By Eminent Domain td-124

by Warren Murphy

  "I did not say I would not do it!" the Russian cried, grabbing at his aching nose bone.

  "Good," Remo said. "Then get cracking."

  Ivan's eyes were pleading. "I do not have to," he explained desperately.

  "No? I've got five reasons why you do," Remo said. He punched the back of Ivan's hand, knocking it into his face.

  Ivan shrieked, falling back against the shiny silver warhead. "Please!" he begged. Both hands now cradled his bleeding face. "You do not understand!"

  Remo's brow dropped low. "What don't I understand?"

  "Limit your response to this device," Chiun suggested. "For a complete inventory of things Remo does not understand would maroon us forever in this wasteland."

  Ivan's mouth was stained red. He gulped, swallowing watery blood. "The bomb does not work," he insisted.

  Remo blinked. "Come again?"

  "It does not work," Ivan explained. "The bomb is defective. Broken."

  Remo looked at the metal casing. Radiation continued to seep from the device. He looked back at Ivan, suspicious.

  "It's radioactive," he warned.

  "Residual radiation," Ivan promised. "It was disarmed in Ukraine years ago. The plutonium was removed before it was shipped back to Russia. It is worthless."

  Remo drew back his fist. "Are you pulling my leg?"

  Ivan recoiled. "Please, it is truth!"

  It was plain to them both that the Russian wasn't lying.

  "Why would this man have a boom device that does not work?" Chiun asked.

  "Zhirinsky wanted a missile. Any missile," Ivan explained, teary eyed. "I would give the grymza usraty whatever he desired, whether it worked or not."

  "Zhirinsky doesn't know it's broken?" Remo asked.

  "Nyet," Ivan insisted, shaking his head fervently.

  "Lemme get this straight. You got this dud for him and you never bothered to tell him before he invaded Alaska that it doesn't work? What kind of crummy henchman are you?"

  "I am not henchman, I am prisoner," Ivan moaned. "He likes me and the govnyuk still bit off my nose. What do you think he would have done to me if I told him his missile was broken? Yes, I arranged for it to be bought from the black market, but even I could not bring myself to purchase the plutonium it needed." His black-rimmed eyes begged understanding above his thick wad of gauze.

  Ramo absorbed his words. "Just to tie up all the loose ends, this black market twit who sold it to you was Boris Flavorice, wasn't it?"

  Ivan nodded. "Boris Feyodov, yes," he said. "He is powerful figure in Russian Mafia."

  "Tell that to the hundred tons of rock that made his head go squish," Remo said dryly. He turned to Chiun. "His nuke and army are gone. That leaves us with the big nut himself, about a hundred Sinanju-trained guys and a Wang prophecy to deal with. The day's starting to look up."

  "We will dispose of the armies of death first," Chiun intoned. "He of legend will find us when the time comes."

  Spinning, the old man marched down the missile's length.

  When Remo turned back to Ivan, the Russian cowered.

  "You know where his men are?" Remo asked.

  Ivan nodded. "Yes," he said.

  "Good. You just got promoted to tour guide."

  As he was grabbing Ivan by the jacket collar, the terrified man looked up at Remo, sad hope in his watery eyes.

  "As typical body-conscious American, you would not happen to have number of good plastic surgeon?" he asked.

  As he spoke, another piece of tape popped loose.

  Chapter 32

  "So did Anna ever work with Zhirinsky?" Remo asked as they sped down the street.

  Ivan Kerbabaev was sandwiched between the two Masters of Sinanju in the front seat of the Land Rover. "Anna?" Ivan asked, confused. The light dawned. "Ah, Anna Chutesov. As far as I know, they have never even met. Zhirinsky first mentioned her to me this week. She is apparently director of a secret organization in Russia. A man by the name of Lavrenty Skachkov contacted Zhirinsky months ago. He and the other specially trained soldiers worked for this Chutesov woman until they decided to defect to Zhirinsky's cause a few days ago. Apparently, they were dissatisfied with the restrictions she placed on them."

  "Why?" Remo asked. "She only let them kill every other Saturday?"

  Ivan shook his head. "From what I understand she never let them out. That was the problem."

