Chapter 35
The limousine bearing Vladimir Zhirinsky zoomed around the corner. Stomping hard on the gas, the ultranationalist's aide steered the big car away from the chamber of commerce and the silence that had followed the raging battle there.
He had memorized their escape route hours ago. With any luck the highway would take them safely out of town.
"When it comes, it will be all the more glorious for the shock it will give them all," Zhirinsky growled in the back seat. Dark eyes watched the scenery flash by. "Perhaps it is even better this way. They believe they have beaten me, but all they have done is force the cobra in a box. When we return to Russia, I will strike out at the hand that dares to cage me. Me, the beating heart of the Soviet Union."
His aide was too busy concentrating on driving to respond. As they sped along, his eyes strayed to the mirror.
"Oh, no," the young man said, his voice thick.
"What is it?" Zhirinsky asked. Following his driver's gaze, he turned in his seat, looking out the back window.
A truck was following them.
Zhirinsky frowned. "Is that Ivan?" he demanded. "Stop the car at once. I will take the cost of that malfunctioning missile out of his worthless hide." His brow lowered as he peered out the window. "Who is that he is with?"
The trailing truck drew close. Despite Zhirinsky's order, his driver did not slow. Eyes still on the mirror, he pressed harder on the accelerator.
"What are they doing?" Zhirinsky growled.
As he spoke, the trailing Land Rover's doors sprang open. The vehicle swerved for a moment as Ivan lunged for the wheel. In the moment he took control, two shapes hopped out either side of the speeding truck.
Zhirinsky was amazed when the men didn't fall and break their necks. Amazement turned to horror when he realized that, not only did they not stumble, the running men were actually gaining on his own car. "How is this possible?" he gasped.
His driver didn't answer. Hands tight on the steering wheel, he checked the speedometer. The limousine was racing just over seventy miles per hour. He stomped harder on the pedal, but it was already down to the floor.
Sickly eyes found the rearview mirror. The men were gone.
Even as his hopeful brain was registering the disappearance of the men, his peripheral vision caught a blur of movement to his right. When he looked over, his stomach clenched in watery fear.
A cruel face was looking at him through the window.
"License and registration!" Remo called through the tinted glass even as he slammed his fist through it.
In the back seat Vladimir Zhirinsky saw a thick-wristed hand reach through the shattering window, grabbing his driver's collar. In a flash his young aide's shoes were disappearing out the opening.
The hand appeared again, jerking the steering wheel sharply. With a smoking shriek of tires, the limo bounced and spun a perfect 180 degrees.
Somehow it didn't flip over. As Zhirinsky was flung around the rear seat, the car flew back in the direction from whence it had come.
Ivan's Land Rover was racing up the road directly at the out-of-control limousine. Horror-struck, Zhirinsky jumped up, scrambling over the rear seat. Belly stuck to the back of the driver's seat, he clamped on to the steering wheel.
"Get out of the way, idiot!" Zhirinsky screamed as he jerked the wheel.
Ivan spun the other way. The Land Rover missed the limo by a hair, slamming into a mound of dirty snow.
The limousine soared past.
Still balanced precariously over the seat, Zhirinsky saw something had been jammed onto the gas pedal. It looked very much like the short white hair that had capped Lavrenty Skachkov's head. The rest of the Institute commando's body was nowhere to be seen.
As the dull shock of realization sank in, strong hands grabbed him from behind. Sweaty palms slipping from the steering wheel, Zhirinsky dropped roughly back to his seat.
Remo Williams sat calmly beside him. "This the bus to Vladivostok?" he asked coldly.
Zhirinsky fell away from the intruder. "Who are you?" the ultranationalist demanded, his voice flirting with fear.
"I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy." Another voice broke in on the other side. "I am a Korean Doodle Dandier."
When Zhirinsky twisted the other way, he found another man sharing his seat. A mask of wrinkles regarded the Russian with deep distaste.
"This thing considers itself a czar?" Chiun sniffed to Remo. "He is not fit to mend Ivan the Good's lapots."
