Skull Duggery

"I think it was here," Zhang Zingzong told him, looking back with furtive glances. "This section is off-limits."

"Then you should not be attracting attention by looking about guiltily," Chiun told him firmly. "You must be as the quiet winds from the north."

"The winds from the north are cruel. They are Mongo winds."

"Mongol."

"That what I said. Mongo wind." His L never quite made it off his tongue.

The Master of Sinanju looked north to the steppes. These were the so-called Mongol Plains. The mountains stopped here. A winter haze obscured the far distance like a convocation of low-lying phantoms. Just under the Wall lay a sea of pagoda-style roofs.

Here on the northern side of the Wall, the stone facing had been carried off, exposing its earthen-and-rubble core.

"It was down there that I found the box," Zhang Zingzong said quietly. "I was being persuaded by PLA men. I ran down here, and like a fish burrowing into the mud of a pond, I burrowed into the dirt and rocks. I breathed through one nostril, which I left uncovered."

The Master of Sinanju began walking down the steep rubble-and-earth side. His feet held the ground like a fly's, his spine remaining perpendicular to the wall.

Zhang had to climb down using all four limbs. Even so, he stumbled once and rolled the rest of the way down.

He was astonished when he landed at the Master of Sinanju's feet. He thought he had passed him.

"Get up, lazy one," Chiun said coldly. "And show me the spot where you found the box of Temujin."

Zhang dusted himself off with his bare hands. He looked around the exposed Wall. Creeping forward, he came to a spot where two irregular stones abutted one another.

"It was here," he said, pointing.

Chiun looked at the joined stones and then north. His eyes narrowed.

"The box," he said, putting out one yellowed claw of a hand.

Zhang pulled the now-frayed knapsack off his back and set it on the ground. He knelt as he undid the straps and extracted the ornate teak box.

The Master of Sinanju accepted the box from the straightening Chinese student. His fingers sought the secret catch. It sprang. The lid exposed three of its edges.

Carefully the Master of Sinanju removed its contents, revealing a human skull. It gleamed from every point, for it had been preserved by a covering of beaten silver. Here and there, yellow-brown bone showed through the metal.

But the Master of Sinanju had no eyes for the skull's natural imperfections. He was looking at the flowing script hammered into the skull's silver brow.

He read silently, his papery lips thinning in thought.

"What does it say?" Zhang asked eagerly. "A scholar told me what the words said, but we do not understand their meaning."

"That is because it is a riddle," Chiun whispered. " 'I am the wrath of Temujin,' " he recited. " 'If you dare, seek my power in this wise. Where you find me, stand and look true north through the Blind One's eyes. Follow the horizon until you come to the broken dragon."

"This makes no sense," Zhang murmured. "How can one look through the eyes of another-especially one who cannot see?"

Chiun faced north. He held the skull before him. Then, raising it, he brought the hollow of the skull up to his face.

Zhang Zingzong watched him curiously, all fear gone from his face. In truth, the fear departed after the strange Korean had lured the soldiers from his interrogation car. When the Master of Sinanju had returned to confront the lone PLA man who had Zhang in custody, there had been a brief argument and the PLA soldier had decided to arrest the uncooperative Korean too.

He had taken a single step toward the Master of Sinanju.

A flashing upward kick had sent the PLA soldier's chin snapping back with such force it broke his jawbone and spine with a single spiteful crack. The soldier had fallen to the floor, his head hanging from his neck like that of a harvested chicken.

After that, the woman in the broadcast booth had been rendered unconscious by a pinching of her neck nerves.

They were not molested after returning to their cushioned seats. It had not escaped Zhang Zingzong's notice that the PLA soldiers ceased prowling the train.

The Master of Sinanju held the skull up to his wrinkled mummy face. He looked into the bare bone bowl, turning the skull until he was satisfied.

"What you do?" Zhang asked.

"I am looking north," Chiun replied.

"How you know it is true north?" Zhang asked.

"I know," the Master of Sinanju intoned as he peered through the empty bone sockets of the skull.

"What you see?"

"I see emptiness," answered the Master of Sinanju as he lowered the skull. "We will go now," he said.

"Back to Beijing?"

"No," said the Master of Sinanju as he returned the skull to the teak box. "To emptiness."

Zhang looked toward the distant mists.

"Not wish to follow you there," he muttered.

"If you are willing to renounce your portion of that which we seek, you may remain here."

"No," Zhang said quickly. "My half belong to me, to China."

"Then come," said the Master of Sinanju.

They climbed up the steep wall, Chiun floating, Zhang scrambling over the bulwark of half-frozen earth.

They were met by a trio of PLA soldiers at the top.

"What you do here?" one demanded. Their hands were on their sidearms. One slapped a rubber truncheon against his legs. Their dark eyes had hardened into identical black jewels of hate. Their breaths steamed.

"We are simple tourists," said the Master of Sinanju unconcernedly.

"Where from?"

"I am from North Korea. And this man is from-"

"Luo Yang!" Zhang said quickly. "I am a worker there. In Number One Tractor Plant. Make Iron Plow machine parts."

They spoke in the clipped Mandarin dialect, wasting no words, all except Chiun, who employed the flowery Chinese once spoken in the courts of the Shang dynasty.

The soldiers looked them over with sullen contempt.

"You may go," one said to Chiun. "But this man is under arrest for vandalizing the Great Wall."

Zhang stiffened.

"As you wish," said Chiun, bestowing a short bow in their direction.

The soldiers took Zhang by his biceps and marched him away.

Chiun padded after them, as silent and undetectable as a winter breeze filtering through the bare ginkgo trees.

He extended one forefinger to the green-tunic back of the soldier on the left. The other floated before the identical spot over the right-hand soldier's spine. The play of cloth made selecting the correct spot a matter of momentary concentration.

Then the Master of Sinanju struck. Needle-sharp fingernails drove in as one. They pierced the thick skin over the spine, slipping between the vertebrae.

The soldiers never felt the sting of Sinanju, never knew that their spinal cords had been instantaneously severed.

They walked three more paces. Then their legs stopped receiving signals from their brains. They collapsed.

Sandaled toes crushed their falling skulls.

Zhang felt himself pulled aside; at the same time the third PLA soldier noticed the absence of his comrades' footsteps.

He turned. His hard mask of a face broke into surprise.

Then it broke. Period. Shattered by a tiny yellow fist that came up and took away the world.

"Come," Chiun said, gesturing impatiently toward Zhang Zingzong.

Zhang flew after him. They ran back to the restored section of the Great Wall and mingled with a line of tourists returning to their buses.

Chiun pulled Zhang out of the line when they reached the bottom, leading him to the bus, where an angry driver was finishing changing the second of two deflated rear tires.

"Can you drive a bus?" Chiun demanded of Zhang.

"No," said Zhang. "I have never driven anything."

"Then I will teach you," the Master of Sinanju said.

He hustled Zhang into the crowd of foreign tourists who were waiting for the driver to restore their bus to running order.

Chiun separated the folding doors and pushed a hesitant Zhang in. No one thought there was anything unusual in this, and so no one protested.

Zhang found himself pushed into the driver's seat. He looked around the steering wheel nervously.

"What I do?" he muttered.

"Wait," Chiun hissed. He drifted to the back and saw that the driver had finished tightening the lugs. He began cranking the hand jack. The bus was slowly ratcheted back to its normal pitch.

Chiun flew back to Zhang. "Turn the key!" he hissed.

Zhang turned the ignition. The engine grumbled into life just as the rear wheels touched the ground.

"Now push that pedal with your foot," Chiun commanded, pointing to the gas pedal.

Zhang hesitated. Then the driver jumped in front of the bus, screaming and waving frantic arms.

Zhang hit the accelerator. The bus surged ahead. The driver jumped out of the way.

"Turn the wheel!" Chiun cried as they barreled toward a fear-frozen gaggle of Young Pioneers.

"Where?" Zhang said, panic--stricken.

Chiun seized the wheel. He sent the bus veering away from the children, who scattered like white pigeons.

A group of PLA soldiers rushed out of nowhere to see what was going on.

They ran directly into the path of the bus.

"How stop?" Zhang cried, eyes so wide they looked like they would fall out from between their pulled-back lids.

"For soldiers," Chiun said firmly, "you do not stop."

The People's Liberation Army were used to being obeyed. They stood their ground, and waved their arms to signal a stop, believing that the Chinese driver would obey without thinking.

They realized their miscalculation four feet too late.

The bus began chewing up limbs and breaking bones.

Bodies bounced off the grille. They were all the same lime-green color, so the Master of Sinanju did not interfere with Zhang Zingzong's driving.

He was getting the hang of it. And so quickly. Perhaps the modern Chinese were not so backward after all.

The bus rumbled away. They lost a few rear windows to PLA bullets, but none threatened them. The Chinese may have invented gunpowder, Chiun thought smugly, but they had never mastered the art of aiming.

Chapter 15

The Green Lantern Restaurant was near Purple Bamboo Park. Remo was surprised, as Fang Yu led him inside, to find it not at all like the ostentatious Chinese restaurants of America, but a simple room with square tables out of a 1940's movie.

The waitresses hovered by the kitchen, regarding Remo with giggling girlish glances.

"Are they going to wait on us or wait us out, hoping we'll die of starvation?" Remo asked after they had endured a ten-minute wait.

"This is not a tourist restaurant," Fang Yu told him. "They have probably never served a Westerner."

"Think they ever will?" Remo said hopefully.

Fang Yu beckoned toward the gaggle of waitresses. Her command was short and pungent.

One waitress lost her giggly face and approached.

Her Chinese question came so rapidly Remo couldn't even distinguish between syllables.

Fang Yu spoke quickly in reply, making hand gestures that somehow conveyed to Remo a sense of many exotic dishes.

The waitress padded off into the kitchen. The others followed her shyly, with furtive backward glances.

Fang Yu turned to Remo, putting a hand on his.

"You will love the crap here," she said, smiling brightly.

"Crap? It's that bad?"

Fang Yu's eyes flew wide, her face going red. "I mean carp. It is fish. Crap is a different American word. I get mixed up sometimes."

Remo frowned. "I don't remember ordering carp."

"Carp is all they serve in this restaurant. It's a specialty."

Remo's frown deepened. "No rice?"

"Of course. What is a meal without rice?"

The food came in less than a minute. And kept coming. They served spicy dishes and bland dishes and intermediate dishes.

"I thought you said they only served carp here," Remo said as he pushed some spicy tidbit into his mouth with chopsticks.

"What you think you have been eating?" Fang Yu said.

Remo looked up in surprise. "All this is carp?"

"Good carp, huh?"

Remo nodded. So far it was. He had never been a fan of the tiny orange fish, but some of it actually melted in his mouth. A few dishes he had to push aside. The smells told him they contained ingredients that would act as toxins to his refined metabolism.

He wished he had put aside the boiled carp. It was the only dish that didn't taste good.

On the other hand, he liked the carp soup so much he asked for seconds.

Remo finished the meal with a bowl of steaming rice. It was the kind that clumped together because cooked grains were sticky.

"Japonica," he pronounced. "Grown, I'd say, on the island of Honshu."

Fang Yu stopped, a mouthful of Fragrant Carp on its way to her red mouth.

"How you know that?" she asked, startled.

"I know rice," Remo replied, tweezering another clump to his mouth with an expert flick of his chopsticks.

Fang Yu shrugged and resumed her eating. But her bright eyes glanced toward Remo oftener, and her smile came more easily.

Two hours later, they stepped out into the cold Beijing night, full.

"How hard is it to get a cab in this neighborhood?" Remo wondered, looking up and down the nearly deserted street.

"Nearly impossible," Fang Yu assured him. "I am surprised with you, Remo," she added.

"You mean at me," Remo corrected.

"No, I do not think so. You use your chopsticks like one born in China. And you can tell where the rice comes from by its taste."

"I've been around," Remo said evasively.

They began walking. The wind was cold and Fang Yu impulsively took his arm. Remo did not resist. He had become used to the familiar touch of her hand.

Here in China, he felt different. Back in America, he had learned to watch himself in public, careful not to make new friends or fall into relationships. It had been especially difficult these last few months, after an artist's conception of his face had been plastered on several consecutive editions of the National Enquirer, which claimed he was an evolutionary superman. For over a year, Remo couldn't move openly through the US. Lately Smith had agreed that memories of his face had faded. But only after Remo had pointed out that the National Enquirer wasn't like the National Geographic. People didn't stockpile their copies. They filled them full of coffee grounds and threw them away.

Here, in China, cut off from Chiun, he stuck out like a sore thumb, but strangely, Remo felt more comfortable. Maybe it was the company, he thought, glancing at Fang Yu.

"What are you thinking, Remo?" Fang Yu asked as they crossed a snow-slick street.

"I'm thinking that I'm having a pretty good time," he said truthfully.

"And I am too," Fang Yu said, squeezing his arm slightly.

"But I have a mission. I gotta find that Korean."

"I have told you, there is no word of him yet. What can you do without word?"

"I don't know," Remo admitted. "Guess I'll just hang around Beijing until he shows up."

"Beijing is the nerve center of China. If Old Duck Tang comes to Beijing, or any other place in China; I will hear of it. For no one can move unseen through China for long. China has a billion eyes. He will be seen, his presence will be reported. And I will hear of it."

"How?"

"We have a word. Guanxi. It means 'connections.' I have these connections. If there is word," she repeated firmly, "I will hear of it."

As they walked along, Fang Yu led Remo into a narrow alley.

"What's this?" Remo asked.

"You will see."

They came to a red door in a blank wall. Fang Yu took a key from her purse and opened the lock. She pushed open the door and Remo stepped in carefully.

Sensing no presence inside, he reached out for a light switch. A finger brushed one.

Light flooded a cramped, feminine, but Spartan living room.

"Where are we?" Remo asked as Fang Yu secured the door behind her.

"This is my place," she said shyly. "I have three rooms. I am very lucky to have them."

Except for the Asian-style decoration, the apartment looked like one of the smaller New York City apartments. There was a portable Silver Mudan TV set on a wheeled cart. A beaded curtain made a poor substitute for a divider between living room and bedroom. Beyond the first beaded curtain was a second, and the sound of a refrigerator motor straining.

"Nice," Remo said.

"Is your apartment in America as nice?"

"Not as well-furnished as this," Remo said with a straight face.

"Perhaps I will see it someday," Fang Yu said, going to a tabletop cassette deck. It looked like a fifteen-dollar Times Square special, but it occupied a place of honor on the table and looked as if it was religiously washed clean every day.

"You like disco?" Fang Yu asked, inserting a cassette.

"No," Remo said quickly. Polite was one thing, but disco another.

Fang Yu turned. "No?" she asked. "I was hoping you would show me the latest disco dance."

"It's called the lambada and it's not at all like disco. You dance close together."

"You show me how to do it?"

"Really, really close," Remo added. "I don't think I know you well enough for the lambada yet."

Fang Yu looked confused. "You do not want to dance with me?" she asked unhappily.

"Actually, I'm a terrible dancer," Remo said. "Honest."

"You not dance at all?"

"Never."

"Oh," said Fang Yu. "When you take American girl out on date, what do you usually do with her after you have eaten in an excellent restaurant as we have?"

Remo had to think about that one.

"Actually," he admitted, "I don't date much these days. My work usually gets in the way of my social life."

"How about your sex life?"

"My what?"

"Is that not what they call it in America, or is there new phrase? I wish to know the most modern American phrases so that when I go to America, I will not sound foolish."

" 'Sex life' is still in vogue," Remo said. "Except maybe for me," he added wistfully.

Fang Yu came over and took one of Remo hands in both of hers. Her hands were warm to the touch and Remo inhaled her delicate rose-petal scent once more.

"My work for Chinese tourist bureau too gets in the way of my sex life," she said sadly. "For I have none."

"I have an idea," Remo said suddenly. "Let's take a break from work."

"But I do not know what to do next," Fang Yu said, coloring modestly.

"Leave everything to me," Remo returned.

He drew her through the beaded curtain and to the bed.

Chapter 16

Remo Williams awoke to an empty bed.

He missed Fang Yu immediately.

Remo shot bolt upright, taking in all sounds around him like a human sensory sponge.

"Yu?" he said, even though he knew she was not in the modest apartment. There was no other heartbeat. Beyond the walls, yes. Other heartbeats, other sounds of sleeping apartment occupants. But not Fang Yu.

Remo threw back the thin covers. He felt great. He had not had sex like that in a long, long time. It made him feel refreshed, cleansed of subtle poisons.

Their lovemaking had started the way it usually began for Remo with a woman.

Fang Yu had been shy at first. Remo liked that. That, too, was refreshing. He wondered if the Chinese woman were a virgin. He decided not to ask. Better to be surprised. It had been a long time since sex had held any surprises for him.

Fang Yu had looked upward when she asked, "How does it begin with you and American women?"

"Like this," Remo had replied, taking up her left hand. He held it with one of his, aware of a faint trembling in her wrist. Remo began tapping with his right index finger, in the prescribed way of Sinanju. Step one.

It was designed to bring a woman to watery-kneed climax just standing there. This facilitated two ultimate Sinanju purposes--to bind a woman to a man by brute sexuality. Whether she wanted to or not, she would lie open to him within moments.

Or, when applied to a female enemy, it was an excellent interrogation technique. Simply stop tapping at a crucial moment, and the subject would beg, plead, even grovel for the withheld finger. Remo had known American women subjected to step one to become sexually aroused at the sight of male index fingers forever after.

"What is this?" Fang Yu had asked uncertainly.

"Step one," Remo replied. "Collect them all."

Fang Yu's eyebrows drew together in pretty perplexity as Remo continued tapping. Her trembling quickened. She looked up, and her ivory-hued face in the dimness was so appealing Remo said, "The hell with step one. Let's go directly to thirty-seven. Maybe we'll get lucky and land on Boardwalk. "

He withdrew his finger and began undressing her.

They fell into bed together, naked and tentative. Soon there was nothing tentative in the work they plunged into or the sounds they made.

It was not Sinanju. It was something even older and more powerful.

Remo enjoyed Fang Yu's responsive thrusts and matched them with his own. They climaxed together, shivering and passionate, and after a few tasty butterfly kisses, returned to the fray.

Remo remembered that they had fallen asleep in one another's arms, sweating, spent but satisfied.

Now he was alone. So where was Fang Yu?

As the delicious memories faded, Remo's training reasserted itself. Was this a trap? Remo went to the door. Locked. He flicked on the light and began going through the apartment, looking for something, anything, that would tell him if this really was Fang Yu's apartment.

Unfortunately, except for a cassette of the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack, several Madonna tapes, and a dog-eared copy of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, every bit of writing in the apartment was in Chinese.

"Damn!" Remo said. He wished Chiun were here. Chiun could read Chinese. He returned to the bed and drew on his clothes.

"When in doubt," he muttered to himself, "seek escape. So spake Chiun the Wise."

Remo slipped out into the night. The cold made the flesh of his bare forearms tighten, the hair lifting. He sucked in the cold distasteful air and blew it into every cell of his body. It was like firing up a zillion tiny subcutaneous heaters.

Remo walked, feeling warmer than if he were swathed in an electric blanket.

Having no idea where he was, Remo simply oriented himself by his inner compass. Tiananmen Square and his hotel lay to the southeast, he remembered, so he walked southeast.

The only foot traffic he encountered were stooped workmen shoveling waste from public lavatories into wheelbarrows. Remo remembered that they called it "night soil," and used it to fertilize their fields during the warm months. Probably it went into storage during the winter.

Beijing was honeycombed with narrow alleys called hutongs, so it was simple enough to avoid the nearly identical PLA soldiers and People's Armed Police. They walked the streets like an occupying army, always in pairs. Occasionally one would fly by astride a bicycle, bundled up against the cold and pumping the pedals like mad. They made Remo think of the Wicked Witch of the West in greatcoats and fur-trimmed hats.

As Remo approached Tiananmen Square, they became as numerous as bluebottle flies around a horse.

Remo tried to avoid the square itself, but the walls of the old Forbidden City blocked him. He doubled back and took a chance on the most direct route, East Changan Avenue, which formed the north boundary of the square.

Changan went through the vast stone-paved square itself. In his black T-shirt and chinos, Remo was as well-dressed as The Shadow for moving around unseen. But Tiananmen Square was well-lit by ornate standards to expose all hiding places. Remo flitted from clots of darkness, moving with ninjalike stealth behind the unsuspecting backs of sentry guards.

