Warren Murphy: The End of the Beginning

"... Sinanju... Sinanju... Sinanju... Sinanju..."

It was like a mantra to the poor battered soldier. "Beats the hell out of me," Conn admitted eventually, his voice a hoarse grumble. "Just another crazy German in a country of crazy Germans. Let him join Hitler in Hell."

It was the Nazi leader's name that did it. Something triggered in the soldier's face. A spark of raw terror. The seated soldier snatched MacCleary by the wrist that would one day end in a hook. Fingers dug into bone.

"The Master of Sinanju is coming," the soldier hissed in German. "Tell the fuhrer that death is on the way."

The fear in his wounded face was deeper and stronger than anything MacCleary had seen in his life. The German's bloodshot eyes were pleading. It was as if the fear that his message would not get through was far greater than his fear at what the Germans, Russians or Americans might do to him.

When the German lunged, the two Russian soldiers jumped forward. They pinned the captain back to his seat. The Russian colonel came to MacCleary's aide. It took all their strength to pry the man's hands off Conn's wrist.

"I don't know what's wrong with you, Fritz, but your fuhrer's already on ice," MacCleary snapped in German. He massaged the pain in his wrist with one hand while he flexed the fingers of his left hand.

The captain blinked in confusion. It was as if he were coming out of a dream. "On ice?" he asked.

"Yeah," MacCleary replied bitterly. "On ice. Dead. Courtesy of Little Joe Stalin and a damned politician's conference at Yalta I sure as hell wasn't invited to."

The relief that washed over the face of the captured German captain was great. He released a heavy sigh. As MacCleary was ushered from the room, the Russians were resuming their questioning. The last thing Conn saw was the two Russian soldiers working over the German. He accepted their blows with a smile. It was as if the captain had already endured all the pain one man could possibly suffer.

It was a strange chapter that, for Conrad MacCleary, should have closed out this part of his personal story of World War II. But for some reason it stuck with him.

The rational part of MacCleary's brain wanted to chalk it up to the craziness of war, but that weird episode with the German captain just wouldn't get into the box. A tour in Asia and the end of hostilities didn't stop him from thinking of that frightened German captain from time to time.

Life went on. For Conrad MacCleary, World War II was just the start of the real spy game.

Although the Cold War presented new challenges, many of the same men who had fought in secret in the Second World War found themselves transferred to a new life and a new cause. There were still battles to be fought, dragons to be slain.

As before, MacCleary largely worked alone. There was only one man he had ever fought beside whom he would have trusted to guard his back during the early CIA days. But that man had taken a break from the game.

Conn had met the best friend he'd ever had while in the OSS. The guy was a cold bastard if ever there was one, yet the two men shared an unspoken bond of friendship. He was a man who could be trusted. But when Conn switched from the OSS to the peacetime CIA, his friend briefly opted for civilian life. Time to complete his education, get married, have a kid. Not Conn. He was part of that holy first generation. The anointed team of warriors to first enter into the decades-long twilight struggle.

It was in 1952, while the Cold War was heating up, that MacCleary next encountered the mystery of his German captain.

Conn didn't meet the soldier himself-if the Russians were true to form, the babbling man was long dead.

It was during the undeclared war on the Korean peninsula. MacCleary was in Seoul in an advisory capacity to General MacArthur. At a special meeting the South Korean military leadership was adamant that the American-led army not come within a country mile of a particular fishing village north of the Thirty-eighth Parallel.

"With all due respect, nothing can get in the way of complete victory," MacArthur had insisted.

"If you choose to invade Sinanju, you do it without our cooperation," a South Korean general replied. In a corner of the conference room, Conn MacCleary looked sharply at the man.

"Did you say Sinanju?"

The man nodded. There was fear in his hooded eyes. It was matched by the looks of dread on the sweating faces of the remaining South Korean military delegation.

"Is there someone there-what the hell was that title?" Conn snapped his fingers. "Is there someone called the Master of Sinanju there?"

The fear grew greater. Nods all around. MacArthur was growing impatient with the interrupting CIA man, as well as with the Koreans.

"Is there a point to all this?" the general demanded.

"I'm not sure, sir," Conn replied. "But I'd suggest you do as they say until I can get some research done."

He had quickly ducked from the room and placed a few quiet calls back to Washington. When the call came back, it was not for MacCleary, but for MacArthur.

The general seemed as surprised as Conn at who was on the other end of the line.

"Yes, Mr. President," MacArthur said.

Conn got a clear enough picture from that part of the conversation he was able to hear.

Apparently while commanding America's European forces in World War II, Eisenhower had heard a rumor that the head of this insignificant little speck of a Korean fishing village was somehow-either by direct or indirect means-responsible for Hitler's death. Anxious not to suffer the same fate, the President not only commanded that MacArthur steer clear of Sinanju, he ordered that a gift of gold be delivered to the village, compliments of the United States.

Conrad MacCleary accepted the job as delivery boy for the gold. By now his curiosity was more than piqued. Under cover of darkness, he led a small team through enemy territory to the small North Korean village of Sinanju.

When he arrived with the gold, Conn was disappointed to find the Master was gone. According to the villagers, the head of the village and his young pupil were off somewhere training. Conn had left the gold along with a promise from General MacArthur that no tanks would approach Sinanju.

Although disappointed that he had missed out on meeting this mysterious Master, this time Conn didn't let the matter drop. After all, reputation alone had not just preserved a worthless little fishing village, but had also inspired an American president to send a payoff to a mud-smeared Korean backwater.

The first thing MacCleary did when he got back to the States, was to do some digging into what made this Sinanju and its Master so special.

He was surprised at what he turned up. Sinanju was some sort of training ground for the martial arts. The references were spotty and undetailed, but there were a lot of them.

Conn found an allusion to a Korean from Sinanju in Nero's court. Another was with Hannibal as he crossed the Alps. Some were present at pivotal events in human history. They went where the money was. The legend of Sinanju was that of a shadow force behind events and historical figures stretching back to the earliest recorded history.

It was interesting. Certainly intriguing. But there was no real practical application for what MacCleary learned. What was he supposed to do, run to the newspapers? "Excuse me, sir, but hold page one. I've got a story about a secret cult of assassins living in the Orient. It's so feared and respected that even the President of the United States paid tribute to it rather than risk his neck crossing them."

Conn would be laughed out of every city room from New York to Bugtussle.

Besides, Sinanju in the late twentieth century seemed in decline. According to his research, there were likely only two practitioners of the martial art at a given time. Master and student. From father to son. Passed down for generations. But aside from a blip in World War II, the current Master hadn't made himself known to the courts of the modern world.