The Korean had the gas pedal to the floorboards by that time. The white ghost was still running even with the car. There was no escape.
The white ghost had said something about needing a ride. Why a ghost who could run in excess of seventy miles an hour would need an earthly vehicle did not matter. Nor did the fact that the Volvo had cost eight years' salary. The ghost was demanding the car, and there was no escaping him. Therefore there was only one thing to do.
The driver braked the Volvo, plunged out through the passenger's side, and stumbled into the tall grass. The white ghost did not pursue him.
"I only wanted a ride," Remo Williams said to himself. He shrugged as he got behind the wheel of the Volvo. The keys were still in the ignition. He got the car going.
Remo drove slowly, his eyes on the road. The faint images of sandaled feet showed from time to time. A mile down the highway, the trail of footprints abruptly stopped. It was replaced by a string of barley beans that seemed to stretch, single file, all the way to the capital city.
"Chiun," Remo said under his breath.
An hour later, Pyongyang was framed in the bugsplattered windshield. It was a city of imposing white buildings with a stone torch-the North Korean version of the Statue of Liberty-dominating the skyline.
Remo drove through the checkpoint because he was in a hurry. Red tape always annoyed him anyway. He was not stopped, because he was driving a foreign car. Only high-ranking members of the North Korean government drove foreign cars. Or any cars, for that matter.
Pyongyang was not like Moscow. It was not like Peking. It was not one of the drab Communist capitals that give the Eastern bloc a bad name. The buildings were immaculate. Gorgeous trees lined the banks of the Taedong River. Happy children marched, singing, to school. Workers marched, singing, to work. Nobody walked anywhere in Pyongyang. Everyone marched and sang. The difference was, the children sang because they enjoyed it. The adults sang because not to sing carried criminal penalties. Many marble statues of the Great Leader, Kim Il Sung, dotted the spacious parks, and dozens of posters of him smiled benignly from the sides of buildings.
Remo, who had met Kim Il Sung, knew the statues and posters were a lie. They showed a black-haired and rosy-cheeked politician, when in fact Kim Il Sung's cheeks had fallen in, he wore spectacles, and his hair was the color of soiled cotton.
As Remo drove around the city looking for the airport, he was amazed at the wide and very modern street system. "There were five lanes, but very few cars. The only cars were occasional Volvos or Toyotas. For some reason, none of the autos used the center lane. To save time, not that there was much traffic in the first place, Remo drove down the center lane.
He had not gone very far when one of the little white military police cars began to chase him. The officer waved him over to the side of the road.
"Where's the airport?" asked Remo in Korean.
"Over! Over!" the officer yelled hack.
Remo, figuring he could get directions to the airport faster by obeying, obliged.
The officer came up on him with a drawn pistol. "I wasn't speeding, was I?" asked Remo politely.
"Out of the car," the officer said. "Out!"
Remo got out. The officer got a clear look at him for the first time. He yanked his whistle free of his tunic and blew on it furiously.
"What's the problem?" Remo wanted to know.
"You are under arrest. Driving down the lane reserved for the official use of the Leader for Life, Himself, Kim Il Sung."
"You gotta be kidding," said Remo. "He's got his own freaking lane?"
"And for being an unregistered foreigner," the officer added, blowing on the whistle again.
The officer nudged Remo with the muzzle of his pistol. That was a mistake.
Remo plucked the pistol from the man's fingers before he could react. He held it up before the man's widening eyes.
"Watch," said Remo. "Magic." He closed one hand around the pistol barrel and rubbed it very fast, and when he took his hand away, the muzzle began to droop like a limp rubber hose.
Remo handed the man back his weapon.
The officer blinked incredulously. If he pulled the trigger now, he would unquestionably emasculate himself. "Sinanju?" he stammered.
Remo nodded. "I'm the new Master."
"White?"
"Not entirely. It depends on who you ask."
The officer bowed. "I am at your service."
"I like your attitude. I'm looking for the older Master, my teacher."
"He has been here. There was great trouble at the airport. He caused difficulty with the officials there. No one knows why. He had only to ask, and we would have obliged him. But he refused to identify himself."
"Where is he now?" Remo asked.
The officer shrugged. "They say he was flown to the unfortunate South. No one knows why. Paradise is here in the North."
"If you're the Leader for Life, it is," said Remo. "How about a police escort to the airport?"
"At once," said the officer.
At the airport, they were more than delighted to assist the new Master of Sinanju, white or not.
The chief of airport security smiled his delight until a nerve in his cheek started to twitch. He softened the smile into a less stressful expression.
"When's the next flight out of here?" Remo asked.
"Moscow or Peking?"
"Neither," Remo said. "I'm heading for America, I think. "
"You should know," said the head of security, "but I regret I cannot accede to your wish, as much as I would like."
"Why not?"
"The People's Democratic Republic cannot afford to lose any more pilots transporting Masters of Sinanju to unfriendly places."
"Did Chiun kill them?"
"No, they committed suicide upon landing. They knew that the South is a terrible place. They chose to extinguish their lives rather than live without the beneficence of Himself, our glorious leader."
"Tell you what," Remo offered. "Give me one pilot and I'll make sure he comes back. Fair enough?"
The security chief shook his moon face.