"I cannot do anything about Chiun," Smith said, brittle-voiced. "If and when you find the Master of Sinanju, get him out of the country as quietly and circumspectly as humanly possible."
Remo's snort of derision was like a burst of static over the phone line. "It would be easier to overthrow the Old Guard in Pek . . . I mean Beijing," he said.
"Please, Remo."
Remo sighed. "Just tell me where to go," he muttered.
"By the time you reach Hong Kong, I will have your travel documents processed. Check in at the Beijing Hotel. You will be contacted by an operative friendly to the West. The code name is Ivory Fang."
"Sounds like a regular welcome wagon. What's his Chinese name?"
"I do not know. Ivory Fang will be expecting you."
"All right, I'm on my way."
The phone went dead. Smith returned to the computer. He returned the NSA transcript to memory and input the name Temujin.
Perhaps if he refreshed his knowledge of the reign of Genghis Khan, this would begin to make sense.
He wished he had not been forced to tell Remo that falsehood about a note in a bottle. A more plausible story would have allowed him to bring up that other name the translation had repeatedly mentioned, Wu Ming Shi.
According to the translators, Wu Ming Shi was Mandarin for "nameless." Yet it seemed to appear in the context as a name.
A Military Airlift Command C-130 ferried Remo to San Francisco. There he transferred to a civilian flight to Hong Kong.
There was some problem at the Hong Kong offices of LUXINGSHE, the Chinese International Travel Service. Remo had to resist the urge to turn the blank-faced mainland Chinese officials on their heads and kick-step on their clucking tongues. But he remembered Smith's admonishment not to betray his Sinanju affiliation to anyone, including his pro-Western contact.
So Remo waited patiently for the customs agent to affix the all-important red stamp to his false visa, which was in the name of Remo Loggia. Under "Object of Journey to China," Remo had written, "To get out as fast as possible."
His humor was not appreciated.
Finally he was allowed to board the CAAC flight, finding the seats too narrow for even his lean-by-Western-standards build.
The 727 lifted off, flying so close to a Hong Kong highrise that Remo could see into the top-floor windows. He caught a brief glimpse of a Wiseguy episode, thinking that it would probably be the last sight of American culture he would see for a long time.
Perhaps a very long time. China was a big place. And the Master of Sinanju was an expert at not being found.
Chapter 12
The ticket agent insisted in a bored, impassive voice that there were no soft-seat tickets left.
"I insist upon soft-seat tickets," said the Master of Sinanju in a low voice.
The Chinese ticket agent was contrite.
"The train is nearly full," he said in polite Mandarin. "Foreign tourists have all soft-seat tickets."
"I am a foreign tourist," Chiun retorted haughtily. "I am a Korean."
The ticket agent shrugged, as if to say that while Koreans might possibly be deemed foreign, they are not otherwise significant.
The Master of Sinanju whirled on the student, Zhang Zingzong.
Zhang was standing apart, his eyes worried and glancing often toward the green-uniformed People's Armed Police officers who moved through the human swarms circulating through Beijing's Xizhimen train station. His pockets were stuffed with cigarette packs purchased at a local concession.
"You!" Chiun hissed. "Speak to this stubborn man."
Zhang pretended not to hear Chiun's rising voice while he lit a Blue Swallow cigarette. Waiting passengers in the crowded station were staring at the Master of Sinanju's colorful purple-and-red kimono.
A man had fallen asleep on his luggage. People were stepping over him as if it were a common thing to find a man asleep on the floor, which in congested Beijing, it was. He woke up to the sound of Chiun's voice, shuffled sleepily, and turned over.
Zhang Zingzong kept his face averted. Perhaps the police would not notice him. He feared being recognized more than he feared the Master of Sinanju's wrath. But only by a small margin.
"If you do not assist me, Zhang, I will shout your name to the very heavens," Chiun warned.
Zhang's eyes went wide. He reached out for the Master of Sinanju's brilliant robes. It was like grasping fire that did not burn. The silk retreated from at the approach of his fingers, as if sensing them.
"Please do not do that," Zhang begged. "I will do as you say."
"Who is this man?" the ticket agent asked suddenly.
Over Zhang's protests, the Master of Sinanju whispered into the agent's bent receptive ear.
The ticket agent looked to Zhang sharply. His eyes flew open.
"You!" he hissed. "You tank man!"
"The very same," Chiun said firmly.
"No!" Zhang said. "Not me. Not me!"
"He is very modest," Chiun confided to the ticket agent in the manner of one old friend speaking to another.
"Can you prove this?" the ticket agent said to Chiun.
The Master of Sinanju responded by spinning Zhang Zingzong around, presenting his trembling back to the ticket agent.
That satisfied the ticket agent. He said, "Ahhh," and with great ceremony produced two soft-seat tickets.
"These being held for foreign diplomats," he explained, low-voiced. "They can ride hard seats. Go, now."
To Zhang Zingzong's astonishment, he was whisked to the waiting train.
They found their seats, which were soft and for a crowded Chinese excursion train, relatively comfortable. In contrast to the rest of the train, their car was occupied by Western tourists and a few local cadres in gray Mao suits.
Presently the train began huffing out of the station. It was a steam engine, painted black with red piping. It cleared the station and picked up speed, heading northwest to the town of Badaling.