Conn found an allusion to a Korean from Sinanju in Nero's court. Another was with Hannibal as he crossed the Alps. Some were present at pivotal events in human history. They went where the money was. The legend of Sinanju was that of a shadow force behind events and historical figures stretching back to the earliest recorded history.

It was interesting. Certainly intriguing. But there was no real practical application for what MacCleary learned. What was he supposed to do, run to the newspapers? "Excuse me, sir, but hold page one. I've got a story about a secret cult of assassins living in the Orient. It's so feared and respected that even the President of the United States paid tribute to it rather than risk his neck crossing them."

Conn would be laughed out of every city room from New York to Bugtussle.

Besides, Sinanju in the late twentieth century seemed in decline. According to his research, there were likely only two practitioners of the martial art at a given time. Master and student. From father to son. Passed down for generations. But aside from a blip in World War II, the current Master hadn't made himself known to the courts of the modern world.

Conn was interested, sure. But there was damned little he could do with what he'd learned.

He had filed the information away in a dusty corner of his brain. And there it sat for almost two decades. Until one day that amazing, useless scrap of knowledge resurfaced. And with it, the hope of maybe, just maybe, saving a nation.

THE ROWING GREW choppier as they neared the sub. The three steamer trunks were tied to the big rubber boat with a rope line. They bobbed obediently in the raft's wake as they closed in on the waiting submarine.

If the trunks started to sink, they'd pull the back end of the raft underwater. Conn wasn't thrilled with the idea of taking a dip in freezing water. Worse was the possibility that he'd have to rescue his passenger from the drink.