Princippi had searched for the ancient urn in every room upstairs. He could not find the stone container anywhere.
"He must have read my mind," the former governor muttered as he looked in the bedroom closet of the Reverend Sun for the third time.
It had been at his Manhattan apartment earlier. Sun might have moved it back. Hell, the Hamptons house was so huge it could have been hidden anywhere in any of the dozen buildings. Even on the grounds somewhere.
Princippi was frantic. He had been a party to the murders the first time around. Again, this time. It could ruin his life-any future career he might have-if that urn wound up in the wrong hands.
He looked around desperately at the big empty closet. Four walls. One mirror. A few hangers. Nothing more.
His heart thudded like mad. He felt his stomach twisting and churning anxiously. His bladder felt as if it were going to burst.
Bladder!
"Bathroom!" Princippi cried.
Running, tripping, he ran into the master bath.
It was huge. Whirlpool. Sauna. A tub seemingly as big as an Olympic pool.
Princippi dived at cabinets and closets, throwing towels and toiletries onto the tiled floor. His knees ached as he skidded to a stop in front of a pair of closed louvered doors. Hands shaking, he fumbled them open.
Nothing. Controls for the hot tub. No sign of the Delphic urn.
His head twisted around. He felt dizzy. Lightheaded.
The bathroom was a mess. Junk was strewed everywhere.
No urn.
No urn anywhere.
The entire estate to search.
No time.
He didn't know how long Sun would remain at the studio. The cult leader had told him he planned to stay behind for several more hours, but he might change his mind.
Mike Princippi desperately wanted to go to the bathroom. It felt as if he was about to wet his pants. He looked longingly at the toilet across the field of scattered debris.
No time.
Head reeling, he raced from the bathroom.
The bedroom suite was still empty. Run. Escape. Hide somewhere. Anywhere. Anywhere he would not think to look.
Blood drumming frantically in his ears, Princippi ran through the bedroom and out into the upstairs hallway ...
...directly into the Reverend Man Hyung Sun!
Princippi skidded to a stop. "I, uh... Hi!" He was sweating profusely. His ears rang like twin deafening gongs. "I was, uh, I was just going."
The ex-governor attempted to sidestep Sun but was stopped by a frail hand that seemed to come out of nowhere.
Chiun stepped out from behind the cult leader. His hand was pressed firmly against Princippi's chest. It was as if the former presidential candidate had slammed into a solid brick wall. Chiun's face was cold.
"You thought I would not know of your treachery?" Sun demanded. "How could you be so foolish?" There was almost a pitying expression in his angry eyes. Princippi caught a hint of the yellow fire in his pupils.
With his back to Sun, the Master of Sinanju did not glimpse the hint of demonic possession. He continued to stare-eyes glinting cold like midnight glaciers-at the former Massachusetts governor.
"I-it wasn't..." Princippi stammered.
The flickering yellow fire in Sun's eyes. The accusatory tone. Chiun's icy, level gaze. It was all too much for him. He shook his head helplessly.
"Some are too weak, even for pyon ha-da," Sun said to Chiun. "This is such a one. All the gods together could not make this Greekling a true Korean."
"Huh?" Mike Princippi asked.
"Kill him," Sun commanded.
Princippi's eyes went wide. "No," he said. A spark of hope dawned. He wheeled to Chiun. "The urn. Ask him about the Delphic urn," the exgovernor pleaded.
His own voice sounded far away. It took him a second to realize why.
He had not spoken the words at all. They were heard only by him in his own mind. He knew this because one needed a throat, tongue and a working larynx in order to articulate sounds. Most of the aforementioned list had somehow inexplicably been ripped from the person of Mike Princippi.
Much of his neck lay in a pile on the carpet before Man Hyung Sun's bedroom. The Prince wondered briefly how they had gotten there and-all at once-he stopped wondering. To wonder, the only thing one really needed was a functioning brain, but the late Mike Princippi no longer had that particular item.
The former governor and presidential candidate slumped to the floor on top of the tattered bloody strips of his own throat. Even as he fell, Chiun was tucking his slender killing fingernails back into the folds of his kimono.
The Reverend Man Hyung Sun looked down at the body of Mike Princippi. He nodded, impressed at the swiftness of the attack. The yellow fire of possession no longer burned in his eyes as he turned to Chiun.
"You are quite skilled," he said, nodding his approval.
"I am honored you think so, Holy One," Chiun said with a pleased bow.
Sun smiled at the body. "Do you think you could teach me to move thusly?"
Chiun returned the smile. "It would be my pleasure, Seer of pyon ha-da," he said. His hazel eyes burned with quiet pride.
"WHAT KIND of man is this premier of yours?" Remo demanded.
Rim Kun Soe sat behind the wheel of Remo's borrowed jeep. They were parked on the tarmac at Pyongyang Airport looking out at an empty field. It seemed as if even the security people were in hiding.
"You did not tell him to keep the plane here for you," Soe pointed out. His head ached where Remo had used it to bash down Kim Jong Il's door. He had washed off most of the blood and applied a few bandages at the morgue.
"Did so," Remo challenged.