  Remo shot a glance at the Master of Sinanju. "Sounds like Anna kept a tight lid on Mactep," he said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

  "That does not matter," the old man sniffed.

  "Maybe it should," Remo said softly.

  Between them, Ivan looked from one man to the other. "Mactep?" he asked as he stuck loose bandage tape back down. "That is what the others call Skachkov."

  Remo scowled. "Yeah?" he said. "Well, Master Scratchpost is about to find out who the real Master is."

  A blinding flash. Like something sparking in his brain.

  Remo's eyes blurred, and he felt the wheel go mushy in his hands. When he snapped back around an instant later, the shoulder of the road was racing toward them. He fumbled for the steering wheel, but a bony hand was already there.

  With a squeal of tires, Chiun steered them straight. "Wow," Remo said, his hands fumbling to take control once more. "Another head rush."

  His mind was clearing. As it did, a thought that had almost formed scampered back into the back of his brain. And as it fled, his earlier frustration returned.

  "Still sure you don't want to tell me what it is I'm missing?" he asked the Master of Sinanju.

  The old man shook his head. "You must find your own path."

  "Great," Remo muttered.

  Ivan wasn't sure what had just happened. "You are not from the Institute," the Russian said evenly. "We're from better than the Institute," Remo replied.

  Ivan looked first at the ancient Korean sitting on one side of him, then to the younger man in the light windbreaker who had just had some kind of seizure that had almost driven them off the road. "Skachkov is very, very good," he warned.

  "I'm sick of people saying that," Remo snapped. "Now, unless you want an elbow to that nose-nub of yours, you'll pipe down and tell us where to go." Ivan did as he was told.

  With Zhirinsky's aide offering directions as they went, Remo eventually stopped near a medical building around the corner from Fairbanks Hospital. It was a plain two-story structure. A few trucks were parked out front.

  From the car Ivan pointed up at the brick building. "The Brezhnev Brigade is in there."

  "Wait here," Remo instructed as he and Chiun popped their doors and slid out.

  As Ivan ducked behind the dashboard, the two Sinanju Masters met at the front of the car.

  "Stealthy or straightforward?" Remo asked. Chiun's neck craned like an angry bird from the brocade collar of his kimono.

  "Prepare to pay in blood for your thievery, Russian dogs!" the Master of Sinanju cried up at the first-story windows. Fists knots of righteous anger, he whirled up the front staircase.

  "Settles that," Remo said to himself. Hands thrust deep in his pockets, he strolled up the stairs after Chiun.

  The two men disappeared inside the building. Alone in the car, Ivan waited. He jumped when, a minute after the two men had disappeared inside, there came a few muffled shots from the building.

  That was it. They were dead.

  Maybe he could convince Vladimir Zhirinsky that he had led these two into a trap. Who knew? The delusional lunatic was probably so far gone by now he'd believe anything. Not that it really mattered to Ivan any longer.

  He was about to start the engine when the driver's door sprang open. Remo shoved Ivan from behind the wheel.

  "For future reference, I don't like my seat kept warm," Remo said as he got in next to Ivan. "That goes double for Russian asses."

  Ivan felt a stinging swat on his right knee. When he spun to its source, he found Chiun sitting calmly next to him.

  "Stay on your side," caution
ed the Korean.

  "What's this bring us down to, Little Father?"

  "Eighty-six," the old Asian replied.

  "Wish there was a faster way to thin this herd," Remo frowned. He started the engine and pulled from the curb.

  Craning his neck, Ivan looked back at the building, amazement blossoming on the visible parts of his face. "There were sixteen men in there," he said.

  "I know," Remo said, peeved. "It's a pain running all over the place like this. At least he had all those other troops at the airport. Lot more convenient for us that way."

  "Yes, they are there for now," Ivan said. "But he plans to disperse them to fortified positions after his speech."

  "He'll need a set of barbecue tongs," Remo said. "And you should work on your tenses, schnozzy. I said 'had.' I meant by putting all the Russian eggs in one basket it was easier for us to handle. Bizz-bang-boom, we were done."

  Ivan seemed to finally realize what Remo was saying.

  "You mean you eliminated all of his troops at the airport?" he asked, inching up to a sitting position. A tiny spark of hope swelled in the pit of his cold stomach.

