Waste Not, Want Not td-130

by Warren Murphy

  "I figured I'd better check in as soon as I got here," Howard said as he came up to the desk. "Dr. Smith, were you here all night?"

  Smith nodded. "I was about to leave when the situation in Mayana grew more dire." He glanced up over the tops of his glasses. "You are aware of what happened?"

  "I saw it on the news," Mark said. "Dr. Smith, I told you I'd stay any time you want me to. There's no need for you to wear yourself out. And neither of us has to stay at Folcroft. We've both got laptops and phones we can hook into the CURE mainframes from home. If there's a problem, I can take care of it, or if it's too big, I can call you."

  It was a discussion they had had before. Mark Howard understood better than anyone else in the world the stress Smith had been living with for forty years now. As their time working side by side grew, Howard had developed more and more familial concern for the aging CURE director.

  "I know that, Mark," Smith said, straining patience. "But I've been waiting for Remo to report. And even though his call would be rerouted to my briefcase phone, I prefer not to take CURE calls from home. It is important that we minimize potential exposure, even to our loved ones."

  Mark Howard sighed. There would be no getting through to his employer. Smith was too set in his ways.

  "I understand," the younger man said. He was standing beside Smith's desk. Glancing over, he noted the satellite image on the canted computer monitor. "That the latest picture?" he asked.

  "Yes," Smith said. "It appears that the fires are slowly being extinguished. Brazil has sent fireboats to help. In all, fourteen ships were sunk last night." Howard had stepped next to Smith's chair behind the desk to get a better look at the screen.

  "At least the sub that was doing it was caught. Any idea if it was Remo and Chiun?"

  "No," Smith replied tightly.

  "Well, no matter. The crisis is over."

  "Perhaps," Smith said. "I would like to know if there are any other submarines or ships out there we should know about. The captain of the vessel might have confederates. And certainly if they could steal one vessel, they could have stolen more. The Russians have promised to take a full inventory of their decommissioned ships, but that could take weeks. And there is no way to know if they are one hundred percent accurate even then. We also don't know why this one submarine was even there. The captain could have just been fomenting chaos. We have seen that behavior before from some of their people who refuse to see that the Cold War is over. It would help if the news reported his motivation."

  The older man's frustration was fueled by lack of sleep. He removed his glasses, massaging his tired eyes.

  Mark Howard was still studying the satellite image on the computer screen.

  "What's that?" he asked.

  Howard pointed to a small grayish blot in the valley that was nestled on the other side of the mountains above the Vaporizer site. It was the same spot on the landscape Smith had noticed when Howard had first knocked on his door.

  The CURE director replaced his glasses. The incongruous spot looked like a smudge in the otherwise green valley.

  "I'm not sure," Smith said. "I doubt if it's a settlement or factory. It's too far away from everything else. By the looks of it, it's virtually inaccessible."

  "There," Mark said, pointing. "That's a road, isn't it?" His finger traced a pencil-thin line from the back of the Vaporizer compound. It vanished into the jungle.

  Smith nodded. "I noticed that. It appears to be new." He hummed, curious. "When you get to your office, look it up. See if it exists on any maps."

  As they squinted at the monitor, both men were suddenly distracted by the ringing telephone.

  It was the blue contact phone. The computer image was forgotten. Smith scooped up the telephone. "Remo," he said.

  "Hi, Smitty," came Remo's voice on the other end of the line. "You hear the news?"

  "Yes," the CURE director said. "The submarine was captured. By you and Chiun?"

  "Who else?" Remo said. "As usual, the world makes a mess and we're the ones who have to clean it up. I'm just wondering if I might have driven him to it."

  "Driven who to what?" Smith said, concerned. Remo seemed surprised.

  "You didn't hear? Nikolai Garbegtrov is the one who stole the sub. Or bankrolled it, anyway. That cockamamy environmental group of his wanted it, then didn't want it. I guess while they were making up their minds the captain went a little nuts and decided to make things go boom. He was screaming Garbegtrov's name as they were hauling him off. None of this was on the news?"

  "Not all," Smith said. "Only mention of a crew of former Russian navy men."