Zhirinsky was stuck between their verbal PingPong. When he spun to see what the young stranger would say in reply, he found that Remo was now gone. Whirling, he saw the Master of Sinanju was missing, as well.
The rear doors were now open.
All at once, he remembered he was in a runaway car with no driver. Zhirinsky lunged for the steering wheel.
Too late.
The city hall building was flying back toward him. It was too late to turn. Too late to jump. Too late for anything.
By the time the inevitable registered dumbly in the mind of Vladimir Zhirinsky, the limo was already crashing into the line of cars parked in the street before the big building.
The nose snagged and the long car flipped up and over a Ford Explorer, landing in a crumpled heap near the front staircase. Even after the car had slid to a painful, grinding stop, the engine continued to idle softly. One tire spun lazy circles in the chill air.
Inside, Vladimir Zhirinsky blinked away a wash of red.
Something big and soft was all around him. Holding him. Protecting him.
Of course he could not die. The world would not allow it.
Zhirinsky battled back the air bag. On all fours, he crawled through the shattered windshield of the upended limo. He made it out to the sidewalk.
Blood ran from a gash in his forehead. He wiped it from his eyes, smearing it on his thighs. When he looked back up, he saw something even redder than his own blood. It was floating toward him, dancing in the breeze.
For one brief moment Zhirinsky caught the stark gold outlines of the hammer and sickle. And then the brilliant red tightened around his neck.
"America-love it, or leave it the hell alone," a voice whispered very close to his ear.
The old Soviet flag was pulled tight. For a tortured moment the world of Vladimir Zhirinsky grew very red.
And then it grew very, very black indeed.
Chapter 36
Remo called Smith from the Fairbanks city hall. "Report," the CURE director ordered, his voice taut.
"The Russians are going, the Russians are going," Remo announced. "And on a personal note, it's about damn time."
"Explain."
"The short of it is that we pulled the plug on the commandos here and that big bomb was a big dud. I think there might be a few loose fuzz-hats running around up here, but Chiun and I got all the Sinanju ones, so the rest won't be any problem."
"Several have already surrendered to the Army a few miles outside of Fairbanks," Smith told him. "What of Zhirinsky?"
Remo glanced out the window. The body of Vladimir Zhirinsky dangled halfway up the city hall flagpole, its neck firmly entangled in the flag of the Soviet Union. Glassy dead eyes stared out at the night.
Far above Zhirinsky, the American flag flew once more, illuminated by floodlights from the ground. "He's gonna be hanging around up here for a while, Smitty," Remo replied.
Across the room sulked Ivan Kerbabaev. The Russian stood near a tall window, a frown creasing his mass of crusted bandages. Ever since Remo had dug him from his snowbank, he had been complaining about the fact that he wasn't going to be allowed to rip off one of Zhirinsky's ears as promised.
On the phone Smith could tell by Remo's tone that it wasn't necessary to press further about Zhirinsky. "It is safe, then, to send in the Army," the CURE director said. "I will issue the proper commands. You and Chiun may report back to Folcroft."
"No can do, Smitty," Remo said. "We've still got a couple of loose ends we have to ti
e up."
Smith grew puzzled. "I thought you said everything in Alaska was secure."
"In Alaska," Remo agreed. Voice trailing off, he dropped the receiver back into its cradle.
A CONTINENT AWAY Harold W. Smith frowned at the dead air issuing from his phone.
Across the desk from the CURE director, Mark Howard sat on his usual hard-backed chair. His jacket was draped over the back of the battered couch near the door.
"Is something else wrong?" Mark asked when he saw the look on his employer's face.
Smith was still holding the blue contact phone. He looked up at Howard. "No," he said tightly.
As the CURE director replaced the phone, Mark stood.
"So they came through?"
"Yes. Apparently, Zlurinsky's bomb did not work. They have eliminated the special troops. The crisis is over."
"You didn't tell him about the satellite," Mark said.
It was Smith who had learned of Zhirinsky's plan to broadcast a call to arms to the Russian people. He had used CURE's resources to deny Zhirinsky access to the satellite.