He paused in the shadow of the Great Hall of the People and its giant portrait of Mao, whose Buddhalike serenity belied his bloody reign. The Beijing rose up on the other side.

The square was so vast, Remo's best chance was to run.

He started off, keeping his elbows tight to his sides, not pumping because wild motions could be read by peripheral vision.

He was more like the shadow of a passing cloud than a man as he moved through the square right under the noses of PLA sentries.

Remo would have made it all the way to East Changan had it not been for the limousine coming toward him.

It ghosted up East Changan like a dreadnought, turning into the square.

The sudden appearance of the black limousine caught Remo by surprise. He stopped dead, watching it go by.

In every detail-from the square grille to the absence of bumpers-it resembled the predatory black limousine from America!

Remo switched directions and went after it.

The limo disappeared through an iron gate in front of the Great Hall of the People, on the western side of the square, facing the Monument to the People's Heroes, an obelisk which resembled a Chinese version of the Washington Monument with a kind of Iwo Jima bas-relief running around its base.

PLA soldiers shut the gate after the car with a ringing clang.

Remo stopped, hesitant. He was in the middle of the square, exposed on every side. He knew the Great Hall of the People was a meeting place used by the upper leadership of Red China. If he crashed it, he would have to use his Sinanju abilities, and Smith had warned against that. To say nothing of the international incident he would cause.

Remo decided on the subtle approach. He sauntered up to the guards at the gate. He was so artfully inconspicuous that they jumped at his friendly, "Hi, fellas!"

The PLA men looked at him angrily. Like many Asian soldiers, they looked younger than their years, like Boy Scouts with automatic weapons.

There was nothing playful about the way they brought those weapons off their shoulders and pointed them at Remo.

"Oops!" Remo said, putting up his loose-fingered hands. "Didn't mean to spook you guys. Anyone speak English here?"

"You not be'ong here."

"I'll settle for Pidgin English." Remo grinned. "Relax. I was just wondering about that limousine that just scooted through that gate behind you."

The soldiers looked blank.

"The car," Remo prompted. "The one you just let in."

"No car pass through here all night," he was told.

They looked nervous. Remo detected their respiration quickening. Their heart rates picked up. His innocent questions about the limo were upsetting them.

Remo pressed on. "I was just wondering if it was some kind of special Chinese model. Nice workmanship. Love the bold, uncompromising lines. Kinda like a Stalin Continental."

"You ask too many question," the other solder announced. "We must detain you."

"Hey, aren't we overreacting to a little window-shopping?" Remo said. He lowered his arms as the pair approached.

One man shouldered his AK-47, which made it easier to take out the other. Remo did that with a high kick that sent the muzzle flashing up into the guard's startled face.

Unfortunately, the guard's trigger finger was tight on the trigger. A hot burst of automatic-weapons fire flared like a Roman candle in the night.

The other guard decided to unshoulder his rifle again. Remo reached out and pulled it off his shoulder for him so fast the strap broke. The guard's shoulder also broke. Remo slapped him on top of the head, and his face actually bounced when it hit the hard stone cobbles of Tiananmen Square.

The short burst of automatic-weapons fire galvanized the patrolling soldiers. They began shouting unintelligible questions at one another. They converged on the gate where Remo was.

Remo decided that going over the gate worked best for him. He might find the limo too.

But he changed his mind halfway up. Guards were coming from within, unshipping their AK-47's.

Remo jumped down with alacrity. No point in getting trapped behind the gates. He'd take his chances out in the open.

PLA soldiers clopped over the square, their weapons up. They looked ready to use them.

Remo elected to throw up his hands and walk into the middle of the square. Mao's tomb lay to his right. Too far away to make a break for it. The People's Monument looked inviting, however.

They formed a circle around him, dropping their muzzles in line with his stomach and back.

"American tourist!" Remo warned. "You shoot me and all the Yankee bucks will dry up. Got that?"

"Who are you?" an older soldier demanded truculently.

"My ID's in my pants pocket. I'll take it out, okay?"

The soldier used his weapon to gesture to Remo's pockets.

Remo clapped his hands suddenly. The unexpected report was like invisible lightning. Everyone blinked.

Except Remo. He executed a Sinanju leap called the Twisting Dragon. He went up, arched his back sideways, and landed twenty feet short of the People's Monument-close enough to sprint the remaining distance as the soldiers reacted to the impossible disappearance of their prisoner.

Remo lay flat on the monument's flat summit, and amid a confusion of shouts and curses, the circle of PLA broke apart. The soldiers charged around the square aimlessly, blowing whistles and adding to their own confusion.

Remo stayed on the statue, hugging it like a patch of shadow. Every time a soldier approached from one side, Remo slipped over to the other. No one saw him.

Eventually the search pattern widened further, leaving Tiananmen Square all but deserted.

Carefully Remo floated down from the statue and calmly walked toward his hotel.

He figured the lobby was probably crawling with PLA, so he went up the side of the Beijing Hotel like a human spider and reached his balcony without incident.

Remo stripped to his shorts and waited for the inevitable knocking on the door. He imagined the People's Army would turn the hotel inside out looking for any Westerner matching his description.

Remo rumpled his hair when he heard pounding on the door next to his. The pounding continued. When no one answered, Remo's acute hearing told him that the next room was empty.

That gave him an idea.

He hurried to his door and slipped out. Two green-clad soldiers were shaking the next door with their banging.

"He's escaping to the balcony!" Remo called, hoping that they understood English.

One did. He pounded the lock into submission with the butt of his rifle and jumped in.

Unfortunately, the other one came for Remo.

"Where have you been all night?" he demanded.

"Here," Remo said. "Honest."

The guard looked past Remo's naked shoulder into the hotel room.

"What you do all night?" he demanded.

"I was playing pong," Remo told him.

"I do not know pong."

"It's kind of war game played with people's heads and T-55 tanks," Remo explained in a serious voice.

"You have tank in room?"

"I like to improvise," Remo told him, bringing his hands up and together with enough force to crack a girder.

The PLA soldier's head happened to sit exactly at the point of impact.

It went pong!

Jumping back in case the jugular started spurting from flying bone chips, Remo was amazed that the sound was exactly like Fang Yu had described.

The jugular hadn't been severed, so Remo caught the man on his way down to the rug. He dragged the jerking body to the other room, his head like a collapsed balloon on his red-stained shoulder.

Remo laid him on the floor. He noticed the other soldier fighting to open the balcony door, and slipped up behind him.

The guard whirled.

"Your friend fainted," Remo explained, jerking a thumb back.

Startled, the guard hurried around Remo. "What happen?" he asked as Remo followed him.

"I don't know. He was playing pong and just keeled over for no reason."

"What is-"

Pong!

Remo eased the second PLA corpse to the rug and beat a hasty retreat for the door. On his way out, he noticed the first soldier was missing an eye. A gray string of eye-controlling muscle hung out of his empty socket, along with a squish of oozing gray brain matter.

"Oh-oh, can't leave anything lying around," Remo said cheerfully. "Might cause problems later."

He went in search of the eye. It wasn't in the room, by the door, or out in the corridor.

Remo snapped his fingers. "Ergo, it's in my room," he said aloud. He was in a happy mood. Not only had he gotten laid, but he was getting other frustrations out of his system.

It turned out the lost eye had rolled under his dresser. Remo had to get down on one knee to get at it. It jumped out of his reach the first time he touched it. It was slippery slick.

Finally Remo got it between thumb and forefinger. He was straightening up when he heard the ding of the elevator.

Remo rushed out of his room and made for the next room.

Too late, he saw Fang Yu coming up the corridor.

He slipped one hand behind his back and put on a disingenuous smile. As she approached, he made a pretense of leaning against the doorframe.

"Well, well, look who's dropped by," he said, toeing the door closed on the bodies of the dead soldiers. "Here to test the mattress, are you?"

"Is something wrong, Remo?" Fang Yu asked, her face worried.

"Why do you ask, Cinderella?"

"Lobby filled with PLA men," she said anxiously, slipping into clipped Pidgin English. "They very angry. I had to sneak upstairs and take elevator to this floor. Why you leave?"

"You weren't there when I woke up."

"Ah," she said taking him by the elbow. "Soldiers come. We must speak quickly." They closed the door to Remo's room behind them.

Since Remo was in his shorts, he couldn't palm the late PLA soldier's eyeball into his pants pocket, so he folded his arms. The eye felt like a hard grape against his concealing forearm.

"I woke up and you were gone," he told Fang Yu in a brittle tone. "I didn't know what was up, so I came back here. What happened?"

"I went out," Fang Yu said simply.

"Glad it was good for you too," Remo said thinly.

"I did it to please you," she said quickly, her voice filling with hurt and resentment.

"Funny way to show it."

"No, listen," Fang Yu said urgently. "I woke up, very excited. You were asleep. I knew you wished to find this Korean, Old Duck Tang. I know many people in high places, so I went to see one of them. From this man I learn that there was an incident at the Long Wall of Ten Thousand Li, you know, our Great Wall. Many soldiers die."

Remo's stiff expression softened. "I'm listening."

Fang Yu sat on the edge of the bed. Remo looked down at her, trying to gauge her truthfulness by her expression. He found it impossible.

"A bus was stolen at the Great Wall," she said. "Soldiers were crushed under its wheels. Then it was discovered that a caboose had come loose from a tourist train going to Badaling. It was found in a ravine, filled with more PLA men. All dead."

"What happened to it?"

"The coupling had been shattered. Such a thing is not known to happen. There is talk of sabotage and hooligans."

"Might not be him," Remo said half to himself.

"When the train arrive, a woman was found to be unconscious. She was train propaganda broadcaster, like American JD, you know? "

"DJ. JD is 'juvenile delinquent.' Close, but not exactly the same thing."

"She spoke of a Chinese man the guards took into custody and an older man in a kimono who lured the guards from the train. These were the same ones who were found dead."

"That's Chiun!" Remo said. "Definitely Chiun."

Fang Yu's eyes turned to wary slits.

"Thought you did not know his name," she accused.

"Chiun is his code name," Remo said quickly. "You know, like Ivory Fang is yours."

"Ah. So you are pleased?" Fang Yu said slowly.

"Yeah, this is great."

"Have soldiers come to this floor yet?"

"Yeah, they didn't find anything."

Fang Yu's sigh of relief was like a breeze through poplars. "Good. Then we have time to make love again."

Remo joined her on the bed without hesitation.

Fang Yu was moaning like a midnight sigh when he suddenly realized his left fist still clutched the elusive eyeball. He slipped it under the pillow and finished what he was doing.

"You like me again?" Fang Yu wondered.

"I only have eyes for you," Remo said sincerely.

Chapter 17

Remo had wanted to leave as soon as they were done, but Fang Yu had insisted it was too dangerous to do so.

"In morning, we will simply walk out, like any other tourist and guide," she had promised.

And so they waited for dawn to break, catching sleep in fitful breaks, like entwined cats.

"Ever think of going to America?" Remo asked as Fang Yu nestled in his arms.

"All the time," she said dreamily. "First thing I will do is dye my hair like Madonna."

Remo groaned.

"You not think Madonna pretty?"

"Like a plucked chicken," Remo spat. "I can get you out of the country," he suggested softly.

Fang Yu looked up, suddenly interested.

"You mean to come back with you?" she asked.

Remo smiled. "I can be habit-forming."

"My soul belongs to China," Fang Yu said distantly.

"China's a mess. How can you stand it?"

"We have had many emperors in China's past," she told him quietly. "Some were kind and some cruel. Now the Communists are our emperors and their cruelty is without measure. But all emperors die in their time. Even Communists, which are like dogs who sink their fangs into their own tails. I wish to be here when China awakens."

"Oh," Remo said. He was surprised at how disappointed he felt. He had known Fang Yu less than a day.

"But I could come to visit you," she added quickly. "Stay long time. Maybe you will return to China after the Communists are crushed."

"We gotta get through the night first," Remo pointed out.

"Why PLA want you, Remo?"

"What makes you think they want me?"

"I hear one giving your description to front-desk man."

"And what'd he tell them?"

"You will be insulted."

"Try me. "

"Front-desk man, he say all Westerners look alike to him. Big noses and round eyes stick out. All rest of face lost."

Remo grunted a laugh.

"I think front-desk man spoofing PLA," Fang Yu said. "No one cooperates with PLA if they can help it."

Remo looked down at her, cradled in his arms. "Spoofing?"

"Is that not the correct word? A tourist from Missouri say it once for me. I like that word. Spoofing. Sound sexy."

"Spoofing works for me."

"Excellent," Fang Yu said, snuggling closer. "If PLA return, we will spoof them together."

They were not disturbed by the PLA, however. The whir and ching-a-ling of bicycles of Changan Avenue roused them from sleep. After dressing, they walked leisurely through the lobby and out into the Beijing morning.

"Guess they widened the search for that guy, whoever he was," Remo said airily.

Fang Yu looked up quizzically. Then she led Remo to a waiting taxi. The morning air smelled of cabbage and coal smoke. Fang Yu smelled of rose petals. Remo stayed close to her scent, enjoying it.

At the bustling Beijiao market they took a local bus to the Great Wall.

"This better than tourist bus," Fang Yu explained. "Tourist bus stay only ninety minutes. Have to come back on same bus. This way we can stay as long as necessary."

The bus was crowded. One woman held a squawking chicken on her lap all the way. Once out of the city, the terrain became almost instantly rural. The driver stopped by the roadside when hailed by an old man who was prodding a fat sow with a stick applied to her buttocks.

The man and the sow were allowed to board.

"Equality," Remo muttered. "It's wonderful. Even the pigs ride the bus."

"Pig must pay too," Fang Yu said without humor.

Remo grunted absently. He was watching the mountains.

The switchbacks of the Great Wall of China became visible in the distance, coming in and out of view as the bus rumbled along.

"Do you know about Great Wall?" Fang Yu asked suddenly. "It is mightiest Chinese achievement."

"Not really," Remo said. His thoughts were on Chiun now. Why had he come to Beijing and what was he doing?

"Americans are very proud because they have gone to the moon," Fang Yu told him. "But if an American stands on the moon and looks to China, he could see the Great Wall, so magnificent is it."

"Is that true?" Remo asked in surprise.

"I am told it is. But I have never been to the moon."

"I have," Remo said suddenly.

Fang Yu became excited. "You, Remo? You have been to the moon?"

"Yep. Last night. Several times."

Fang Yu actually flushed and looked away. She gave Remo a playful nudge to the ribs.

"Now I know how to shut you up when I need to." Another nudge. Remo grinned. He couldn't believe how good he felt.

After two hours on the road, the bus trundled onto a parking area. The driver let them off at the Great Wall. Fang Yu took Remo's hands and practically pulled him up the parapet to the top of the Wall itself.

Walking along the undulating Wall was like traveling along a stone bridge laid out by architects who had never heard of level ground. They found a deserted spot in the shadow of a crenellated battlement on the far side and looked northward through one of the narrow slots cut in the wall.

"This section was built during Ming dynasty, many years ago," Fang Yu explained. Pride was strong in her voice and it made Remo a little sad. It told him she would never leave China.

"At first, the Wall was not one wall, but many walls," she was saying. "Then Mongos come."

"Who?"

"Mongos. Surely you know of them. Everyone know of Mongos." Her English was slipping again, reverting to native Chinese speech patterns.

"Oh, Mongols," Remo said. A thought struck him. "Genghis Khan was their leader at one time, wasn't he?"

Fang Yu made a face. "Mongos dwell in north. Very harsh people, and cruel. Not like Chinese. Not cultured. In the old days, the Mongos would come down from steppes on their horses. Nothing could stop them. In the winter, horse and men die on way, but Mongos like locusts. Crush all in their path. Kill men and children. Ravish women. Some days they ride for days, never resting. Mongos do not plant, so they eat whenever they find. If they find no food, a Mongo will stab wound in his horse and drink the blood. Live longer."

"Nice guys," Remo remarked. Fang Yu shook her head. "Not nice at all. These walls were built to keep out Mongos. Then Mongos grow too strong. They conquer China. That was our Yuan dynasty. It was a cruel time." Her voice dropped. "This is a cruel time too. No more Mongos vex us. People's Army become China's own Mongos. Perhaps Mongo blood has poisoned us, I do not know."

Remo took her in his arms.

"Never mind," he said firmly. "Look, I've got to follow this Korean."

"The bus went north, into Mongo land."

"What's up there?"

"Nothing. No rocks, no trees, just snow and steppe and wolves. There is nothing up there in Mongo land. That is why Mongos capture China. They have nothing. Want something. Everyone want something. What do you want, Remo?"

"I want you," he said simply. "But first I want to find that old Korean."

"Then I will go with you into Mongo land."

"That's the answer I was hoping for," Remo said, looking into her dark, frightened eyes.

They kissed under the shadow of the battlement with the knifelike wind sweeping down from the steppes.

Fang Yu continued shivering even after the wind dropped off.

Riding the Iron Rooster train, Remo looked as inconspicuous as feathers on a cat.

They had what Remo learned were soft-seat tickets. Even surrounded by tourists, Remo stuck out in his black T-shirt and chinos. Not a PLA soldier who passed through the car failed to cast an accusing glance in Remo's direction.

One stopped and began hassling Fang Yu in Mandarin, while Remo pretended to look unconcerned.

Their exchange was tight and contentious. The soldier kept repeating whatever it was he was saying. After answering several queries, Fang Yu lost her patience and practically spat her replies back.

Grudgingly she produced some documentation and personal ID.

The soldier looked these documents over and unhappily returned them. Then he stormed from the car. They were not bothered by PLA men after that.

"What was that all about?" Remo asked.

"Deel lae loe moe," Fang Yu muttered, watching the soldier bull past an old woman attempting to negotiate the bouncing aisle.

"What's a deel lae loe moe?" Remo wondered.

Fang Yu's fingertips flew to Remo's lips, silencing him.

"Shhh! Do not say those words aloud! It very embarrassing."

"So what is it?"

"Chinese curse. That man was what we call dai-stupid. Very stupid. He ask me if I accompanied you as guide. I tell him yes. Still he ask questions. Demand to see your travel permit."

"What'd you do?"

"I show it to him, of course. Here."

Remo accepted the passportlike document and looked it over. Inside there were a red stamp and in English a list of cities which Remo was officially entitled to visit.

"Where are we going, by the way?" Remo said.

"Our ticket say Baotou, but we get off one stop early, at Hohhot."

"Hohhot isn't on my list," Remo pointed out.

"That is why we get off there. If they look for you, you will not be where they expect."

"What do we do in Hohhot?" Remo asked, pocketing the document.

"We disappear," Fang Yu said simply.

The train rattled on. Fang Yu dropped off to sleep, leaving Remo to stare out the window in bored silence.

China rolled by, vast, gray, and mountainous. Remo felt as helpless as he'd ever felt in his life. Cut off from Chiun, unable to get around China without help, and forbidden to use his Sinanju powers, he might as well be an ordinary CIA agent on a wild-goose chase. He didn't like the feeling. He was used to fast results, shaking information out of people when necessary and wisecracking his way through situations. No one understood his humor in China. Worst of all, they stared at him like he was a freak.

He mentally damned the political restrictions that kept him from doing his job the most direct way possible. If he had had his way, he would have crashed into the Great Hall of the People and taken the Chinese leadership hostage until Chiun was located and brought to him.

That would have worked. Hell, he'd have been home by now.

"Politics," Remo muttered half-aloud. He hated politics.

Thinking of the Great Hall of the People reminded him of the black limousine. He had meant to ask Fang Yu about it. He looked over. She was asleep, a pillow under her spilling black hair, her glasses still on. She looked like a wise lady owl.

Remo let her sleep. He hoped he'd remember to bring it up again. It was bothering him.

Then, as if sonic invisible genie had decided to grant his wish, Remo saw the black limousine scoot up the road that ran parallel to the railroad bed.

Remo started. It came up from behind like a silent ghost. It looked exactly like the Tiananmen Square limousine, and the one he'd encountered back in the US-right down to its snoutlike grille and double set of headlights.

Remo looked down, but the train's height prevented him from seeing directly into the car interior. No telling who was behind the wheel.

Remo nudged Fang Yu awake. She resisted his prodding.

"Fang Yu!" he hissed urgently.

"Mmmmm?"

"Fang Yu," he repeated, shaking her.

"What?" She blinked, looking around drowsily.