  "No surprise," Remo grunted. "I used to think that birthmark of his was Dan Rather's smeared lipstick. Probably a hundred more just like it on his ass."

  "So was Garbegtrov behind the actual attacks?"

  "Doesn't look that way. The captain was just pissed off the way Russians always get. He decided to vent down here to humiliate his old comrade. Garbegtrov wasn't lying. He wanted the sub stopped just as much as we did."

  Smith's eyes went flat. His chair made a little squeak as he sat up more straightly.

  "You spoke with him again?" he pressed.

  "It's no big deal, Smitty. He's not talking. The Russians have bundled him off to their embassy. I'm betting he's signed himself up for a nice Siberian honeymoon. Especially when they get a load of what Bartholomew Cubbins has been covering up with his five hundred hats."

  Smith drummed a hand on his desk. "I suppose this has worked out for the best. Still, I am not pleased if your-" he hesitated, searching for the right word "-creative visit to Nikolai Carbegtrov is in any way responsible for this."

  "Know a joke when you hear one, Smitty?" Remo droned, irritated. "The sub was stolen long before I tattooed Garby. I'm not a coconspirator. Sheesh."

  "Very well," Smith said, wrapping up the call. "The President still intends to go to Mayana today. I'm not sure if that has changed privately, given the events of last night. If you feel it's safe, I see no problem. I'll call him and let him know."

  "Tell him to pack nose plugs," Remo warned. "I'll see you when I get back, Smitty."

  The connection broke with an electronic blip, rather than a click. Smith realized CURE's enforcement arm had been using a cell phone.

  During the phone call, Mark Howard had taken a seat before the desk. As Smith hung up the blue contact phone, the young man got to his feet.

  "You heard," Smith said.

  "Enough," Howard said. "You going to call the President now?"

  Smith checked his wristwatch. "Yes," he said. "The President is an early riser. He should be up by now."

  "Okay," Howard said. "I'll be in my office if you need me. I'll see you for the meeting at nine."

  The young man headed for the door. As Smith was reaching for the special White House line in the bottom desk drawer, he glanced at his computer screen. His eye was drawn once more to the blot in the valley above the Vaporizer site.

  "Mark," Smith called.

  When the assistant CURE director turned, Smith had one hand on the red phone. He was frowning down at his monitor.

  "When you check on this road, see what you can find out about the valley above it," Smith said.

  "Yes, sir," Howard said.

  As Mark left the room, Smith was picking up the cherry-red receiver. His suspicious gray eyes never left the crisp Mayanan satellite image.

  "THANKS, BUDDY."

  Rema took the cell phone back from the Mayanan dockworker he had asked to dial and hang up for him. He'd held the man by the scruff of the neck throughout the call with Smith. The dockworker was just grateful to be free. Nodding a "you're welcome," he hurried off.

  The wide dock on which Remo stood was ordinarily used for cruise ships. Across the broad concrete slab, the submarine Novgorod sat exposed to the world. A crowd of reporters, government officials and gawkers crammed the area.

  Away from the crowd stood a wizened figure. Chiun was watching the crowd as t
he crowd watched the sub.

  As he crossed the dock, Remo tried to figure out how to snap the cell phone shut. It should have been easy to do-after all, he had done it back at the hotel-but for some reason this time it wouldn't budge.

  "I knew I let that guy go too soon," he griped, struggling with the phone as he walked up to his teacher. "That's it, Little Father. We can get out of here."

  "It is high time," Chiun replied. "The stench of this place has permanently corrupted the fabric of my kimono. I will be sending your Emperor Smith a bill."

  "'Our,'" Remo corrected. "You're still on the payroll."

  Chiun stroked his thread of a beard. "As an uninvolved adviser, perhaps. Until my exact position post-Reigning Master is determined, I am little more."

  "You gonna give half the money back?"

  Chiun fixed him with a glare he reserved exclusively for rambling mental defectives and Remo at his most obtuse. He was still glaring when Petrovina Bulganin strolled up.

