The door opened cautiously. Moonlight shimmered off a pair of eyeglasses, turning the lenses into blind milky orbs.
Sammy recognized the slight unathletic form. "Colonel Ditko," Sammy breathed.
"Quiet!" Ditko hissed. He shut the door behind him and knelt down in the darkness. "What has happened?"
"They caught me," Sammy said breathlessly. "They're going to kill me. You must help me escape."
"You faiied?" Ditko said hoarsely.
"No, no! I didn't fail. Here. I made a new tape. It contains everything."
Colonel Ditko scooped up the videocam.
"Play it back through the viewfinder," Sammy said eagerly. "You'll see."
Ditko did as he was bidden. In his eagerness, he placed the viewfinder to his right eye. Annoyed, he switched to his good eye. He ran the tape, which played back minus sound.
"What am I seeing?" Ditko asked.
"The Master of Sinanju. He has returned. And he brought with him the American agent he has trained in Sinanju. They tell everything. They are assassins for America. It's all on that tape."
Colonel Ditko felt a wave of relief. "You have succeeded."
"Help me now."
"Come then. We will leave before light."
"You must help me. I can't move my legs."
"What is wrong with them?"
"The one called Remo. The Master's American pupil. He did something to them. I have no feeling in my legs. But you can carry me."
Colonel Ditko unloaded the tape from the videocam. "I cannot carry this and you."
"But you can't leave me here. They'll kill me horribly."
"And I will kill you mercifully," said Colonel Ditko, who placed the muzzle of his Tokarev pistol into Sammy Kee's open mouth, deep into his mouth, and pulled the trigger once.
Sammy Kee's mouth swallowed the sound of the shot. And the bullet.
Sammy Kee's head slipped off the barrel of the gun with macabre slowness and struck the floor in several melonlike sections.
Colonel Ditko wiped the backsplatter blood from his hand on Sammy's peasant blouse.
"Good-bye, Sammy Kee," said Colonel Viktor Ditko. "I will remember you when I am warm and prosperous in Moscow."
And Viktor Ditko slipped back into the night. This time he knew the walk through the invisible wall would not be that difficult.
The caretaker, Pullyang, brought the word to the Master of Sinanju with the chill of the Sinanju dawn. "The prisoner is dead," he said.
"Fear of the wrath of Sinanju extracts its own price," said Chiun wisely.
"His head lies in pieces."
"The mother," said Chiun. "She cannot be blamed for seeking revenge."
"No rock ever burst a skull in this fashion," Pullyang insisted.
"Speak your mind," said Chiun.
"A western weapon did this," said Pullyang. "A gun."
"Who would dare profane the sanctity of Sinanju with a shooter of pellets?" demanded Chiun.
Pullyang said nothing. He lowered his head. "You have something else to tell me."
"Forgive me, Master of Sinanju, for I have committed a grave trespass."
"I cannot forgive what I do not understand."
"This American was here before. A week ago. He asked many questions, and I, being proud of my village, told him many stories of the magnificence of Sinanju."
"Advertising pays," said Chiun. "There is no fault in that."
"This American carried a machine with him, the same one he had yesterday. He pointed it at me when I spoke."
"Fetch this machine."
When Pullyang returned, he offered the videocam to the Master of Sinanju, who took it in hand as if it were an unclean fetish.
"The receptacle for words and pictures is missing," Chiun said. "It was not missing last night."
"It is so, Master of Sinanju."
Chiun's eyes lowered as he thought. A man had recorded the words of the caretaker Pullyang one week ago. Now he had returned to record more of the same. But this time, he had recorded the Master of Sinanju and his pupil, for Chiun knew that the dragon dancer at yesterday's breakfast feast was Sammy Kee.
What did this mean? Chiun did not fear for Sinanju. Sinanju was inviolate. The dogs of Pyongyang, from the lowliest to the header for Life, Kim Il Sung, had made a pact with Sinanju. There would be no trouble from them.
The mad Emperor Smith was not behind this. Chiun did not always understand Smith, but Smith's mania for secrecy was the one constant of his deranged white mind. Smith would not dispatch persons to record the secrets of Sinanju.
Enemies of Smith perhaps, seeking gain. Or enemies of America. There were many of those. Even America's friends were but slumbering enemies, presenting a smiling visage but clutching daggers behind their backs.
Presently Chiun's eyes refocused.
"I forgive you, Pullyang, for in truth you are, compared to me, young, and unwise in the ways of the outer world."