"While we wait," he intoned, "there is much catching up we must do. In Beijing, it is whispered that you now work for the American government. Can this be so, Master Chiun?"
"Their gold is as yellow as that of any emperor, and exceedingly bountiful."
Wu Ming Shi nodded. "The Communists would rather pay in lead than gold-even to those who work for them. And they buzz among themselves that the people do not appreciate them."
"The North Koreans are not so bad," Chiun said. "But they have no work for Sinanju, being reliant upon their armies and their Communist lies."
"They ride a tiger that will eat them if they dare dismount. It is true in Pyongyang as well as Beijing."
"Once the Chinese people devour their leaders, what then?"
The blue-jade nail protectors flashed. "In Beijing," Wu Ming Shi said, "I have allies even among the high bureaucrats. I have been meeting with them. Through them, I hear of a new Golden Horde led by a modern khan. It is said their numbers have swollen to seven thousand."
"Beijing looks through the world from the bottom of a well," said Chiun. "And your information is old. Ten thousand is their present number."
"Abiding beside vermilion stains one red," Wu Ming Shi said flatly, eyeing his chauffeur. "Near ink one is sometimes stained black. I am told, Master of Sinanju, that Mongols are gathering for war outside this very city. Are these yours?"
"I know them not," Chiun said stiffly. "My Mongols are camped twenty li from this place."
"In Beijing, they fear your horsemen seek to retake China."
"I am going only to Inner Mongolia, and not to conquer."
"I know what it is you seek in Inner Mongolia, Master of Sinanju, for I know you possess the Silver Skull of Targutai."
Before the Master of Sinanju could reply, the bronze doors folded open and the Chinese girl, Fang Yu, came in leading Remo Williams, wearing an unwashed white T-shirt, by one hand. The Master of Sinanju's sudden indrawn breath was sharp. For Remo's eyes were as dull as paper cutouts, his expression slack and listless.
Chapter 33
Remo Williams came awake like a fist unclenching.
An oval face floated before his watery vision.
"Fang Yu?" he croaked.
"You are welcome." The voice was light, mocking.
Remo's vision cleared. "What's going on?"
"Stand up."
Remo hesitated-in his mind. His body lifted itself painfully.
"You will do exactly as I command," Fang Yu said imperiously.
"Screw you," Remo snapped.
Fang Yu smiled tightly. "Follow me."
"No chance," Remo said.
But as Fang Yu started from the room, Remo's legs carried him after her. It was as if he were a lodestone drawn in the wake of the Chinese woman's personal magnetic field.
Remo had all his faculties. His brain was alert. His reflexes seemed fine. He took in the sights and sounds of the twisting corridors Fang Yu led him through. But he was completely powerless to resist her command to follow. Once a maroon-robed Asian with a shaven head withdrew into a stone niche and allowed them to pass in silence.
"I gave at the airport," Remo said dryly. His humor fell flat on his own ears.
They came to an ornate double-valved bronze door.
"Open these," Fang Yu said, gesturing.
Remo took the great handles and flung them back. Heavy as the doors were, they flew back, causing yak-butter candles in nearby niches to flutter and go out.
"I guess I still have my strength," Remo muttered as if he found it hard to believe.
"But I own your will," Fang Yu said, taking him by one thick wrist. She led him into a great vaulted chamber adorned with Buddhistic religious wall paintings.
All eyes turned in his direction, Remo saw. There was Chiun, hands in his sleeves, more resplendent than usual, in tiger stripes. No flicker of expression, not surprise or sympathy, disturbed the network of wrinkles that comprised his visage.
Zhang Zingzong hovered beside him, looking frightened.
And on a dais stood the black-masked chauffeur, his arms folded like a bottle genie in modern regalia. Next to him stood a thin Chinese man in greenish-gold robes. He reminded Remo of a taller, older-if that were possible-version of Chiun.
Remo recognized him as the mysterious occupant of the black limousine, the one whose comings and goings were so inexplicable.
His eyes flicked to the man's feet, seeking an explanation of those puzzling footprints in the snow. But the robe's gold hem hid his feet from sight.
Remo noticed he had trouble focusing his senses on the tall Chinese. It was as if the man were not really there.
Remo tested his hearing. One by one, the heartbeats of those in the room came to him-Fang Yu's was normal, Chiun's strong and deep. Zhang's was accelerated. Pitching his hearing beyond them, Remo was surprised at the heartbeats he picked up. The chauffeur's heart was drumming three times the normal rate. Then he zeroed in on the tall Asian.
Nothing.
Remo blocked the others' out. Still nothing. The man on the dais either had no heart-or it did not beat.
Remo allowed himself to be led into their presence.
The tall Chinese spoke.
"I am known as Wu Ming Shi. In Mandarin, this means Nameless One, for no one knows my true name. This is as I wish."
"Maybe you should be wearing the mask," Remo remarked. His voice was hoarse, robbing it of its acid quality.
"He has spirit," Wu Ming Shi told the Master of Sinanju.
Chiun shrugged unconcernedly.