"Can we not pick that particular wound right now?" Remo answered darkly in the same language. Petrovina didn't understand what they were saying. Nor did she care. She was looking at the ringing telephone, her beautiful face twisting in a frown of irritation.
"Are you going to answer that?"
Remo looked at the still-squawking phone. "Can you get this for me?" he asked the waiter, who was in the process of setting up Petrovina's meal on the cart.
The waiter took the phone and pressed a button. Remo swore it was the same button he had pressed. But this time instead of dead air, he heard the familiar lemony voice of Harold W. Smith.
"Remo? What took so long? Is everything all right?"
"Just a sec, Smitty," Remo said. "We're reenacting the stateroom scene from A Night at the Opera here."
He told the waiter to bill the meal to Petrovina's room, threw him a tip and hustled him from the suite. When he came back into the living room, Petrovina was lifting the sheet on the floor with the toe of her shoe. She was frowning at the bare floorboards. "I've got to take this in private," Remo said, pushing her cart toward an adjacent room. "You mind?"
She looked through the doorway. "You want me to eat in lavatory?" she asked in bland disbelief.
"Hey, I've been to Moscow," Remo said. "This is five-star ambience."
He rolled her cart in, pushed a protesting Petrovina in after it and stuck a chair up under the knob. "Okay, Smitty, we can talk now," Remo said.
"What was that commotion?" the CURE director asked.
"Just a Russian agent I picked up. She was sent here to figure out what's going on, too."
Smith's voice grew concerned. "Who is this Russian?" he asked.
Remo frowned. Stepping over, he knocked on the bathroom door. "Hey, dumpling, what's your name again?" he called.
"Let me out!" Petrovina shouted. "That your first name or last?"
There was a furious hiss and a stream of muttered Russian on the other side of the door. It was followed by the angry sound of silverware clanking on dinner plates.
"She's not talking, Smitty," Remo said. "I think she said Bulganov, Balganan or something like that before."
"I do not like the idea of you bringing an outsider into this," the CURE director admonished.
"Hold that thought, because you're going to like what we found out even less," Remo said gravely. "The captain of that scow was right. The boats were torpedoed."
The Russian agent was instantly forgotten. "Are you certain?" Smith asked tightly.
"Those weren't love taps on the sides of those scows."
"Have you any idea who is responsible?"
"Not yet. But a couple of guys tried to kill Chiun while I was out checking the boats. Could be related."
"Is Master Chiun all right?" Smith asked.
Near the balcony windows, the old Korean clucked indignantly. "Four months," he muttered to the newborn night sky. "I have not been Reigning Master for a mere four months. Does the mad ghost-face think my skills were scattered to the winds with the relinquishing of my title?"
"Chiun's fine, Smitty," Remo said. "Which is more than I can say for the guys who came after him. They had no ID, no nothing. But dollars to doughnuts they're tied in with whatever's going on down here. They probably saw us when we were taking our tour of that doohickey or something."
"You saw the device in action?"
"Yeah. And you can surrender your skepticism, Smitty," Remo said. "It definitely works. By the looks of what Chiun and I saw today, this machine of theirs is really incredible. I can see why everybody's lining up to haul their junk down here. The world gets cleaner and Mayana gets richer. Seems to me like everyone benefits. Actually I don't see why anyone would want to stop it."
"Since the device was unveiled there have been complaints issued from a number of quarters," Smith said. "Some poorer nations are saying that lack of funds will limit their access to the device. A few in the scientific community have suggested that the technology is too important not to share it freely with the entire world. There are also some groups with environmental concerns. Any one of them has a motive to throw a monkey wrench into the works."
"I suppose there's no lack of screwballs out there," Remo conceded. "So I guess this means the President won't be coming down here after all."
