Warren Murphy: Bidding War

"What's the name of the movie?" Remo asked, looking around at the lavish set.

Jong grinned happily. "King K'on."

"It's been done."

Kim Jong II looked stricken. Then he went to make his calls.

When he came back, he said. "It's all set. By the way, we have a new problem. The South is overrunning the Thirty-eighth Parallel. Won't be long before they're all over Pyongyang like white on rice. Next thing you know, they'll be souvenir hunting in Sinanju."

"Never," said Chiun. And the Master of Sinanju and the newly installed Leader for Life of Korea huddled for some minutes.

Chapter Forty-six

The president of South Korea was as safe as a South Korean could be with red war returning to the peninsula. Of that, there could be to doubt, no question.

There were bunkers all over the land. But a bunker by its very nature had been rejected as a likely target for bombs. And if the madmen in Pyongyang had developed a nuclear bomb, no bunker built could preserve the life of the South Korean leader if the bunker found itself at ground zero.

As he sat at a simple card table deep in the lava tubes of Man Jang Caves on the southernmost Korean island of Cheju-do, listening to a shortwave radio, the president of South Korea didn't feel safe.

He chain-smoked Turtle Ship cigarettes as he wondered if Seoul still stood. If the North had a nuke, they would unleash it upon Seoul. If two, then Seoul would be doubly destroyed. And if Seoul fell under Pyongyang bombs, the Americans wouldn't hesitate to nuke Pyongyang flat. There would be no pieces to pick up after that.

But the president of South Korea would survive. Even if the peninsula were overrun, he would survive. The entire North would be crushed by the Americans in time, and even if some surviving Pyongyanger controlled Sinanju after all was radioactive dust, Sinanju wouldn't look for the president of South Korea in Cheju-do Island. They would assume him obliterated in the fireball that consumed Seoul.

But to be certain of survival, there were ROK Tiger Marines stationed at the entrance to the network of lava tubes that in peacetime served as a tourist attraction. His most trusted aide had control of the innermost circle of defense. His second-most-trusted aide controlled the middle perimeter. The outer shield defense belonged to his third-most-trusted aide.

That was the mistake of the president of South Korea, he soon discovered.

There had been no warning. No warning was possible. All telephone and other communications using wire were forbidden in Man Jang Cave lava womb. Only shortwave, which could not be traced.

And since his defense teams had no shortwaves of their own, they were unable to alert him that a typhoon had descended upon Cheju-do Island in the form of a wispy little man.

And so in silence they fell, unbeknownst to the president of South Korea, who smoked in nervous ignorance.

The final door was not lava but steel. It opened with no more sound than a breath of subterranean air. Trying to listen through the crackle and static of his shortwave headset, the president paid it no mind.

The ghostly tap on his shoulder made his heart leap into his mouth, and without turning, he knew.

"Sinanju?" he croaked.

A thin, merciless voice intoned, "You erred."

"How?"

"For the three rings to work correctly, the most trusted ones must take up the outer ring. For they will fight more fiercely. The second ring nearly as fiercely. Thus, your assassin will be fatigued by the time he reaches the least trustworthy ring, and might succumb." The voice cooled. "Unless your assassin is of Sinanju."

The president of South Korea groaned, the cigarette falling from his bloodless lips.

"Turn and face me, man of Seoul."

Woodenly the Korean president obeyed. He found no strength in his legs and merely turned in his chair.

The eyes of the Master of Sinanju were like agates of deep hardness.

"You have come for my life___"

"No. I have come for your surrender."

"Seoul has fallen?"

"No. Nor Pyongyang, either. Your forces own the mountains. But only those."

"I cannot surrender to Pyongyang and face my ancestors."

The Master's papery mask of a face softened. "Well spoken. The South is not as spiritless as I have heard. No, you will not surrender to Pyongyang. Nor will Pyongyang surrender to Seoul. But both must surrender so that this conflict ends well and face is preserved."

The South Korean president looked perplexed. "If neither can surrender to the other, who will we surrender to?"

And the Master of Sinanju whispered a name.

Secretary General Anwar Anwar-Sadat was too busy drawing up the formal documents regarding the U.S.-Mexico observer group to worry about the end of the world. The phone rang constantly, and aides scurried in and out to announce this conflagration or that calamity. He would have none of it.

"I am very busy," he said testily. "It is not every day that I can impose the will of the United Nations upon the United States."

"But, my General—"

" 'Mr. Secretary.' "

"The two Koreas are at war."

"It is nothing. The Americans will solve that problem, and then we will step in and preserve the peace. Now begone."

It was late in the day when the under secretary for peacekeeping operations timidly approached the secretary general's desk and said, "The leaders of North and South Korea are on lines three and four. They wish to speak with you."

"About what?"

"Surrender."

The secretary general brightened as much as his stony face would allow. It was not every year two surrenders came his way. First Iraq, now this.

"Which one? Quickly, I must know."

"Both. Both wish to surrender. Neither will capitulate to the other."

"I do not understand."

"They are Asians. Saving face."

"Ah, yes, of course. Put them both on," said Anwar Anwar-Sadat, picking up two receivers and setting one to each ear as the under secretary performed the difficult task of working the line connections.

When the leaders of the two Koreas began chattering in his ears, the secretary general of the United Nations made his voice neutral. But his stony face softened in pleasure.

By the time this day was concluded, no one would wonder about the incident in the General Assembly again. He was solving the world's problems, alone and without outside assistance.

A Nobel Peace Prize was certain to be his.

When he had a working agreement, he returned to his final draft of UNUSMEXOG only to be told that that crisis was over, too.

"Over! I do not wish it to be over."

"Nevertheless, it is over. The Mexican forces have withdrawn from the U.S. border."

"This would have been my greatest moment, the culmination of my service as secretary general. Once the United States submits to the will of the world community, the last obstacle to my one-world order will have fallen like a stubborn domino."

"There is still the fiftieth-anniversary gala, my General."

"I would rather have my peacekeepers on the U.S. border," Anwar Anwar-Sadat said miserably.

Chapter Forty-seven

Harold Smith arrived at work the next morning like an automaton. He had hardly slept. He could barely think. But he was also helpless, and so he had gone home to sleep through the night hoping morning might come, if not for the world, at least for the United States—the only nation not immediately at risk, ironically, because it wasn't involved in the bidding war.

Remo and Chiun were waiting for him in his office. There was no sign of Mrs. Mikulka.

"My God!" Smith croaked.

"Hiya, Smitty," said Remo cheerfully.

"Greetings, Smith," the Master of Sinanju said in a severe voice. His kimono was a pale gold.

Then Harold Smith noticed the nuclear device. It was sitting on his desk in the form of a fat gravity bomb not very much unlike the one that had been dropped on Hiroshima.