"Take a look and tell me if this is a Chinese limousine."

Fang Yu peered past Remo, sending fragrant rose-petal billows into Remo's nose.

"What you talking about?" she asked poutingly. "I see nothing."

Remo's head snapped around. The limo was gone.

"It was just there," he said doubtfully. Craning his neck, he spotted its rear deck about a hundred yards ahead. It was picking up speed.

"Look," Remo said, pulling her close to the window.

Fang Yu put her hands and cheek to the glass and tried to see past the curving forward cars of the train.

"I do not see car," she said unhappily.

"It's gone now," Remo said. "It was a long black limousine. I saw it go into the Great Hall of the People last night."

Fang Yu resumed her seat. "So what? Official limousine go in and out of Great Hall all the time. They are called Hong Qi-Red Flag limousines."

"I saw one of these in America just a few days ago," Remo told her.

Fang Yu's eyebrows shot up. "Oh?"

"Yeah. It looked nothing like anything I'd ever seen. The chauffeur was Chinese."

"Red Flag limousine," Fang Yu said simply. "Big shot drive them in China. High cadres. People like that."

"What was one doing in America?"

"I do not know," Fang Yu said in a voice that implied bored disinterest.

"Do Red Flag limos have a square grille?" Remo asked intently.

"What is a grille?"

"The front part."

"I suppose so," Fang Yu said vaguely. She was rapidly losing interest in the conversation. "I am going to nap again. Do not wake me again just to look at Chinese limousine, okay?"

She drifted off almost instantly.

Remo put his chin in his hand and looked unhappy. The sudden appearance of the limousine bothered him, but it must have been what Fang Yu had said-an official vehicle. Probably lots of them in China. It didn't explain the one prowling the streets of New Rochelle, but it made more sense than the theory that it was the same one. No way it could be following him, he thought. Only he and Fang Yu knew where they were. Not even Smith had that information.

Chapter 18

Boldbator the Mongol galloped across the barren steppe.

He bounced in his padded trousers on the high wooden saddle, feeling the magnificent muscles of his short-legged horse surge and release with every lunging step and the wind flapping his long brown del caught at the waist with an orange sash.

The blazing sky overheard was like a brilliant blue dome protecting the world. The steppes were an endless plate of dun and old snow extending to every point on the compass.

"Ai yah!" cried Boldbator, the cold air hot in his lungs. He loved the steppe, its vastness and wild freedom. To ride from horizon to horizon was to live.

The trouble was, there were no adventures beyond either horizon for Boldbator the horse Mongol, descended from a long line of free-riding nomads. Once, his kind had ranged from south China to the far lands of Europe, conqueror-kings in the saddle.

No more. Not even Mongolia lay united under the Mongols. Here, in Inner Mongolia, Boldbator was a Chinese serf. And his brothers to the north in Outer Mongolia held firm in an oval of land, allied to Russia, but warily friendly with China, like a lump of cold mutton caught in the mouths of two ravening wolves.

The thought made Boldbator whip his fine cream horse harder. The steed responded, as is the way with a good Mongol horse. Nostrils flaring, he pounded the steppe like the drumming beats of a thousand demons.

Boldbator rode with ghosts this day-the spirits of his mighty ancestors. He wished they were with him now. They would be khans of both Mongolias, as well as the Russias and the soulless Chinese to the south.

One day, he thought, huddled in his bouncing saddle. One day the Next Khan will come . . .

The red dreams of Boldbator the horse Mongol were cast from his active mind by the sight of a long object against the horizon.

His keen eyes, sitting sharp in the crinkles that wind and sun had cut around them, grew steely with interest.

Here was the Great Mongol Road. No vehicle would attempt to pass it in the dead of winter, for there were few villages and no sanctuary to be found on the way.

Boldbator lashed his responsive pony around and veered toward that dim shape.

As he galloped toward it, his eyes saw it for what it was. A bus.

He trotted up to it slowly, for the windows were shattered and its painted sides were riddled with the shiny pits of bullet strikes.

The north wind carried the metallic taste of blood to Boldbator's broad nose.

Boldbator came to a halt only a few yards from the bus. It lay askew the road. There were bodies around it. Green bodies. Soldiers of Beijing.

Boldbator dismounted, and reassured his snorting pony with a firm slap.

Clutching his reins tightly, ready at an instant to remount or, if the worst happened, to slap his pony to safety, he padded forward.

The soldiers were all dead, but one. They lay in sprawled positions. No visible wounds on them. But they were dead nonetheless.

The one who groaned did have a bullet wound, Boldbator discovered. It let the blood bubble up from his heaving chest like a pot coming to a slow boil. With each exhaled breath, more bubbles appeared. A lung wound. Such wounds were invariably fatal.

Boldbator knelt beside the dying soldier.

"What did this to you, dog of Beijing?" he asked quietly.

The soldier turned glazed eyes to Boldbator and said simply, "A guaihu in the form of a man."

"By what name is this devil known?"

The soldier inhaled. His chest wound swallowed the newly formed bubbles. He gasped two words, "Finish me."

Boldbator nodded. He unsheathed his knife and with a soft caressing glance of its edge across the soldier's exposed throat, sent him into eternity.

Then Boldbator led his nervous pony around the bus. There were no other living ones-no hint off what had befallen the soldiers.

Boldbator did find tracks. Jeep tracks. They led north.

Boldbator remounted and rode after them. He did not ride hard. Who knew but that he rode toward his death, and why should a man hurry toward his appointed hour-even a brave Mongol?

Many li along, Boldbator came to an abandoned jeep. A soldier sat at the wheel, back stiff, eyes staring ahead as if waiting for the world to end.

He did not stir as Boldbator approached, and the Mongol realized he was frozen. Dismounting, he passed a hand over the man's sightless eyes. Dead. The wolves would get him. Good for the wolves, thought Boldbator.

He saw that the jeep's gas gauge was on empty, and two sets of footprints, one heavy, one very light, led north.

Boldbator stared north a very long time. What manner of men could lay waste to Chinese soldiers?

"Mongol men!" he cried in answer. Grinning fiercely, he leapt atop his mount and charged in the direction the footprints led him.

He knew not how many li he would have to ride, but it mattered not. He was a man among men. So, too, would these two be.

In his wild heart, Boldbator rejoiced at the thought of encountering them.

Night had fallen and the moon was high and full, a lighter blue than the afternoon sky, but blue nonetheless. It was a good moon. Strong, giving much light.

The wind from the north chopped at Boldbator's weathered bronze face and padded sheepskin del. He had pulled his earflaps under his chin to protect his ears. In this wind, they might freeze and have to be cut off. It was a terrible thing to have to cut a man's frozen ears off to save the rest of the man, for Boldbator had done this once, years ago. A worse thing still, to cut off one's own ear.

Boldbator rode on. Clouds came. They swallowed the strong moon with a darkening power beyond appeal.

Enough silver-blue light bled through to show Boldbator his horse's shaggy mane, but that was all.

He lost the footprints in the darkness, which he cursed.

The smell of a cooking fire came from the west. Boldbator rode toward that. He must find hospitality, for if he lay down on the steppe with his horse, the wolves would get them both.

Boldbator had seen a single steppe wolf bring down a fully grown horse. The whinnying was terrible, even to a Mongol.

There were four circular gers, their painted-wood doors facing south, where the bitter north wind could not insinuate itself into the felt-covered Mongol tents.

Food smells mingled with the dung-smoke aroma like a warm welcome.

Boldbator rode up to the ger from which smoke rose from a slim black stovepipe. He nudged his horse to give a warning whinny so that the inhabitant of the circular tent would not be startled by his approach.

"Sain Baina!" Boldbator called out.

A man pushed open the door and eyed him stolidly. His face was unseeable, for the strong light behind threw it into darkness.

"Sain Baino," he rumbled, adding grumpily, "Another visitor. And on such a night. Why come you here, man?"

"I am Boldbator, son of Gongonching," Boldbator said, dismounting. "I seek two great warriors who slew Chinese soldiers like true Mongols. I smell by your smoke that you eat late."

"We do have visitors, loud one. But warriors they are not."

Boldbator tethered his horse to a rack and carried his wooden saddle into the ger.

Gathered around the black stove were an old woman and three Mongol sons. And with them a scrawny shivering Chinese youth and a very old man in a sheepskin cloak who looked more Mongol than Chinese, but seemed to be neither.

"I am Boldbator," he proclaimed loudly. "Mongol among Mongols."

To his surprise, the old one returned his greeting in perfect Khalkha Mongol.

"I am but a traveler from a distant land," he said, "sojourning in the Land of Eternal Blue."

"And this shivering one?" Boldbator asked.

"He is a Chinese. My servant."

"A hardier servant would be advised for one who journeys through this harsh land."

"Join us, friend," the head of the household said. Boldbator saw that he too was an old man, but sturdy. He had the wind-blasted face of a lifelong horseman.

Smiling, Boldbator took his place on the Oriental rug, where the rest of the party was pulling bits of meat off a roasted sheep-all but the old man in the sheepskin cloak, who ate cold rice from a wooden bowl with his fingers.

Boldbator pulled off a greasy glob of mutton with his fingers and shoved it into his mouth. As he chewed, he spoke.

"I rode far this night, after seeing a sight I never before thought I would see."

No one said anything. They continued their eating.

"I came upon a bus," Boldbator continued, "deserted on the steppe, and all around it dead Chinese soldiers, as if whelmed by a tremendous wind."

"Perhaps it is the sweet wind that has blown through history," suggested the old mar without looking up from his rice.

Boldbator caught a flash of his clear eyes. They were like agates in the slits of his lids. He was very old, much older than Boldbator had first thought.

"I know of no such wind," said Boldbator.

"Nor I," said the head of the household. "And I, Darum, have lived on the steppe all these fifty years."

"Fifty years is young," the other old man said.

Boldbator grunted through his mutton. Grease dribbled down his chin. He caught some of it in his blunt fingers and sucked there clean with lip-smacking relish.

"The men who did this were Mongols," he said. "True Mongols of the old days. I followed their tracks all night, not caring if I died on the frozen steppe if my last sight was of such warriors."

"You speak like a true son of Genghis," the old one said.

"We are all sons of Ssutu-Bodgo, the Heaven-Sent."

"I have yet to meet any warriors," the old man said flatly.

"What name do you go by, old one?" Boldbator asked suddenly.

"It is not a man's name which speaks loudest, but his deeds."

"Well-spoken, and truly spoken," returned Boldbator, dropping the subject.

The conversation took other directions. The restiveness in Beijing, the wolf problem, which was severe this hungry winter, and the long months untii lambing season. Eventually it came around to the destination of the old man and his Chinese serf.

"I will go to the Gobi next," he said, putting aside his bowl.

"And then?" Boldbator wondered.

"I will know when I have reached the Gobi."

"I see no alien horse tethered outside."

"Horses can be bought, even on the steppe-if one offers enough gold."

Boldbator roared his amusement. The others joined in.

"There is not enough gold in the world to induce a true Mongol to part with his horse in winter!" Darum scoffed.

The old man was silent for a long time.

"I seek the treasure of Temujin," he said in a firm but quiet voice.

Silence greeted his pronouncement.

"It has never been found," Boldbator said eventually. "Even the Khan's true burial site has remained a mystery through the ages."

"I will give ten percent of what I find to any Mongol who rides with me to the place of the treasure and enables me to bear it safely away."

"I would ride with any Mongol who would dare, but not with an old man and a shivering Chinese," Boldbator countered. "Otherwise I would be a fool who throws his life away." "What else are you doing with your life, Mongol who was prepared to die for a glimpse of courage?"

Boldbator pounded his chest. "I ride. That is life itself."

"And when you are old?"

"I will watch my sons ride if I still walk the earth. Perhaps I will live long enough to witness the coming of the next khan. For that is what I truly live for."

"A man who shares in the treasure of Temujin need not settle for waiting."

Boldbator paused. His almond eyes narrowed.

"He could be the Next Khan," the old man said pointedly.

Boldbator toyed with a stringy flap of mutton that hung off the burnt carcass, as if considering whether or not it would be good eating.

At length he spoke. "What are you, old man?"

"I am a Korean."

"I could not follow a Korean, even if you were the Master of Sinanju himself, striding out of the mists of history to stand by the side of the Khan to Come."

"You know of the Master of Sinanju, Mongol?" the Korean asked, interest silvering in his voice.

General laughter greeted the old Korean's question. Even the old woman laughed, exposing strong shovel-shaped teeth in which strands of mutton were caught.

"All Mongols know what the Master of Sinanju was to the khans of the old days. Woe to Mongolia that those days perished," Boldbator muttered darkly.

Darum lifted up a cup of fermented mare's milk and offered a toast.

"May they return again one day," he said solemnly.

"They may be closer than you think," said the old Korean, who declined to join in the toast, offering his cup instead to his Chinese servant. The Chinese spat out his milk and began coughing. Everyone roared anew-all but the coughing Chinese and the pensive old Korean.

"Why say you that, old one?" Boldbator wondered, after the laughter had died.

"What would you say if I said the Master of Sinanju was abroad in Mongolia on this very eve?"

"I would say, where is your proof?"

"And I would say that you saw the very proof in the Chinese corpses freezing on the steppe."

Boldbator's eyes shifted to the old Korean.

"I would agree with you, then," he muttered.

"Would you follow the Master of Sinanju if he asked it of you, horse Mongol?"

Boldbator raised his cup. The others followed his gesture.

"I would follow the Master of Sinanju to the ends of the earth as his slave," Boldbator announced proudly.

"Think carefully on your words, horse Mongol. For what if I said I could make the Master of Sinanju appear before your eyes, tonight, on this very eve, in this very ger?"

"I would speak them to his face," asserted Boldbator. "But first I would ask you how you could work such magic."

"Words," intoned the old Korean. "Six in number."

"They would have to be powerful words," Boldbator said carefully, his milk forgotten.

"They are."

"Then speak them."

The old Korean stood up suddenly, flinging off his sheepskin cloak, to stand revealed in silken robes the color of a royal phoenix.

"I am the Master of Sinanju!" cried the old Korean.

Whereupon Boldbator the Mongol touched his head to the Oriental rug in the prescribed full bow.

"My horse is yours," he said simply. And he wept with joy.

Chapter 19

The Iron Rooster pulled into Hohhot after darkness had fallen.

Fang Yu had to tell Remo they had arrived. He had no way of knowing otherwise. He had become a little irritable having to depend on her to find his way around. In a nearly thirteen-hour ride he had seen no English signs at any of the train stops.

Fang Yu led the way to a forward car.

Suddenly she turned and pushed Remo back.

"Go back," she hissed. "Go back."

Remo looked past her and saw the soldier who had earlier confronted them over Remo's documents.

"He know this not your stop," Fang Yu said bitterly.

"Damn," Remo muttered. He led the way back, punching the square button that made the automatic doors between the cars roll aside. Most had to be encouraged with a hard sideways shove.

They passed through the cars. Remo could tell the nosy soldier was still following them. His heavy boots made a distinctive clopping.

"What we do?" Fang Yu whispered.

"Step ahead of me," Remo urged.

Fang Yu hurried by. She hit the square button and the door rolled aside.

Remo followed her. The door slid shut behind him.

He stopped. Fang Yu hesitated. He urged her to keep going with an angry shake of his head.

Fang Yu picked up her pace.

Behind Remo, the steel door rolled aside. The soldier walked right into Remo's open-handed blow. His skull made a melon-imploding sound in the sudden sac his head became. Remo was disappointed. It didn't go pong. It was more of a hong sound.

Quickly Remo stuffed the body under the platforms between the cars. Then he went after Fang Yu.

"Come on," he said, pulling her by the hand.

"What happen?" she demanded excitedly. " Where soldier?"

Fang Yu's question was answered as they passed between cars and she spotted a patch of green under her feet.

She gasped like a stepped-on cat.

"What you do? Why you do that?" she said angrily.

"What else was I supposed to do?" Remo hurled back.

"He was Chinese soldier. You think you can just kill Chinese soldier like this is Western movie? He will be found. Questions raised."

"So?"

"They behead criminals in China. You not know that?"

"I don't care," Remo said, squeezing her hand lightly.

Fang Yu went silent as they passed through several softseat cars, where their English might be understood. They found an exit car and stepped into the darkness of the Hohhot station.

Fang Yu waited until they had departed the station on foot before she resumed her argument.

"You crazy?" she spat. "There will be a search when that man is found."

"Let them search," Remo growled. "We had to get off the train."

"We could have got off at Baotou. Stayed few days. Come back. Get off at Hohhot then. Why you in such a big rush?"

"My mission is important."

"Your mission matter a lot if we end up on courtyard with our heads in baskets!" she hissed.

Remo stopped. He looked down at her, his eyes angry.

"Look, get off my back! I can handle it. What's the big deal?"

"You want to know big deal?" she said, shaking an ivory fist in his face. "Big deal is that government very anxious since Tiananmen. Soldiers find body, they make example of innocent peasants and workers. People punished for your crime. Suffer very much. Never see family again."

Remo opened his mouth to vent a retort. But Fang Yu's point started sinking in. "Sorry," he said.

"You not the one who will be sorry," she said excitedly. "If you want Fang Yu's help, you do as Fang Yu say. Not make trouble for poor oppressed Chinese people. We have enough trouble without big-nosed foreign devil causing more."

"You're right," Remo said earnestly. "I apologize."

Fang Yu frowned. "You promise you behave?"

"Scout's honor," Remo said. Her expression didn't change, so he said it again in plain English. "I promise. Are we friends again?"

"When we stop?" Fang Yu asked unhappily.

"I think it was when you called me a big-nosed foreign devil," Remo said seriously. Then he added, "Never."

And he looked both ways in the Hohhot alley before he took her up in his arms and kissed her under the Mongolian moon.

"Okay, what's next?" Remo asked as they walked along.

"Can you ride horse?"

"I went on a pony ride once," he admitted. "But that was back in my orphanage days."

"You orphan?"

"Yes."

"Remo! I orphan too! Cultural Revolution orphan. My parents sent into countryside because they came from bad family."

"Bad?"

"Intellectual. In those days intellectuals were considered bad people by Mao. Peasants and workers were always good-even when they steal and lie. Mao say they good. Everyone go along, because we Chinese. What choice have we? Crazy times. These times are not so crazy, just terrible."

Hohhot proved to be a fairly modern city, Remo found. The main difference between it and what Remo had seen in China so far was the preponderance of Mongolian-script signs instead of Chinese calligraphy. Its value was lost on Remo, who could read neither.

Dress was different in Hohhot, Remo saw as they wended their way through twisting side streets. Native Mongolians went about in colorful long cloth coats girdled at the waist by a sash. They looked as Asian as the passing Chinese, but their features were broader, complexions rawer, their noses more buttonlike.

The Chinese on the street were dressed in identical unisex blue work uniforms. Fang Yu explained that they helped the backward nomadic Mongols manage their capital city.

At one point they passed a mosque with a clock painted on its face. According to the immobile hands, it was 12:45 and would be for eternity.

Fang Yu found a small hotel that didn't ask questions, although Remo got a thorough looking-over by the broadfaced woman at the front desk. She looked more Cheyenne than Mongolian.

Fang Yu handed Remo a key and lifted one for herself.

"Separate rooms?" he said in surprise.

Fang Yu blushed. "What will Mongolians think-a civilized Chinese woman in same room with foreign devil?"

Remo couldn't tell if she was joking until she punched him in the ribs playfully. He gave her a sheepish smile.

They went up the stairs together and parted at Remo's door with a quick kiss.

"Stay in room," Fang Yu whispered. "I make all arrangements."

"You sure you'll be okay alone?"

"Not worry. Chinese women can take care of selves."

Remo found the room cramped and filled with overbuilt furniture. The bed was so high it looked as if it would float to the ceiling, taking the white damask bedspread with it.

What appeared to be a spittoon stood at the foot of the bed.

There was also a phone, and Remo went to it eagerly.

Unfortunately, the instructions were limited to Mongolian and Chinese.

Remo whirled the rotary dial several times, hoping to hit the outside-access number. An assortment of pops and hisses assailed his ears. Finally he got an excited voice speaking Mongolian-or possibly Chinese-but not English, as he found after a ten-minute attempt to get the operator to summon someone who spoke or even had heard of English to the phone.

Remo hung up in disgust.

"So much for calling Smith," he grumbled.

He threw himself on the bed and practically hit the ceiling on the rebound.

