Warren Murphy: The Eleventh Hour

The General Secretary had arisen from behind an oversize conference table and smiled genially. "Welcome to our country," the General Secretary had said to the Master of Sinanju. "I understand you speak English."

"I also speak Russian," the Master of Sinanju had said coldly in Russian. "Too bad that you do not." The General Secretary lost his smile.

"I will speak with the Master of Sinanju in private," he informed Colonel Ditko.

"What about my appointment to the Ninth Directorate?" asked Colonel Ditko nervously, fearing he would become lost in the Politburo's endless bureaucratic machine.

The General Secretary frowned at the raising of a minor detail at so historic an occasion.

"Very well. Consider yourself so appointed. Your first assignment is to stand outside this door and see that I am disturbed by nothing."

"Yes, Comrade General Secretary," said Colonel Ditko, who took his instructions literally.

So when, not long after, the General Secretary's personal secretary tried to get into the office, Colonel Viktor Ditko, barred her way.

"The General Secretary is not to be disturbed."

"But this is a crisis. Moscow is under attack. The Politburo is going into emergency session."

"My orders are clear," said Colonel Ditko, unholstering his sidearm.

The secretary, whose duties did not include staring at the business end of a pistol, ran off. So did subsequent messengers. The phones rang continuously. But there was no one to answer them.

Military and political leaders, unable to reach the General Secretary, automatically assumed he was dead, or fighting off assassins. Rumors of a coup filled the Kremlin itself. Guards, secretaries, and other functionaries quietly evacuated the building.

And so, while Moscow was practically under siege, Colonel Viktor Dicko single-handedly prevented word of the greatest crisis in the city's history from reaching the ears of the one man who was empowered to orchestrate a coherent response.

No one had dared to come near Vladimir Hall for more than an hour when a strange figure padded down the long corridor that led to the gilt door.

Colonel Ditko squinted down the corridor, which was not well-lit. The figure was unconventionally dressed. He wore not a suit, nor a uniform, but something like the pajamas of the decadent West, except they were of black silk. His sandaled feet made no sound when he walked, but he walked with a confidence that told Colonel Ditko that his authority came, not from orders or a uniform, but from something deep within him.

Colonel Ditko thought the man's face was familiar, but the lights in the corridor were widely spaced.

Just when he focused on the man's features, he entered a zone of shadow.

Colonel Ditko brought his pistol to the ready. "Who would pass?" he demanded.

And then the figure came into a zone of light again, and Colonel Ditko saw the blaze of anger in the man's eyes and he heard the voice reverberate off the walls.

"I am created Shiva, the Destroyer; Death, the shatterer of worlds. The dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju," the voice intoned. "Who is this dog meat who challenges me?"

Too late, Colonel Viktor Ditko recognized the face of the American named Remo. Too late, he brought his Tokarev in line. Too late, he pulled the trigger.

For the American was upon him. Colonel Ditko did not feel the hand that swatted aside the gun, and took his wrist like a vise.

"Where is Chiun?"

"I cannot say," said Colonel Ditko. And then Remo squeezed. His hand turned purple, and the tips of Colonel Ditko's fingers swelled like stepped-on balloons. The tips split, spewing blood.

Colonel Ditko screamed. The scream was a word. And the word was "Inside!"

"Thanks for nothing," said Remo Williams. who collapsed Colonel Ditko's larynx with the heel of his hand.

Remo stepped over the corpse to reach for the door.

The General Secretary of the Soviet Union was trying to call Washington. The operator kept breaking in to tell him there was a crisis. His advisers were frantically attempting to reach him. Would he please accept the incoming calls while there was still a functioning government?

"Never mind!" the General Secretary screamed. "Clear the lines. I must reach Washington!" He clenched the telephone receiver in his hand. The pain was beyond endurance.

Which was strange, because as near as he could tell, the old Korean known as the Master of Sinanju was merely touching the General Secretary's right earlobe with a long fingernail.

Then why did the pain sear his nervous system worse that a million white-hot needles?

Finally, thankfully, the familiar voice of the President of the United States came on the line.

"Tell him that the tapes have been destroyed," the Master of Sinanju hissed in his ear.

"The tapes have been destroyed!" screamed the General Secretary.

"What?" said the President. "You don't have to shout."

"Now tell him that you have broken your contract with the Master of Sinanju."

"I have broken my contract with the Master of Sinanju."

"And that the Master of Sinanju no longer works for anyone, including America."

"The Master of Sinanju no longer works for anyone, including America," the General secretary gasped. Pain caused his vision to darken. He thought he was going to die. It would have been a blessing.

"You are done," said Chiun.

"I am done." said the General Secretary, and hung up. Sweat poured off his brow like water from a faulty playground bubbler.

Remo Williams barged into the office of the General Secretary and stopped dead in his tracks. "Chiun!" he said.

Chiun was standing over the Russian leader, holding the man down in his seat with a single delicately curved fingernail. The Master of Sinanju no longer looked wan and tired. Life blazed in his hazel eyes. And at Remo's unexpected entrance, surprise.

"Remo," he squeaked. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to rescue you."

"I need no rescuing. Who guards the gold of my village?"

"Smith."

"Phtaah!" Chiun spat. "We must hurry home then."

"What about your contract with Russia?"

"This fool Russian did not read the fine print. Sinanju contracts are nontransferable. Clause fifty-six, paragraph four. Since Master Tipi's unfortunate servitude, this has been standard in all Sinanju contracts. Which you would have known had you bothered to read the scroll I left for you."

"You were coming back all along?"

"Of course."

Remo's face wore a puzzled expression. "I don't understand this."

"What else is new? Here," he said, tossing Remo two mangled blobs of black plastic. "The tapes this Russian used to blackmail Smith."

Remo caught them. "They're no good anymore. But this guy still knows everything," Remo said, indicating the General Secretary.

"He has graciously consented to accept the gift of amnesia, as administered through the kind offices of Sinanju," Chiun said, twisting his fingernail suddenly. The General Secretary jumped in his seat.

"Now all we have to do is get out of Russia alive." Chiun made a snorting sound. "Passing through borders has never been a problem for Masters of Sinanju. All nations are happy to give us diplomatic immunity."

Remo turned to the Soviet General Secretary. "You got a problem with that?"

The General Secretary had no problem with it whatsoever. In fact he was more than eager to order his private plane to take them back to Pyongyang-if only the damned People's Phone Lines would clear.

Chapter 18

The Master of Sinanju and his pupil sat on opposite sides of the airplane during the flight back to Pyongyang, North Korea. Representatives of the government of the Great Leader, Kim Il Sung, were on hand to greet them and arrange a helicopter flight directly to Sinanju.