Something stirred in the back of Colonel Viktor Ditko's mind, a half-memory taking shape from the nervous words of this frightened man. A fabulous story of Oriental warriors who possessed superhuman powers. Where had he heard a similar tale?
"What do you mean by power?" he demanded.
"My grandfather claimed that Sinanju was the original martial art. It predates karate, kung fu, and ninjutsu by thousands of years. All later forms of hand-to-hand fighting are copied from Sinanju. But Masters of Sinanju, once they attain what is called the sun source, achieve mental and physical perfection, becoming supernaturally swift and strong. Perhaps invincible. Like gods."
"There are no gods," said Colonel Viktor Ditko, who had learned in school that science was the only legitimate vehicle for realizing mankind's potential.
"The Masters of Sinanju attended the great courts of history," continued Sammy Kee. "They stood beside the pharaohs of old Egypt. They toppled thrones in ancient Rome. They were the secret weapons of the Borgias, and of France's later kings. Whoever hired them, prospered. Any who challenged them, perished. So my grandfather said."
"So?" asked Ditko, trying to isolate the memory. Was it in Tashkent?
"So this. My father claimed that the Masters of Sinanju continued to this day. They hadn't worked as much in this century because of the two world wars, but the current Master of Sinanju still lived in the village, guarding a fabulous treasure and keeping historical records that explained some of the great mysteries of the ages."
"The old man on the tape. He was the Master of Sinanju?"
"No. He was just a caretaker. But let me tell this story as it happened."
"Do so."
"I loved that old tale of my grandfather's, but I never dreamed it had any basis in fact. Until last year. I was in India. I told you I was a journalist. I was covering the chemical disaster there, in Gupta."
"A horrible tragedy. Caused by an American chemical company. Americans can't be trusted with such things."
"I was interviewing a cabinet minister about the tragedy," Kee said. "At first, the minister didn't want to talk to me because I was an American, but when he learned I had Korean parents, he changed his mind. Koreans and Indians had deep historical ties, he told me. I had no idea what he was talking about at the time. I did my story, but nobody bought it and I decided to stay in India."
"A mistake," said Colonel Ditko. He had gone to India once. When he had stepped off the plane, the smell had hit him like a thick hot wall. Even in the modern air terminal, the mixture of chaos and filth was overpowering. He immediately reboarded the Aeroflot jet and returned home, later sending a subordinate to finish the task assigned to him. As punishment, he had been given the worst assignments in the KGB and rotated often. North Korea was only the latest odious post Colonel Viktor Ditko suffered in.
"I became friendly with the minister," Sammy said. "I questioned him about his remark, about the deep ties between India and Korea. It was then he whispered a word I hadn't heard since childhood. The word was Sinanju."
"I see," said Colonel Ditko, who did not see at all.
"The minister told me that India had been one of the greatest clients for the Masters of Sinanju. Sinanju was still highly regarded in their halls of power, even though no Master of Sinanju had worked for an Indian potentate in generations. We compared stories. This man had heard virtually identical stories. He confirmed that the current Master of Sinanju still lived, and had actually visited India only months before. The minister didn't know the details. It was very secret. But the visit somehow involved the United States."
Colonel Viktor Ditko bolted upright in his chair. It creaked.
"Involved. How?"
"I don't know. That didn't interest me so much at the time. But the journalistic possibilities did. Here was a missing piece of history. A secret international power that ran through history like an invisible thread, touching everything, but recorded by no history book. Except the one maintained by the Master of Sinanju. I decided to go to Sinanju."
For the first time, Colonel Ditko nodded in understanding. "You wished to steal the treasure," he said.
"No. For the story. This was one of the great journalistic stories of the century-of any century."
There was that word again, thought Colonel Ditko, "journalistic." It must be some American synonym for "espionage."
"You wanted the secret of Sinanju for yourself."
"No. I wanted to tell the world about Sinanju, its history, its effect on history."
"Tell the world? You had inside information on this great secret and you wanted to tell others?"
"Yes, of course. I am a journalist."
"No, you are a fool. This is very valuable information. If true, the country which employs the Master of Sinanju could be very powerful. But only if this is done in secret."
"Exactly. It is being done in secret."
"I do not understand."
"The Master of Sinanju isn't in retirement. He is operating in the modern world, just as his ancestors always have. It's all on the tape. The old man I spoke to told me everything."
Colonel Viktor Ditko felt a chill course up his spine. The room, already cool, seemed colder still. He knew what the Korean-American was leading up to. And the knowledge parched his tongue. He had never been so frightened by something that it dried the juices in his mouth. But at this moment, Colonel Viktor Ditko's tongue sat like a wad of dog hair in his mouth.
"The Master of Sinanju is working for the United States of America," the younger man said.
"This is on the tape?" Ditko demanded.
"Precisely," Sammy Kee said.
"And you want what?" Colonel Ditko asked.
"I want to get back to America. So I can put this story on television."
"Why do you wish to harm your country?"
Sammy Kee looked surprised. "I don't wish to harm my country. I love my country. That's why I want to improve it." He smiled hopefully; surely this sophisticated Russian would understand that.
"You are an idiot," Ditko said. "Why did you not leave the country the way you entered?"
"When I went back to the place where I buried my raft, it wasn't there. I was chased by soldiers but I got away. Now I can't get out of the country. Without an identity card, I can't get food. I haven't eaten in days. I just want to get home and live in peace."
"I see," said Colonel Ditko, who understood that an empty stomach sometimes spoke louder than a man's loyalty.
"Now may I see the ambassador?" Sammy Kee asked.
"You realize that this is not true proof. It is just an old man telling stories. No more credible than your grandfather."
"Sinanju is there. You can see it for yourself. The treasure house is there. I saw it."
"You saw the treasure?"
Sammy shook his head. "No, only the treasure house. It was sealed and I was told that the hand that unsealed it would strangle its own throat if that hand were not of Sinanju."
"And you let an old man's warning stop you?"
"That old man's warning chilled me to my marrow." Ditko shrugged.