  "I eliminated most of them," Chiun interjected.

  "Technically, they mostly eliminated each other, Little Father," Remo pointed out.

  Ivan watched them both. "Do you intend to kill Zhirinsky?" the Russian asked, eagerness in his soft voice.

  "Now that we know he can't melt the polar icecaps," Remo replied.

  Ivan's eyes grew cunning. "Let me help. I offer my services as a double agent."

  "What do you think you're doing right now, genius?"

  The cunning changed to a look of cold vengeance. "Kill me, then. I no longer care. But before you do, allow me to tear off the lunatic's nose."

  "Sorry. Got dibs on that," Remo said darkly. Ivan slumped back in the seat like a pouting child.

  A wet moan of disappointment rose from beneath his mound of bloody bandages.

  Remo rolled his eyes. "Look, tell us where the next batch of Institute guys are and you can have an ear." A grin sprang so abruptly to Ivan's face, another piece of tape popped free. "Take the next left," Ivan Kerbabaev instructed giddily. With joyous, nimble fingers he pressed the tape back to his mangled face.

  Ivan quickly turned from reluctant tour guide to eager collaborator. The next stop was the Fairbanks chamber of commerce. As an afterthought as they were getting out of the car, Remo tapped three fingers to the Russian's forehead. Ivan was frightened when Remo came at him, but when his captor's hand withdrew, a look of great relief washed over the Russian's face. His facial pain had disappeared.

  As Remo and Chiun walked away from the car, the look of love Ivan gave Remo was the sort generally reserved to dogs for their owners.

  "You do not need to spoil him," Chiun complained.

  Remo's face was flat. "His whimpering was getting to me. Besides, I need him for something once we're done here."

  They mounted the steps to the chamber of commerce.

  "Only five inside," Remo said, tuning his senses to the interior of the building. "Sounds like they're asleep."

  Chiun nodded sharp agreement. "We will send the thieves to eternal slumber," he intoned.

  A sharp slap opened the door. Chiun swirled inside.

  Remo followed the wizened figure up the darkened main hallway. They found the five soldiers curled in sleeping bags on a first-story office floor.

  "Think we should wake them up?" Remo whispered. "Hardly seems sporting not to give them a fighting chance."

  The old man gave him a baleful look before turning away.

  Kimono hems whirling around his bony ankles, Chiun bounded from the door. One sandaled heel found the crunching skull of a slumbering man. Springing from head to head as if seeking stones in raging rapids, Chiun quickly finished off the five. Giving his heel a grinding crunch to the final skull, the Master of Sinanju padded back to Remo.

  "Leave chance to sport," the old man said blandly. "I am a professional."

  They were about to leave when Remo spied something on the floor next to one of the dead soldiers. "Wait a sec," he said. "I have an idea."

  He headed for the body.

  At the door Chiun paused impatiently. "I have warned you to inform me beforehand when that one special day in each decade comes around," the old man droned, "that I might arrange to be out of town."

  "Don't knock my ideas," Remo warned as he snatched up the soldier's portable radio. "I'm sick of running all over this icebox. Besides, you're gonna love this one."

  VLADIMIR ZHIRINSKY STARED at the radio in his aide's hand with a look of dumb shock.

  The man had run into his office a few seconds ago. The future premier of the reborn Soviet Union couldn't believe what he was hearing.

  "Calling all Commies, calling all Commies. Sitting-duck American spies spotted in vicinity of chamber of commerce building. This is not a trap. Over." The radio crackled with static.

  Sitting at his desk, mounds of wadded paper all around, Zhirinsky glared up at his aide.

  "Whoever he is, he began broadcasting a few minutes ago," the young man offered worriedly.

  Zhirinsky licked his mustache. "Who is stationed at the chamber of commerce building?" he asked.

  "The Trotsky Brigade," his aide said. "I have tried to raise them, but I cannot."

  The American voice broke in again.

  "Okay, so it is a trap. But there's only two of us. What's the matter, you chicken or something?" Zhirinsky frowned as the radio speaker began to emit clucking sounds. "What is 'chicken'?" he asked his aide.

  The young man shrugged nervously.