"Unfortunately I doubt this will be enough to change his mind," Smith said. "The Mayanans have successfully kept outside investigators from checking out the scows-I'm assuming so as not to derail the Globe Summit. They have too much invested in it, especially now. The President has already made clear his intention to go. Unless the sinkings become public knowledge-or expand into something that affects more than a few garbage scows-I doubt he will change his mind. However, I will bring the matter up once more. It would help if you found something concrete on whoever is behind this. Perhaps that will help sway him to err on the side of caution."
"If you wish to know who is responsible, Emperor Smith, look no further than the Russian pretender who once occupied beloved Czar Ivan's throne," Chiun called. "Not only is his name garbage, but he once ruled the trough of garbage that poor, late, lamented Ivan's Russia has become."
"Oh, yeah, Smitty. Garbegtrov's down here, too," Remo said. "And it doesn't work that way," he told Chiun. "His name doesn't have anything to do with anything, other than the fact that he got shafted by his parents."
"Believe what wrong things you wish," Chiun sniffed.
"I heard the former premier was there," Smith said thinly. There was a note of disapproval in his tart voice.
"I know what you're thinking, Smitty, and I don't want another lecture."
Smith would not be deterred. "It was reckless of you to do what you did," the CURE director said. "Breaking in to the former premier's house and tattooing that slogan on his head was not something that I would ever have authorized."
"Wasn't up to you," Remo replied. "Russia stole some techniques from Sinanju. Three Russian leaders knew all about it, starting with Garbegtrov. That made it a Sinanju matter for punishment, not a CURE one. Ol' Garby was just lucky this wasn't the day of Master Nun. Back then a Chinese baker tried to steal just one ingot of gold from an Egyptian tribute caravan as it passed through his village. Nun flayed him alive and made him cook his own skin in his own ovens. Big mess. At least Garbegtrov got to keep all his skin. He got off easy. Besides, that tattoo was some of my finest work. It's still holding up even after a couple of years."
"You actually saw him?" Smith said.
Remo's tone grew sheepish. "We kind of shared an elevator," he admitted.
He could almost see the look of intense irritation on the CURE director's face.
"Did he see your face?" Smith pressed.
"Yes, but that's not a problem," Remo sighed. "He was asleep during the tattooing. And even though he saw me and Chiun years ago when Russia tried to steal our contract and get us to work for them, we gave him the Sinanju amnesia thing. He wouldn't remember me."
"Perhaps," Smith said. "But you do not exist in a vacuum. You have operated in Russia several times since then. It is possible you are known to some within their security services. Remember Anna Chutesov."
"I told Remo the same thing, Emperor," Chiun said.
Remo scowled. "Why does everyone keep bringing her up today?" he complained. "Anna doesn't remember me, and neither does Garby. I wiped both their minds clean of me, okay? And besides, the last time Garbegtrov saw me was before my last plastic surgery, so he wouldn't even know me even if he remembered me, which he doesn't."
There was a reluctant hmm on the other end of the line. "Very well," Smith said slowly. "Still, as a simple security matter in future it would be best to limit your contact with world leaders, current or former. Especially so soon after the Sinanju Time of Succession."
"That's gonna be hard to do if I'm still around here at the end of the week," Remo said. "This place is going to be crawling with presidents and dictators and other assorted assholes in another couple o
f days. And every one of them got a dead-body-o-gram from me a couple months back."
"Which lends even more urgency to your work," Smith said. "At the time I was uncomfortable with the requirements of the Time of Succession. You came in direct contact with too many leaders of the world. I want you finished in Mayana before too many of them are there, so please work as quickly as you can."
"No problem," Remo said. "After meeting some of them, color me unimpressed. In fact, if you could talk the President into staying home, I'm tempted to leave right now and let them all fend for themselves."
"Absolutely not," Smith said firmly. "Now is not the time for political instability in any part of the world. Regardless whether the President was going, I would still want you in Mayana. Given the climate we now live in, I do not want any of the other world leaders in jeopardy."
"Except for the ones we decide need the ax," Remo said. "Which I don't have a problem with, by the by. Okay, Smitty. I'll try to wrap this up fast."
