Disloyal Opposition td-123

by Warren Murphy

  Zen Bower and Gary Jenfeld had met with Boris Feyodov at the Moscow McDonald's. The men had owned an ice cream shop in the city and out of necessity knew well of the Russian underworld. Their contacts had pointed them to Feyodov.

  "We hear you're someone who can get things done," Zen had said craftily at that first meeting almost a year before.

  Zen and Gary hunched over their trays of food.

  Feeling very much like spies, they glanced at doors and windows.

  "What do you want?" Feyodov demanded. He was a busy man now, with no time for nonsense. "We come from a small community in America," Zen whispered. "But please don't hold that against us. The truth is, we've had it with being part of that whole love-it-or-leave-it, apple pie, racist, sexist, homophobic testament to dead-white-maledom. We want out, and we're willing to pay."

  "You want out of what? America?" Feyodov scoffed. "I have seen your kind before. You men are fools."

  He started to get up. Zen grabbed his wrist. "You don't know what we're willing to do. Or pay. "

  There was an intensity in his eyes and voice that Feyodov hadn't seen in years. It was the earnestness of a diehard Communist. Someone willing to do anything for the great People's cause. Feyodov retook his seat.

  Zen smiled. "We need nuclear weapons," he hissed.

  "Although we're firmly antinuke," Gary interjected.

  "That way, pig America would never dream of attacking," Zen said. "We could bury a couple ICBM silos on the Barkley U campus, target L.A. and San Diego. You give us one of the long-range suckers, and we could even threaten the East Coast. That way Washington has to stay off our backs. Without the jackbooted threat of Uncle Sam breathing down our necks, we can finally create Marx's dream of a socialist utopia."

  Feyodov looked hard at Zen Bower. "I would not sell you idiots a water pistol, let alone a nuclear weapon."

  He stood once more.

  Zen was growing desperate. As Feyodov started walking across the dining area of the restaurant, the ice cream man called frantically after the former general.

  "Don't you want revenge against the filthy capitalists who destroyed your workers' paradise?" the American shouted.

  The words seemed to echo at him from down a long tunnel.

  It was a moment like no other Boris Feyodov had ever experienced in his life. It was an epiphany. An instance of pure, crystalline realization.

  These men had money and hated America. Feyodov hated both America and Russia. What's more, he had contacts, power and a decade-old secret. And the weapon that went with it.

  The outline of a plan came to him in a flash.

  On wooden legs, he returned to the table. He accepted their money. Seemed to do everything they asked. He gave them their weapon, the means by which they hoped to secede from the country that had given them everything in abundance. But even as he brought over the particle-beam device piece by piece and set it up in that wealthy California community, the former Red Army general kept secret a scheme of his own. One he hoped he had the nerve to execute.

  Boris Feyodov would get his revenge against this Russia that had made him face the mirror and see his true self. He would have vengeance, too, against America for bringing the land of his birth to ruin. He would play both sides against each other in a final showdown. He alone would bring the Cold War roaring back to the boiling point. And in order to do all this, he would manipulate the imbeciles of Barkley just as he had the Communist leaders of old.

  And when the bombs started to fall like summer rain, General Boris Vanovich Feyodov might just be sitting there to greet them. A smile of triumph on his tired, sagging face.

  Chapter 20

  As he stormed through the network of underground tunnels beneath the city of Barkley, Boris Feyodov did not smile.

  His boots clattered urgently along the metal plates. All around heavy insulated pipes channeled power to the smuggled particle-beam weapon.

  The idiots had been charging and firing nonstop for more than three hours. The constant operation shocked the very ether in the fetid underground rooms. The short hairs on his neck rose and his fillings ached as he charged into the main tunnel. The air was ripe with nervous mingled body odors.

  Zen and Gary were back, standing above one of the monitors. Professor Melvin Horowitz sat at the console, nervously tracking the latest targeted satellite.

  Oleg Shevtrinko stood anxiously behind the trio. When he saw the general emerge into the tunnel, relief bloomed wide on Oleg's face. Feyodov didn't even acknowledge him. He brushed past his fellow Russian, marching up to Zen.

  "Are you out of your mind?" Feyodov snapped.

