"Fine," the officer said.
As Soe watched the last hope of salvaging his career drain away, a jeep was brought forward. He was pushed in behind the steering wheel. Remo took the seat next to him.
Rim Kun Soe wished he still had his gun with him. If he had, he would have ended his life right then and there. Particularly at the next words that issued from the filthy American's capitalist mouth.
"Which way to the presidential palace?" Remo asked, smiling.
Chapter 22
Mike Princippi suspected that it would someday come to this. He had known it since he'd collected the stone urn from the ruins of that cult in Wyoming a year ago.
It was a stupid, stupid move. He should have left the urn where it had been buried. The cult lay in ruins. The secret would have remained buried along with the urn.
The whole affair was a time in his life that was best forgotten. Some people had said that about his failed run for the presidency. But if they only knew about that urn, they would have conceded that the national embarrassment of losing the election was a bright spot in the biography of Michael "the Prince" Princippi compared to the terrible days he had spent in the vicinity of that ancient stone artifact.
He didn't know much about the history of it. Just that it had been found at an archaeological dig in Delphi and brought to America. Most recently, he had owned the urn for a brief time, finally turning it over to a local Boston museum when the strange dreams he was having refused to subside.
And now the Reverend Man Hyung Sun owned it. It was a chilling prospect.
Princippi was generally a practical man. The only mystical matters he had ever trucked in were those pertaining to the Massachusetts budget when he was governor. As far as anything otherworldly was concerned, he didn't believe a word of it. But the urn had changed his mind.
The powder contained in that ancient piece of carved rock possessed a force greater than he had ever imagined.
The being within the urn was a fragment of the ancient god Apollo. The Pythia, as it was called, was the oracular force behind the famous temple at Delphi. Indeed, it was for this creature who imparted knowledge of the future that the word oracle was given.
The Pythia saw the future. People had died for it. Most recently at the museum in Boston where it had been stored. And Mike Princippi had known about it.
It would be the end of his political career if this ever got out. Worse. Prison, possibly. Who knew what else?
Princippi thought of this as he got out of his battered old Volkswagen in the parking lot of the Channel 8 studio in Passaic.
Sun's limo was already there, as were several Sunnie vans. The tambourine-rattling nuts were probably scattered all over the studio like a flock of bald flamingos.
Mike Princippi was locked in with these people. Whether he liked it or not.
He knew that Sun was aware of matters unknown to the rest of the world, with the Pythia on his side. Sun knew that Princippi had been involved with the Pythia before. Although the former governor had not been in it as deep as the others at the Wyoming cult, he had been there. Sun had the goods on him.
But there was some hope.
The ashes were the strength of the Pythia, Princippi reasoned. If he could keep his mind completely blank and get close enough to the yellow dust, he might be able to get rid of it. Maybe flush it down a toilet or something.
He hadn't really thought about it at Sun's Manhattan apartment. At the estate in the Hamptons, he had not yet been able to get close enough. When he did, he would get rid of them. Once and for all. Sun would be left with an empty stone pot.
The rest would be hearsay. A crazy cult leader accusing a respected ex-presidential candidate of insane behavior.
Ultimately, it might be a smudge on his record. Maybe not, however. In this day and age of political scandals, from blatant lies to cover-up and blind public acceptance of it all, who knew? The only certain thing was, the longer the dust remained collected in that accursed urn, the deeper grew the hole Mike Princippi found himself in.
The former governor kept his thoughts buried as he strolled into the studio building. As he had expected, he found Sun on the set of his latest infomercial.
The head of the Sunnie cult sat on a sofa on the new set. Roseflower stood nearby. Princippi smiled weakly at the bodyguard as he walked over to the cult leader.
Another old Asian was with Sun on the set. He sat cross-legged on the floor at the feet of the Sunnie leader.
The stranger wore a traditional kimono and had skin the texture of sunbaked leather stretched to the cracking point. As hooded eyes sized up the approaching Princippi, his features curled into wrinkles of distaste.
"Hi," Princippi said, nodding to the Master of Sinanju. "You a Sunnie or something?"
"Or something," Chiun sniffed in reply. The look of disgusted condemnation never left his face.
"Uh, yeah," Princippi said. He turned his attention to Sun. "How soon are we starting?"
"Ten minutes," a harried voice announced behind him.
Princippi nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun. Dan Bergdorf stood behind him.
"What!" Princippi demanded. He realized only when he saw the stunned look on the face of the infomercial's executive producer that he had yelled the word. He glanced nervously over his shoulder at Sun. The cult leader was not even looking at him. "I'm sorry," he apologized to Dan. "You startled me. What did you say?"
"We start in ten minutes," the executive producer said. "You have the new script?"
"Me? No. No, I don't."
Dan grabbed a script from a passing stage manager. "Go over this first," he pleaded. "Cold reads on the first take never work."
"But that's the way we did it last time," Princippi argued.
"I know." Turning, Dan left the former governor clasping his new script in his moist hands.
Princippi looked back at Sun. "Um." He shrugged uncertainly. "Are you going back to the mansion anytime soon?" Princippi asked nervously. He tried to force a smile.
Sun looked up from the script he had been reading. "No," he replied. "Our work here will take some time. Why?"
"No reason," the former governor said. "It's just that I-I left my coat there. Maybe. Anyway, I thought maybe I could take a look around and see." Princippi pretended an idea had suddenly occurred to him. It was worse than the acting he had displayed in the first Sunnie infomercial. "Say, I have an idea," he said, snapping his fingers. "Why don't I go back. Sort of on my own. I could look for it myself. No need to bother you."
"Yes, that would be fine." Sun agreed.
Princippi beamed. He began backing away. "Great, I'll just-"
"There is a small matter ...." Sun began. His eyes were dead as he stared at the former governor.
Princippi felt his stomach turn to water.
He knew. Of course. He must know. He had the urn.
Sun knew of his intentions, knew that he planned to dispose of the powder in the urn. He never should have come up with the scheme to begin with. Never should have thought to go against the sinister force of the Pythia.
"You must wait until after we have completed this day's taping," Sun finished. He returned his attention to his script.