"It wasn't necessary," Smith said absently. "Our work here is to identify crises and, when necessary, to support the efforts of our field operatives. They do not need to know all the details."
Booting up his computer, Smith began ordering the troops from Fort Wainwright to return to Fairbanks. Mark went to retrieve his jacket. As he was pulling it on, he glanced back at Smith.
Ghostly shadows thrown up from his hidden monitor gave the old man the appearance of an ambulatory cadaver.
"Are you-" Mark hesitated. "Are you going to tell them about me?" he asked all at once.
Smith peered up over his glasses. The gray line of his brow was shadowed in black. "I told you," the CURE director said. "They do not need to know every detail."
He turned his attention back to his computer. Across the room Mark gave a tired smile.
With a nod of silent relief, Mark Howard slipped from the office, leaving the gray-shrouded man to his life's work.
Chapter 37
Remo and Chiun spoke little on their flight from the United States. At Moscow's Sheremetevo II Airport, they parted company. The Master of Sinanju took one taxi while Remo climbed into another with Ivan Kerbabaev.
"Kitai Gorod," Ivan instructed through his gnarled knot of loosening bandages.
Crowds of people wandered Moscow's streets. From what Remo could see, no one looked very happy.
The two cabs rode together for a short time. Near the Kremlin, Chiun's veered away. Remo and Ivan continued deeper into the city.
They followed a tangle of crisscrossing streets and narrow lanes. More feckless crowds clogged the roadway.
Whenever the cab stopped, Ivan acted as interpreter. Remo quickly learned the Russian for "I don't know" was Ya ne znayu. It took some time, but they at last found someone who was able to direct them where they wanted to go.
An hour after leaving the airport, the cab pulled to a stop in front of a pair of somber gates. Looming above was a menacing building with bricked-up windows.
Remo stepped out onto the sidewalk.
The Institute building was of typical Soviet design. Big, blockish and ugly.
After taking only a few steps, Remo paused. Doubling back, he leaned in the cab.
"Beat it," he said to Ivan Kerbabaev.
Much of the masking tape sprang free. "Truly?" Ivan asked, pushing the bandages back in place.
"Don't tempt me," Remo warned. "And leave the cab."
Ivan hastily instructed the driver to remain at the curb. He quickly climbed out of the small car. Holding a hand to his flapping bandages, he ran down the cold Moscow street. He was gone from sight even before Remo had slipped through the heavy Institute gates.
ANNA HEARD the muffled gunfire through the thick walls.
There were only twelve of them here. They were the latest trainees to come to the Institute. Now they would be the last. She had left them out beyond. Left them to their inevitable fate. The same fate that would be hers.
It wouldn't be long now.
When the gunfire stopped, her fingers clenched reflexively around the object in her hand.
She didn't hear the footsteps as they came up the hall. Not that she expected to. She only knew he had found her when the iron door began to groan inward.
The door surrendered in a crunch of metal and exploding concrete. Buckling, it crashed into the office. Remo found Anna Chutesov sitting alone behind her desk. Across the room a television flickered. As he stepped inside, he noted the image on the TV screen.
The picture quality wasn't great, but it was good enough. He watched the videotaped image of himself and the Master of Sinanju walking through a crowded concourse.
Anna watched him watch the TV. "You do not seem surprised," she said without inflection.
He pulled his eyes from the screen. "Your boy Skitch Henderkov, or whatever the hell his name was, told us. By the way, you didn't have to be so worried about him. He was about as tough as college-football math class."
Anna's smile was weak. "I'm glad," she said. "His abilities far surpassed the others. I did not want you and Chiun put at risk because of me." She raised her chin to the TV. "You remember when this was?"
Remo glanced at the television. On it, the Master of Sinanju seemed to suddenly vanish. The Remo on the screen followed suit. When the camera caught up to him, he was talking to a man in a bear suit. Armed men stood all around. And as the tape rolled, the men abruptly began dying.