"Please do," the CURE director said. "Also, bear in mind Mayana has an antiquated phone system. The delegates to the Globe Summit are reporting problems with the phone lines. But satellites will work even if landlines are frozen. If you have trouble calling in to report, find a cell phone. It doesn't matter whose. It will be scrambled from this end so there will be no chance of a trace."
"You got it," Remo said. "Talk to you soon." He tried to hang up the phone but couldn't figure out which button to press. Shrugging, he took it in both hands, snapped it in two and dropped the halves in a bureau drawer.
He heard a rustling of fabric from the bathroom, followed by rapidly retreating footfalls.
The door was thick. He doubted Petrovina could have heard much.
"Seek your answers from the garbage trough," Chiun instructed as Remo crossed over to the bathroom. "I have heard him speak his native tongue. He commands the Russian language as poorly as he commanded the Russian nation. That one has garbage on his tongue, as well as between his ears."
"I don't know, Little Father," Remo said skeptically.
Chiun shook his head, disturbing the soft tufts of yellow-white hair above his ears. "Listen. Do not listen. I was only the Reigning Master long before you were born. Why would I have anything of value to say?"
Remo pulled the chair out from under the doorknob and swung the bathroom door open.
"Coast is clear," he announced.
Petrovina Bulganin was perched on the edge of the toilet, long legs crossed neatly at the knees. A white napkin was draped across her lap. Knife and fork in hand, she was eating her meal from the serving cart. The Russian agent turned a bland eye on Remo.
"Oh," she said, chewing a mouthful of stringy beef. "Are you finished insulting my country, keeping secrets from your ally and locking me away in this porcelain gulag?"
"Lose the melodrama, Ivan Denisovich. We've been allies for all of twelve hours."
"Which is twelve hours too long," she replied snidely. As she stood, she slipped the napkin from her lap and dropped it on top of her plate. "This was mistake. Korkusku was idiot, but forming alliance with American agent makes me bigger fool. I will proceed on my own."
"Your funeral," Remo said, shrugging as she brushed past him. Kicking off his shoes, he flopped on the couch.
"You want duck tonight, Little Father?"
"Until you wash the smell of garbage water from your clothes, you will be eating on the balcony," Chiun replied.
It was as if Petrovina weren't even there. Amazing. This was what America had for spies? She had heard stories, of course, but the Russian agent could not believe how lax America was. As the men bickered over supper, she hurried from the room and out into the hallway.
She had her cell phone out of her purse and was pressing the speed-dial button for the special number on her way down the hall.
"Agent Dvah for Director Chutesov," she stated when the Institute operator answered. "Tell her is urgent."
As she waited, she pressed the down button on the elevator. Anna Chutesov was on the line before the elevator doors opened.
"I have most interesting news, Director," Petrovina whispered. "Is about this strange amnesia you said you experienced and possible American involvement."
So excited was she that when the elevator doors slid open she wasn't paying full attention. Petrovina didn't see the strong hands that reached out and grabbed her. Didn't see the faces of the men who dragged her onto the elevator or know the contents of the rag that was slapped over her mouth. There was a brief struggle during which Petrovina dropped her cell phone to the hallway floor. The fight soon drained from her. She slumped unconscious into the arms of her attackers. The elevator doors slid softly shut.
"Hello, Agent Dvah? Hello? Hello?" Anna Chutesov's troubled voice called over the phone to the empty hall.
Chapter 17
The Jeep bounced down the rough path through the dark South American mountainside. Behind the wheel, its sole occupant perspired in the warm Mayanan evening.
The jungle from which the Jeep had emerged was dense. A wild slice of prehistory lost in time in the modern age.
On the radio a classical music station soothed the driver's ears. This was truly a barbaric place. He would have chosen to be almost anywhere on Earth rather than Mayana. But necessity had dropped him here.