  The Russian's jowls were pulled back in a furious scowl.

  Zen's head snapped around. "It's about time," the Barkley council leader barked. "We're under attack." He turned his full attention back to Professor Horowitz.

  "Attack by whom?" Feyodov growled. He didn't wait for a reply. "Stand down!" he commanded the men in the tunnel.

  "Belay that order!" Zen countered. He tapped an angry finger on Melvin's monitor.

  A satellite spun through computer-generated space, the glowing letters ANW beneath it. A program neatly identified all registered satellites with simple codes.

  "Not that one," Zen warned authoritatively. "Leave all the ANW ones alone. Any others are fair game."

  Melvin Horowitz knew that ANW stood for AIC News-Wallenberg, the biggest communications conglomerate in the world. It was the company that owned HTB. For some reason unknown to the Barkley professor, Zen seemed particularly interested in preserving only that company's satellites.

  Professor Horowitz nodded dull agreement. It was difficult to avoid the AIC News-Wallenberg satellites. For some reason, they had more of them floating around up there than they could ever possibly need. As sweat poured down his forehead, the professor got a lock on an NBC satellite.

  "It'll be another minute before we're fully charged," the Barkley University physics professor said.

  As the device charged, Zen spun. "We had a riot while you were gone. Bodies piled everywhere. You should have been here. If I wanted a coward in charge, I'd have picked Gary to be Barkley's supreme military commander."

  The instant the insulting word was spoken, the former general's eyes saucered. Raging brown pupils swam in a sea of bloodshot white.

  When he saw the look that gripped Feyodov's face, Gary Jenfeld gasped. He dropped the cardboard container of Cherry Rubin ice cream he'd been eating.

  Suddenly remembering Oleg Shevtrinko's earlier warning, Zen took a half step back. "We had to step up the timetable after the attack against Buffoon Aid," he said, trying to force a rough edge to his voice even as he inched back from Feyodov. "We've officially declared war on the oppressors in Washington. So far they've remained silent, so we're following through on our threat. Operation Clear Heavens has eliminated sixteen satellites."

  The general's jaw was clenched so tightly his molars squeaked. His wild eyes darted to Oleg Shevtrinko's hip holster. The automatic pistol was within reach.

  By sheer force of will Feyodov overcame his more murderous impulses. Tearing his eyes from Zen, he did some rapid calculations in his head.

  Thanks to these imbeciles his own plan might have been put in jeopardy. He had taken too long to get back here from San Francisco. Retaliation from the United States government might already be imminent. But there was still time.

  Eyelids drooping over his maniac's eyes, he refocused on the ice cream men.

  "What happened?" he asked, forcing calm. "Exactly. "

  "One of your men got killed by a bunch of other guys at the benefit," Zen said. "Somehow they got killed, too."

  Feyodov gave Oleg an angry questioning glance. "Not by us, General," Oleg said seriously. "They were killed by hand, not by weapons. At least not by any weapons I know of. There was much panic, so the eyewitnesses cannot be trusted completely. They say there were two men in the area at the time. An old Asian and a young white. I cannot see how they were re
sponsible for all six deaths. And the force exerted on some of the bodies was inhuman. One man's head was forced down into his chest." He shuddered at the memory. "I have never seen anything like it, General."

  Feyodov's face grew deadly calm. Somehow the lack of any emotion was more frightening than the look of rage that had gripped his flaccid features a moment before. When he spoke, his voice was small.

  "I have," Feyodov said quietly. Shoulders deflating, he fell back against the console. Melvin Horowitz had to pull his hand away before it was sat on.

  "There was someone else here, too," Zen said. "At the university. Some kind of government agent or something."

  Feyodov was hardly listening. "Your government or mine?" he asked absently.

  "Neither," Zen said. "She was American. Campus police were supposed to hold her until your men could collect her for questioning, but someone helped her escape. He fits the description of the guy at the Buffoon Aid benefit. The old Asian was there, too. And an unidentified woman."

  Feyodov's eyes darted to Zen. "'This woman," he said, his brow furrowing. "Was she blond and attractive, perhaps with a smug, superior attitude?"

