By Eminent Domain td-124

by Warren Murphy

  She dropped the mask to the snow, picking up her gun once more. She cast one last look over the unconscious man in the snow.

  "I am sorry, Yuri," she whispered softly.

  Jaw determined, she raised her automatic to the face of the slumbering man.

  REMO WAS in the process of disarming his last soldier. As the armless man fell screaming to the snow, Remo finished him with a sharp toe to the bridge of the nose.

  He twirled on the Master of Sinanju. Chiun, too, had only one soldier left. The commando was lunging at the old Korean, knife in hand.

  "Have you saved one?" Chiun asked tersely as he dodged the sharp blade.

  Remo nodded even as he tossed away the arms of his final soldier. "We're covered this time. The rest are baggage."

  Chiun nodded sharply. "I have enough luggage," the old Asian sniffed.

  Long-nailed hands raked the last startled Russian's throat. The man died not with a scream, but with a gurgle.

  The two Masters of Sinanju were turning from the last Russian body when they heard the crack of a single gunshot. It came from where Remo had left Anna and the soldier he'd saved.

  Fearing the worst, the two men raced back down the street, ducking around the pile of scrap metal. They found Anna climbing to her feet, gun still in hand. Lying in the snow was the man Remo had kept for questioning. A gaping bullet hole decorated the dead soldier's forehead.

  As they rounded the snowmobile heap, something near the corner of the adjacent house caught the Master of Sinanju's eye. Leaving Remo's side, the old man padded beyond Anna, stopping a few yards away. Remo stopped before the Russian agent.

  "Dammit, Anna, what did you do that for?" Remo complained, waving a hand at the soldier's body.

  "Forgive me, but are we not here to stop them?" Anna asked blandly. She dusted snow from her knees.

  "Yeah, but I wanted to question that one. Why do you think I tossed him over here?"

  Her face grew impatient. "If, Remo, your secret code involves flinging bodies, you two are constantly sending messages. What is the key? The way they fly through the air, or the way in which they land?"

  "Har-de-har-har," Remo scowled. Hands on his hips, he looked down at the dead man. "This is just peachy. Next time you wanna help, count to ten and then don't."

  "We haven't the time for this," Anna said, shaking her head. "Did any of these men offer any great resistance?"

  Remo sighed. "No. Same as the last batch. Couple of moves here and there. That's it."

  She seemed grimly satisfied. "Then it is unlikely any of them was Skachkov. He is better than the rest by far. Nevertheless, I had better make certain."

  Turning, she headed out to the street where the Russian soldiers lay.

  Remo glanced one last time at the dead man before spinning away in disgust. It was then that he spied the Master of Sinanju standing alone in the snow. The old man was peering down at something near his feet.

  Puzzled, Remo walked over to his teacher. Before he'd even reached the tiny Korean, he saw what the Master of Sinanju was looking at.

  A small body lay in the snow. It was a young girl, no more than nine years old.

  Remo saw by the way the body was positioned that the child was the victim of a Sinanju floater stroke. It had been sloppily executed, but was effective just the same.

  Chiun's face was unflinching. He stared down at the young girl with eyes of hazel stone. Remo's own expression mirrored that of his teacher. They stood there for a moment, side by side. Neither man said a word.

  It was Remo who broke the silence.

  "We're getting the guy who's behind this, Little Father," Remo vowed quietly. His tone was enough to chill the already frigid air.

  No more words were needed. With sad and steely resolve, the only two true Masters of Sinanju slowly turned away from the tiny body.

  Chapter 23

  The Hind might as well have been purchased from a junk dealer. When it was delivered, it had been rusted and moss covered, with rotten wiring and missing seats. The parts needed to restore the helicopter to its former military specifications had taken forever to acquire on the black market. But acquire them he did.

  The fact that Vladimir Zhirinsky could buy Red Army hardware in this new Russia was convenient to the cause. Still, it disgusted him. All would change soon enough.

  The old Mil Mi-24 squatted now in the snow behind him, painted with cold-climate camouflage. His troops stood around it. At the moment they were six dozen strong. And that number would grow over the next few hours. Greater still in the days ahead.

  Some had only recently joined the cause. A few of the SVR men who had warned him he was under surveillance in Moscow were here. Ready to fight for the motherland.