The road led down from a ravine that cut through the mountains above the Vaporizer site. There was a valley on the other side that had been closed off to the public for years. The valley was a site of infamy. It was there that the famous Jamestown tragedy had taken place, where hundreds of cult members had met their end.
Many mothers had lost misguided children that day so long ago. Some said their ghosts still haunted the hills. It was superstitious nonsense that had come in handy.
There wasn't an ounce of concern about running into any wayward ghosts on the face of the Jeep's driver as he threaded his way down the treacherous mountain road.
Eventually the rutted path turned to paved road. The government workers who had rolled the asphalt hadn't been allowed to go too far up, lest they stumble on something they shouldn't see. It was best to keep the remote location as hostile to visitors as possible. The rutted old road above made the special work that much more difficult.
The telephone poles that lined the route had been hauled up by peasant workers, men without families who would not be missed if they disappeared.
He picked up speed on the paved road. Soon the lights of blessed civilization appeared. They were just a few halogen floodlights on poles, but to the man in the Jeep they were like the Star of Bethlehem.
He sped toward the lights, slowing to a stop at a set of gates across the road. From the gates, a fence disappeared into the jungle in either direction, making the rest of the mountaintop inaccessible.
Armed guards manned the special rear booth at all time.
The guard booth and road were in a remote spot, away from prying eyes. Since no one who came to the Vaporizer site down below ever saw them, none had ever questioned what exactly they were guarding.
The guards themselves sometimes wondered. But they never mentioned it to anyone. They were paid well for their silence, and so they never said a word about the mysterious gate and the back road that led to nowhere. Nor did they mention the fact that the only two men who never used the road were Dr. Sears, director of the Vaporizer project, and the strange, rude little janitor who rarely seemed to push a broom or mop and never spoke a word to anyone but Dr. Sears.
The gates were opened for the silent janitor. His Jeep was allowed to pass out of the secret compound. He stopped on the other side to make certain the gates were closed once more. Only once they were secure did he proceed down the road.
The hill grew steep for the next mile before leveling off. The jungle trees broke apart, revealing the acres that had been cleared for the Vaporizer. Lights from the sprawling complex cast a warm yellow glow to the dark night.
The janitor drove his Jeep around behi
nd the main offices. There was a small one-story building near the rear fence. It was said to be for the custodial staff, although only one custodian was ever allowed to enter it.
When he drew to a stop in his personal parking space, the janitor's headlights sliced across a lone figure sitting on the steps.
The waiting man winced at the light.
The American scientist, Mike Sears, the public face of the Vaporizer project, wore a worried expression. He got quickly to his feet, hurrying over to the Jeep.
"I wasn't sure what to do," Sears said. "It was in the last shipment. They dumped it without knowing it was even there. I only saw it because I was in the booth up above."
Sears had placed a call to the janitor two hours before. Two hours of waiting anxiously for the man to return from above.
"Where is it?" the janitor asked in an accent that was neither Mayanan nor American.
Sears was clearly panicked. He was as white as a sheet.
"Here, I'll show you," he said.
He led the way to the Vaporizer. Both men put on a pair of special boots before going onto the deck. Sears had put the lights on bright, illuminating the pit. There was a pile of garbage far down inside. Sitting on top was a big piece of broken luggage. Half-spilled from the trunk, a twisted body lay wrapped in a white sheet.
The man who was posing as a janitor pursed his full lips. "Come with me," he commanded.
They hurried out the gate. Mike Sears helped roll the special scaffolding back in. The two men kicked out the locks, and the scaffolding unfolded into the pit.
Sears waited nervously on the edge of the Vaporizer while the other man climbed inside.
Inside the Vaporizer, the bogus janitor scurried over heaps of rotting garbage to the body. Taking the dead man's chin in his hand, he tipped the head, examining carefully. As he was doing so, something else caught his eye. He climbed over the edge of the trash pile, vanishing completely from sight. He reappeared a moment later. Climbing back across the awkward pile, he scampered back up the scaffolding. "Is it who I think it is?" Sears asked.
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