"Where is Remo?" asked Chiun suddenly.
"He has not been seen."
"By no one?"
"Some say he walked toward the house of the beast."
"Go to the house of Mah-Li the unfortunate and fetch my adopted son to me. I do not understand what transpired last night, but I know that it must concern my son. Only he can advise me in this matter."
"Yes, Master of Sinanju." And Pullyang, greatly relieved that no blame was attached to him, hied away from the house of the Master, who suddenly sank into his seat and closed his eyes with a great weariness.
The tape cassette arrived from Pyongyang by diplomatic pouch. In the pouch was a note from the Soviet ambassador to the People's Republic of Korea demanding to know why the head of embassy security, Colonel Ditko, was sending packages directly to the Kremlin through the ambassador's pouch.
As he loaded the cassette into his private machine, the General Secretary made a mental note to inform the Soviet ambassador to mind his own business regarding the activities of the People's Hero, Colonel Ditko.
The General Secretary watched the tape to the end. He saw an old man and a Caucasian exhorting a crowd of peasant Koreans. According to the note from Colonel Ditko, the tape showed the legendary Master of Sinanju and his American running dog confessing to espionage, genocide, and other crimes against the international community on behalf of a renegade United States government agency known as CURE.
There was a crude transcript with the tape, and an apology from Colonel Ditko, who explained that his Korean was not good, and that for security reasons he had not had the tape translated by someone more fluent. And by the way, the Korean-American, Sammy Kee, had met an unfortunate death in the course of making this tape.
The General Secretary called the supreme commander of the KGB.
"Look through the non-persons list and find me someone who speaks fluent Korean," he ordered. "Bring him to me."
Within the day, they had exactly the right person, a dissident history teacher who specialized in Oriental studies.
The General Secretary ordered him locked in a room with only a videotape machine, pen and paper, and instructions to translate the cassette tape from Korea.
By day's end, the transcript was delivered, sealed, to the office of the General Secretary.
"What shall we do with the translator?" asked the courier.
"He is still locked in the viewing room?"
"Da."
"When the smell of death seeps into the corridor, in a week or two, you may remove the body."
The courier left swiftly, his kindly opinion of the worldly new General Secretary forever shattered. The General Secretary read the transcript through once, quickly. And then again, to absorb all the details. And a third time to savor the sweetness of this greatest of intelligence coups.
A smile spread over the open features of the General Secretary, making him look like someone's well-fed and content grandfather.
It was all there. The United States had a secret agency known as CURE, one unknown even to the Congress of the United States. It was illegal, and indulged in assassinations both in America and abroad. The assassins were trained in Sinanju. In theory, they could go anywhere, do anything, and never be suspected.
And then the General Secretary remembered stories that had circulated in the upper levels of the Politburo before he had assumed his current rank. Fragmentary rumors. Operations that had been stopped by unknown agents, presumably American. Strange accidents that defied explanation. The liquidation of Soviet Treska killer teams during the time when America's intelligence services had been emasculated. The strangeness during the Moscow Olympics. The failure of the Volga, a space device that would have become the ultimate terror weapon had not unidentified American agents neutralized it. The disappearance of Field Marshal Zemyatin during the ozone-shield crisis two years ago.
In a locked cabinet in this very office, the General Secretary had a file of KGB reports of those mysterious incidents. The file was marked "FAILURES: UNKNOWN CAUSE."
But now the General Secretary knew the cause was no longer unknown. It could be explained in one word: CURE.
The General Secretary laughed to himself. Privately, he admired the boldness of the American apparatus. It was brilliant. Exactly what America needed to deal with her internal problems. He wished he could steal it.
But that wasn't the way the General Secretary did business. His predecessors would have tried to steal it. Not him. He would simply ask for it. No harm in that, thought the General Secretary. And he laughed. He picked up the red telephone which connected directly to the White House and which he was reserved to use only in times of extreme international crisis. This would wake up the President of the United States, the General Secretary thought, as he listened to the tinny feedback ring from Washington. And he laughed again.
Chapter 12
Remo Williams wondered if he was falling in love.
He barely knew the maiden Mah-Li. Yet, even with Chiun weakening daily, Remo was drawn back to the house of the girl the village of Sinanju had ostracized as the beast, like a poor sailor who had heard the siren call of Circe.
Remo could not explain the attraction. Was it the mystery of her veil? Fascination with the unknown? Or was it just that she was an understanding voice in a troubled time? He did not know.
It bothered Remo terribly that Chiun, in his last days, continued to carp and try to lay guilt on him. Remo wanted to be with Chiun, but Chiun was making it impossible to be around. And, of course, Remo felt guilty about that, too.
So Remo sat on the floor of Mah-Li's house, telling her everything, and wondering why the words kept coming out. He usually didn't like to talk about himself.
"Chiun thinks I'm ignoring him," Remo said, accepting a plate of a Korean delicacy that Mah-Li had baked just for him. It smelled good in the darkened room.
"What is this?" he asked, starting to taste a piece.
"Dog," said Mah-Li pleasantly.
Remo put it down abruptly. "I don't eat meat," he said.
"It is not meat," laughed Mah-Li. "Dog is rice bread, filled with dates, chestnuts, and red beans."
"Oh," said Remo. He tried it. "It's good."
"Aren't you?" asked Mah-Li.
"What?"
"Ignoring the Master?"
"I don't know. I'm all confused. I don't know how to deal with his dying. I've killed more people than I can count but I've never lost anyone really close to me. I've never had anyone really close to me. Except Chiun."
"You do not wish to face the inevitable."
"Yeah. I guess that's it."
"Ignoring the dying one will not keep him breathing. He will die without you. Perhaps sooner."
"He seemed okay when I talked to him. It's so hard. He doesn't look like he's dying. Just tired, like he's a clock that's winding down."
"Will you go back to your country when it is over?" Mah-Li asked. Remo realized she had the knack for saying just enough to keep him talking.
"I want to. But I promised Chiun I'd support the village, and I'm not sure what I would be returning to. Chiun has been my whole life. I see that now. Not CURE, not Smith. And I don't want to lose him."