  The other men he was bringing with him were all good, faithful Communists. All had been unable to forge lives in this new, sham Russia. Of course, they weren't trained like his special force in Alaska. Not yet. But they were loyal.

  To the east behind both helicopter and men, the Anadyr Range was a blurry blue streak against the pale winter sky.

  Zhirinsky stood in the cold of the Chukotsky Peninsula. He was at the very edge of Mother Russia, the end of the world for his nation for far too many years. Just a few miles away from the spot where he now paced were the frigid black waters of the Bering Strait. And on the other side of that, Vladimir Zhirinsky's destiny. And that of the new Soviet Union.

  "They tried to stop me," Zhirinsky said to himself. "But my comrades would not allow it. History is on my side. I smell victory in the air!" he announced as he marched back and forth in the powdery snow. A path had been stamped flat beneath the squeaking soles of his long black boots.

  Ivan Kerbabaev jumped. "'Victory, comrade!" he parroted nervously.

  Zhirinsky slapped an enthusiastic paternal palm to the younger man's raw cheek. In the intense cold, the hand stung like fire.

  "You smell it, too, eh?" Zhirinsky boomed. He pounded a balled fist to his own chest. "You have a strong Russian sense of smell. Like me."

  The last thing Ivan Kerbabaev wanted his ultranationalist boss to talk about was anything that had to do with smelling or sniffing or picking or anything even remotely associated with noses.

  "Uh, no. I mean. No. I mean..." A flash of desperation. "I must get going." He waved vaguely in the direction of Alaska. "There are preparations there that the others cannot be trusted to do."

  Zhirinsky waved an angry hand. "They are Russian!" he proclaimed. "Of course they can be trusted."

  "I did not mean-" Ivan said, shrinking from his employer.

  But Zhirinsky didn't seem interested. Arms dropping to his hips, the ultranatlonalist studied the eastern sky with eyes of black.

  Standing in the snow behind Vladimir Zhirinsky, Ivan dared not press the issue. But the truth was, more concerned him than just the work that was waiting for him in Alaska.

  Ivan had only recently learned that the team left behind near Kakwik had not arrived at the designated rendezvous. Before breaking this news to his employer, he wanted to make sure Zhirinsky was in a good mood. A full stomach might help, so Ivan was anxious to hear back from the men who had been sent to gather Vladimir Zhirinsky's Eskimo take-out at Umakarot. They, too, were late in calling in.

  Ivan gave an anxious smile. "The men in Fairbanks-" He cringed at the glare Zhirinsky gave him. "Zhirinskygrad," he corrected. "I really need to get over to them."

  Zhirinsky threw his arms up. "Skachkov is there, is he not?"

  "He will be arriving soon."

  "There is no one better. We are poised to succeed. The Americans are weak. They haven't the will to fight back. After we reclaim Russian Alaska, our people will rise up to overthrow the whores in the Kremlin. Is anyone else hungry?"

  The last words took Ivan off guard.

  As he spoke, Zhirinsky seemed to have become fixated on Ivan's face. Hypnotized by sudden fear, the young man stood locked in place.

  "Comrade?" he gulped.

  When the broad sm
ile flashed sharp, yellow teeth beneath Zhirinsky's bushy black mustache, Ivan suddenly realized that it was already too late.

  Growling savagely, Zhirinsky lunged.

  Ivan fell back, stumbling into a line of waiting soldiers.

  "Comrade, it's me!" Ivan pleaded.

  But Zhirinsky didn't hear. Blood lust sang in his ears.

  "Hold him," Zhirinsky commanded.

  The men grabbed on tight. Strong hands forced the thrashing aide to the ground. When Vladimir Zhirinsky knelt in the snow, a warm frothy drool was already forming at the edges of his great mustache.

  "Do you really smell victory, Ivan?" he hissed. "I must see for myself."

  Ivan jerked his head to one side. A set of unseen hands clamped firmly to either side of his head, twisting him straight. Zhirinsky loomed above. Eyes wild, he pressed in close.

  "Comrade!" Ivan begged. "Your Eskimos! Do you want to spoil your supper?"