Angrily he folded his bare arms and wished he had brought a change of clothes. There was no shower in the room. In fact, there wasn't a bathroom. The thing that stood at the foot of his bed was not a spittoon, he realized, but a chamber pot.

The spittoon was the narrow-necked vessel by the telephone.

Remo decided to ignore both conveniences.

So he closed his eyes and went instantly to sleep. It was easier than dealing with the complexities of Inner Mongolia.

Chapter 20

Dawn warmed the frost-rimed grasslands of the Mongolian steppes.

Huddled on the communal bed, nestled with the entire Darum family and the single Chinese, Boldbator woke as if struck by lightning.

He crawled out from the snoring cat-pile of family members. Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju, was awake and rolling up his sleeping mat, which he placed in his great steamer trunk. He had slept apart from the others.

"Command me," said Boldbator.

"I crave tea," Chiun said blandly.

Boldbator blinked. "A woman could do that for you," he protested.

"But I have asked you," said the Master of Sinanju, locking the trunk. "Tea. And none of your Mongolian tsai with yak butter and salt. Lurn jiin would be excellent, for we have a long journey before us."

Boldbator set the brass pot to boiling. He made the tea in silence. The scent aroused the others. They climbed off the heated kang that kept them alive in the insufferable cold, stretching and blinking like contented cats.

Cold mutton filled their bellies. The Chinese looked as if he had not slept at all. He lighted a cigarette from the stove.

"What will you require for the journey?" asked Boldbator, pouring the tea into a delicate porcelain cup the Master held in both hands. He sat by the stove. He wore a green del with a white sash. The skirted coat fitted him perfectly.

"All the Mongols you can muster," Chiun replied at length.

Boldbator's hard eyes sought the sons of Darum. "You, you, and you-are you with me?"

"Aye," they said without hesitation.

"And I too," said Darum. "I tire of winter inactivity. My blood runs sluggish from stove heat and dung-smoke. I yearn for free air."

"So be it," Boldbator said sharply. "We are five. Are five Mongols enough for you, O Master?"

The Master of Sinanju shook his aged head. "I will need fifty times five for what I contemplate. For I expect trouble from the Chinese."

"The Chinese do not give trouble, to horse Mongols," Boldbator boasted. "They are troubled by horse Mongols!"

And the ger reverberated with laughter once more.

Within an hour, they were a dozen-all the men who could ride from the four clustered yurts. The women waved them off with stoic pride.

The Master of Sinanju rode Boldbator's fine cream horse.

He had exchanged his sandals for felt boots, completing the traditional costume of a Mongol horseman.

"You honor us," said Darum.

"I wish to pass unrecognized for who I am," Chiun said simply.

"What do we seek in the Gobi wastes?"

"A broken dragon."

"I have trekked the length and breadth of Mongolia," Boldbator said, "and I have heard no tales of any dragon, broken or otherwise."

"It is there," Chiun said simply.

"If one dwells in the Gobi," Boldbator vowed, "we will find it."

They rode all day, the Chinese on a pony, the Master of Sinanju's trunk balanced on a spitting, complaining double-humped camel. It was no weather for camels, but even a stubborn dromedary knew better than to refuse a Mongol.

They rode north, over the relentlessly flat steppe. At each cluster of yurts and every Outpost town they encountered, Boldbator shouted greetings at the top of his mighty lungs.

"Ho, Mongols! I am Boldbator, ally of the Master of Sinanju. We seek the treasure of Temujin. Who will ride with us?"

At Baiyinnar, the first town they reached, they collected thirty Mongols. Only five joined the caravan at the next ail. But by the noon hour, the unsentimental winter sun looked down on over a hundred Mongols riding proud. At each stop, Boldbator bartered for white horsetails.

In the end, nine white horsetails hung from a makeshift standard top. Only then did Boldbator carry it high and proud.

The Master of Sinanju, riding beside him, nodded his appreciation to see the honored standard of Genghis Khan blowing in the north wind after so many barren centuries.

"Who will ride behind this standard?" Boldbator cried when they reached the next town.

And this time, no Mongol off riding age refused him.

But in every town there are unfriendly eyes and ears, and soon the word had spread throughout Inner Mongolia that the Master of Sinanju had returned to the land of Temujin, and that he had gathered behind him a mighty army.

Word reached Beijing about the time they came to the undulant edge of the Gobi, marked by a patchwork of straw designed to keep the dunes from eating into the steppe. Beyond this crisscross bulwark, the dunes rose high and purple in the dying sunlight.

The Master of Sinanju called for the caravan to come to a halt. The sun was low in the sky now, bronzing the dunes, which as the horses kneaded them with their tireless hooves, made whispering sounds of welcome-or warning.

The Master of Sinanju cast his eyes to true north. Then he spat words at his servant, Zhang Zingzong, who went to fetch a teak box from the camel-borne traveling trunk.

Boldbator watched in silent interest as a silver skull was removed from the box. The Master off Sinanju brought its hollow side to his face and stared into its bone emptiness.

Boldbator leaned closer in his saddle. His chin lifted. He could see that the Master of Sinanju stared through the sockets.

"We go on," Chiun said at last, handing the skull back to the waiting Zhang Zingzong with a careless toss.

Boldbator looked back upon his ranks of Mongols. His heart swelled with pride.

"We ride!" he proclaimed.

And the horde moved on, their hooves on the gravelly sand like the constant drone of invisible insects.

They rode another hour. They would have ridden all night, since darkness had fallen upon them, and missed the dragon, but for the Chinese rider, Zhang.

He rode as if every bone was arthritic, and was the butt of constant joking among the Mongols-banter that was not lost on him even if he did not understand the language.

Hunched over the pommel of his saddle, he shivered in mute misery, a constant cigarette bobbling off his loose lips.

They were riding at a steady mechanical pace that kept the horses fresh when Zhang Zingzong's pony gave a sudden whinny and stumbled.

In the near-dark the cry "Wolf!" ran the length of the mass of horsemen.

But it was no wolf, they saw as the pony picked itself up, the Chinese clinging to the saddle.

They laughed at Zhang Zingzong and called him a clumsy food grower.

Laughing, Boldbator ordered the group to press on.

"Hold," said the Master of Sinanju suddenly. He angled his horse-Boldbator's horse, really-over to the spot where the pony had stumbled. His hazel eyes narrowed as he raked the stiff sands with his cold gaze.

Boldbator joined him. "What do you know?" he asked anxiously.

"No horse stumbles on mere sand."

"Perhaps hot ash from his cigarette caused the pony to falter." But Boldbator saw that Zhang Zingzong's lips still clung to a half-smoked butt.

The Master of Sinanju dismounted. He knelt in the Gobi gravel, which cracked under his feet like a thin layer off ice.

His clawlike hand went into the sand and rooted around. He inhaled sharply, a gasp, half-surprise and half-joy.

"What do you feel?" demanded Boldbator as the Mongols drew their horses into a protective circle.

Chiun shrugged. "Gather the horses," he said suddenly. "Have them form four lines, like the spokes of a mighty wheel."

It took some lusty shouting and shoving on Boldbator's part, but the horsemen were finally mustered into position.

"Now have them walk in a circle," Chiun commanded.

The horsemen obeyed Boldbator's lung-splitting order. They guided their steeds-mares and stallions alike-around and around like satellites orbiting an unknowable world.

The horses wore down the crust of frozen sand until it no longer made its whispery complaint. Soon the gentle rise and fall became a pocked flatness, and still the horses promenaded.

Boldbator stood off from the equine wheel with Chiun, Zhang, and the camel. He held the reins of their mounts.

"We will have to camp soon," he muttered, casting an eye to the sun-gored western horizon.

"We will camp here," Chiun replied. "The dragon lies here."

"Where?" Boldbator asked, looking over the growing circle in the gravellike sand.

"The next horse to stumble will show us."

Two horses stumbled, actually. One, and in quick succession, the other.

"Stop!" Chiun cried. "All of you. Dismount!"

The Mongols stopped in place, retaining their perfect wheellike formations.

Boldbator followed the Master of Sinanju into the perfectly arrayed lines of horsemen. He lit a yak-butter tallow to provide light as Chiun knelt in the sand.

A hump of dirty brown bone stood up from a pock of sand. Boldbator touched it carefully.

"It feels like stone," he announced. "Truly, these are the bones of a fierce dragon."

"Order your Mongols to uncover every last rib," the Master of Sinanju commanded.

And with pride in his voice, Boldbator did as he was told. Gladly he did this, for a mere day ago he had been a young Mongol pounding the steppe in frustration and loneliness, but tonight he was a leader of warriors, the next khan.

They uncovered the dragon with their bare hands. Its thick ribs were cracked and broken. No shred of flesh or hide clung to them. The dragon had died an impossibly long time ago. It had a very long neck and a long tail. Its midsection was unusually stout.

"This dragon is strangely formed," Darum remarked as it lay naked under scores of raised tallows. The light was fitful and haunting.

"No doubt it is Chinese," Boldbator grunted. "No Mongol dragon would let itself grow fat like this one."

Oblivious of this, the Master of Sinanju ranged around the exposed skeleton, his mouth compressed in thought, his eyes like slits of steel, cold and implacable.

He stopped at the skull of the dragon. It was blunt-toothed for a dragon, Boldbator noted. Others remarked on this too.

But the Master of Sinanju paid them no heed. He knelt before the dragon's skull and with delicate fingers brushed the remnants of sand from the narrow stone brow.

His whisking nails exposed incised markings on the petrified bone. In silence he regarded them.

No one disturbed him.

At length the Master of Sinanju stood up and turned to face the expectant Mongol cavalrymen.

"Hear me, descendants of the Golden Horde!" he proclaimed. "Take to your mounts, for we ride to Karakorum!"

And giving a lusty shout of triumph, the descendants of Genghis Khan roared their approval with one voice.

All save Boldbator. Upon hearing the name of the ancient seat of Mongol power, he began weeping with joy.

They were riding into history. All this in a mere day.

Chapter 21

Remo snapped awake at the tentative rapping on his hotel door.

He eased off the bed and floated to the rough-hewn panel, feeling refreshed and alert, asking, "Who is it?"

"Fang Yu."

He opened the door and the Chinese girl slipped in, shutting it quickly after her.

"Trouble?" Remo asked.

"The dead man has caused it," she whispered. "We cannot wait. We must ride north tonight."

"Lead the way," Remo said.

They went out, sneaking from the hotel the back way.

It was snowing, and snowing hard.

Fang Yu led Remo to what he took to be a Mongolian tavern.

Inside the solid oak door, it was exactly that--a saloon.

Wide bronze faces regarded them with a kind of curious indifference. Fang Yu looked around, then nodded. She strode boldly over to a corner table, Remo following, his eyes swiveling around the room. If there was going to be trouble, he wanted to be ready.

Fang Yu presented Remo to a thick-necked Mongolian man who sat nursing a cup of steaming-hot wine. He wore a black leather vest and quiltlike pants. His face had all the color and expression of a bronze gong.

Fang Yu rattled off a quick burst of Chinese.

"Speak English," the Mongol said brusquely. "I do not wish our conversation to be overheard. There are many ears here, three times as many as there are heads to carry them."

"This is the man," Fang Yu repeated in English.

"Can he not speak for himself?" the Mongol grunted thickly.

"Call me Remo."

"I am called Kula- Can you ride, one called Remo?"

"Yes."

"You lie!" Kula the Mongol spat. "This Chinese girl tells me you cannot."

"I can learn," Remo said confidently.

Kula grunted. "The price is double."

"What?" Fang Yu demanded hotly. "We agreed on price!"

Kula took a sip from his cup, never taking his eyes off Remo. "He cannot ride, so he must be taught. It will slow us."

"I told you he cannot ride!" Fang Yu spat.

"But he lied to me. Lying adds to the risk. If he lies about one thing, why not another? The price is double," Kula repeated, draining his cup.

Remo drew Fang Yu out of earshot of the sullen-eyed Mongol. "Forget it," he said. "We don't need this guy."

"We do," Fang Yu said. "He is Kula-the bandit chief of this province. Without him, there is no safe passage."

"We'll make our own safe passage," Remo said loudly enough to be overheard.

The Mongol laughed at that. "I like him," Kula burst out. "But the price is still double."

"Very well," Fang Yu said reluctantly. "We pay. Five hundred yuan."

"Done!" said Kula the Mongol, slapping his cup on the age-stained table. "We ride now. Come."

The Mongol stood up, hitching up his leather belt. A short dagger dangled from it by a silver chain. Gesturing, he led them to a rear door and into an adjoining stable. Horses neighed at their approach.

"Have you no better clothes, white foreigner?" Kula demanded. "The steppe winds will lift the skin off your meat in sheets and split the muscles from your bones."

"I lost my luggage in Hong Kong," Remo said sourly.

"The Chinese are looking for a murderer," Kula rumbled throatily. "Since you will ride a Mongol horse, you must dress like a Mongol."

"No chance," Remo said.

"Please," Fang Yu said, her hand going to Remo's bare arm.

Noticing the contact, Kula grunted. "What one hears of the prowess of Westerners must be untrue. Of course, she is Chinese. No Mongol woman would have you."

Remo and Fang Yu ignored the crude remark.

"Please Remo," Fang Yu implored. "Do not be stubborn now. Our lives are in danger."

Remo relented with a mute nodding of his head. He accepted a stack of padded clothes that resembled a rolled-up sleeping bag.

He went behind a stall and changed. He returned looking like an overgrown child who had been bundled up by a parent.

"That better," Fang Yu said.

"I'm not wearing this hat," Remo muttered, raising a cap with long floppy earflaps.

"Your ears will fall off," Kula said curtly.

"So my ears fall off," Remo said, looking around for a place to dump the cap.

Kula shrugged. "They are your ears," he said.

Remo stuffed the hat in a pocket, just in case.

The Mongol led a snow-white horse out of a stable bay.

"This is a good horse," Kula grunted, throwing a silverfiligreed wood saddle over the horse's back. "You will ride him. He is good for a new rider."

"If you say so," Remo said dubiously. The horse shook its long head nervously.

When Kula had finished tying the saddle, Remo climbed onto the horse. His felt boots found the iron stirrups. The high pommel and flared back of the saddle made him ride high, as if on a camel's hump. He hoped it wouldn't tip over.

The others saddled up and led their horses outside.

Kula the Mongol looked back. "Why you wait?" he grunted.

"How do you start this thing?" Remo asked sheepishly.

"You never see cowboy movies?" Fang Yu demanded.

"Refresh my memory."

"Shake reins."

Remo found the reins and gave them a shake. Desultorily the horse ambled on.

Outside the stable, the others mounted their steeds, and together the three clopped up the street.

"This isn't so bad," Remo said as he got used to the muscular rhythms of his horse. "What's his name?"

"Mongol horses do not have names," Kula spat.

"Shhh," Fang Yu hissed. A trio of PLA solders wearing drab greatcoats sauntered around a corner.

"Cover for me," Remo said. He pulled his cap out and hastily donned it. He snapped the earflaps together under his chin and pretended to discover a loose bit of silver filigree on his saddle. This kept his face averted from the soldiers.

The PLA soldiers cast wary eyes in Kula's direction. He returned their suspicious glares with a bold, challenging look.

The soldiers trudged on through the gathering snow.

They cantered beyond the city limits, where clusters of felt-covered circular tents dotted the flat white plains. Kula steered them clear of these, saying, "Mongol gers. Outsiders call them yurts. Many gers make an ail."

"How you people, keep from freezing to death in this cold?" Remo asked.

"You will see," Kula grunted. "For we will pass the night in a ger if we are lucky enough to find one this night."

"And if we don't?" Remo asked.

Kula shrugged fatalistically. "Then our dead flesh will feed the wolves of the steppes."

Remo looked to Fang Yu. The Chinese woman looked stolidly ahead, controlling her fear. Remo felt no fear. Instead, he felt apart and alone in the great endless steppe.

They had cleared the outer perimeter of yurts when suddenly Remo felt his horse sink under him. His feet touched the ground on either side of the saddle. Hastily he stepped free, one foot tangled in an iron stirrup.

"What the hell is going on?" Remo yelled as he jerked his foot free of the remaining stirrup. Just in time, because with a whinnying and a kicking of his legs, the horse rolled onto his back and started to squirm in the dirt like a dog scratching his back.

Which, as Remo found his feet, was exactly what the horse was doing. It rolled and fling its mighty legs at the falling snow, struggling with its ungainly weight.

Kula and Fang Yu brought their mounts around and watched. Fang Yu covered her mouth with one mittened hand. Her eyes squeezed tight with repressed humor. Kula, less conscientious, roared deep throaty laughter.

Feeling foolish, Remo growled, "How do you get a horse to stop doing that?"

"You do not," Kula rambled. "A Mongol would not let a horse do this in the first place."

"I'm no Mongol."

"That is evident," Kula said with dry impassivity. But there was humor in his twinkling eyes.

Remo turned to Fang Yu. "How about you? Any helpful hints?"

Fang Yu tittered into her hand and looked away.

Finally the horse clambered up to its feet. It waited patiently, flicking snow off its tail.

Remo approached carefully, touching the saddle. It was still cinched tight, so he remounted.

They got under way again.

Several hundred yards further along, the familiar sinking sensation returned.

This time Remo threw himself clear. He hit the steppe and jumped back angrily.

"What is your problem?" he yelled at the squirming horse.

The laughter of the others burned his ears. Remo reached out and grabbed the bit.

"This is getting old fast!" Remo said tightly. And with a quick heave, he pulled the horse to his feet.

To his surprise, the pony responded. Remo mounted again. He nudged the horse's flanks with his heels. It stepped smartly.

"You are learning," Kula said soberly.

"I'm a quick study," Remo said smugly.

"But so is the pony," Kula added.

A little further along, they came to a tussock of yellow grass. Remo's horse paused and, lowering its head, sank its teeth into a tuft.

Angrily Remo pulled up on the reins. The horse snorted, but straightened its muscular neck. He tried again. Remo pulled him back. After several minutes of pulling and nudging its flanks, the horse gave up on the tempting grass.

Remo urged him along, and soon caught up with the others, who had not waited this time.

As he drew alongside the other horses, Kula nodded in silent approval.

"Mongol horse or not," Remo said, "I'm calling him Smitty."

They rode on for hours. The darkness was relieved only by the moon. Clouds obscured it. And still they rode. Remo had gotten tired of his earflaps slapping his neck with each bouncing step of his horse and discovered they could be snapped at the top. This left his ears exposed to the cold dry air, but it also enabled him to hear sounds the others could not.

Distantly a wolf bayed. The wind made constant background sound. With nothing to inhibit its sweep down from the cold north, it blew cold and constant, like a wall pushing a million slim glittering blades before it.

The world was a barren desolation in every direction.

It seemed to Remo that if the Master of Sinanju was anywhere on the steppe, finding him would be more luck that anything else.

He felt very sad, and lonely. Lonelier than he'd felt in a long time. He angled his steed closer to Fang Yu, but other than a sidelong glance cast in his direction, he got nothing from her, not warmth, not comfort, and barely recognition.

"I smell blood," Remo said after a long silence broken only by their mounts' restless snorting.

"Ai yah!" barked Kula. "A Westerner whose nose is keener than a horse's! If there was blood in the air, the horses would know it first. My horse is not nervous. Nor is yours."

"To the northeast," Remo said stubbornly. He pointed in the direction from which the smell came.

"It is the smell of dung fires we seek, not blood," Kula said with finality.

"I'm looking for a man," Remo persisted. "And where he goes, blood sometimes spills." He noticed he was talking like a Mongol. He hoped that was all that would rub off.

Kula looked to Fang Yu. Fang Yu shrugged. Her look said all Westerners are mad.

"Look, I know what I'm talking about," Remo snapped.

"If you are so certain of your nose, foreigner," Kula said, "why do you not ride in the direction it tells you?"

"Good idea," said Remo, forking his mount away with a rightward twist of the reins. He spanked Smitty's cream flank. The horse broke into a gallop.

Kula and Fang Yu exchanged looks.

"Ai yah!" Kula cried, taking off after Remo. Fang Yu brought up the rear, muttering, "Crazy foreign devil."

They galloped in a loose pattern. Overhead, the moon ghosted in and out of the clouds.

During one period of exposed moonlight, they spied a brushed-silver hump in the distance. Light snow swirled around it.

A wolf bayed, very close.

Kula reached over to Fang Yu's reins and drew her horse closer to his.

