"You're just going to roll over and play dead?"
"What more can I do?" the president asked.
Remo's face was fierce. "You think the students here are weak, blind fools?" he demanded. "I say you are. You're the one who should be out there screaming at the top of your lungs against that crackpot Kim. Hell, he might be the one behind all of this."
"Perhaps." The president shrugged.
It was the feeble indifference in the move that did it to Remo. The willingness to betray freedom because it was easier than standing up to a tyrant.
Remo's mouth set in a firm line, thin lips pressed into bloodless white strips.
Reaching across the desk, he grabbed the president of South Korea by the front of his shirt. Lifting by a bundle of shirt and tie, he hauled Kim Dae Jung out over the rubble of the desk, toppling an angry shower of papers and envelopes to the floor.
Wordlessly, Remo hauled the president from the cramped office. His eyes were filled with visions of death.
Chapter 26
The squadron of six North Korean Foxbat fighters intercepted the Reverend Man Hyung Sun's personal jet as it was flying west across the Sea of Japan.
The Sunnie pilot tried to calm the flaring tempers of the MiG-25 pilots, but the military fliers seemed more hostile than usual. As if something had recently ruffled their feathers.
Chiun was sitting in his normal seat above the left wing when he was asked to step into the cockpit by one of Sun's comely stewardesses at the urging of the harried flight crew. Annoyed, the Master of Sinanju hustled up the aisle.
"We're still over international waters," the pilot explained when Chiun stepped into the small cockpit. Sweat dripped down his broad forehead. "I think that's the only reason they haven't shot us down yet."
"I would speak with them," Chiun announced.
"Gladly," the pilot said.
The Sunnie copilot operated the radio while the Master of Sinanju spoke.
Chiun cleared his throat. "Whoresons of Pyongyang harlots-" he began.
"We're dead," moaned the pilot.
"-begone from the skies around this most holy aircraft, or face the awesome wrath of the Master of Sinanju."
The two Foxbats that were visible through the cockpit windows remained locked in place. The twin AA-6 Acrid rockets on the nearest wings of each fighter were reminders that there were four more planes just like them somewhere behind Sun's jet; each was equipped with four of the deadly missiles. One would be enough to blow the unarmed jet from the sky.
The Foxbats matched the speed of the civilian jet, never wavering a fraction. For a few tense moments, not a sound issued from the lead fighter.
Chiun stared over at the port MiG. The pilot's domed head was visible through the cockpit glass. The old Korean stared daggers at the man.
"We're about to pass into North Korean airspace," the copilot announced worriedly after a short time.
As they watched their controls with steadily increasing apprehension, the MiGs remained glued to their positions beside them.
Mere seconds before they were to pass into North Korean airspace, a voice crackled over the radio. The MiG pilot sounded as if he would choke on the message he had been ordered to deliver.
"Proceed, Master of Sinanju. And welcome home."
Only then did Chiun tear his eyes away from the man in the Foxbat. Turning abruptly, he left the bewildered cockpit crew and returned to his seat.
"Is there a problem?" Man Hyung Sun asked. The cult leader had been napping in his seat across from Chiun and had just awakened.
"None, O Holy One," the Master of Sinanju replied.
Chiun settled in to watch the wing. He had heard that sometimes they dropped off during takeoffs and landings.
COLONEL NICK DESOUZA couldn't believe his eyes. The CIA spook who had crossed the DMZ only a few hours before had not only made it safely through the gangs of student rioters running amok through South Korea, but was already returning. And he was not alone.
DeSouza thought he recognized the Korean passenger as the battered jeep bounced back into view up the road to the old iron bridge.
"It's a little worse for wear," Remo said as the jeep skidded to a stop. There were various dings all around the vehicle. One of the front windshield panels had been shattered at the corner. The telltale burn marks of Molotov cocktails were all around the hood and sides.
"You signed the insurance form. It's your problem, not mine," DeSouza deadpanned as Remo hopped down to the ground.
"Things still quiet?" Remo asked.
"The kids haven't attacked yet, if that's what you mean," the colonel said. "No troop movements out of the North, either, according to intelligence."
"A silent coup," Remo commented dryly.
Glancing past the idling truck on the Bridge of No Return, he noted that Rim Kun Soe still sat morosely on the opposite side of the bridge. Remo was certain that, left to his own devices, the Korean security officer would have hightailed it out of there by now.
Trotting, Remo went over and collected his North Korean jeep tires from their resting spot on the southern side of the bridge.
"Let's go," Remo said to his passenger.
The South Korean president had yet to get down from the American Army jeep.
"I will not," Kim Dae Jung announced.
"Wrong time to grow a backbone, pal," Remo said.
He dropped each of the tires one at a time, giving them a nudge with his toe the moment they hit the road. They each took off like a shot, rolling straight across the bridge and into the nose of the listing North Korean jeep.
Soe popped out of the driver's seat in a heartbeat, racing around to collect one of the tires. He vanished around the far side of the distant jeep.
"I give Soe one minute to reattach those wheels and bag out on us," Remo said to the president. "You either walk, or I carry you."
"That's the president of South Korea," Colonel DeSouza announced with the shock of sudden recognition. He had come in behind Remo.
"Your point being...?" Remo asked blandly.
"I have been kidnapped," the president said to the Army colonel. "This fool intends to deliver me into the hands of the North."