"Of course," he gushed. "When we're done here. After. I'll go there after. Alone. Or with you with me. But you can stay here. Whatever. Doesn't matter to me." As he stepped anxiously backward, he nearly knocked over a camera. Stumbling over the wires, he continued to babble until he was halfway across the studio.
Once Princippi was out of earshot, Chiun turned to Sun.
"He is lying," he offered blandly.
From his spot on the couch, Sun glanced down at the Master of Sinanju. "This I know," he replied in the same flat tone. "For can I not divine the future?"
"He also intends to do you harm." Chiun frowned. "But he does not give off the signals of one who means to make use of conventional weapons." He tipped his head as Princippi vanished from sight. "This is most puzzling."
Sun seemed surprised "You can gauge a threat simply by looking at someone?"
Chiun nodded. "A man's body tells much that is otherwise hidden. That Greek's is a mystery to me, however. It is almost as if he intends to do you harm without doing harm to you. How could this be?"
"Who can understand the Greeks?" Sun asked with a shrug.
Chiun accepted this. "Indeed," he said. "In pyon ha-da, we will none of us have to deal with the maze that is the mind of non-Koreans."
"It will truly be a glorious day," Sun echoed. He returned to his script. As he read, he wondered absently what the best time would be to kill the treacherous Michael Princippi.
WORD OF THE RETURN of the Master of Sinanju's white son to Korean soil was greeted with concern in the People's Palace in Pyongyang.
News of the incident at the airport spread like wildfire through the capital of Communist North Korea. Although he was seen speeding through the streets in the company of a disgraced Public Security Ministry officer, none of the forces on the ground were brave enough to intercept him.
Kim Jong Il sat in his secure basement office in the presidential palace. Waiting.
The room was four stories down in solid bedrock. To reach it, one had to travel in an elevator like a pneumatic tube that was accessible to only the elite of the nation. Soldiers were stationed in the two hallways that led out and around to the elevator in a labyrinthine design known to only eight people in the country. The soldiers had been led in blindfolded. Only when they were in place were the cloths removed from their eyes.
Briefly, the premier had considered stationing guards at his secret entrance, as well. He dismissed the idea almost immediately. His father, the late president Kim Il Sung, had ordered the escape tunnel to be dug. Afterward, he had had the workmen shot. The only person alive who knew of the tunnel was Kim Jong Il, who preferred to keep it that way. At the first sign of trouble from the hallway outside, he would slip through the secret panel and flee to safety.
While he sat sweating into his People's uniform, he stared off into space. The large-screen TV before him played a wide-screen laser-disc version of The Empire Strikes Back. He saw the film without watching.
One boot tapped relentlessly at the polished granite floor.
Retaliation had been a mistake, he now realized. He never should have let the People's Bureau of Revolutionary Struggle director talk him into it. The Master of Sinanju and his heir worked for the Americans. Even though there had been no explanation, the heads that had been mailed to North Korea were a sign of something. But what?
If the last report of the American's whereabouts was accurate, the premier might only have a few moments left to decipher the cryptic message. Otherwise, it might very well be his head that next wound up boxed for shipping.
The premier pressed both hands tightly against his throat as he tried desperately to think what the message had meant. His Adam's apple fought past his clutching fingers as he gulped in fear.
For Kim Jong Il, the third act was about to begin. And no one had bothered to give him a script.
PYONGYANG WAS A GHOST town.
Remo saw soldiers while he drove. They peeked out like frightened specters from doorways and windows. But no one made a move toward him as his jeep roared down the wide, empty streets.
The People's Palace loomed big and ugly before them. Remo ordered Rim Kun Soe to stop at the huge stone staircase before the massive building.
"Let's go," Remo said, climbing down from the jeep. He put one foot on the first broad step.
"You would dare enter the presidential palace, American capitalist cur?" Soe asked, astonished and angry at once.
"If this is where that rat Kim Jong Il lives, I guess so, Soe," Remo replied. "Hurry up."
Soe crossed his arms. "I will not," he insisted. "You will have to kill me first."
"As tempting as that may be, I need you as my passkey."
"I have no key to the palace, fool."
Remo smiled. "You are the key."
He reached over and dragged Soe across the seat, dropping the Korean onto the sidewalk.
Soe looked up, face a mask of seething fury. "I should have killed you in Berlin," he sneered.
"I wish you had," Remo sighed. "It would have saved us both a whole lot of grief."
Grabbing the Public Security Ministry officer by the scruff of the neck, Remo headed up the abandoned steps of the great People's Palace.
HE HEARD THE STEADY pop-pop-pop of automaticweapons fire from beyond the great steel door. It was still far away. Echoing along the labyrinthine halls.
Kim Jong Il chewed the inside of his mouth as he waited. He had always felt safe in this stronghold. If he escaped through his secret entrance, would he become a greater target once he reached the surface?
The bedrock in which his office was secreted absorbed a great deal of sound. Vacillating, he strained to hear how close the gunfire actually was.
Sudden silence.
The guards had stopped firing. That meant only one of two things. They had either failed or succeeded.
A fresh round of gunfire much closer to his sealed door gave him the terrifying answer.
"Impossible!" the premier hissed.
Somehow, the Master of Sinanju's protege had found his way through the maze. He was right outside the closed door of Kim Jong Il's inner sanctum.
Escape was now no longer a question. It was imperative. Leaving his television to display images of Darth Vader to an empty chair, the premier hustled over to a single framed poster on the wall next to his bar.
The artwork depicted Arnold Schwarzenegger straddling a motorcycle. The sunglasses that had appeared on the actor in the original picture had been airbrushed out. The Asian eyes that had been painted in stared menacingly down at the North Korean premier as he grabbed at the edge of the frame.
The frame swung away with a single tug, revealing a long corridor beyond it. Kim Jong Il was just picking one foot up over the threshold of the secret doorway when a terrible pounding began to echo through the basement room.
The gunfire had stopped. All that was left was the incessant pounding. Frozen in place, the premier watched as the metal door buckled beneath some great external pressure.
Kim Jong Il came to his senses all at once. He was just lifting his other foot inside the panel when the main door to the room gave way completely. It collapsed inward in a hail of crumbling concrete and tinkling metal shards.
The thing that had been used to batter in the door fell in after it. The battering ram groaned.