"Last time we met," Remo said, turning from the TV. "Just before you faked your death at that amusement park."
"Yes. After I fled, I happened upon the park security shed. Your enemy had made extensive video surveillance tapes of you. I took them back to Russia with me."
"Why, Anna?" Remo asked. There seemed something almost close to pleading in his dark eyes. They both understood the predicament this presented for Remo. As Apprentice Reigning Master of Sinanju and future head of the village, he was duty bound to seek vengeance against any who would steal from the House.
She shook her head. Short blond hair did a lazy twist around her long neck.
"I honestly do not know," she admitted. "That life was over for me. Maybe I took them as a memento, maybe to find a weakness in your techniques. I was not thinking clearly at the time. By the time I returned to Moscow, I had made up my mind to destroy them. But then some fool KGB functionary at the airport chose that trip to search my luggage. The tapes found their way to the president of Russia. It was after his attempt to blackmail your President into making you come to work for Russia. Even though you had made him forget the events of that incident, the Mactep program was still active. When the tapes were discovered, General Feyodov was relieved of his position here, and I was installed in his place."
"To train an army in Sinanju," Remo said.
Her shame was evident. "I did not wish to do so," she stated. "But it was made clear to me that someone would have this posting. If it was not me, it would have been Feyodov. And I do not know if he or any other man would have been able to keep the Mactep troops from ever being used. I kept them under lock and key for more than ten years. If not for that idiot Skachkov and the lunatic Zhirinsky, the men would have remained warehoused here forever."
"I don't get it," Remo said. "These tapes aren't anything. You can't even see the stuff that matters. How'd you use them to teach these guys anything?"
"We made copies from tape to film," Anna explained. "The films were enhanced by computer and the speed of your actions was cut down considerably. The men were hooked into a system that monitored their movements. They were then instructed to mirror you in every detail, with punishments given if they failed. As the men progressed in training, the speed of the films was increased."
Remo nodded. "That's why they did that wrist thing Chiun says I do," he said. "They were copying everything they saw." His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "And this sounds like something I saw on TV once. T
hey were getting baseball players to adjust their swings by hooking them up to computers to correct their stances."
"It has been used with great success in sports," she agreed. "The technique used here was essentially the same."
Sighing, Remo looked around the small office. "I guess you thought of everything," he said. "This is some setup. Although I noticed on the way in here that you cut corners on furniture. The place seemed pretty empty."
"I had it emptied out after the men escaped," Anna said. "The barracks and the training facilities have been dismantled. The technicians used to operate the equipment were rotated in and out frequently and never knew what exactly was going on here. All computer data on you and Chiun has been purged. My government has no record of your existence other than the knowledge possessed by the past three presidents of the federation. I destroyed the films made from the tapes. All that remains are the originals." She nodded to the open safe in the corner of the room. Inside, a dozen plastic tape cases were lined up on a shelf. "Looks like you've erased all traces," Remo said.
"All but one," she admitted quietly.
Slender fingers tightened once more around the object on her desk.
Remo had noted the gun lying under her hand as soon as he'd entered the office. He had assumed she planned to use it against him. But when she lifted it from the desk blotter, Anna didn't aim the gun at him. Jaw firmly set, she brought the barrel to her own temple.
He was across the room in a heartbeat. She was starting to pull the trigger even as he ripped the gun from her hand.
"Are you nuts!" he snapped angrily.
Her calm blue eyes never wavered. "It is the only way," she insisted calmly. "I am to blame for these events. And Sinanju precepts certainly must demand -retribution. I know you too well, Remo. Were you to do this thing, you would be haunted by it. We both know that there is only one way out for me, and it would be unfair to have you do the deed."
Despite the forced strength in her voice, hot tears burned the corners of her eyes.
Beside the desk, Remo clenched the gun. He didn't even look at her. He was staring at the wall, lost in thought.
At her desk Anna sniffled.
"It is ironic, Remo," she said softly. "Years ago you refused Smith's order to kill me in the name of America's security. Now when you finally come to carry out his order, you do it for the security of Sinanju."
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