  Zhirinsky's mouth was open, his tongue brushing the tip of his assistant's nose. His breath was warm and rancid as he considered. All at once, Vladimir Zhirinsky drew back, his teeth bared now in a thoughtful smile.

  "I did order supper," he agreed.

  "Yes, yes," Ivan insisted, relieved.

  "Still, I think I can sneak one little appetizer." Ivan had closed his eyes in panting relief. They sprang open just in time to see Zhirinsky lunge. Sharp incisors snapped on tight. With a mighty chomp and a twist, Vladimir Zhirinsky ripped off his screaming assistant's nose. He gobbled it greedily, his Adam's apple bobbing appreciatively above the stiff neck of his Red Army greatcoat.

  When Zhirinsky stood, blood streamed down his chin.

  On the ground at his back, Ivan lay in shock. Watery blood bubbled from the gaping holes of his exposed nasal cavities. No one moved to help him.

  "More addictive than American potato chips," the ultranationalist observed as he licked the blood from his teeth. His expression was deeply thoughtful. "You cannot eat just one."

  Patting his slight paunch, Vladimir Zhirinsky raised his black eyes. To once more study the cold eastern sky.

  Chapter 24

  Remo called Smith from the counter phone at the Umakatot general store.

  "Just me again," he announced when the CURE director picked up.

  His face and tone were lifeless. The gruesome scene outside was too strong an image to casually dismiss. "Remo, thank God," Smith said. "There may have been another attack. Someone in a small village radioed for help."

  "Been there, killed that," Remo said. He gave a quick rundown of events in Umakarot. "So that's it, Smitty," he finished. "Except that it is definitely not my fault we don't have one for questioning this time. I saved one, but-" He hesitated.

  Anna stood near the entrance to the store. Her proud face was unapologetic.

  "Well, our signals got crossed, that's all," Remo said. He cupped the phone. "You could at least look sorry," he snapped at Anna.

  "That is unfortunate," Smith was saying. "I have been unable thus far to track down Zhirinsky."

  "What, did Little Lord Fauntleroy blow a circuit in his magic eight ball?"

  "Mark has been quite helpful in this crisis, Remo," Smith said, his tone growing vague. "And his input should not concern you. It is Zhirinsky who is the problem. Given what we already know, it seems clear that he wishes to absorb Alaska into the Russian federation."

  "A guy after Chiun's own heart," Remo grunted. "Doesn't he have enough freezing weather back home?"

  "Do not compare the creature responsible for this destruction to me," intoned the Master of Sinanju. He stood near Anna. His lifeless eyes were directed out the frosted front window of the general store.

  "Sorry," Remo called. To Smith he said, "I just don't know why he's not trying to take over Hawaii instead."

  "According to his published views on the topic, he considers Alaska to still be Russian property. After all, other than the convenience of its geographical proximity, Alaska was once part of Russia."

  "Yeah, right," Remo scoffed. "So was Pittsburgh. Sounds like he's an even bigger nut than he's getting credit for."

  "It's true," Smith insisted.

  Remo frowned. "Get outta town. When did this happen?"

  "Secretary of State William Seward purchased the territory in 1867," the CURE director said dryly.

  "You sure about that?" Remo asked. "Or is this one of those things like the Japanese buying Manhattan or the Chinese buying a U.S. president? Because that Japanese one wound up not being true." Across the room came a hiss of annoyance from the Master of Sinanju. Even Anna was rolling her eyes. "How little did you learn in that Christian poorhouse?" Chiun asked.

  "So sue me for cutting American-history class," Remo groused at them. "Sister Mary Elizabeth stunk like cheese and spit like a sprinkler."

  "I wish you had managed to save one of the commandos, Remo," Smith said, steering them back to the topic at hand. "Did you at least find out how many there are?"

  "Yeah," Remo said. "Somewhere in the neighborhood of 150."

  "That many?" Smith asked. By his tone he was clearly troubled by the potential problem a number that large represented.

  "Tell me about it," Remo agreed. "And by the looks of it, Purcell trained them to copy our mannerisms and everything. He's probably sitting with his crayons and bathrobe right now having a mountain of yucks at our expense."

  "About that," Smith said. "To be safe, I checked on Purcell after our last conversation. He is still under heavy sedation. If he is to blame, then it is as you said. He trained these men prior to his hospitalization here. Have you had any luck establishing a more certain link?"

