Warren Murphy: Bidding War

An old gaffer cried, "The Americans are back with their B-52s!"

"Don't be ridic," snorted Kim Jong II. "They're more savvy than all that."

But when he poked his head out the soundstage door, he saw clear skies and a string of official limos coming up the road, their sirens screaming their approach.

"Uh-oh. Dear Leader doesn't like the looks of this setup."

Ducking back, he went in search of a place to hide. But the soundstages had glass offices just like in Hollywood—he had insisted on that, and the glass wasn't exactly bulletproof.

They caught him climbing into the princess's kimono with the actress who was still occupying it and screaming that she was being raped.

"Hail the son of Kim II Sung," boomed a squeaky voice.

And recognizing the voice of the Master of Sinanju, Kim Jong II blurted, "Oh, shit. I'm dead. They hired the best."

Falling to his knees, Kim Jong II implored the Master of Sinanju with these words. "Just make it quick, okay? No pain, no blood, but a clean death. I'll go quietly, I promise."

"I have come because a year ago you offered work to the Master of Sinanju."

Kim Jong II blinked. Was he hearing correctly? "You want to work for me?"

"As eldest son, you have the right of first refusal."

Kim Jong II opened his closed fingers and climbed to his feet. His vision, which had irised down into a gray tunnel with a peephole at the end of it, began to clear.

He saw the Master of Sinanju, resplendent in a poppy-red kimono, along with a white he recognized with a start.

"Does your white slave come in the bargain?" he asked, indicating Remo.

"What's it to you?" Remo demanded.

"Hey! Cool it, baby. I remember you from last time. No hard feelings. Just saying is all."

"Where do you get that talk?"

"Movies. Where else?"

"My son in spirit will serve whatever emperor the House favors," intoned the Master of Sinanju.

"Don't count on it," said Remo.

"Okay. Deal," said Kim Jong II.

"Not without agreeing on payment," Remo said quietly.

"Excellent point," said Chiun. "We must come to terms."

"Gold I ain't got."

Chiun frowned.

"I have gold," said Kim Pyong II from the shadows. He stepped out, surrounded by stern-faced generals.

"Who invited you?" Jong said sourly.

"I must have gold," said Chiun.

"I have something more valuable than gold," said Kim Jong II. "Assuming you want it, that is."

Chiun sniffed, "There is nothing more valuable than gold."

"Depends on how you look at it."

"I too have something more valuable than gold," said Kim Pyong II.

"Here we go. Dueling despots," groaned Remo.

"I will listen to both offers and choose," declared Chiun.

"Me first," said Kim Jong II. And stepping forward, he whispered into the receptive ears of the Master of Sinanju.

"This is an interesting offer," mused Chiun. Then, turning to the other Kim, he asked, "What is your offer?"

"I have no gold to offer, either, but rather information of inestimable importance to you."

"I cannot trade my services for information my ears have not heard nor my brain evaluated," returned Chiun stonily.

"When I reveal my information, it will sing to your ears and fire your spirit."

"I will listen and if this is true, I will respond accordingly."

Just then the air raid sirens wailed a song that froze the blood and brought the color of cold stone to the faces of the two Kims.

Kim Pyong II sucked in a deep breath. "I regret to inform the Master of Sinanju, guardian of our honor and fountain of our glory, that the hated Americans have targeted the Pearl of the Orient with their vicious missiles."

"Nice try," said Remo.

"Is this true?" Chiun demanded, cold of voice.

"You know it isn't true," Remo said.

"It's true," insisted Kim Pyong II. "Having lost Sinanju to the East, the reactionaries desire its destruction."

Chiun's wispy hair quivered delicately. "But Sinanju dwells not in my village, but in the heart of the Master."

"And his pupil," said Remo.

"Nevertheless, Master, it is so."

Chiun turned to Remo. "Could this be true? Would Smith be so foolish?"

"Maybe yes. Maybe no. Why don't we ask him?"

"He would never admit this."

"I do not know who Smith is," said Kim Pyong II, "but I have an official cable from Washington warning that this is so."

"Where is this cable?"

And the attending General Toksa proffered the cable. The Master of Sinanju took it. Remo read it over his shoulder.

"Looks authentic to me," Remo said.

"Why does it say Sinanju Scorpion?" wondered Chiun.

"I do not know," the premier of North Korea said, licking his pale lips.

"You lie!"

Eyes shifted guiltily.

"My information is correct and true," Kim Pyong II said stiffly, "and I must have your answer and allegiance."

"And I will give it when the full truth is revealed."

Eyes shifted again.

"He's hiding something," Kim Jong II said. "I know him. He's my little half brother, the weasel."

"You should talk," Remo grunted.

"Go on, tell the Master of Sinanju. Tell him the truth."

Remo stepped up and took Kim Pyong II by the back of the head, lifting him off his booted feet. "There are ways and there are ways."

"An announcement was made," Kim Pyong II said. "It was premature. We did send you an offer, did we not?"

"The House has come to Pyongyang, has it not?" Chiun countered.

"We announced to our enemies and the world that Sinanju again serves Korea. The true Korea. Yes?"

No one spoke. Chiun's eyes were chilling with every passing second.

"The hated enemies, loathsomely jealous, employed their sky spies to seek out the new seat of Korean power and, finding your village, placed it in the cross hairs of their thousand guns."

"They have threatened Sinanju?"

"You have read the cable yourself. Never before have they been so bold."

"This isn't like Smith," Remo said. "Or Washington, for that matter."

Chiun's glittering eyes fixed Kim Pyong II. "You have placed my village and its people in danger."

"No. I swear I did nothing deliberate. It was merely counterreactionary propaganda."

At that point Kim Jong II stepped up and said, "Kill him and I can get you out of this."

Chiun turned his head, fixing Jong with a steely eye. "How?"

And Kim Jong II whispered in the ear of the Master of Sinanju.

Chiun stood there for a long moment. His hazel eyes narrowed and lengthened, and his crafty brain processed the conundrum before him.

Suddenly he said, "Remo, you are my son?"

"Yes."

"You would do anything I ask?"

"Within reason. Yeah."

"Protect Kim Jong II from all harm."

Remo groaned. "Don't ask me to do that."

But it was too late. With a cry of rage, the Master of Sinanju spun like a top and dervishlike whirled into the personal guard of Kim Pyong II.

Hands clawed for Tokarev side arms, and heads began jumping like pineapples being sickled.

No one screamed. No one had time to scream. Only to die. And die they did. Violently, magnificently, surrendering blood, bone and internal organs until they lay in steaming heaps upon the soundstage floor, the final and ultimate tribute to the Master of Sinanju.

When the blood harvest was complete, the Master of Sinanju emerged from his frenzied dance of death to a position of cold calmness. His bloodless hands, clean as if just washed, retreated to the hollow of his joined kimono sleeves.

"You are restored to your throne," he told Kim Jong II.

"Actually I'd just as soon make movies. But if you could tell the surviving generals to leave me the bleep alone, I'll call it even."

"Agreed. Once you have surrendered to me the valuable prize you promised."

"Let me make a few phone calls."