"That is because it is a riddle," Chiun whispered. " 'I am the wrath of Temujin,' " he recited. " 'If you dare, seek my power in this wise. Where you find me, stand and look true north through the Blind One's eyes. Follow the horizon until you come to the broken dragon."
"This makes no sense," Zhang murmured. "How can one look through the eyes of another-especially one who cannot see?"
Chiun faced north. He held the skull before him. Then, raising it, he brought the hollow of the skull up to his face.
Zhang Zingzong watched him curiously, all fear gone from his face. In truth, the fear departed after the strange Korean had lured the soldiers from his interrogation car. When the Master of Sinanju had returned to confront the lone PLA man who had Zhang in custody, there had been a brief argument and the PLA soldier had decided to arrest the uncooperative Korean too.
He had taken a single step toward the Master of Sinanju.
A flashing upward kick had sent the PLA soldier's chin snapping back with such force it broke his jawbone and spine with a single spiteful crack. The soldier had fallen to the floor, his head hanging from his neck like that of a harvested chicken.
After that, the woman in the broadcast booth had been rendered unconscious by a pinching of her neck nerves.
They were not molested after returning to their cushioned seats. It had not escaped Zhang Zingzong's notice that the PLA soldiers ceased prowling the train.
The Master of Sinanju held the skull up to his wrinkled mummy face. He looked into the bare bone bowl, turning the skull until he was satisfied.
"What you do?" Zhang asked.
"I am looking north," Chiun replied.
"How you know it is true north?" Zhang asked.
"I know," the Master of Sinanju intoned as he peered through the empty bone sockets of the skull.
"What you see?"
"I see emptiness," answered the Master of Sinanju as he lowered the skull. "We will go now," he said.
"Back to Beijing?"
"No," said the Master of Sinanju as he returned the skull to the teak box. "To emptiness."
Zhang looked toward the distant mists.
"Not wish to follow you there," he muttered.
"If you are willing to renounce your portion of that which we seek, you may remain here."
"No," Zhang said quickly. "My half belong to me, to China."
"Then come," said the Master of Sinanju.
They climbed up the steep wall, Chiun floating, Zhang scrambling over the bulwark of half-frozen earth.
They were met by a trio of PLA soldiers at the top.
"What you do here?" one demanded. Their hands were on their sidearms. One slapped a rubber truncheon against his legs. Their dark eyes had hardened into identical black jewels of hate. Their breaths steamed.
"We are simple tourists," said the Master of Sinanju unconcernedly.
"Where from?"
"I am from North Korea. And this man is from-"
"Luo Yang!" Zhang said quickly. "I am a worker there. In Number One Tractor Plant. Make Iron Plow machine parts."
They spoke in the clipped Mandarin dialect, wasting no words, all except Chiun, who employed the flowery Chinese once spoken in the courts of the Shang dynasty.
The soldiers looked them over with sullen contempt.
"You may go," one said to Chiun. "But this man is under arrest for vandalizing the Great Wall."
Zhang stiffened.
"As you wish," said Chiun, bestowing a short bow in their direction.
The soldiers took Zhang by his biceps and marched him away.
Chiun padded after them, as silent and undetectable as a winter breeze filtering through the bare ginkgo trees.
He extended one forefinger to the green-tunic back of the soldier on the left. The other floated before the identical spot over the right-hand soldier's spine. The play of cloth made selecting the correct spot a matter of momentary concentration.
Then the Master of Sinanju struck. Needle-sharp fingernails drove in as one. They pierced the thick skin over the spine, slipping between the vertebrae.
The soldiers never felt the sting of Sinanju, never knew that their spinal cords had been instantaneously severed.
They walked three more paces. Then their legs stopped receiving signals from their brains. They collapsed.
Sandaled toes crushed their falling skulls.
Zhang felt himself pulled aside; at the same time the third PLA soldier noticed the absence of his comrades' footsteps.
He turned. His hard mask of a face broke into surprise.
Then it broke. Period. Shattered by a tiny yellow fist that came up and took away the world.
"Come," Chiun said, gesturing impatiently toward Zhang Zingzong.
Zhang flew after him. They ran back to the restored section of the Great Wall and mingled with a line of tourists returning to their buses.
Chiun pulled Zhang out of the line when they reached the bottom, leading him to the bus, where an angry driver was finishing changing the second of two deflated rear tires.
"Can you drive a bus?" Chiun demanded of Zhang.
"No," said Zhang. "I have never driven anything."