"Wolves," he said ominously. "We must be careful."

"What about him?" Fang Yu asked.

"He is either mad or foolish. I cannot stop a madman and would not bother with the other."

As they watched, Remo pulled up at an abandoned bus and dismounted.

"He has sense enough to hold on to his horse, at least," Kula muttered.

"He is an American," Fang Yu said. "Cowboy blood runs in them all."

Kula nodded at this undeniable morsel of wisdom. There must be some skill in the American, for he himself smelled the cold tang of blood now.

They watched Remo move among humps of snow surrounding the bus. Patches of green showed here and there when Remo brushed at them with an uncovered hand.

"PLA men," Fang Yu said.

"This must be the bus they hijacked," Remo called back. "These guys are all dead."

Kula let his horse approach, Fang Yu trailing, her eyes searching every direction.

"What killed them?" Kula demanded from afar. He would approach this place of sudden death no closer than necessary to carry on conversation.

"I think my Korean did it," Remo admitted, kicking loose snow back onto a gruesome dead face.

"Old Duck Tang?" Fang Yu asked doubtfully. "How he do that?"

"He just does it," Reno said, looking all around.

Kula dismounted, one hand tight on his reins. He examined several bodies. "I see no marks of death," he noted, low-voiced.

"That's how my Korean works."

"You say an old man did this?" Kula questioned.

"Yeah, and without this bus, he had to go on by foot."

"Then he would not survive, not without the warmth of a horse to keep him alive," Kula pronounced. "You might as well return to your own land. Unless you wish to carry his frozen carcass home."

"Hold this," Remo said, shoving Smitty's reins into Kula's sands. He climbed into the bus and looked around.

While Remo was preoccupied inside the shattered vehicle, Kula turned to Fang Yu, who had refused to dismount.

"It is not good to be found where Chinese soldiers have fallen," he rumbled. "Blame will be attached to us."

"Who would search the steppe in this weather?" Fang Yu remarked.

"True, but I do not like the look of these bodies."

Fang Yu looked toward the bus. "What is wrong with them?"

"There is no mark of wolves," Kula said flatly.

"Why is that bad?"

"Because I heard a wolf bay as we approached. If this white could catch the scent of blood from afar, so too will the wolves."

Fang Yu shuddered. Turning in her saddle, she tried to see in all directions at once. Then the moon was swallowed by a cloud.

The darkness was absolute. The horses whinnied nervously.

"Empty," Remo Williams' voice said in the darkness as he emerged from the bus. "They ran out of gas."

Than the snapping, slavering sounds of wolves ripped the comfortless darkness.

"Remo!" Fang Yu cried. Kula jumped to his horse. It reared up in fright, its forelegs kicking at nothing.

Only Remo Williams, his eyes trained to magnify ambient light, saw the wolves coming. They sprinted across the steppe like gray-furred comets. There were three. And they were tearing right for the horses.

Remo came off the bus running. He flashed to Fang Yu's side, smacking her mount on the rump. It bolted. Fang Yu held on. Remo wheeled and did the same for Kula's mount.

Carrying their riders, both horses galloped away from the racing wolves. Smitty followed Kula, who still clutched his reins.

Remo whirled to meet the oncoming wolves.

One leapt for his throat. He was the easy one. Remo grabbed his forepaws on the fly, spun and sent the wolf, legs kicking air, into one of the shattered bus windows. The wolf broke what was left of the glass and landed amid the seats. He didn't get up again.

"One down," Remo said tightly.

The moon came out again, igniting evil green wolf eyes like witch candles. One crouched to Remo's left. The other padded on from his right.

That one leapt with a sudden gathering of gray fur. Remo faded back, kicking high. His foot drove the wolf into a backward somersault. The snap of its neck told him it wouldn't rise again either.

"That's two."

The third skittered to a halt. His back arching, he slunk back three steps, eyeing Remo with furious intent.

"Come on, Lassie," Remo taunted, crooking one finger at the glowering beast. "Time to learn a new trick."

Warily it slipped to one side. Remo feinted with both hands. It dodged back. Remo advanced.

As Kula and Fang Yu watched from a safe distance, Remo did a slow dance around the last wolf, and he around Remo.

"We're not getting anywhere," Remo complained loudly. "Come on, stop wasting my time."

The wolf shifted one way, then another, sometimes advancing, other times retreating. It growled exactly like a dog.

"It is too smart for you," Kula shouted over. "It knows you are a formidable enemy. Better that it think you are weak."

"Appreciate the tip," Remo said. He retreated a few paces. The wolf advanced warily.

Remo broke into a run, presenting his exposed back.

Emboldened by this show of cowardice, the wolf went after him.

Remo reached the bus, broke off a shard of window glass, and spun to meet the charging canine.

Snarling, the wolf jumped.

A glass fang whizzed through the Mongolian night.

It took the wolf full in the chest as its teeth snapped at Remo's throat.

Remo's throat, along with the rest of Remo, ducked under foam-flecked canine jaws. The wolf thudded against the side of the bus and landed atop a frozen PLA corpse.

It leaked a little blood, and snow began collecting on its gray-white fur. Its paws jerked briefly.

"And baby makes three," Remo muttered, picking himself up.

Casually Remo walked up to the others and accepted Smitty's reins from a stupefied Kula.

"Shall we go?" Remo said lightly, feeling infinitely better.

They formed the horses into a line and pressed on.

"You learn to ride well in a short time," Kula ventured after they had fallen into a rhythm.

"Farhvergnugen," Remo rejoined.

"Is that not German word?" Fang Yu asked in perplexity.

"Could be."

"You fight steppe wolf like you been fighting them all your life," Kula said with newfound respect in his voice.

"One wolf is like another," Remo said airily.

"You fight like a tiger," Kula said. "Like white tiger. Maybe I call you white tiger from now on."

"Call me what you want," Remo said. "Just don't call me a quitter. I intend to find my friend."

"I believe you, white tiger," Kula said with simple sincerity. Following the Great Mongolian Road, they came upon the PLA jeep with its frozen driver next.

The snow had obliterated any further tracks. It made Remo think of the mysterious footprints back in New Rochellewhich seemed like another world removed from this one. He cleared those thoughts from his mind. He had to find Chiun.

But all around him the steppe blended in a whirling world of snow. He felt like he was a tiny insect riding through one of those glass knickknacks that make snow when they're shaken.

Well into the night, they came upon a cluster of tiny brick houses from whose oilskin windows wan light glowed.

"We will sleep here," Kula announced brusquely.

"What if they don't want company?" Remo wondered.

"All Mongols know Kula. We will be welcome. Eat our fill of mutton and drink airag-fermented mare's milk."

"I'll pass," Remo said. But the warmth emanating from the house was welcome-even if it did smell like manure.

Chapter 22

By the time it reached the border outpost at Koko Jebei, the New Golden Horde was five hundred strong.

Word had been flashed by shortwave from Beijing and the capital of the Inner Mongolian Autonomous Region to halt the movement of Mongol cavalry at all costs.

General Bo Wanding was prepared.

At the outpost, he had gathered the Fist Platoon, China's equivalent of a rapid deployment force, behind a wall of mechanized armor. They were the toughest, strongest, most politically unshakable soldiers in the Chinese Army. They feared nothing, not Russians, not Mongols.

They waited behind a line of T-55 tanks whose cannon pointed southward to the distant horizon line from where they knew the Mongol army must approach.

An impatient captain came up to the general.

"Should we not send spotter helicopters out over the desert to pinpoint their approach?" he suggested, eyeing the horizon uneasily.

"We are ready for them now," General Bo said. "We will be no more ready if we know the exact hour of their arrival."

"The men are tense."

"Good. Tension will keep their blood warm."

"Do you think the tales are true, General? That the New Khan has come into the world?"

"I do not know and I do not care," Bo spat. "I am a military man and I understand this much: that no legend can stand before the steel bite of tanks, or withstand the blast of cannon. What the counterrevolutionaries learned at Tiananmen, these barbarian Mongols will relearn on this very spot."

The captain nodded solemnly. He swallowed.

And so they waited. Eyes scanned the horizon through held glasses. Night fell. No Mongols came. No line of horsemen troubled the southern horizon.

Captain Shen Ching, shivering in the interminable wait, slunk off to relieve himself against the battle-gray fender of a T55 tank.

His yellow urine turned red on the way to its destination as a long-nailed fist exploded his kidneys within his belly. His body was shoved under the tank.

A driver, tired of breathing the exhaust of his own body, popped the hatch on his tank, preferring to taste the bitter wind than suffer any longer.

A swish-chuck of a sound rang in his dead ears. His head rolled off his neck after the sword had sliced it away. Mongol boots kicked the glassy-eyed head under the tank. The body was pushed down. And so Boldbator entered the first tank undetected.

He slithered back through the driver's cockpit into the turret itself. Two men huddled there. They also died-one with a Mongol sword in his entrails, the other fighting to keep his neck from being snapped by the strong arm around it.

The arm proved stronger than his neck, which broke under a twisting wrench.

Casting the second limp body away, Boldbator reached up and undogged the turret by hand. He put on the broken-necked PLA soldier's helmet before he eased his upper body out into the bracing north wind.

He looked carefully to the left. Two helmeted heads showed through the two turret hatches. He nodded toward them twice.

They nodded back, also twice.

To the right, there was but one shadowy helmeted head. It soon became two. Then three.

He cast his eyes about. In the darkness, a wispy form moved about, taking solitary pickets unawares, and conquering them with swift blows to head and body. Each conquered Chinese body was dragged under sheltering tanks or armored personnel carriers.

Boldbator grunted his appreciation. The Master of Sinanju sowed death wherever he walked.

They waited. Other turret lids clanged open. Other figures appeared. In the darkness, their padded jackets were indistinguishable from the heavy overcoats of the Chinese infantrymen.

An hour passed. The tension of the assembled Fist Platoon lessened as the men, massed behind the tanks, mistook the emerging tank crews as a signal to relax.

Then the first line of horses appeared.

General Bo spotted them. He barked a guttural order.

And in response, the occupants of the tanks fired up their engines. Boldbator slipped into his tank. He crawled toward the driver's pit, knowing that in the other tanks his comrades were doing the same.

He started his engine. The low, throaty rumble was matched by echoing surges on either side.

The order came to move out, to meet the oncoming Mongol charge head-on.

Boldbator grinned. And threw the engine into reverse.

General Bo at first thought it was the fault of a nervous tank driver. A tank backed up, crushing a jeep. The jeep's complement leapt to safety-all except the driver, who screamed incoherently at the remorseless steel treads chewing his frail flesh to rags.

Then other tanks backed up. And the foot soldiers of the vaunted Fist Platoon broke and ran in retreat from their own armor.

General Bo shouted over the din, demanding order.

Instead, he got a shock as a T-55 abruptly tractored around and came toward him. Its lights blazed in his face. And in the backglow, no longer shadowed by a helmet, was a wide bronze face. A Mongolian face, grinning with the lust of battle.

It was a ferocious expression that generation upon generation of Chinese soldiers had learned to fear.

And now it was coming at him, housed by a bulletproof monster of gray steel.

General Bo reached for his sidearm and brought it to bear on that taunting visage.

The bullet left the barrel with a spiteful crack.

The wide Mongol face disappeared. General Bo looked past the puff of gunsmoke his weapon had created.

The face came back up like a devil from a box.

The tank came on.

General Bo broke and ran. All around him his Fist Platoon scurried like chickens before a fox. They were dying like chickens, too. Treads gnashed and pulverized them.

And what the tanks didn't get, the horsemen did.

They came out of the south like thunder, joining with the PLA forces with flashing swords and the occasional cracking sidearm. But as Chinese soldiers fell, their AK-47's were scooped up by leaning horsemen, who never broke stride as they claimed the spoils of battle.

Soon the bursts of AK-47 fire were coming from horseback. The tanks were abandoned as the last clot of the ruptured Fist Platoon were thinned into sobbing men trying to escape with their lives.

Heads were liberated from running torsos. Arms fell from shoulders under clean downward strokes.

And like a dervish weaving a tapestry with threads of blood, among them moved the Master of Sinanju, his fingernails, like a thousand tiny daggers, seeking vital organs and arteries.

And then the roar of battle abated. The horsemen regrouped at the command of their leader.

General Bo crawled out from under a T-55, his arms raised in surrender.

"I am your prisoner," he said in shame.

A lone Mongol rode up to him. "Are you ignorant of your own history?" he demanded. "Mongols do not take prisoners," and he relieved General Bo Wanding of his head with an unexpected backhand sweep of his sword.

Then, their work done, the border of Outer Mongolia lay open to them and they rode into it, masters of the everlasting horizon.

Boldbator carried the shaking nine-horsetail banner before them.

He turned to the Master of Sinanju, a wolfish grin splitting his pleasant visage.

"Like the old days, eh?"

"It is good to ride with Mongols," intoned the Master of Sinanju. "For too long I have been burdened by the soft ways of the West."

Chapter 23

In the tan-colored desert home, Remo squatted on the floor, looking around. The interior of the house-which was built of mud brick-was surprisingly sumptuous. The floor was a profusion of Oriental rugs, and damask hangings covered the walls. There was no furniture to speak of-just ornate portable chests of drawers containing the household goods. They made Remo think of the missing Master of Sinanju.

They sat on a kind of low brick patio built into one inner wall because it was heated. The heat came from a brick stove nearby. A pipe carried smoke and heat to the shelf.

Remo accepted a cup of tea after first turning down mare's milk and a heated wine Kula called kaoliang. Fang Yu also took tea.

As they sat, Kula fell into long and earnest conversation with the only inhabitant of the house, a middle-aged woman named Udbal.

"What are they saying?" Remo asked Fang Yu between sips.

"Not understand Mongo talk," Fang Yu said. "Mongos not like us Chinese. Talk different, act different. During winter they do nothing except stay indoors and tend to their horses and sheep. They not grow food, believing meat is for men and grass for animals. They call Chinese people 'food-growers.' "

"I've heard worse said," Remo said dryly.

Finally the Mongol woman went to tend to a wok that sat in a hole atop the stove. Kula turned to Remo and Fang Yu.

"This is very strange," he muttered, low-voiced. "The woman says the men all have gone north, following a Mongol horseman known as Boldbator."

"Who is Boldbator?" Remo asked.

Kula shook his head. "I do not know him. But it is said he rides with a legend, who is called the Master of Sinanju."

Remo said nothing.

Fang Yu looked toward him. "The Master of Sinanju is a fable old men talk about in China, and Mongolia too," she explained for Remo's benefit.

"Is that so?" Remo said, tasting his tea. He had had to keep the woman from putting clotted milk and what looked like a lump of butter into it. It tasted salty, which was better for him than if there was sugar in it. Still, he'd never heard of salting tea.

"Did you not say the man you seek is a Korean?" Fang Yu asked suddenly.

"What of it?" Remo said guardedly.

"The Master of Sinanju of legend is supposed to be Korean, that's why."

"Coincidence," Remo said. "I'm looking for a different Korean entirely."

Fang Yu looked at him in owlish silence.

"It is said the Golden Horde rides again," Kula said, his eyes reflective as he stared into his steaming kaoliang wine. "They follow this Boldbator. Call him Khan."

"What!" Fang Yu exploded. She turned to Remo. "Remo, what you know of this?"

"Nothing. I'm looking for someone else entirely."

"The Masters of Sinanju were greatest assassins in history," Kula said. "For as long as they stood beside the throne of the khan, the khanates were safe. But Ogodai, son of Lord Genghis, made the mistake of invading Korea. And although the village of Sinanju was deemed sacred from conquest, this angered the Master of Sinanju at that time. He withdrew his support of the khan and so the empire began to decline."

"Nice fairy tale," Remo said.

"Do you tell the truth to me?" Fang Yu pressed.

"Why wouldn't I?" Remo said guiltily. He hated to lie, but he couldn't afford to tell the truth. US-Chinese relations were at stake.

"It is said that the Golden Horde rides toward Karakorum," Kula said thoughtfully, staring into his wine.

Fang Yu gasped.

"Where's that?" Remo asked.

"In what the Chinese call Outer Mongolia," Kula said proudly. "It was the imperial city in the days of Genghis Khan. Until that traitorous grandson of Lord Genghis, Kublai, swayed by its citified comforts, moved the seat of Mongol power to conquered Peking." He spat on the rug with great violence. "A fool's mistake," he added. "The food-growers took it back and razed Karakorum when they had the chance."

Fang Yu shifted closer to Remo. Remo put his arms around her protectively.

"It is said that in the days when the Master of Sinanju was a favorite of the khans," Kula went on, "they were attended by lesser warriors, who were called night tigers. These night tigers dressed in black and were fierce warriors, afraid of nothing."

Silence filled the house. Only the fussing of the Mongol woman as she fed yak chips into her stove disturbed it.

"Have you ever heard of this legend, white tiger?" Kula asked suddenly.

"No," Remo said quietly. Fang Yu studied his profile in the smoky light.

Kula grunted. "I yearn to ride with the Golden Horde, if these tales are true."

"You have bargain with us!" Fang Yu hissed.

"A bargain is a bargain, but blood is blood. My blood calls to me in the voices of my ancestors."

Fang Yu started to say something, but Remo quieted her with a squeeze of his hand.

"Is Karakorum in the direction we're going in?" Remo asked.

"It is," Kula admitted.

"We'll ride with you. Maybe we'll find my Korean on the way."

Silence.

"There is a better way," Fang Yu ventured.

"What's that?" Remo wondered.

"Ulan Bator. Kula can take train to Ulan Bator."

Kula snorted. "My horse cannot take a train."

"We ride to nearest city, which is Sayn Shanda," Fang Yu pressed, "then Kula take train to Ulan Bator, which is riding distance from Karakorum. Remo and I find other Mongol guide in Sayn Shanda. We go apart."

"If I have to leave my steed," Kula retorted, "I would not go. How could I join my people without a horse?"

"And what about my Korean?" Remo asked.

"Your Korean is going north," Fang Yu said. "Only city north of here is Sayn Shanda. He must go there. Else he die on steppe. This makes sense to you?"

"Some," Remo admitted.

"Then we go, all of us."

"Agreed," said Kula. "But first we eat. Then we sleep. Then we ride."

"Where do we sleep?" Remo asked, looking around the ger.

Kula spanked the stove-warmed platform.

"On kang," he said. "Mongol bed. Keep us warm at night."

"All of us?" Remo said. "Together?"

"Mongol tradition. Americans have no such tradition?" Kula demanded.

"Sure," Remo said. "It was called bundling and they stopped doing it around the time of the First Continental Congress."

"You will have to be tied with belt," Kula told Remo. "To protect Mongol woman from your lust."

The old woman smiled shyly in Remo's direction. "Well," he whispered to Fang Yu, "at least you and I will be together."

Fang Yu said nothing. Her gaze was distant.

Chapter 24

The New Golden Horde rode unchallenged into the snowdusted pastureland that was all that remained of ancient Karakorum.

The Mongols fell silent as they approached the ancient capital of the empire of the Khagan-the Khan of Khans. Not a Mongol spoke. They seemed not to breathe. The cadence of their ponies caused their earflaps to bounce like beating wings.

Before them lay a plain dotted by the clusters of gers. Black-spotted sheep and grunting yak ranged freely. Gaudy ger doors were flung open at their approach. No words were spoken and no replies given. The Mongol herdsmen took to their horses and joined the pilgrimage in silence. The women and children watched them go, weeping, although none could say what emotion caused the tears to come.

The sun hung low as they came to the place where Karakorum had once stood. They recognized it by the multitudinous white spire-tipped domes of the Erdeni Dzu lamasery that showed against low alpine hills.

The Master of Sinanju nodded to Boldbator. The Mongol lifted a hand to call a halt to the march.

Horses came to a stop, pawing the snow to expose tussocks of coarse brown nibbling grass.

Boldbator drew up alongside the Master of Sinanju.

"Speak your desire, O Master of Sinanju," he said quietly.

"Have your horse Mongols make camp, Boldbator Khan," said the Master of Sinanju.

Wheeling, Boldbator Khan lifted his voice.

"We camp here!" he shouted. "Let the word go to the last straggler. This night we sleep with the ghosts of our mightiest ancestors!"

And the answering cry shook the very heavens, it seemed to Boldbator Khan.

"And what of us?" asked Boldbator of the Master of Sinanju, whose sere visage, although buffeted by the freshening wind, refused to flinch.