  Zhirinsky's brow grew heavy. "It sounds like he is mocking me," he said with low menace.

  The voice on the radio stopped clucking. "Hey, Chiun, how do you say stupid in Russian?" Another voice chimed in from the background. "Tupitsa."

  "Zhirinsky's a tupitsa-ass," taunted the first man. In his office the ultranationalist's eyes nearly launched from their sockets. "He is mocking me," he gasped.

  A raspberry issued from the speaker.

  Ropy knots of rage tightened in Zhirinsky's neck. "Send all of the Institute men to their location! Whoever they are, I want them dead. Where is Skachkov? Where is that spineless assistant of mine, Kerbabaev?" Spittle flew from his spluttering lips.

  "I will check," his aide said, scurrying from the room.

  On the radio the voice had begun singing the "Star Spangled Banner."

  Eyes furious, Zhirinsky snatched up the microphone. Blue veins bulged on his pale forehead. "Who are you?" he bellowed.

  "The spirit of America," replied the hateful voice, "here to tell you that the only good xenophobe is an American xenophobe. Now, you wanna hurry up and kill us already? I've got a prophecy to hammer out and some overdue videos to bring back to the Juneau Blockbuster."

  With a sharp crackle the radio went dead. Zhirinsky's address to the Russian people was forgotten. His ascension to power, the new Soviet Union, the turmoil back home-all faded into a chorus of nothing. His focus was now aimed entirely at this detestable American who would dare mock Vladimir Zhirinsky.

  "I will show you who is poultry!" the ultranationalist raged. Grabbing the radio, he heaved it against the wall. Like Zhirinsky's sanity, it shattered into a hundred pieces.

  Chapter 33

  The first truck slowed to a stop on the cold Fairbanks street at 10:17 p.m.

  From a darkened second-story window in the chamber of commerce building, Remo watched eight Russians with rifles disembark. Each wore a white face mask and goggles.

  "They must only own one party dress," Remo commented.

  Chiun sat in a lotus position on the floor, his hands resting lightly on his knees. "If I know my Russians, their government took their spare kimonos to give to those who didn't have kimonos and then traded them to Iraq for oil," he said dully. "Do any of them look like the false Master?"

  "Tough to say," Remo replied as he watched the men outside. "With those masks
I can't see if they fit the description Anna gave. So far they look like the same klutzes we've already met."

  A yellow school bus pulled up. From the front and rear doors, thirty more soldiers climbed stealthily down to the dark street. Behind the bus, a few more large trucks unloaded even more men.

  "Looks like the last of them," Remo said as the men grouped in the street.

  The Master of Sinanju rose silently from the office floor, sliding in beside Remo at the window. Slender nails split the miniblinds wider.

  The Russians were fanning out around the building. Some had already slipped around back. They kept to the shadows, joining with the darkness.

  To Remo and Chiun's keen eyes, they might as well have had a hundred searchlights trained on each of them.

  "This really burns me, Little Father," Remo said softly. "They don't deserve Sinanju. Not even a hint of it."

  Chiun's weathered face was hard. "So it was with the others who stole from the House through the years," he intoned. "They are all dancers and board breakers who have appropriated but a reflected ray of the Sun Source. Unlike the other times in our history, we have an opportunity here to eliminate every practitioner of this illegitimate art."

  "Hmm," Remo said absently.

  The soldiers approached from all around. On the street they moved toward the front. Those around back had to be closing in by now. A creak came from above, followed by soft footfalls.

  "Looks like the gang's all here," Remo said, turning from the window. "You wanna go front, back or roof?"

  Chiun's keen ears filtered the many thudding heartbeats that were converging on the three-story building. Only a few came from above.

  "The roof," he said firmly, his hand snaking from the blinds. The metal slats closed soundlessly.

  Side by side, the two men ducked out the door. Dark specters, they slid through the elongated shadows of the hallway. The stairwell brought them up to the roof-access door. At the steel door Remo paused.

  Eight heartbeats came from beyond. Two were just outside the closed door.

  As Remo waited, he felt a fingernail press his lower back.

  "Go," Chiun breathed impatiently. Remo held up a staying hand.

  On the other side of the door, the handle rattled. A scuffed foot sounded on the roof.