Warren Murphy: Assassins Play Off

Sung thought about those words for a long while before answering. He had met Chiun, and there had seemed to spring up almost a bond of friendship, but the old man had told him that he worked for the United States. This Nuihc might be right. One day, a word might come and soon Kim Il Sung would be dead.

On the other hand, what guarantee did Sung have that Nuihc would be any better? He looked carefully into Nuihc's face. His blood relationship with the old man was obvious; there were the same lines of face and body, the same feeling of coiled spring tension when the man only stood casually in front of Sung's desk.

"You wonder," Nuihc said, "whether or not you can trust me."

"Yes."

"You can trust me for one reason. I am driven by greed. The leadership of the House will give me power and wealth. Beyond that, I want our nation to rise high in the world; I want it to happen because at the side of Kim Il Sung is Nuihc, the new Master of Sinanju."

Kim Il Sung thought again for a long while, then he said, "I will consider it. In the meantime, you may avail yourself of the hospitality of my house."

It was almost dark when Chiun returned to his home. Remo still slept. The Korean girl who was Chiun's servant knelt by the white man's side, occasionally blotting up the sweat from his brow.

"Be gone," said Chiun.

The girl rose and bowed deferentially toward Chiun.

"He is very ill, Master."

"I know, child."

"He has no strength. Are white people always so weak?"

Chiun looked at her sharply but could tell she meant no disrespect. Yet here she was, Chiun's servant, the one loyal follower in the village, and even she could not hide her disappointment that Chiun had picked a white man to learn the role of the Master for that day when Chiun would rule no longer.

He struggled to keep his temper, then said softly, "Many are weak, child. But this one was strong, a giant among men, until he was brought down by the cunning attacks of a cowardly jackal's henchmen, a jackal too cowardly to attack himself."

"That is terrible, Master," said the girl, her face and voice ringing with the earnestness of someone who wanted desperately to believe. "I wish I could meet this jackal."

"You shall, child. You shall. And so shall he," Chiun said. He looked at Remo as if looking at a faraway cloud and then returned to the present moment and chased the girl from the room.

"Heal quickly, Remo," he said softly in the silent room. "Heal quickly."

Nuihc had not tried to leave the room that Kim Il Sung had provided for him in the palace. He was not worried by the guards he knew were outside the door, but he was waiting for an answer.

At dinner time, there was a knock on the door.

It opened before Nuihc could speak.

Kim Il Sung was there. He saw Nuihc sitting on a chair, looking out the window, toward the east, toward west, toward Sinanju. He smiled.

"Tomorrow we go to Sinanju," Sung said. "To crown a new master."

"You have chosen wisely," said Nuihc. He smiled also.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The caravan arrived in Sinanju shortly after noon the next day.

There was a lead car in which sat Kim Il Sung and Nuihc, followed by a car containing the governor of the province and Sung's adviser Myoch'ong. Lesser party officials followed in other cars, and while their mission was to drive the hated American influence from the history of Sinanju, none of them thought it incongruous that they drove in Cadillacs and Lincolns and Chryslers. The motorcycle escort of soldiers, six in front, six behind, six on each side, drove Hondas.

The caravan was spotted more than a mile outside the city, on the paved road leading to the town which had grown up around the old village of Sinanju. Within minutes, word had reached the old quarter that the premier was coming, along with the real Master of Sinanju, and in only moments word was at the home of Chiun.

"Master," said the granddaughter of the carpenter to Chiun, who sat on a mat staring through one of the house windows toward the bay, "many men are coming."

"Yes?"

"The premier is with them. And so, they say, is one of your blood."

Chiun turned slowly on the mat to look at the girl.

"Know one thing, child. When trouble comes, it comes at its own time, never at yours. Even now, how quickly comes the day of darkness."

He turned back toward the sea and folded his arms and seemed to gaze beyond the bay, as if searching for a land where the sun might yet be shining.

"And what shall I do, Master?"

"Nothing. There is nothing we can do." Chiun's voice sounded old and tired.

The girl stood for a moment, waiting for more, then walked slowly away, confused and not really understanding why the Master was so deeply depressed.

The caravan of cars skirted the main city of Sinanju, turned toward the shoreline, then followed a dirty sand road that led into the heart of the old village.

They halted in the square in the center of town, and Nuihc and the premier stepped out onto the street. The premier wore his military tunic, Nuihc a two-piece black fighting costume. In the custom of Sinanju, it was unbelted. Fighting uniforms were belted for demonstrations; for fights to the death, no belts were worn. This tradition dated back four hundred years when two of Chiun's ancestors had fought for the vacant title of Master of Sinanju. One of the contenders wore a uniform with belt. Five minutes later he had been strangled with the belt. Since that time, no Master had worn a belted uniform except in exercise, practice, or demonstration. But never in combat.

Nuihc looked up and down the streets. He could see people peering through their windows but afraid to come out onto the street until they knew more about this caravan and its meaning.

"It has been many years since I walked this ground," said Nuihc. A heavy breeze blew off the bay and swirled his long, shiny black hair about his face. His eyes were narrowed into slits that looked like knife-cuts in smooth yellow flesh.

Kim Il Sung saw Nuihc's eyes and the blood lust in them, and it was there as if it always belonged there, and for just a moment Sung again wondered if it were not just a matter of time before that lust was turned upon him.

Chiun's palace was at the end of the street, thirty yards from the square, and now Nuihc looked at it and his face broke into a smile.

"Let us do it," he said.

Without waiting for an answer, he stepped off through the dust and sand toward the house of the Master of Sinanju. Kim Il Sung remained standing alongside his vehicle. Purposefully, conscious of the eyes watching him, Nuihc strode to the front door of Chiun's home and pounded on the door with his fist. Under the hammering, shells cracked and broke loose and powdered the wooden step in front of the door.

"Who is there?" answered a young woman's voice after a long pause.

"Nuihc is here," said the long-haired man in a loud ringing voice. "Descendant of the Masters of Sinanju, himself the new Master of Sinanju. Send out the American weakling and the senile traitor who has given him our secrets."

There was a long pause.

Then the woman's voice again.

"Go away. No one is home."

Nuihc pounded upon the door again. "There is no hiding for you, old man, not for you or for the white lackey you would impose upon the people of this village. Come out of there before I come in and drag you out by the scruff of your scrawny neck."

Another pause.

The woman's voice again.

"It is not permitted to enter the Master's house without the Master's permission. Be gone, urchin."

Nuihc paused as it seeped into his head what Chiun's game was. Nuihc was protected in anything he said to Chiun because the old man, as Master of Sinanju, was not permitted to raise a hand against another from the village. But that protection ended should Nuihc enter Chiun's home uninvited, and Chiun could have the right to deal with him as just another burglar. Nuihc did not like the prospect. Still, how to get the old man and the American out of the house?