"The skull of the dragon told me a riddle," intoned Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju, "and that riddle said that the man who overthrows the tortoise that moves naught but through time shall find the eggs of the tortoise if he digs far enough. We three shall ride to the tortoise."

Boldbator cast contemptuous eyes toward Zhang Zingzong, who understood nothing of their conversation.

"Him too?" spat Boldbator. "Why should a soft Chinese bear witness to the glory of the Lord Genghis Khan, the Heaven-Sent?"

"This man is a hero in his own land," Chiun said simply.

Boldbator snorted. "This food-grower? He can barely ride."

"He once stood up to the iron horses of the Chinese oppressors," intoned Chiun. "And the horses backed down."

"We have swept through the iron cavalry of the Chinese like locusts through wheat. I beheld no heroics from this man."

Chiun shrugged. "For a Chinese, it was feat enough. Besides, it was he who brought the silver skull from the Great Wall to me. I have promised him half of the treasure."

Boldbator spat.

"If it is the wish of the Master of Sinanju to do this thing," he growled, "I have no stomach to tell him otherwise."

"Well-spoken. Let us ride."

Chiun nodded for Zhang Zingzong to follow.

Their horses moved slowly, not because they were fatigued-although they were hardly fresh-but because they sensed that they neared their ultimate goal.

The tortoise was a great stone thing that sat in the center of the plain, brooding and inert, its gray stone shell a patchwork of Mongol designs. Its worn ancient head lifted skyward as if straining with its last ebbing strength.

"It has stood there thus for generations, to mark the spot where the Great Khans once ruled," Boldbator said reverently.

"Moving not," added the Master of Sinanju, "except through the years. Come."

They rode up to it, dismounting. The walled lamasery lay within sight, like an abandoned fortress.

Zhang Zingzong came off his steed like a man who had been nearly frozen. He slapped his sides with his padded arms. Digging into a pocket, he extracted a lighter and a crushed pack of Blue Swallow cigarettes. He was getting low again, he saw.

He watched in silence as the Master of Sinanju, looking like an old Chinese cavalryman in his padded riding costume, strode around the tortoise monument.

From the words Zhang Zingzong had overheard pass between the old Korean and the Mongol who dared to call himself khan, he knew that they were on the site of Karakorum, which had been razed by the Chinese Army in 1382, after the collapse of the Mongol-led Yuan dynasty that had ruled China.

He prayed they had reached the end of their quest. He was sick of eating rancid Mongol food.

The Master of Sinanju finished his inspection of the tortoise, which was less than a man high and longer than a full-grown horse. It weighed perhaps a ton.

So when the Master of Sinanju stepped behind the tortoise and slipped off his padded jacket to expose his spindly arms, Zhang Zingzong let the cigarette dangle from his slackening lips unsmoked.

The Master of Sinanju sucked in a lung-paralyzing quantity of cold Mongolian air, expelling it with sudden violence. More air came in, and was released. His old-ivory face reddened and then, eyes brighter than seemed possible for mere eyes to become, he put his shoulder to the tortoise's blunt backside.

The dirt protested. Then the tortoise began to move.

Boldbator the Mongol, seeing it lurch forward, fell in next to the Master of Sinanju, even though his strength made the tortoise move no faster.

Then, overcome by a sense of history, Zhang Zingzong joined them. He braced his shoulder and began pushing with his long legs. The tortoise kept sliding, pushing dirt ahead of its lifted throat.

Zhang felt the hard ground under his straining feet turn soft. They had exposed fresh ground, which had been disturbed by the undershell of the stone tortoise.

"It moves now," Boldbator grunted. "But not only through time, eh?"

The Master of Sinanju said nothing. His breathing came in surges. Each inhalation was a pause. Each exhalation seemed to inch the tortoise ahead another half-foot.

At length, ground that had not seen sunlight in generations lay in the dying red light of the Mongolian sun.

It looked like ordinary dirt.

Sweating in his fur-lined clothes, Boldbator Khan stepped around it, kicking tiny stones away with a boot.

Zhang, breathing hard, reached for a pack of cigarettes.

"The ground is hard," Boldbator told the Master of Sinanju without emotion.

"We are harder," Chiun said.

Boldbator retrieved his sword from his mount. On hands and knees, he crawled over the exposed ground, probing it with the point of his sword.

"Nothing," he said forlornly.

"Let me," said Chiun, taking the sword from him.

The Master of Sinanju took the sword in both hands and, holding it perpendicular to his body, walked back and forth the length of the patch of exposed earth.

The sword quivered each time he walked over a certain point, but nowhere else.

The Master of Sinanju raised the sword overhead and with a sudden cry brought it down.

It sank into the ground to its very hilt.

"Here!" cried the Master of Sinanju. "Dig here."

Boldbator Khan walked up to his sword and began to wrestle with it. It refused to budge at first, but by dint of main strength he got it to work back and forth, loosening the hard frozen ground.

As the sun set on them, he used his sword to excavate a deep hole as the Master of Sinanju stood watching, saying nothing, except to remark to Zhang Zingzong that if he intended to wither his lungs with tobacco stink, that was his business, but to burn them downwind.

Zhang wandered off, and like a peasant, squatted in the dust, smoking cigarette after cigarette, his eyes intent, his face without expression.

He felt useless. The Mongols despised him. Even the Master of Sinanju treated him ill. He wished he had never left China in the first place. He had been a hero there.

True, Zhang Zingzong never really believed himself a hero. He had been a simple student who, in the white-hot aftermath of the Battle of Beijing, had stepped into the path of a T-55 tank column, unthinking, only hating. The shamed tank drivers had lost face and he had melted into the crowds. A tiny victory, nothing more. Everyone else called him hero. And the PLA branded him a counterrevolutionary.

Zhang Zingzong had lost his life, his wife, and his freedom. He had been hunted from Paris to New York. The West wanted to make of him a symbol of bravery, but Zhang had felt only fear after Tiananmen. Only the treasure of Temujin promised hope. He felt like a failure among these fearless Mongols. Sometimes he wished the tanks had ground him into dust with the true heroes, the martyrs.

It was two hours later that Boldbator Khan, while driving his sword deeper, felt the vibration of steel against something hard and resisting. It felt as if the blade were running through bone.

"I have struck something, O Master!" he called.

The Master of Sinanju padded forward unhurriedly. But his controlled movement bespoke his eagerness, as did his bright, avid eyes.

Boldbator withdrew his sword, offering it to the old Korean. Chiun disdained it with a wave and sank to his knees in the pit.

He drove one spindly arm into the cold disturbed soil and his fingers rooted around, his eyes shut.

At length he excavated a round dirt-caked object. His wrinkled visage was alight with a keen joy. His eyes became wide with anticipation, as his long nails dragged clods of dirt from the long-buried artifact.

The last crumb of dirt hit the ground. Chiun's eyes widened to their furthest. Then they squeezed with a sudden lid-tightening contraction.

"Aiieee!" he wailed, his mouth going round with despair.

Boldbator leaned down. Zhang ran up, losing his half-smoked cigarette.

"Another skull," Boldbator said bitterly.

"Another riddle!" Chiun spat. "Another stupid riddle. Had your ancestors nothing better to do than carve riddles in bone?"

Boldbator stiffened, but had no reply.

"What does this one say?" Zhang Zingzong asked in Mandarin.

The Master of Sinanju brushed the brow clean. The crown of the skull was broken, where Boldbator's sword cracked it. A jagged lightninglike fracture fissured the brow, but the ideographs were decipherable.

Chiun read them aloud.

" 'Now that you have beheld the seat of my mighty power, go to the lands that I have conquered. In Five-Dragon Cave you must walk the left path, or the false path will claim you.' "

He repeated the riddle in Mongolian for Boldbator's benefit.

"I have never heard of Five-Dragon Cave," Boldbator said.

"Five-Dragon Cave is unknown to me," Zhang Zingzong admitted.

"I know the place," Chiun said softly, so softly the others had to lean closer to understand him.

"Where is it?" Boldbator asked.

"In Chinese Mongolia." Chiun turned to Boldbator Khan. "Will you ride into China with me?"

"I would ride into hell with you," Boldbator proclaimed in a stricken voice.

"And your men?"

"They conquered China once before. Why not again?"

The Master of Sinanju put the same question to Zhang Zingzong in his native tongue.

Zhang's eyes went wide. His face shook. Tears started.

"Hah!" said Boldbator. "This Chinese is more afraid of his own people than of we Mongols. Some hero!"

Boldbator Khan's laughter shook the night. He felt more alive than at any point in his life before tonight. To feel this good, he thought, was worth dying for.

Chapter 25

They set out for Sayn Shanda at the crack of dawn.

The snow blew in like a powdery wall. Suddenly Remo, Fang Yu, and Kula were trudging through a world of howling white noise.

Kula shouted over the howling wind for them to dismount.

"Grab the tails of your ponies," he barked after Remo and Fang Yu had found their feet.

Remo obliged. He felt foolish.

"Now what?" he called.

"Do not let go," Kula cried.

The horses pressed on by themselves. They pushed through the blinding snow like stubborn beasts of burden. They never stopped, never paused, not even to defecate. Remo learned to watch where he put his feet after he heard the telltale plopping sounds on the snow.

After the snow abated, they remounted and continued on.

"It is the Mongol way," Kula boasted, brushing snow off his leather vest. "A Mongol horse will seek his home, or the smell of other horses. It is important not to let go of the tail. He will not do this with a man astride him. For a horse knows who his master is."

The snow had tapered off and the wind dropped to an occasional puff of cold in their faces when they emerged from a snow-filled valley to behold a small city off the northern end of the Gobi.

A small airplane lifted off, to Remo's surprise.

"Is this it?" Remo demanded.

Kula nodded. "Sayn Shanda," he said proudly. "We have crossed the border into Outer Mongolia. Free Mongolia. Come."

They rode into town.

It was a curious mix of modern Asian metropolis and frontier town, Remo saw. Buses, trucks, and cars moved through the streets, and there were few bicycles, at least compared to Beijing. Horses were plentiful, though. He saw several hitched to Wild West-style hitching posts outside of otherwise modern high-rise apartment houses.

"We are safe here," Fang Yu told Remo. "PLA not cross border. Outer Mongolia no longer Communist."

"Does that mean I can call America?" Remo asked, noticing a man walk by wearing blue jeans and a T-shirt that said GENGHIS KHAN LIVES. Other passers-by-both men and women-wore native dels. Many were Chinese in familiar blue work uniforms.

"We will find you hotel," Fang Yu said. "Rest up."

"You two do that if you wish," Kula rumbled. "I will find a warm ger and all the comfort I need therein."

They rode along. Remo noticed that the billboards and street signs were in Cyrillic, the Russian alphabet, not Chinese or Mongolian characters. He still couldn't read any of it, but he took comfort in being able to recognize certain letters.

They came to a hotel that looked no different from any Western hotel, except the statue standing out front was of a stout Mongol warrior in full battle dress. Unlike most of the Mongolians he had encountered, this one had a spray of beard on his chin.

"That is a good hotel," Kula said.

"How do you know?" Remo asked.

"It is the Genghis Khan Hotel," Kula explained. "That is his statue."

"Really?" Remo said. "They named a hotel after Genghis Khan?"

"It is chain," Kula said with a straight face. "The national chain of Mongolia. They are the best. Before, this was the Lenin Hotel and his statue stood in that very spot. No more. Mongolia get rid of Communists. Lenin out. Genghis back in. The old ways are returning. Our blood is the same color again. It makes me proud."

"Well, it takes a Mongol to know one," Remo remarked.

They dismounted. Remo looked around for a hitching post.

"I will take your steed around back," Kula offered. "There will be a stable there. All Genghis Khan Hotels have full accommodations for horses too. I will call on you later to make arrangements for the return of these horses."

"You do that," Remo said, leading Fang Yu into the lobby.

"Bunk with a foreign devil?" Remo whispered to Fang Yu.

"Of course not," she said crisply.

Remo's face fell. He said nothing. Fang Yu had been distant all during the hard ride. He wondered if she regretted joining him.

They went up to the front desk, where a wide-faced Mongolian woman in a bright blue del beamed at them with the most dazzling teeth Remo had ever seen. She looked like an Asian angel, harmless and eager to please.

"Sain Bainu," she said.

"We don't speak Mongolian," Remo told her.

Her face brightened. "Ah, you English?"

"American," Remo corrected.

"But you speak English?"

"Yeah. How much for two rooms?"

"You pay in yuan or dollars?"

"Dollars."

"One dollar sixty-nine cents, please. In advance."

Remo looked at Fang Yu doubtfully.

"Mongolia just opening to the West," she explained. "Need hard currency very much. Good buy."

"At these prices, I could buy the whole freaking hotel," Remo said, digging out his wallet.

"Ah, freaking hotel not for sale," the Mongolian woman said, enjoying the taste of the new American word in her mouth.

A bellboy in a white del escorted them to their rooms after Remo explained for the fifth time that he had lost his luggage. Sympathy for him and clucking sounds of disapproval for the "freaking" Hong Kong baggage handlers greeted his remark.

"I'm going to make a call," Remo told Fang Yu as they parted at their doors. "Meet you later. For lunch?"

"After I shower. I will call on you."

"And maybe a get-reacquainted session?" he added hopefully.

Fang Yu looked away guiltily. "Perhaps."

"You'll feel better after you clean up, Remo said, trying his best to sound upbeat.

Once in his room, he grabbed the telephone. It had a rotary dial.

To his delight, the hotel operator spoke English. After inquiring how he liked his "freaking" room, she asked if he'd like to place a "freaking" call.

"What's the phone code for America?" Remo asked wearily.

Upon receiving the number, Remo punched it in, and then dialed one repeatedly. He was used to hitting a button and waiting, so he just kept dialing until the line rang and the sharp lemony New England consonants of Harold W. Smith pierced his ear.

"Remo, where are you?" Smith asked breathlessly.

"Believe it or not, Outer Mongolia. I've heard of Outer Mongolia all my life, but I never dreamed I'd wind up here. And I have you to thank for this."

Smith ignored the dry sarcasm of Remo's tone.

"Have you found Chiun and Zhang?" he asked.

"No, but I'm not far behind them, I think. Chiun's been cutting a swath through China and Mongolia. Did you know there were two Mongolias, by the way?"

"Yes, I did. What city are you calling from?"

"Sayn Shanda. It's in the non-Communist Mongolia. I guess that explains why the phones work."

"Remo, I am getting disturbing reports out off China. Troop movements. Concern in Beijing of a Mongolian uprising. "

Remo sighed. "Chiun. Don't ask me how, but he's got half of Asia stirred up. From what I hear, he's raised an army. You know him. He never did like the Chinese much. Do you think he's out to conquer the whole place?"

"I do not know," Smith admitted. "It does not sound like him."

"None of this sounds like Chiun," Remo said, looking out the window. It was starting to snow again, not hard, just flurries. "What the hell is he up to?" Remo asked plaintively. "Why did he run out on us?"

"Remo, listen carefully to me," Smith said, low-voiced, even though he was speaking over a secure line. "Our reconnaissance satellites show a mass of cavalry moving south for the Mongolian joint border."

Remo brightened. "Great. Then I'll just wait for Chiun and his merry band to show up."

"We have reports out of China that the Twenty-seventh Army is being sent north by rail."

"So?"

"Those were the troops used to attack Tiananmen Square, after the local units refused. They're peasant soldiers, politically unsophisticated and therefore used to obeying their commanders. It is obvious to Washington that they are out to intercept the Mongol force."

"No problem," Remo said. "I'll stop Chiun before the Twenty-seventh reaches the China-Mongolia border."

"No," Smith said. "China has a deep-seated fear of a Mongol invasion, even to this day. The Twenty-seventh will not stop at the border. That rail line passes through the heart of the Gobi to the capital of Ulan Bator. They'll engage the enemy as deep into Outer Mongolian territory as they possibly can. The Twenty-seventh Army-which is politically unpopular-will probably be used for cannon fodder while other units are massed on the border as a mobile Great Wall of China. Your job, Remo, is to stop that troop train at all costs."

"Any suggestions?"

"That is up to you. But you must do it. A Chinese incursion into Mongolia will have grave political repercussions. Outer Mongolia, although friendly with China, is allied with Russia. The Russians would see an incursion as a prelude to an attack on the SU."

"SU?"

"Soviet Union. That's what we're calling it now."

"Oh. It's hard to keep up with a changing world."

"Remo, I'm counting on you," Smith went on. "The President is counting on you. Never mind Zhang Zingzong. Stop the Twenty-seventh Army first."

"And then?"

"Stop Chiun. Just as we cannot allow China to attack Outer Mongolia, a Mongolian attack on mainland China would precipitate an equal crisis. The Chinese are already embroiled in Moslem uprisings in the eastern provinces. It's a mess."

"Tell me about it," Remo said.

"Sometimes," Smith confided, "I think the cold war was a better time. All this nationalistic strife is making global strategy exceedingly difficult to manage."

"Global strategy is your problem," Remo said. "Mine is heading off this mess. But at least I have Fang Yu."

"Ivory Fang. My contact, remember? She's been a great help. Don't know how I'd've gotten this far without her."

There was silence on the line. Remo tapped the receiver hook.

"Hello? You there, Smitty?"

Smith's voice was arid. "Remo, Ivory Fang is not a woman. Ivory Fang is a male agent."

It was Remo's turn to be silent.

"You sure about this?" Remo asked in a small voice.

"Are you certain of your facts?"

"Believe me," Remo said ruefully. "I'm an authority on her femaleness. If she's not your contact, how come she met me at the airport and helped me this far?"

"I do not know, but you had better find out quickly. She could be an agent of the Chinese Security Bureau. Proceed under the assumption that you've been compromised."

" 'Compromised' is the word," Remo said. "I kinda like her. "

"Do not let it cloud your judgment. You have a twofold mission. Every minute is crucial."

"Count on me," Remo said in a suddenly clear voice.

He hung up the phone, his features darkening. He stepped over to the window and looked out over the city of Sayn Shanda.

It was small by American standards, but surrounded by the vastness of barren Outer Mongolia, it seemed a miracle of civilization carved out of a forsaken wilderness.

The snow continued falling. Remo's sharp eyes picked up snowflakes as they swirled downward, memorizing their unique shapes. Someday, he thought, he'd spot two that were alike.

"But not today," he said aloud. He turned from the window. A second sooner and he would have missed it.

Down in the street, around a corner, came a long black limousine. It was identical to the one he had first encountered in New Rochelle. And it matched the one he'd seen from the train.

"This isn't China," Remo muttered under his breath. "No reason why a Chinese Red Flag limo should be way up here."

He decided Fang Yu could wait.

Remo flashed to the door. He moved along the corridor to the elevator. As fast as he went, he was able to catch himself as he turned the corner. Just in time.

Fang Yu stood by the elevator impatiently, her hair dry. As Remo hovered out of sight, the elevator came and took her away. Remo emerged from hiding. The indicator showed that the car was on its way to the lobby.

"That must be the quickest shower in history," Remo muttered. He plunged for the stairs.

At the bottom, he eased a fire door open and watched Fang Yu hurry through the lobby and out to the front door.

Remo followed, trying to be unsuspicious. He was still in his Mongolian riding costume.

Outside, the black limousine waited, engine purring.

A chauffeur popped from the front door and opened the rear for her. He wore black.

Fang Yu stepped inside. The door shut with quiet force. The chauffeur returned to his wheel.

Remo saw his black mask-not that he had any doubt who the man was. His pantherlike body language gave him away.

"Damn!" he said. Remo hesitated. The Twenty-seventh Army was on its way. Could he afford to follow the car?

The limousine pulled away from the curb.

"Damn it," Remo repeated. "What am I supposed to do?"

The limo slid down the street and around a corner, its rear lights red and resentful.

Under the stern gaze of the statue of Genghis Khan, Remo watched it go.

"Must get great mileage to go from New Rochelle to Outer Mongolia," he muttered. Then he walked around to the back of the hotel.

The stable was separate, of wood, but bore the same Cyrillic symbols as the hotel marquee. Remo went in and found a short Mongolian man in a gray del.

"Speak English?" he asked the shyly smiling man.

"Of course, English is a wonderful language," he said, adding, "Compared to Russian."

"Great. That cream horse is mine. A friend stabled him for me. His name is Kula."

"Ah, Kula. A horseman among horsemen. Everyone knows Kula. "

"Glad he's so popular. Know where he went? I gotta find him-fast!"