  "No, Smitty," Remo admitted. "But it's him. Even Nuihc wouldn't have given away Sinanju wholesale. He'd know it's too precious a commodity in a few hands. This has the fingerprints of a happy-farm reject all over it."

  At his words Chiun spun from the window, deep annoyance creasing his parchment face. "It is not Sinanju, Emperor," he called. "They do not even have the basic breathing techniques that are mastered by Korean pupils in the first months of training. What they have are tricks and deceptions. Things to fool the eye and nothing more."

  "Tell Master Chiun that is only somewhat of a relief," Smith said.

  "Chiun, Smitty says-"

  "I heard," Chiun sniffed, turning back to the window.

  "Anyway, we took out another eighteen of those guys here in Ustinkalot, or whatever the name of this place is. So we're up to twenty-eight we've packed on ice."

  "It's a start," Smith said, exhaling. "If Zhirinsky's intention is to foment terror, cutting into his forces will make that more difficult to do."

  "Still don't know what he's thinking with all this," Remo said. "He can wave the hammer and sickle till the cows come home, but there's no point. It's not like there's even a Soviet Union anymore."

  "In Zhirinsky's mind there is," Anna chimed in. Since her secret was now out, there was no point in remaining silent. "Just because it has been shattered into pieces, that does not mean those pieces cannot be put back together. Zhirinsky sees himself as the glue that will make the old Soviet Union whole once more."

  Her eyes were dull as she watched Remo from across the store.

  Smith tried not to react to her voice. "Ms. Chutesov's analysis is correct," he said evenly. "However, without further information to go on, we are in a holding pattern. You cannot remain there. The authorities will be arriving shortly. Call me when-"

  A muted beep sounded from the other end of the line.

  "Please hold," Smith said crisply.

  Remo heard the sound of Smith's fingers drumming the edge of his desk as the CURE director accessed whatever information the mainframes had just flagged for him.

  It took but a moment before he was back.

  "My God," the CURE director croaked. The words barely registered over the line. His throat had turned to dust.

  "What's wrong, Smitty?" Remo asked, instantly wary.

  Smith's breathing was a pained w
heeze. "Zhirinsky's men have surfaced in Fairbanks," Smith said woodenly. "And if the claim they have just made is true, he may well have the means to take over a large portion of inhabited Alaska."

  And his voice was as hollow as a tomb.

  Chapter 25

  Lavrenty Skachkov was the product of the improbable union of a grubby Sevastopol tractor mechanic and a retired Bolshoi ballerina.

  In Soviet Russia the best that could generally be hoped for in life was eventual work as a KGB komendant in some out-of-the-way posting. That was the best. More than likely someone like Lavrenty would apprentice with his father, following not only in his footsteps as a mechanic, but modeling his entire life after the senior Skachkov. Endless grimy days would feed bitter drunken nights. There would be smoking, cancer at an early age and, mercifully, death.

  This was the likeliest life for young Lavrenty because it had been the life for millions in his social class for generations. But fate had something different in store for Lavrenty. Something odd had happened in the strange genetic cocktail from which this young man of destiny had sprung.

  "Stop running inside!" Lavrenty's grandmother would yell at him when he was only three.

  "Get out of that tree!" Lavrenty's mother would shout into the courtyard they shared with a dozen other families.

  More than once his father needed to borrow a ladder to get his son down off the gabled tile roof of the small apartment building in which the Skachkovs lived.

  Lavrenty's youthful energy translated into a talent for sports. So good was he at nearly everything he tried that at the tender age of six he was taken from his family.

  Olympic athletes were always in demand. Lavrenty Skachkov would win many gold medals for the motherland.

  Lavrenty's trainers didn't need to experiment on their young protege with dangerous doses of chemicals-either legal or otherwise. Lavrenty came by his skills naturally.

  He was an accomplished swimmer and diver. He was graceful enough to be a gymnast, though he was a bit too large and had not begun the formal training at an early enough age. When it came time to decide on what skills would best serve his country, his speed won out. The Olympic coaches chose to groom young Lavrenty as their greatest track and field star. And one day soon he would win gold medals.