  "The crew has largely confessed to working for Green Earth," the Institute agent said. "It looks as if Mayana wants to get rid of submarine and end this matter quickly. UN inspectors are already in the country for Globe Summit, so they will oversee disarming of weapons. Once hatch is repaired, submarine will be towed to rendezvous with Russian ship that will take it rest of the way home."

  "Super," Remo said, uninterested.

  He was still struggling with the phone. He didn't want to break it, but it looked as if that was the only way to shut it. But that couldn't be the case, because cell phones weren't tossed out like Band-Aids after one use. At least he didn't think they were.

  Petrovina saw him grappling and tipped closer to see what was hidden in his hands. She was surprised when she recognized the phone she'd dropped back at the hotel.

  "That's it," Remo said, frustrated. "I'm chucking it." He hauled back, ready to heave the phone into the harbor.

  "No!" Petrovina snapped. "That's-" She stopped abruptly, hands outstretched.

  Remo paused. "You want it?" he offered. Petrovina hesitated. For an instant her hand wavered in place.

  "Yes, I do," Chiun interjected. He snatched the phone from Remo's outstretched hand. He clicked it easily shut, and the cell phone vanished up a broad kimono sleeve.

  "I meant Petrovina, Little Father. And how did you shut that thing? It was stuck or something."

  "I don't want it," Petrovina announced.

  "Good, because you cannot have it," Chiun stated.

  "What are you going to do with a cell phone?" Remo asked.

  "Perhaps I will phone my son who offers free gifts to Russian floozies he only just met while his father to whom he has never given anything nice is standing right there. Do you know his number offhand, Remo, or should I just dial I-N-G-R-A-T-E?"

  "Say, I just got a swell idea," Remo said. "You keep it."

  He turned to Petrovina. "Sorry," he said.

  "That is all right," she insisted. She seemed suddenly distracted. "I must talk to Korkusku."

  "You want us to wait to give you a lift back to the hotel?" Remo offered.

  "No, no," she said. "Not necessary." She smiled a stiff-lipped smile. "The Russian Federation thanks you for your help."

  "Yeah, okay," Remo said, raising a suspicious brow. "Give it a sloppy wet one from us."

  She nodded crisply to Chiun. He scarcely noticed. "If you will excuse me," she said. With that she turned and hurried off, back to the crowd of people around the sub.

  "She's up to something," Remo said.

  Chiun had his new cell phone back out. He was clicking the mouthpiece open and closed.

  "Fish swim, Russians scheme," the old man said as he played with the phone. "I would be shocked if she was not plotting against you in some way."

  "Well, it's going to have to be long distance," Remo said, nodding firmly. "'Cause we're out of here. Let's go, Little Father."

  The two men left the crowds and the submarine and headed off on foot to their hotel.

  Chapter 22

  When the knock sounded at his office door, Pavel Zatsyrko, head of Russia's intelligence services, sighed deeply. He checked his watch. Right on time.

  The SVR head put down his pen and closed the file on which he had been making notes.

  "Come in," he called with barely restrained irritation.

  His secretary stuck her head in the room. Olga Chernovaya was an ugly, lumpish thing. The broken capillaries around her nose looked like a map of Moscow, she had prematurely gray hair as stiff as wire and her backside had gotten round from a lifetime's worth of government jobs.

  "Your appointment is here," Olga snarled.

  "Show her in," Zatsyrko said.

  Too late. His appointment was already in. Even as the SVR director spoke, the woman he was scheduled to meet slipped around Olga and into the office.

  When the beautiful woman appeared, the reason for Olga's disdain became clear. It had everything to do with envy and nothing to do with the fact that neither her employer nor her employer's guest had told Olga this important visitor's name.

  With a look of hate-filled jealousy, Olga backed from the room and shut the door tight.

  His visitor made certain they were alone before she turned full attention to Pavel Zatsyrko.

  "I assume you dragged me all the way over here as some pathetic attempt to assert your masculinity," Anna Chutesov complained.

  "Delighted to see you again, too," Zatsyrko droned.

  He ordinarily stood when a woman-particularly a woman as beautiful as Anna Chutesov-entered a room. But for the director of the mysterious Institute, he didn't bother.