"Come," the Mongol stablehand said, leading Remo back outside. He pointed west, saying, "See those freaking gers?"

"You mean yurts?"

"Only Russians call them yurts," the Mongol said contemptuously.

"The gers, sure," Remo said. "I see them."

"Go there. You will find Kula in one of those. That is a true Mongol hotel. Not like this ugly concrete thing."

"Well, what do you expect from the Genghis Khan Hotel?"

"Lord Genghis was a great man," the Mongol retorted seriously. "His was the greatest empire in history, and his memory was too long suppressed by the Russians. What do Russians know? They think Lenin was a hero-Lenin could not ride a camel, never mind a horse."

"I heard Genghis destroyed every city that stood up to him," Remo pointed out, "putting everyone to the sword."

The Mongol sighed happily. "Yes," he said wistfully. "That was our Lord Genghis. A fine role model for our children." "Uh-huh," Remo said dryly. "Saddle my horse for me?"

"At once."

Remo gave the man a buck as his horse was brought out. He got on and galloped off.

The Mongol watched him with expert interest. He had never seen an American ride before. They rode better than Russians, but not so good as Mongols. But who could ride like a Mongol other than another Mongol?

Remo rode through the cluster of gers. He was in a rush, so he called out Kula's name as he picked his way along.

A wicker door spanked open and the Mongol came out, blinking sleep from his narrow eyes.

"Remo!" he exploded. "What are you doing here?"

"I need your help. The Chinese Army's coming this way by rail. They're out to stop that Mongol army. And they're moving south. I gotta stop that train."

"Wait. I will gather good riders."

"No time," Remo said. "Just point me toward the rail line."

"It goes through this very city. We are on the Trans-Mongolian Railway. We must ride south to meet these food-growers who think they are warriors."

"Then let's ride!" Remo said anxiously.

"One moment," Kula said. He ducked back into his ger and an excited Mongolian argument filtered out. Remo waited impatiently.

Kula soon returned, trailed by two Mongolians in padded dels carrying curved bows.

They looked at Remo and asked Kula several hot questions. Kula replied in kind. Remo said, "Shake a leg! Every minute counts!"

"I am coming," Kula said. He shot a final order to the others, who abruptly split in two directions.

Kula saddled up and joined Remo.

"We ride," he said. "Others will follow."

"What was that all about?" Remo asked after they had turned their horses around and started away.

"I tell them I follow you, the white tiger. They do not believe me when I speak of your mighty feats."

Their cantering horses put the gers behind them.

"Let's go!" Remo shouted.

They galloped across the plain. Remo rode like a man born in the saddle. He didn't notice. He was thinking of Chiun to the north, the troop train to the south, and Fang Yu, wherever she was, whatever she was doing.

He put her out of his thoughts. The desert stretched before him, endless and uncaring.

He had a job to do. Personal stuff could wait.

Chapter 26

The railbed was half-buried in snow.

"Looks impassable," Remo remarked when Kula pointed out a section that the wind had blown clear of snow.

"In winter, it often is," Kula remarked. "But the Chinese will not let snow stop them. They are like ants. They will ride so far, and their soldiers will dig out each section of track. Then go on."

Kula dismounted, saying, "I will show you a trick." He went over to a section of track and took one rail between his strong teeth.

"Hear any popping?" Remo asked, looking down the line. It was hard to believe that under this snowscape lay a desert.

Kula released the rail. "You know this trick?" he asked in surprise.

"I've seen it in a million movies."

Kula nodded. "That is where we Mongolians learned of it too. And no," he said, straightening, "I hear nothing."

He remounted, and they rode on, following the tracks.

"We are only two," Kula pointed out. "How will two men stop a train loaded with Chinese soldiers?"

"Let me worry about that," Remo said grimly.

Kula noted the determination in the American's face.

They rode, every so often pausing to listen for vibrations on the rails. But they lay cold, devoid of vibration.

A white disturbance on the horizon that might have been rolling low-lying clouds caught Remo's attention.

"You have geysers in the desert?" he asked.

"No."

"Then it's train time."

It was a black troop train, they saw as it came around a long shallow bend in the railbed. A black steam engine pulled it along, sending billows of white steam into the clear blue.

Remo counted ten T-55 tanks on flatcars and a quartet of armored personnel carriers. The rest were passenger cars, loaded no doubt with PLA regulars.

Kula looked back over his shoulder. His gonglike face reflected metallic disappointment as it swiveled back to the train.

"They will not arrive in time," he said simply.

"Won't need them," Remo retorted, getting off his cream pony. Leading the horse, he went to the railbed.

Kula sauntered up. He took the reins from Remo. Then Remo sank to his knees.

He laid both hands on the nearest rail. It was cold to the touch. He warmed it with quick back-and-forth rubbing motions. Friction. Then he felt along the rail until he found a seam where the rails were welded together.

As Kula watched, his eyes often cast in the direction of the huffing steam engine, Remo made a spearhead with his right hand. He brought it up. Then sharply down.

The crack of cold metal separating made Kula, for all his Mongol poise, jump in his saddle.

Remo clambered over to the other rail. He repeated his chopping action. Another crack.

Then, quickly, because he could feel the vibration of the approaching train in the very air as well as from the rail, Remo moved down the track to the next set of weld seams.

Crack! Crack! The welds broke free. Remo touched the separated rails. The vibration was absent. The rails were no longer linked to the system.

Remo looked up. The train was bearing down. He expected a train whistle but there was none. The Twenty-seventh Army wasn't about to signal its encroachment into Outer Mongolia-or think twice about running over a lone man on the rails.

"Want to lend a hand?" Remo suggested calmly.

Kula jumped off his pony with alacrity. He got a grip on one rail while Remo pulled up each spike with his hands. Kula shouldered it off to one side while Remo attacked the other set of spikes. The other rail clanged as it found a new place in the snow.

Remo looked at the empty section of track and then to the train.

"Not enough," he decided. He moved ahead. Two more weld seams released under his chopping blows. Two more rails were shoved to one side.

Then, recovering their horses' reins, Remo and Kula walked as far away from the maimed section of track as they could.

Dong Gungwu clutched the throttle of the JS 2-8-2 Mikado steam engine tightly. He reluctantly put his head out the open window at times. It was harsh, this Mongolian wind. Also, he feared the legendary Mongol bowmen, the scourges of this barbarous land.

Dong Gungwu happened to poke his head out in time to see two Mongols on the railbed ahead. He left the whistle alone. He was under orders. He did not like the thought of driving troops-especially the despised Twenty-seventh Army-into foreign territory, but his job was good and he preferred this to the Beijing Lockup or a public beheading as a counterrevolutionary.

As he withdrew his wind-frozen face, he hoped the Mongols would have sense enough to get out of the way.

To his relief, he saw a few moments later that they did.

He also saw the bare section of rail.

Dong Gungwu grabbed for the airbrake. He threw it. The brake shoes clutched, driving wheels squealing in protest. But the rails were slick with fresh snow. The iron wheels locked, but could not obtain the necessary traction for a clean stop.

The black Mikado engine slid on toward that terrible gap. Dong Gungwu considered jumping from the cab. The snow looked uninviting. So instead he huddled under the furnace, arms shielding his head.

The train slid off the rails at nearly full speed. It kept going. Its iron cowcatcher abruptly snagged a cross tie.

The train folded like a tin pipe. The back of the engine went up and the coal car tried to climb it. The trailing cars slammed the lifting coal car. Coal flew like shrapnel. So did tiny figures in PLA green.

The first six cars piled up like a Los Angeles freeway accident. The bulk of the train had no place to go, so the cars simply tipped over, ripping up a good section of rail. T-55 tanks snapped their restraining cables, dragging the anchoring flatbeds over the side.

The sounds of splintering timbers, squealing rails, and screaming men blended into a cacophony of ear-punishing sound.

All in all, Remo thought as he watched the commotion from a safe distance, it was a lovely train wreck.

The trouble was, there were a lot of survivors. And they had AK-47's and the temperament to use them.

Worried of face, Kula looked back over his shoulder.

Still no Mongols.

PLA soldiers pulled one another out of the shattered wooden passenger cars. They shouted and screamed. A few shots were fired, evidently at others whose injuries were so bad a bullet was the only remedy.

Then the bullets stormed toward Remo and Kula.

In response, they wheeled their ponies, just to be safe. They were out of rifle range. And automatic weapons were not rifles.

"This is not good," Kula rumbled. "Many of them live."

"I can fix that," Remo said. Handing Kula his reins, he said, "Take care of him, will you?"

And Remo started down, on foot, toward the smoking train wreck.

Kula the Mongol watched him go, his wide face a mask of incredulity.

"What manner of warriors are these Americans?" he muttered.

And because he was a Mongol, and would not be shown up by any foreigner, white tiger or not, he too dismounted. He slapped the ponies with a short whip. They galloped away to safety.

Grinning like a wolf, Kula unsheathed his ancestral dagger and ran after the brave American.

It was a good day to die, especially with the sky so blue. Kula loved a blue sky.

Remo felt the shockwave as the first bullet zipped by his head. He dodged it easily, even bundled in his padded Mongolian jacket. He smiled tightly, feeling more at home fighting human enemies and not the elements before him.

"Time to play pong," he called joyously.

Remo met the first advancing line of Chinese infantry with a handful of quickly made snowballs.

One by one, they smashed into the Chinese faces with unerring accuracy. It was enough to throw the trio offbalance while Remo moved in for the kill.

A chin came within range. Remo lashed out with a fist. He got an ear-splitting crack of sound as his fist struck the point of the man's chin with such violence that his jaw caved in, its hinges bursting out of either side of his face.

"That's for Tiananmen Square," Remo said. A high sideways kick staved in another's rib cage. A bayonet slashed for his face. Playfully Remo batted it away with his bare hands.

Finally he broke off the blade and yanked the rifle out of its owner's hands. The PLA soldier looked at his suddenly empty hands. Then he was trying to pull an AK-47 out of his mouth even after his spinal cord was severed.

Kula picked up a fallen rifle and emptied its clip in every direction. He got three. He also got a burst of return fire directed at him.

Remo turned at the sound. He frowned.

"I thought I told you to stay with the horses?" he complained as he distracted Kula's attackers with a flying PLA body. The hapless Chinese soldier landed atop two upraised bayonets lifted to ward off what was thought to be an overhead attack. The blades eviscerated him and the body knocked the others into oblivion.

"And miss out on all the fun?" Kula cried. "Too bad we are outnumbered, no, white tiger?"

"You're outnumbered," Remo growled. "To me, this is a fair fight. So stay out of it."

"Well-spoken, white tiger."

"And stop calling me that," Remo snapped, jamming desert gravel into a fallen Kalashnikov so that the blowback would kill or maim anyone who fired it.

Remo took off into a knot of soldiers just starting to organize themselves. They were breaking open metal cases of ammunition.

Remo said, "Excuse me," as he broke in on them. He scattered the near ones and took the case.

A snarling soldier pointed his weapon at Remo.

"Ting! Ting!"

"You win," Remo told him, throwing his hands up in the air. "I surrender."

The soldier advanced.

The descending ammo case clouted him in the shoulder. He fell backward. Remo stomped his head into bonemeal and blood, getting a satisfying pang! sound. He retrieved the case, bouncing it from hand to hand like a basketball.

"Anybody else want to play gong?" Remo called.

The answer split the air. Remo dropped the case and began weaving in and out of the furious bullet tracks, the air cold in his lungs, filling him with energy and power. He felt like a Master of Sinanju again, sowing death among his enemies.

Remo tried every variation--a knuckle punch to the knees. A knee to the small of the back. He cracked a neck with an elbow, jellied genitals with a booted toe, never repeating a blow and never missing.

But even as he thinned the first skirmishers, others crawled out of the wreckage. The air was warming with the spilled contents of the ruptured steam engine.

Then, from behind him, came a low drumming rumble.

Remo looked back, not sure what to expect.

Strung along a rise was a line of Mongol horsemen brandishing curved bows like American Indians. They raised them into the air with a high, nerve-chilling cry.

Then the arrows were nocked and the horses thundered down.

"I hope they know whose side I'm on," Remo yelled at Kula.

"They are Mongols," Kula called. "They are gentle people-to other Mongols. I would not want to be a Chinese soldier at this moment."

What followed next was a one-sided massacre. The air filled with the fluttery hiss of arrows. Remo, knowing that an arrow inflicted a more lethal wound than a bullet, took pains to stay out of the rain of shafts. And that was exactly what it was.

They fell in waves. Line upon line of arrows. They struck chests, arms, heads, and legs. One hapless PLA conscript sprouted quills like a porcupine. He screamed until a willow shaft impaled his throat.

Answering fire was ragged and without heart. Chinese soldiers feared Mongol cavalry more than they feared death, and on this snowswept plain, the Mongol horsemen represented both.

A horseman galloped into view, and without stopping, pulled Kula onto his pony. They rode away, and Kula regained his steed.

That left Remo all alone under the next wave of arrows.

Remo had found shelter behind an overturned tank tangled with a splintered flatcar. Occasionally a PLA soldier would join him, seeking refuge from the endless fall of arrows.

Remo let them know they were not welcome by using them as shields. He caught dozens of arrows that way. When one human target was sufficiently punctured, Remo threw him contemptuously to one side and simply waited for another.

It took a while, but finally the PLA stopped trying to hide behind Remo's flatcar.

The PLA started to retreat, the Mongols hot on their heels.

The arrows had stopped, so Remo stepped out to meet the oncoming figures. He tore into the PLA with enthusiasm.

The sight of a lone Mongol-so Remo appeared from afar-single-handedly ripping PLA soldiers to shreds was enough to give the Mongol cavalry pause.

They came to a stunned stop and watched mute as statues. Kula's voice lifted over the screams of the dying, his words unintelligible to Remo's ears, but his tone unmistakable. It rang with pride.

Finally Remo had his fill of dismembering PLA soldiers and waved the Mongols on.

They came in like Apaches, whooping and using short daggers and swords to finish off the last stragglers.

The snow was pink and red when they were finished. The air was warm with rising steam and the heat that was escaping human bodies for the last time.

Kula cantered up to Remo, astride his own horse and leading Smitty. He offered Remo his reins in silence.

Remo mounted. "So much for phase one," he said. "There's time before the Mongol army gets this far south. Next we gotta find Fang Yu."

"She is lost?"

"She's not who I thought she was," Remo explained. "I gotta find out who she really works for."

"There are many ways to make a Chinese spy talk," Kula suggested, wiping his blade clean of blood with the shaggy mane of his pony.

Remo shook his head. "I'll handle Fang Yu on my own."

"We ride with you, white tiger." Before Remo could protest, Kula turned to the regathering horses and shouted in his native tongue.

The answering roar that filled Remo's ears meant nothing to him. But the intent was clear. Blades were lifted to the steely blue sky in salute.

"Looks like I have a following," Remo grunted.

Kula reached over and clapped his hands on Remo's shoulders.

"You and I, our blood is of the same color," he said with simple sincerity. "You lead and we will follow. No one will stand before us."

Remo glanced back to the wreckage of the Chinese troop train. Snow melted around the broken boiler.

"Let's hope this is the beginning of a streak," he muttered. But his voice lacked conviction. What would happen when he tangled with the Master of Sinanju?

He wheeled and spurred his pony back toward Sayn Shanda.

The Mongols fell in after him like the troubled wake of a great ship passing through white water.

Chapter 27

They swept through the Middle Gobi, between the provincial capital of Mandal Gobi to the north and Holodo Suma to the south.

By this time, the New Golden Horde was three thousand strong. It was no longer a line of cavalry, but a caravan.

Collapsible gers were carried on camelback. Supplies burdened creaking yak-drawn carts. From each saddle hung a leather sack containing hardened milk curd and water, which after a day's bouncing would be churned into an edible porridge.

Heeding the call to horse, they had come from Ulan Goom to the west, from distant Tamsang Bulag, and even from the remote villages of the Delugun-Boldok Mountains, the fabled resting place of Genghis Khan himself.

"Praise Buddah that I lived to see this day," Boldbator Khan shouted lustily. "We are an army. We will soon know the joys that Lord Genghis spoke of-to conquer our enemies, to deprive them of their possessions, to make their beloved weep, to ride on their horses and embrace their wives and daughters. I look forward to that last joy with especial relish, Boldbator added with a low chuckle.

The Master of Sinanju's reply was sobering.

"We are too few to ensure victory," Chiun said, his squeaky voice pitched low so none of the other riders could hear.

"We have men, horses, supplies, and weapons. What more does a Mongol army require?"

"More Mongols," Chiun said simply.

"We have thousands of stout Mongols," Boldbator boasted.

"When one contemplates sacking China," Chiun returned, his voice like stone, "one can never have too many Mongols."

Boldbator strained to look behind him.

"I do not think there are better men in all of Mongolia," he remarked.

"Send detachments to the nearest towns," Chiun said. "Learn if they can what transpires in Beijing. Muster more horse Mongols. And no Uighurs, Kazaks, or Kirghiz!"

"At once," Boldbator said, turning his complaining horse around.

The sky overhead was too blue to be true. Boldbator's lifted voice seemed to bounce off its uppermost reaches.

"Bato! Jagatai! Take you twelve riders each to Mandal Gobi and Holodo Suma. Gather up all the riders you can. Shame them with words or beat them with your whips, but let no abled-bodied Mongol refuse the call! We will await you at Sayn Shanda! Go!"

The riders got organized. They split off from the main body, which ranged in both directions as far as the eye could see.

"We can rest up at Sayn Shanda," Boldbator told Chiun after the thunder of hooves had died away. "Perhaps the latest news will have reached that place too."

Chiun nodded, his almond eyes never wavering from the horizon, beyond which lay Inner Mongolia and the prize he sought.

Chapter 28

As they approached Sayn Shanda in the desert, Kula cantered his horse up to Remo's side.

"Shall we await you in our gers?" he asked.

"There's a long black limousine somewhere in town," Remo said, his eyes on the white fingerlike apartment houses that dominated the Sayn Shanda skyline. "Find it and I'll be happy."

"What is this machine to you?"

"I have a score to settle with the driver."

"I will bring you his head on the tip of my sword," Kula vowed.

"Just track it down," Remo said. "I'll handle the rest."

"It will be as you say," Kula promised.

Kula lifted his deep voice, and like a wave of many-legged centaurs, the horsemen charged down into the town, leaving Remo to bring up the rear.

"Nothing like Mongol enthusiasm," Remo muttered as he watched them descend on Sayn Shanda.

He rode after them at a steady pace, his brow wrinkled in thought. He wasn't looking forward to the confrontation with Fang Yu. But there was no other way.

Remo rode through the streets of Sayn Shanda. Cars and bicycles gave way before him. Occasionally a person on the sidewalk would shout, "White tiger! Freaking white tiger!" at him in English. Word obviously travels fast among Mongolians, he thought. He felt like the star in the final reel of a King Arthur film.

As he rode along, Kula's horsemen-his horsemen, he realized with a start-were practically going house to house, trying to find Remo's black limousine.

Remo decided they had the matter well in hand and took a street he recognized would lead him back to the Genghis Khan Hotel. A Cyrillic-lettered Pepsi sign was an unmistakable landmark.

The street was long and lined with relatively modern shops and office buildings. Only the native costumes and braided hair of the women-that and the frequent Genghis Khan posters-made it seem not unlike a small American town.

Drumming hoofbeats lifted over the muted background noise of the city. They were riding hard, and coming this way.

The deep roar of a car, intermixed with a squeal of speeding tires, warned Remo of approaching trouble.

The black limousine raced up a side street bisecting the avenue. It flashed across so fast, to Remo it seemed unreal. Hot on its rear deck were a score of Mongol horsemen in full cry, Kula leading.

Remo spurred his horse.

"Hayah!" he said. Smitty responded, his hooves pounding the cobbles, eating up blocks.

The roar and clatter of hoofbeats changed, and grew.

Suddenly, from the opposite direction, the limo streaked across the avenue, one street closer to Remo. The Mongols plunged a length behind it. They seemed to have lost some horses along the way.

When the chase reappeared, one street closer and going in the opposite direction, Remo thought he saw a pattern forming. He slowed as he approached an intersection. Another couple of passes and the limo would have to get by him.

Remo pulled up and waited for the next violent crossing. He had time.

The limo didn't appear at the expected street, or the one below that. But the squealing of tires and the clop of hooves wasn't far away. In fact, it seemed very close.