  "I don't know about any of that," Zen replied. "Is she an enemy of yours? Because if she is, the council will have to reevaluate our relationship. We didn't pay you, General, to drag any of your personal problems into this."

  At this Feyodov remained mute. These fools had no idea that all of this had been engineered as a direct result of Boris Feyodov's personal problems.

  Before the ice cream man could question the general any further, a phone on the console table buzzed to life. Zen saw that it was the line to the council chambers. He grabbed it, assuming they'd finally heard from Washington.

  Zen listened for only a few seconds. As the frightened caller spoke, the ice cream man's face visibly paled.

  "I'll be right there," he snapped. Slamming down the phone, he wheeled on Feyodov. "We're under attack again! My God, they're assaulting the city hall building!"

  He turned from the general and was off. The metal plates rattled furiously as Zen and Gary ran down the tunnel.

  Feyodov's reeling brain had still been trying to absorb all that was going on. But as soon as the two men were gone, he seemed to reach a sudden decision. He shoved Melvin Horowitz aside, diving for the nearby keyboard. With shaking fingers he entered a new code into the system.

  The image on the screen shifted from the targeted NBC satellite that Horowitz had been tracking. A new computer-interpreted figure appeared on the monitor.

  The object in orbit was far bigger than a satellite. Assembled by pulsing space telemetry and translated to the computer screen, it was a stick-figure cigar shape.

  "When that comes in range, fire upon it," Feyodov ordered the Barkley University professor.

  The general's worried eyes strayed to the roof of the cavern. Who knew what was going on up there at the moment? He couldn't fail. Not now.

  "But I already have a target," Horowitz apologized. "Besides, I don't know if I'm supposed to shoot that." His worried eyes followed the familiar object through the void.

  Above the seated man, Feyodov glanced around. Oleg still stood at attention behind him. Reaching over, the general wrenched the gun from Oleg's hip holster, jamming the barrel against Melvin Horowitz's sweaty temple.

  The general leaned in so close, Horowitz could see the fine hairs growing from the end of his venous nose.

  "You have a new target," Feyodov whispered, his finger twitching over the trigger. "You will fire, or I will."

  "Yes, sir!" Dr. Horowitz snapped, lunging for his keyboard. Desperate, stubby fingers mashed the keys.

  As the professor frantically went about executing his new orders, Feyodov straightened, slapping the pistol back into Oleg's outstretched palm.

  The former general shot a glance down the far, dead end of the tunnel. The particle-beam weapon was barely visible behind a ganglia of connecting power lines. A stab of sunlight washed down from far above.

  Soon it would be over. And the hollowness of his life would have meaning.

  "I will not fail," he said quietly.

  The soft words were a promise to his own cowardly soul.

  WHEN ZEN AND Gary burst into the Barkley council chamber, they found the small auditorium empty. Zen didn't know whether or not he should be relieved. He'd expected to find storm troopers from the U.S. government smashing windows and firing tear-gas canisters filled with Agent Orange and Philip Morris tobacco products around the room in an orgy of fascistic meanness.

  "Where is everybody?" Zen whispered harshly as they stepped into the silent hall.

  Gary was in midshrug when a timid voice chimed in.

  "Under here."

  Only then did Zen see the row of sandals sticking out from under the council table on the main stage. One of the Barkley residents on the council insisted on wearing nothing but Indian moccasins in order to show his support for the plight of Native American master craftsmen. The hand stitching was usually unraveling before he even took them out of the box and the genuine artificial leather material imported from China reacted poorly with air, water, slight temperature changes and all the other environmental stimuli of Earth's precious ecosystem. Zen saw the council member's distinctive shoes, as well as his nervously wiggling toes, which were sticking out of the holes in the seams.

  Allowing a slip of relieved breath to pass his lips, Zen hurried up to the stage.

  "What's going on?" he demanded.

  "Lookout on the roof said he saw those guys heading this way," a disembodied voice replied. "The youth-impaired, culturally rich Asian-heritage gentleman and the WEM."

  WEM was Barkley shorthand for White European Male. Given the frequency of official condemnations against all WEMliness, it was just easier to abbreviate.

  "There's nothing to worry about," Zen insisted. "We've got three sets of surplus Soviet-built superdoors, all bolted. This place is a fortress. They are not getting inside."

