"No ... no," Rolfe protested as he felt for his pistol. Where was it?
"You deny your perfidy?"
"Yes," Major General Gunnar Rolfe said forcefully. Chiun stopped, hesitating. The man seemed to be telling the truth. But Smith had uncovered his guilt. Smith was usually right about such things.
"I have information to the contrary. Why would such information come into my hands if you were not guilty?"
"I do not know. But I am a great military hero in this country. I have enemies. Perhaps they have deceived you."
"You are a white maggot wallowing in garbage. No. You are less than that. A maggot will one day sprout wings and fly. You will not live that long if you do not speak the truth to me."
"You cannot kill me," said Major General Rolfe as his questing fingers at last clamped over the Lahti's grip. He thumbed the safety off.
"I cannot not kill you if you are guilty," Chiun countered. "For only your blood will atone for this insult. But I will be merciful if I am convinced of your innocence."
Major General Gunnar Rolfe cracked a sick, frightened grin and brought the Lahti up, pointing it at the Oriental's fierce face. He squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened. The pistol did discharge. A spike of flame spurted from its black snout, and the recoil kicked back against his tender hand. But the frail Oriental stood unmoving. He fired a second time.
And again there was no reaction from the old man, although the wispy beard and tufts of hair framing the Oriental's face seemed to vibrate strangely. So, too, did the skirt and sleeves of his kimono. It was as if the Oriental had been in motion. But he had not moved. Major General Rolfe knew that, because he was staring at him all the time. He never realized that in the fractional seconds when the gunflash made him blink, the Master of Sinanju had sidestepped the bullet and returned to his former place in a twinkling.
Major General Gunnar Rolfe looked sick. He knew his pistol was loaded. The bullets were fresh. They could not misfire. Then he understood that he was doomed. He decided that he would rather die by his own hand than face the fury of this incredible being.
He turned the Lahti to his own face and started to squeeze the trigger.
"Aaaiiieee!" The cry came from the old Oriental. It shattered every window in the room.
Major General Gunnar Rolfe froze, his finger just touching the trigger.
The old Oriental was suddenly in motion. He spun into the air with a floating leap. His skirts whirled like an opening flower, exposing his spindly legs. They looked so delicate, Major General Rolfe thought, like the stamens of a bright red flower. How beautiful. How magnificent. How could the Oriental just hang in the air like that?
And as he thought that thought, a sandaled foot lashed out at his head with the nervous speed of a striking cobra. The Lahti shot out of his hand. It embedded itself in the bedroom door. The blond girl let out a cry and ran from the apartment, out the door, and down the hall.
Major General Gunnar Rolfe clutched his gun hand. It was numb. A streak of blood ran the length of his trigger finger. He vented a series of choice oaths.
"I had not given you permission to die," said the old Oriental sternly. He loomed over him.
"I did not know I needed your permission," the major general gasped in a pain-filled voice.
"When I am done questioning you, then you may end your worthless life. Only then."
Major General Gunnar Rolfe, the savior of Sweden, recoiled from the advancing Oriental. One of those sharpnailed hands reached for his face. He thought his eyes were about to be plucked out, and protectively covered his head with his arms.
"Please," he sobbed.
"Prepare for excruciating pain," he was told.
"Oh, God."
Then he felt those delicate fingers take him by the right earlobe. That was all. He cringed from the touch.
"I wish the truth," the Oriental commanded.
"I know nothing."
The fingers squeezed the earlobe. The pain shot all the way down to his toes. His toes curled as if shriveling in flames. The fire ran through his veins. His brain was on fire. It seemed to explode in a red starburst of agony, erasing all coherent thought.
Through the electrical short-circuiting of his nervous system, one word struggled from brain to mouth.
"Stop!"
"Truth!"
"I know nothing!"
"Truth!" The pressure increased. Major General Rolfe curled up into a fetal position. He bit his tongue until his mouth filled with blood. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. He wished for only one thing now. Death. Merciful death to end the pain.
"Final chance."
"I ... know ... nothing." He wasn't sure the old Oriental heard him through his clenched teeth. He felt an incisor break under the pressure of his own clamped jaw. He spit it out.
Suddenly the pressure was gone.
"You have spoken the truth as you know it," the old Oriental said. A note of puzzlement made his voice light.
"Yes, yes. I did."
"You know nothing of locomotives, of KKV's?"
"No. Now, leave me alone. I beg you."
The fingers touched his earlobe again and Major General Rolfe screamed. But even as he screamed, his body felt relief. The pain was suddenly gone.
He opened his eyes.
"It may be that I have made a mistake," the old Oriental said stiffly.
"Then be so good as to leave my home," Major General Rolfe said shakily.
"But do not be haughty with me, white thing. You may be innocent of one matter, but your land's guilt to Sinanju is known. Tell your current ruler that his failure to consider Sinanju for his security needs may go against him one day. For whomever Sinanju does not serve, Sinanju may work against. I have spoken."
Major General Gunnar Rolfe watched the old man float from the room. He wondered what Sinan'u was. He decided he would find out as soon as possible. It sounded important. But first he was anxious to discover if his legs would support him when he stood up.
Chapter 27
At Number Ten Downing Street, they told Remo that he had just missed the director of the Source.