"Not to me," said Remo. "And why didn't you tell me the story about Kojing and Kojong before this?"
"Where did you hear the tale?" demanded Chiun.
"Mah-Li told me."
"I was saving that tale for the investment ceremony. And now she has ruined the surprise. Another reason not to marry her. She is a carrier of tales. They make inferior wives."
"No Mah-Li, no Master of Sinanju. You think about it," Remo said, and walked toward the door.
Chiun called out: "The spy you caught is dead."
Remo stopped. "So?"
"I did not kill him. Someone with a gun entered the village last night and butchered him."
"Why is it butchery when someone uses a gun? Dead is dead, isn't it?"
"Remo!" Chiun said, shocked. "Sinanju does not slaughter. Sinanju releases one from life. Is there no end to your insolence?"
Remo shut up.
"Better," said Chiun. "The one who invaded Sinanju took with him the cassette from this recording machine."
"What was on it?"
"Who knows? You. Me. All of us. Our words. Our secrets. Emperor Smith's secrets."
"You think someone's going to make trouble?"
"I hear a breeze in the distance," said Chiun.
Remo cocked his ear to the door. "Sounds quiet to me."
"This is not a breeze that blows through the air, but one which blows through the lives of men. It is just a breeze now, but soon it will gather force and become a wind, and as a wind it will grow bolder still, and it will be a typhoon. We must be ready for this typhoon, Remo."
"I'm ready for anything," Remo said, rotating his thick wrists impatiently.
Chiun shook his head sadly. Remo was obviously not ready at all. And there was so little time left. Chiun felt the weight of the future of Sinanju-a future that might now be smoke-on his frail shoulders.
Chapter 13
No history book would ever record the superpower summit in Helsinki, the capital of Finland. No one knew it took place, except for the President of the United States and the General Secretary of the Soviet Union, and only a handful of very trusted aides. And of the group only the two world leaders knew what was discussed.
"A summit?" the President's chief of staff said. "Tomorrow?"
The President had just gotten off the hot line. The Soviet General Secretary had called unexpectedly, offering to meet secretly on a matter of critical international concern.
The President had accepted. He had not wanted to, but he knew from the brief conversation that he had no choice.
"I'm going," the President said firmly.
"Impossible, sir," the chief of staff stated. "We have no preparation time."
"We're going," the President repeated.
The chief of staff saw the cold anger in the President's eye. "Very well, Mr. President. If you'll kindly inform me of the agenda of matters to be discussed."
"That's classified," was the tight-lipped reply.
The chief of staff almost choked on the jelly bean the President had handed him.
"Classified? I'm chief of staff. Nothing is classified from me."
"Now you know different. Let's get going on this."
"Yes, Mr. President," the chief of staff said, wondering how the President was going to hold a meeting with the Russian leader so that no one, including the press, knew about it.
He found out that afternoon when the President's personal press secretary announced that the President was, on the advice of his doctor, taking a week's vacation at his California ranch.
The White House press corps immediately descended upon the topic of the President's health. Instead of issuing the usual denials, the press secretary gave a tight-lipped "No comment."
The press secretary walked away from the White House briefing room trying to conceal a satisfied smile. By tonight, the White House press corps would be encamped outside the perimeter fence of the President's California compound, trying to shoot telephoto pictures through the windows, which, if they hadn't been the press and the President a public figure, would have gotten them all arrested on Peeping Tom charges.
When Air Force One left Andrews Air Force Base that evening, it vectored west as the network cameras recorded its takeoff. What the cameras did not record was Air Force One setting down in a small military air base and suffering a hasty makeup job. The presidential seal was painted over, and the plane's serial numbers changed. A quick application of enamel spray paint changed the aircraft's patriotic trim.
When Air Force One was again airborne, it was a cargo plane. It flew east, out over the Atlantic on a heading for Scandinavia.
In Soviet Russia, no such subterfuge was required. The General Secretary ordered his official TU-134 aircraft readied for a flight to Geneva. His aides were not informed of the reasons. There didn't have to be any.
The next morning, the Soviet plane descended on the airport in Helsinki. The freshly painted cargo plane carrying the President of the United States was already sitting on a runway that was closed, ostensibly for repairs.
The Soviet General Secretary sent a representative to the disguised Air Force One. The President at first refused an invitation to board the Soviet plane.
"Let him come to me," the President said through his chief of staff.
But the Soviet leader was insistent. As leader of a great power, he could not be expected to enter a lowly cargo plane of dubious registry, even in secret. "They have us there," the chief of staff groaned.
"Very well," the President said. "I'm on my way."
"We're on our way," the chief of staff corrected. The President fixed his chief of staff with a baleful glare. "You stay here and make fresh coffee. Strong. Black. I have a feeling I'm going to need it when this is over."
The Soviet General Secretary greeted the United States President in a soundproof cabin in the rear of his personal jet.
They shook hands formally and sat. The cabin smelled of the Russian's musky cologne. There was a small TV and video machine on a tabletop. The President noticed it subconsciously, no idea of its critical importance touching his thoughts.
"I am pleased you could meet me on such short notice," the General Secretary said. He smiled expansively. The President hated it when he smiled like that. It was the same shit-eating grin he had flashed at Iceland.