do the people of this land seek out my oracular wisdom?" The yellow eyes flashed hypnotically.
"Switchboards?" Princippi gulped. "Um, yeah. Yeah, they're doing okay. I guess. You know, there are business people more suited to this. These psychic hotlines are a big deal. I'm sure you could lure someone away from Kim Smiley or the Amazing Mystico. Maybe even some of Dionne Warwick's old people might want to jump from that sunken ship."
"We have chosen you," Sun announced.