Remo glanced down his intersection. "Oh-oh," he said.

For the familiar broad silver grille suddenly surged around a corner, Mongol horsemen hot on its burning rubber wake. It came at him like a battering ram.

Remo reined Smitty back. Just in time.

The limousine tore past him, only feet in front of his pony's snorting nose. Smitty reared up in fear. Remo calmed him with a squeeze of his strong legs.

Kula's Mongols whipped by next. Remo joined the fast-riding horsemen.

"We found it, white tiger!" Kula shouted exultantly.

"No fooling."

"It was parked before your hotel. The Chinese woman Fang Yu emerged from it. We let her alone and gave chase. Was that a good thing to do?"

"It is if we catch up to this freaking maniac," Remo told him.

"No maniac can elude Mongols, not even a freaking one," Kula shot back as pedestrians dodged back before their ponies' driving hooves.

The limo cut up a street. They went around the corner too. One pony skidded on the turn and wiped out. The others kept going.

Up another street, the limo slid like a black ghost. They negotiated the corner with difficulty. Horses were not made for racing through twisting city streets at full gallop.

On the next straightaway, a gleaming silver tube slid out from the rear deck.

Remo raised his voice in warning just as oil squirted out. Too late.

Several of the unshod lead ponies ran into the oil slick. Their hooves went every which way, except the direction they had been going. The horses stumbled and collided. The snapping of bones was audible.

Remo yanked his mount aside just in time. Kula's reflexes were equally adept. But they lost several horses. Leaving their riders to put the crippled ones out of their misery, Remo led those horsemen still in their saddles around the sprawled panicky ponies painting the street with their blood.

They followed the tire tracks around the next corner.

The street was a cul-de-sac, ending in a high stone wall flanked by ordinary shops, where the tracks stopped dead.

They reined up, looking every which way.

"Where did it go?" Kula demanded angrily.

Remo pointed to the tracks. "Through that wall," he said. "Come on. I think this is where it's going to get complicated."

They dismounted outside the wall.

Remo leapt from the back of his mount to the top of the wall. He balanced there, looking down.

"What do you see?" Kula shouted up.

"Nothing!" Remo said bitterly. He was looking over a walled courtyard. The tire tracks picked up on the inner side of the wall. But they stopped dead in the middle of the windswept snow that covered the empty courtyard.

Remo jumped down. He knelt on the half-exposed stone flags, while Mongols clambered over the wall, brandishing knives and short swords. Some of them wept silently. They were those who had lost their ponies to the oil slick.

"This is impossible," Kula said, looking around with bewilderment flattening his bronze-gong face.

The blank walls of several low buildings faced them on all three sides.

"It's under this slab," Remo said. He was digging around in the flags for a fingerhold. There was none, so he made a few with sharp blows of his hand.

"I could use a hand," Remo suggested.

"To do what?" Kula wondered.

"To turn this slab over."

Kula translated for the others. The Mongols looked doubtful.

"Are you going to help or not?" Remo demanded.

The Mongols fell to it.

With Remo providing the main power to turn it, the Mongols helped tilt the slab up. It was perfectly balanced. Once they got it moving, it turned without complaint or resistance, although they could sense the movement of freeturning gearing.

When the slab had been reversed, the black limousine was exposed in all its long sleek terrible beauty to the suddenly wide eyes of Kula's Mongols. Claws held its wheels fast.

"I have never seen such magic," Kula said hoarsely.

"This guy must have setups like this everywhere he goes," Remo snapped, going around to the driver's window. He peered in.

The seat was empty. He went to the back. The windows were tinted. Remo placed an ear to the pane. He detected no heartbeat or sound of respiration.

"Damn!" Remo said. He turned to the others. "Okay, everyone give me a hand. We're going to turn it again."

"Why?" Kula asked in a reasonable voice. "We have the machine you seek."

"But not its owner. There must be a secret tunnel or hiding place under the courtyard. Let's do it!"

They got the slab revolving again. When it was balanced perpendicular to the ground, Remo called, "Hold it! Right here. Just keep it right here."

Remo looked down into the recess below. It was dark. He jumped in anyway.

The space was cold. He felt around the sides and walls. A section of stone sounded hollow to his tapping touch. He exerted pressure on it. It turned. It was hung on a pivot. One side went in, the other coming out.

Beyond it lay a dark tunnel.

"I found a tunnel," Remo shouted up. "Who wants to join in the fun?"

It was a foolish question to ask of Mongol fighters. With a single cry, they all jumped down. The heavy limousine pulled the slab down into place, limousine-side-up. Darkness overtook the underground recess.

"Didn't anybody think to stay back?" Remo said sourly.

"Mongols never shy away from danger," Kula said, sober-voiced.

"Let's go," Remo said. He led the way.

The tunnel ran in a straight line, then took a jog to the left. Remo peered around the edge, and seeing nothing but unrelieved blackness, went into it.

Another bend, this one right, brought them to a dead end and a ladder leading straight up.

Remo went up, finding a hatch. He levered it up with the palm of one hand and poked his head up, looking in every direction.

He saw another courtyard, covered with snow.

"What is there?" Kula demanded.

"Nothing," Remo said unhappily.

"Then why do we delay?"

"Okay, okay, come on," Remo called down.

He held the lid back as Kula's men clambered up, swords at the ready but nothing to stick them in. The Mongols looked disappointed.

"What do you think?" Remo asked Kula as they stood in the emptiness of this new courtyard.

"Tunnels," Kula muttered darkly. "This is the work of a Chinese. They love tunnels."

"We'll see." Then he noticed the footprints in the snow.

They led to a door on a nearby wall. They reminded Remo of the footprints of the black-masked chauffeur.

"Come on," Remo said. He led them to the door. Without hesitation, Remo kicked the door in.

Better to take the enemy by surprise-or as much surprise as possible, considering his entourage, he reasoned.

Inside, yellow desert dust covered sheets draped over long glass display cases. It was a market of some type, not in use.

Remo followed the footprints to a set of stairs. They went up in silence.

At the top they found an apartment, it too covered by drapes.

Remo looked around hurriedly. The Mongols upset the furniture like schoolkids. They ran swords and knives through overstuffed chairs, examining their withdrawn blades for blood. The absence of gore made many of them grunt unhappily.

"Nothing," Remo said at last. "Wait a minute," he said, looking out a dingy window.

On the sidewalk below, he spotted footprints. The chauffeur's. They led away from the building.

"Let's go!" Remo shouted. "He's getting away!"

The Mongols raced to the door, nearly dismembering one another trying to plunge down the stairs with swords in hand.

Remo was the last one out of the room. The stairs were choked with Mongols, so Remo cleared them with a single leap. He kicked the front door open when he reached it, hitting the sidewalk without breaking stride.

Remo found the street empty in both directions.

His eyes scanned the snow at his feet. The Mongols piled out, ready to do battle.

"Hold up!" he said, blocking Kula with a hand. "Check it out!"

The Mongol looked down. There were two sets of footprints now-one going and one coming.

"Enlighten us, white tiger," Kula said.

"This second set wasn't there a minute ago," Remo explained tersely. He backtracked them.

They led him back into the house through the broken door.

"This is the guy from the back of the limo," Remo told Kula. "I recognize his footprints from New Rochelle."

The sinister name "New Rochelle" buzzed from Mongol lip to Mongol ear. Lips tightened. Daggers were clutched more tightly.

"He must have slipped inside when we were upstairs," Remo added. "Come on. We'll nail him."

They ran back into the building. This time they turned the place upside down in their fury. Display cases were overturned and their glass kicked loose under frustrated sheepskin boots.

Remo went back upstairs.

"There is no one here," Kula shouted up from below.

"Check for secret passages, tunnels, anything!" Remo shouted down. "He's in here!"

The Mongols grunted and ran the walls through with their blades, until every vertical surface resembled crumbling Swiss cheese.

They found no sign of life. There was no basement, no attic-just two deserted and now disarrayed floors.

Remo came down the stairs dejectedly.

"I don't get it," he growled.

He went outside. "He had to come here while we were upstairs," Remo said aloud to the nearest Mongol. "So where did he go?"

The Mongol shrugged. He couldn't understand it either. Or Remo. He didn't speak English.

"Perhaps he is a ghost," Kula ventured. "We have ghosts in Mongolia, just as you do in demon-haunted New Rochelle."

"I've never seen a ghost in Mongolia or New Rochelle."

Remo decided that following the chauffeur's footprints was his only sensible course of action.

His Mongols at his heels, Remo made his way through a maze of alleys.

The footprints-both pairs-paralleled one another, although going in opposite directions. They led back to the first courtyard, which was once more empty.

"I thought you guys left the slab down limo-side-up," Remo complained.

"We did, truly," Kula said.

"Well, it's gone."

To be certain, they upended the slab again. The limousine wasn't on either side of the revolving surface.

But Remo noticed that the tracks of the passenger as well as the chauffeur stopped at the edge of the slab-one going and the other coming.

"This doesn't make sense," Remo told no one in particular. "I checked the car before I went down the tunnel. It was empty."

"Yes?" Kula said.

"No driver. He took off through the tunnel, right?"

"Correct. Absolutely."

"But the passenger seat was empty. I could tell from listening. So how could the guy in back walk away after we left the car and go into the house? He wasn't in the car in the first place-I'd swear to that-and he didn't end up in the house. But his footprints say he was."

"The answer to this conundrum is quite simple," Kula said sagely.

Remo looked up expectantly. "Yeah?"

"It is Chinese sorcery."

"It is bullshit," Remo snapped.

Chapter 29

Remo Williams led Smitty clopping through the streets of Sayn Shanda. He had sent Kula away with his men, to await orders.

They would need to gather more men if they were to head off the approaching Mongol horde.

But for now, Remo had a date with Fang Yu.

He stabled his horse and noted that Fang Yu's bay was still in its stable.

He rode the elevator to his floor in silence, feeling suddenly strange in his native costume. He wondered what Chiun would say if he saw him now. Perhaps before the day was over, he'd find out.

Remo went directly to Fang Yu's door. He knocked twice.

Fang Yu opened the door a crack.

"Remo! Where you been? I been looking for you."

"I had to catch a train," Remo said, pushing the door in. Fang Yu stepped back, her mouth open in mute surprise.

"Train?" she said. "Where did you go that you still in Sayn Shanda?"

"Beijing ordered the Twenty-seventh Army up by rail," Remo said in a harsh, brittle voice. "Kula and I stopped them outside of town. They won't be killing any more Chinese-or Mongolians."

He watched Fang Yu's face for reaction-anger, horror, fear.

Instead, she surprised him by breaking out into a wide smile.

"You defeat Twenty-seventh Army? Remo, that wonderful! You be hero to Chinese people. Twenty-seventh Army butchers. Very bad."

"There'll be more," Remo added. "I've got to stop them if I can."

"I will help,''

"Why?"

Fang Yu blinked behind her tortoiseshell glasses. "Say again, please?"

"I know you're not Ivory Fang," Remo said in a fiat voice.

Fang Yu said nothing. Her face lost its color. It went as bloodless as old bone.

"So what's the truth," Remo said flintily. "Who are you really working for?"

Fang Yu swallowed. "For West. For Democratic China."

"Liar!"

"Not lie to you!" she retorted, her eyes hot. "I do so work for new China. Ivory Fang is my husband's code name. He sick, so I take his place. We do this from time to time. This way, Security Bureau never sure if Ivory Fang man or woman. Keep us safer longer."

"You're married?" Remo asked, surprised at his own disappointment.

Fang Yu turned away. "Husband understand."

"But I don't. I thought you cared about me."

"I do care for you, Remo. You very brave, very American. I admire American men very much. You good in sack too."

Remo decided to cut to the chase. The truth wasn't coming fast enough.

"You haven't seen me at my best," Remo said, low-voiced, stepping closer.

"What you do?" Fang Yu asked uneasily.

"You said I'm good in the sack," Remo returned. "But I've been holding back."

Fang Yu stepped back suddenly. "You have?"

"Exactly."

"Then you should not hold back. You should take me."

"Exactly what I had in mind . . ."

Remo did it by the numbers this time. He took Fang Yu's wrists in one hand. The other forefinger started its rhythmic irresistible tapping.

Fang Yu wet her lips. Her eyes squeezed in the first tormenting rhythms of the Sinanju sexual technique. Remo watched the play of emotion across her face, smiling. In a matter of moments, she would tell him everything she knew.

Then, and only then, would he take her. And then only if he still felt like it. The truth came first.

Fang Yu stepped closer to Remo, her chest against his. Her breath was quickening, pushing her small but rising breasts into his chest.

"Oh, Remo," she breathed, lifting her hands to his shoulders. Her fingernails dug in. Her eyes squeezed into catlike slits of turmoil. Her smell was in his nostrils, her breath mingling with her rose-petal scent.

Her breath smelled of pork.

It was the last smell Remo remembered. The very last thing he recalled was the touch of her slim fingers on the bare skin behind his ears, and suddenly he was swimming in blackness.

Fang Yu stepped back, her eyes hard. Remo fell back onto the bed. He bounced once, then lay still.

Fang Yu trembled on her feet. Every nerve quivered in anticipation of the consummation Remo had started. Her eyes were angry, her mouth dry.

She hurried into the bathroom and masturbated herself into a semblance of calmness.

Only then could she bring herself to go to the telephone.

"Jiao-Shi," she reported, "he is my slave."

A sibilant voice said only, "Await the coming of my Blue Bees." And the line went dead.

Chapter 30

They were ten thousand strong as they neared Sayn Shanda.

Night had fallen. They rode four hours more, until the moon was high and the wind like knives of cold glass in their dels.

"This is a good place," the Master of Sinanju said.

Boldbator Khan wheeled and gave the order to pitch camp.

An hour later, the last of the Mongols in the rear received word. Gers were set up, first the expandable trellislike wicker walls to which doors were hung. Roof spokes were fitted over this. Then came the layers of blankets and felt which transformed the skeletal circles into cocoons of warmth in the gravel-and-sand desolation.

Boldbator personally erected Chiun's tent.

Inside, their body heat began to warm the cool air. Zhang Zingzong made tea.

"We could have reached Sayn Shanda before dawn," Boldbator told the Master of Sinanju. It was statement, not a challenge. The Master of Sinanju was many minutes in replying.

"Word out of Holodo Suma troubles me," he said.

Boldbator grunted. "The Chinese sent an army by rail. It is a very Chinese thing to do. And they have failed, which is also very Chinese. It is a good augury."

"Two questions trouble me," Chiun continued. "Who commands the force that stopped them? And how long before Beijing sends more of their green ants?"

"There is talk of one called the white tiger."

"Do you know of such a Mongol?"

"No. It is said he is a Westerner."

Chiun's eyes narrowed in the candlelight.

"A white-commanding Mongols?"

"They say he fights like a tiger. That he has killed wolves with his bare hands. And brought down an entire Chinese train. You have lived among Westerners, Master. Is there any among them that can accomplish these things?"

"None who matter," said the Master of Sinanju dismissively as he accepted tea from Zhang Zingzong.

Zhang retired to a corner, where he lit a cigarette.

"Take that outside," Chiun snapped impatiently.

"But these are Double Pleasure brand," Zhang protested. "An excellent tobacco."

"I am sick of your stinking tobacco," Chiun said. Zhang went outside to smoke.

"He is more trouble than he is worth," Boldbator snorted.

"He was a hero once. Perhaps he will show these qualities again. But I doubt it."

They drank tea in silence. The hours passed. Zhang returned to fix dinner-rice for Chiun, a boiled lamb's head for Boldbator.

They were about to retire when a guard slapped the door, disturbing the inner blanket covering.

"Enter," Boldbator commanded.

A tall man in a Mongolian army uniform entered and bowed. He was one of many the Golden Horde had collected along the way. Sent from Ulan Bator to investigate the migration of horsemen, they had invariably succumbed to the call of nomad blood.

"A woman approaches," the Mongol reported. "A Chinese woman, on horseback."

"Tell the man who captures her that she is his to do with as he desires," Boldbator grumbled.

"She has asked to meet with the Master of Sinanju," the Mongol guard continued. "She says she bears an important message for him."

"From whom?" Chiun demanded.

"I am not certain, O Master. Her Chinese is not the dialect I know. But it seemed that she said her message came from the One Without a Name."

The Master of Sinanju paled visibly. Boldbator noticed it and his heart quailed. What manner of being, he wondered, did the Master of Sinanju fear?

Chiun rose up in silence. "Lead the way," he said. "I would speak with this Chinese woman."

Boldbator followed the Master of Sinanju out. Zhang Zingzong trailed curiously, even though he had no idea what had been said. His grasp of the Mongolian tongue had not improved during the many days of contact with them.

The Master of Sinanju walked the great distance to the outer picket in silence. He stopped when he came to a bay horse, on which a young Chinese woman sat nervously, surrounded by Mongols on foot.

"I am the Master of Sinanju," Chiun intoned, tight-voiced.

"I am called Fang Yu," the woman returned in the accent of a citified Chinese. "My teacher, who is known to you, demands your presence."

"I recognize no demands," Chiun said haughtily.

"We hold one whose fate is of moment to you."

"I know of no such person," Chiun said stubbornly.

"I have brought proof." Fang Yu extracted something from a pocket and tossed it at the old Korean's sandaled feet.

Chiun looked down. It was a lock of dark brown hair tied by a blue ribbon.

"Do you recognize whose hair this is?" Fang Yu asked.

"No," Chiun said coldly.

"My teacher has certain demands. One, that you come with me to Sayn Shanda. And the other, that the Chinese fugitive Zhang Zingzong accompany you."

Zhang caught up with them at that moment. He caught the end of the conversation. His slit eyes glared at Fang Yu. Fang Yu smiled cruelly.

"Ze-me le, Zhang Zingzong?" she asked mockingly.

Zhang spun on the Master of Sinanju.

"Kill her!" he hissed. "Do not let her take me! She is an evil person!"

Chiun lifted a commanding hand. "Silence," he said.

To the Chinese woman he said, "Your teacher . . . perhaps he is known to me. Speak his name. I might meet with him if his reputation for wisdom promises enlightenment."

"I cannot speak his name, for it is unknown to me. But he is known to you as Wu Ming Shi."

Chiun's beard trembled in a manner that was not caused by the wind. Boldbator noticed this, but none of the others did.

At length Chiun said, "I know him. I will go with you."

"And him," Fang Yu said, pointing to a nervous Zhang Zingzong.

"He will come too. Await me here."

Zhang protested. Chiun nodded to the Mongols. They seized Zhang roughly.

"How can you do this?" Zhang said angrily.

"Silence!" Chiun thundered in a voice greater than his wispy frame could possibly contain. "Have our ponies saddled. We ride. And let the word go out. We ride alone. No one follows us."

Boldbator looked to the Chinese woman and the retreating Master of Sinanju, his face stricken. He followed Chiun.

"I do not understand."

"Hush, son of the steppes," Chiun whispered. "After I have gone with this woman, prepare your horse Mongols. If I do not return by daybreak, surround Sayn Shanda and ransom me if you can."

"Ransom?" Boldbator croaked. "But you are the Master of Sinanju."

"And he is the Nameless One," Chiun hissed.

He went directly to his ger and removed the teak box from his traveling trunk. He presented it to Boldbator.

"With this, and nothing less, you will ransom me. Will you do this if necessary, Boldbator Khan?"

"My life is yours," swore Boldbator Khan, kneeling.

Chapter 31

Remo Williams thought he was dreaming.

He dreamed he swam in a dark void of warm ink. The ink filled every wrinkle in his brain, covered his eyes with impenetrable blackness, and clogged his nose and lungs with a rose-petal perfume that reminded him of a woman.

He couldn't remember the woman's name, no matter how hard he tried.

Then his eyelids came open. They felt sticky, the lashes matted as if with clotted honey.

As his vision cleared, Remo found himself staring at a fan of red-lacquered bamboo rods that formed a ceiling. His eyes flicked down. He saw the toes of his bare feet. His eyes flicked left. A blank wall. Right, and he caught a rustling movement beyond his peripheral vision.

A man in a blue silk robe bent over a table. He held a syringe in one hand. The other balanced something round and flat and flesh-colored on the tip of one finger.

The finger was long and pointed and blue. It gleamed like a metal talon.

When he turned his head to see better, Remo's neck sent shooting pains into his brain, so he never completed the action.