But the ninja kept coming, his body swelling and running like a million multicolored candles melting together. Suddenly it was the figure a young man with a flowing mane of yellow hair and purple garments who came toward him on quiet, confident feet. His eyes were so blue it hurt to look at them.
Smith steeled himself and fired.
The purple figure kept coming. Smith fired again. This time he saw, incredibly, the afterimage effect as the figure returned to its path of approach. The figure had dodged the bullets. Had dodged them so fast that it looked to the untrained eye as if he had allowed the bullets to pass through him.
Smith knew he was looking at a being trained in the ancient art of Sinanju, and suddenly the significance of the name Tulip was clear. He knew whom he faced. What he faced. But his knowledge came too late, far too late for Harold W. Smith.
"I have no quarrel with you, Smith," a different voice rang in his ears. "I want Remo. I want to destroy him. You have helped me with the first phase. Do not think I am not grateful-or unmerciful. You will feel no pain, I promise."
And for Harold W. Smith, the world went black. He never saw the hand that struck him.
Chapter 20
The letter arrived in Sinanju the next day. It had come via Pyongyang, the capital of North Korea, and was delivered to Sinanju by a People's helicopter. It was left in an iron mailbox at the edge of the village, for it was forbidden for any who were not of Sinanju to enter Sinanju without permission.
When the helicopter departed, a boy was sent to the mailbox. He came running back and gave the letter to Pullyang, who was again at his post, guarding the House of the Masters.
Old Pullyang placed the letter in the dirt while he got his pipe going. After a few preliminary puffs he opened the letter, which he recognized as from the Master of Sinanju. His tiny eyes took in the message of the Master eagerly.
"Summon Mah-Li," Pullyang told the boy, who would not go until he had heard the news from America.
"Is it good news?" the boy asked.
"Joyous news. But I must tell Mah-Li myself."
Mah-Li climbed the low hillock to the House of the Masters, expectation on her radiant face.
"What word from America?" she called.
Pullyang waved the letter. "It is from Master Chiun. He returns soon. He bids us to prepare for the wedding of the white Master, Remo, and the maiden called Mah-Li."
Mah-Li's hands flew to her throat in surprise. "Remo," she breathed. "And what word from him?"
Old Pullyang shook his head. "None."
Mah-Li knit her smooth brow. "None. No message for me?"
"The Master wrote, not Remo."
"Oh," said Mah-Li, her face clouding. "It is not like Remo. You do not think he has changed his mind, do you, Pullyang? After all, it has been a year since we last saw him."
"The Master Chiun would not order the wedding preparations if the groom had changed his mind. Why would you say such a foolish thing, child?"
"I do not know," said Mah-Li, dropping to her knees beside Pullyang. With nervous fingers she picked at a clump of coarse grass. "It is just that ever since the purple birds came to us in the night, my sleep has been troubled and I know not why."
"You are a child still. And children are often subject to strange fears," Pullyang said tenderly.
"You yourself called them a bad omen, Pullyang. What did you mean by that?"
And because Pullyang did not himself know, he shrugged and tried to look sage. He took a long draw from his pipe and hoped that Mah-Li would not press the point.
"I think you were right about their being a bad omen," said Mah-Li after a time.
"They are gone," said Pullyang.
Mah-Li looked up into the morning sky. It was gray and troubled. "I know, but my dreams tell me that they will be back." And she folded her arms and shivered.
Chapter 21
The USS Harlequin broke the slate waters of the West Korea Bay and settled in the trough of a wave. Water crashed over the submarine's hull and ran out the deck gunwales.
Sailors popped open a hatch and set about inflating a collapsible rubber raft. When they had it inflated, one called down the hatch, "All set on deck, sir. "
Remo came up first. The moon was high, a crescent moon that shed little illumination. Remo saw the Horns of Welcome jutting up from the shore. They framed the low hill on which the House of the Masters stood, like some arcane emblem of antiquity. But to Remo the forbidding sight was a happy one.
He called down the hatch, "Shake a leg, Chiun. We're home. "
The Master of Sinanju's head emerged like a squirrel peering from its hole. "Do not rush me, Remo. I am an old man. I will not hurry just because you are in heat."
"I am not in heat," said Remo, taking Chiun by one elbow as he clambered out of the hatch.
The sailors were lowering the raft into the water. "Better hurry, gentlemen," one of them called. "These seas are running high."
Remo and Chiun climbed down the submarine hull until they were safely on the raft. Two crewmen manned oars. There was an outboard motor but it was not used because of the fear that the sound would attract North Korean patrol craft and create an international incident.
The raft got going.
"Sure seems strange to come back without any gold, huh, Little Father?" Remo said quietly.
"Do not remind me of my failure," Chiun said morosely.
"I was just making small talk. Why are you on my case? You haven't said a civil word all the way across the Pacific."
"If my scrolls are missing, it will be your fault."
"Christ, Chiun. I told you and told you. I did not leave the door unlocked."
"We will see," warned Chiun.
The raft bumped one of the natural stone breakers that jutted from the Sinanju beach, and Remo stepped out to help Chiun onto the slick tumble of rock.
"Thanks," Remo told the sailors.
"Do not say thanks," said Chiun. "Tip them."
"I don't have any money, remember?"