  There was a time when he had acted more chivalrously toward her. It was a brief time back when he first met Director Chutesov and learned of the secret agency that had existed to offer advice to Russia's leaders since the days of the Soviet empire. The few times they met he had stood to greet her, tried to open doors, tried to be a gentleman. She rebuffed his chivalry with feminist insults. And, worse than rudeness, she began plundering his own agency of its best minds-always female-to work at her Institute.

  Zatsyrko had been friends with the current president of Russia back when the two men worked together in the KGB. At first he had gone to his old comrade to complain about this nuisance Chutesov woman and her growing sapphic legion.

  The president was less than supportive.

  "Give her what she wants," Russia's leader grunted. "She has proved more useful to me and to Russia than all the agents in the SVR combined." Thus ended all argument.

  And so Pavel Zatsyrko was forced to open the personnel files of Russia's premier intelligence service to a woman who would not allow someone to pull out her chair for her and who treated men as if they were ... well, women.

  "You said you had information on the pictures I forwarded to you," Anna Chutesov said.

  "Yes," Pavel Zatsyrko said. "I did."

  There was a faint glimmer of satisfaction on his face as he got to his feet.

  "Please come with me," the SVR head said. Zatsyrko did not hold the door for Anna as they left his office.

  The upper floors of the SVR headquarters were like a library-people talking in hushed tones, practically tiptoeing from office to office. Zatsyrko led Anna through the quiet upper reaches of Russia's chief intelligence agency and to a dusty back hall and elevator, both of which had to be unlocked with special keys. The elevator carried them deep into the subbasement. The doors opened on a long, dingy corridor illuminated by fluorescent lights, many of which seemed on the verge of burning out.

  Pavel Zatsyrko marched smartly down the hallway, past locked doors and steel cages stacked high with crates and cardboard packing boxes. As he walked, the SVR head hummed softly to himself.

  He was enjoying wasting Anna's time. She refused to give him the satisfaction of showing her impatience. Mouth screwed tightly shut, Anna followed Zatsyrko to the far end of the hall. The SVR head led her into a small room.

  There were no windows
. Cold concrete was flaking from the walls onto the drab green floor. A single metal table and two old chairs sat in the middle of the room.

  The back wall was lined with a dozen ancient metal file cabinets. Zatsyrko went to one of the cabinets. From a drawer he produced a pair of manila files.

  The SVR head tossed the files onto the table. "Those will not leave this building," he said. "You may go over my head to the president if you wish, but tell him that if you take those files from the SVR building, he will have my resignation before you reach the curb."

  Men never changed. They were always involved in some long-distance urinating contest to prove their virility. She ignored Zatsyrko's chest-thumping.

  When she sat in a chair, the first thing she noted about the files were the old KGB codes on the flaps. Reverse Engineering Directorate had been typed in large Cyrillic lettering below the codes. There were smaller project code words on each flap. Anna scanned the file names.

  Zibriruyushchiy Kostyum. Lyovkiy Dukh.

  "These are not projects with which I am familiar," she said darkly.

  "How interesting," Zatsyrko said. He was sitting across from her, arms folded. "We have finally found something that you do not know. I will be sure to mark my calendar."

  As Zatsyrko watched, Anna read through the files thoroughly. She seemed to grow more amazed with every turned page. By the time she was done, the care lines around her blue eyes were crimped tight with concern.

  "Is this information complete?" she demanded.

  Pavel Zatsyrko seemed surprised. "I assumed you would ask me first if it was a joke. If this was the first time I was hearing about all this, that would be my reaction."

  Anna shook her head impatiently. "The KGB was never known to joke," she spat. "Nor does the SVR have the skill to falsify records with this level of believable detail. Even if you could, you do not dislike me so much that you would waste your time on such foolishness. Therefore the only conclusion I can draw is that this information is real."

  Like most men, Pavel Zatsyrko found that Anna Chutesov's logic was inarguable.

  "That is everything except the personnel overview," he grunted. Getting up, he retrieved another file from the cabinet. He slipped it across the table. Anna flipped open the file.