  He had no sooner spoken than there came a distant rumble that seemed to shake the entire hall. It was followed by a terrible, muffled wrenching sound as the front door-which had been liberated from an abandoned Siberian missile silo-was ripped from its hinges.

  "Last one under the table's a Republican!" Gary shrieked. He skidded across the floor in a diving leap, slipping under the tablecloth between two sets of sandals.

  Gary had barely slithered from sight before a second set of hallway doors yielded with a thundering crash. Whoever the men were, they were two-thirds of the way to the chamber.

  "What the hell did we pay for?" Zen breathed, shocked. "He promised me those doors would stop a tank."

  Even as Zen spoke, Boris Feyodov ran into the room through the rear entrance. With him was Oleg and a handful of confused Russian black-market soldiers.

  "What is happening?" Feyodov asked breathlessly.

  "I'll tell you what's happening!" Zen yelled from across the room. The door to the hall suddenly began to groan in pain. Zen's head snapped around. "I want a refund, that's what's happening!"

  And as he spoke, the last door to the outside world surrendered to the punishing force that had penetrated the outer defenses to the Barkley seat of power.

  The door to the chamber was four-inch-thick steel with a titanium mesh interior and a mortar-proof facade. It split up the middle like a cracked eggshell and plopped to the floor in two fat halves. Dust rose high into the air.

  "Lucy, I'm home," said Remo Williams as he stepped over the remnants of the door into the main council chamber. Chiun breezed in beside him.

  Behind them came Anna and Brandy. Both women clutched guns in their hands. Cool, alert eyes scanned the room. When Anna saw Feyodov and his retinue of shocked Russian expatriates in the back of the room, her mouth thinned. She was quicker with her gun than they were with theirs.

  "Do not move!" Anna commanded the Russians. Hands going for weapons, the men froze. Slowly, the Russians raised their hands into the a
ir.

  "You," Feyodov growled. He didn't even seem to notice Remo and Chiun. He glared hatred at Anna Chutesov.

  "Great," Remo grumbled. "This another old boyfriend who thought you were dead the last ten years? She's been yanking us all," he promised Feyodov. "So if you're looking for those Barry White albums or Bolshoi Ballet tickets she walked out with, you can just get in line."

  Feyodov's anger flashed to puzzlement. He tore his eyes away from Anna.

  "Are you saying you thought she was dead?" asked the former general.

  "Didn't everybody?" Remo said blandly. "But aren't you the men from Sinanju?"

  "We are wasting time," Anna interrupted tensely.

  "Time is never wasted that is used to discuss the glory that is Sinanju," Chiun scolded.

  Anna's eyes never wavered. "That is General Feyodov," she explained. "The lunatic you are looking for."

  The old man arched an eyebrow. "Do not presume to know what I am looking for, woman," he sniffed. "What I look for is respect and gratitude. Never finding either, I would settle for a roof over my head and a son who does not cavort with floozies. Thanks to you, the world continues to mock me on both of these counts, as well." And raising his chin in defiance, he stuffed his hands in his sleeves.

  Anna exhaled frustration as she slid between Remo and Chiun. Her arm remained level, the gun aimed at Feyodov.

  Behind the Russian agent, Brandy Brand was at first uncertain what to do. But since Anna seemed to have taken the lead from the two men who had somehow managed to bash their way through three seemingly impenetrable sets of doors, the FBI agent followed dutifully behind the Russian. Her gun was aimed at Feyodov and his men, but one eye remained alert to Zen Bower, who stood unmoving and frightened on the stage.

  "Where is the weapon?" Anna demanded. Feyodov ignored the question. A glint of cunning had appeared in his dark eyes.

  "That is the Master of Sinanju, is it not?" the general asked Anna.

  "That is not important!" Anna snapped.

  Chiun gasped. "You see, Remo?" he said, his voice straining indignation. "You see how she continues to dismiss your poor aged father as irrelevant? It is happening all over again. Quick! Let us leave the trollop to her nefarious business, lest she convince you to cast me into the dark dungeon of a home for the unwanted elderly." He grabbed Remo's wrist.