"I gave you some research material from our old files after you came to work here," Smith explained while he typed. "Out of necessity I condensed much of it," He finished with a flourish. "Here it is. Read this file. It's more complete than what I gave you before. Digest the broad details as quickly as you can. Skim the rest for now. When you are finished, meet me in my office."
He vacated Howard's chair. The younger man was slipping back in the seat as Smith hurried back into the hallway.
The CURE director marched back to his own office. He slipped into his own familiar chair and grabbed up the blue contact phone. From memory, he called Remo's hotel room directly.
There was no answer. He tried the number a few more times before calling the main desk. Remo and Chiun had not returned, nor had they checked out yet.
That was at least a good sign. Remembering that Rema had checked in by cell phone, Smith spun to his computer.
When he turned up the brightness an the monitor, he found the picture of Mayanan Executive President Blythe Curry-Hume smiling on the tarmac of the New Briton airport.
Feeling a stir of something in the back of his brain, Smith dumped the picture, activating CURE's tracer program.
He quickly traced the line Remo had used to report in. He was concerned to find that the phone was registered to a Russian telephone service.
Smith tried the number several times.
No answer. Knowing Remo, he had most likely tossed the phone in the trash once he was through with it.
Smith was sitting back in his chair and frowning in deep frustration when Mark Howard entered his office. The young man was shaking his head in amazement.
"You read the material?" Smith asked.
"Enough," Howard said. "You sure about this?"
Smith nodded crisply. "It all fits," he said.
Mark seemed to still be digesting everything he had just read. "How did all this end up down there?"
"I have a good idea on that, as well," Smith said, tapping a frustrated hand on his desk. "Fortunately this is not necessarily a major problem. Not for CURE anyway. As long as Remo is down there, I would like to have him confirm my suspicions before he leaves."
He reached once more for the contact phone. Maybe Remo had returned to his hotel by now.
"I can see them choosing that valley," Howard mused. "It's the perfect site. That's the exact spot where Jamestown was. No one's allowed out there."
Smith already knew the location of Jamestown. Yet it took someone else speaking the word aloud for the little nagging doubt that had been playing persistently at the edges of his mind to finally crystallize.
He dropped the blue phone. The color drained from Smith's face. His mouth went as dry as desert sand. His hands were shaking as he reached for his keyboard.
"What's wrong?" Mark Howard asked, noting with dread the sudden change in his employer's demeanor.
Smith didn't answer. His ears rang as he pulled up the photo that had been taken an hour before on the tarmac of New Briton International Airport. President Blythe Curry-Hume stood shaking the hand of the American President, sunlight glinting off his dark glasses. Smith enlarged the photo for a close-up on the face of the Mayanan executive president.
Delving into the CURE archives, Smith retrieved a picture that had been taken twenty-five years earlier. He set the old photograph next to the new one.
The instant he saw them side by side Smith felt a tightness in his chest. As if a cold hand had reached in to clench the life from his struggling heart.
The skin was darker now, but it seemed unnatural. A salon tan rather than natural pigmentation. The nose was oddly sharp, the hairline plucked back. The hair itself had been dyed jet-black. But the build and the general facial structure remained the same. The men in both pictures were even wearing the same aviator-style sunglasses.
Mark Howard had come around the desk and was peering at the pictures of the two men.
Smith had been guided by instinct. Since Remo had undergone several operations to alter his appearance since coming to CURE, Smith had also become adept at spotting plastic surgery. Mark Howard, on the other hand, had his own sixth sense, an ability to see that which others could not. That the young man saw what Smith had seen was clear.
"My God." the assistant CURE director croaked. "But Jack James is dead. That can't be him." Smith scarcely heard. His hands were on the leather arms of his chair. Deadweights at the ends of his wrists.
A peal of distant thunder rumbled in across Long Island Sound. The sound registered dully on Smith's ears.
It could not be. Yet there it was.
Jack James, the psychotic. Jack James, the murderer. Jack James, long-dead leader of the People's Sanctum, the man who had killed hundreds of his own followers at Jamestown.
There now, shaking hands with the President. The President of the United States and dozens-hundreds-more world leaders and high-ranking diplomats were in Mayana for the Globe Summit. And their lives, perhaps the fate of the world, were in the hands of an utter madman.
And not one of them knew the truth.
Chapter 25
Remo had hoped to get a quick flight out of Mayana. Unfortunately the opening-day ceremonies of the Globe Summit tied up all air traffic in and out of New Briton. With dignitaries from around the world swarming the city, the earliest flight he could catch was the following morning.
He tried phoning Smith to speed things up, but Mayana's phone system was worth spit. After hours of trying, he still couldn't get through.
"You know, maybe we could get out of this dump faster if you showed me how to use that cell phone I found," Remo complained to Chiun after his hundredth time pressing the redial button on their hotel room phone. The hotel had given them a new phone with an actual cord that actually plugged into the actual wall, replacing the phone that Remo claimed was already broken in two when they checked in, honestly.
"What phone?" Chiun asked. The old Korean was watching the sun sink out over the Caribbean.
"Ha, ha," Remo said. "Come on, where is it?"
"I lost it."
"Right," Remo droned. He gave up, hanging up the phone. "Looks like we're stuck here tonight. What say we put our best clothespins on and go out to dinner?"
Still wearing a look of serious contemplation, Chiun nodded agreement. The two of them headed out the door.
The moment they stepped out into the hall, someone tried to shoot Remo in the head.
"What the hell?" he snarled, whirling. A bullet whizzed an inch from his ear, burying deep in the hallway wall.
At the far end of the corridor, two men in dark suits braced themselves in doorways, guns aimed at Remo and Chiun.
They seemed surprised to have missed with the first shot. Both men began squeezing off rounds. Silenced bullets sang left and right around the two Masters of Sinanju.
"I thought we were done," Remo griped, dodging bullets as he turned to his teacher. "Who are these guys?"
"They are dressed like the two braying fanatics who intruded on my peace yesterday," Chiun replied.
"I thought those guys didn't say anything."
As hot lead sliced the air around his frail form, Chiun waved an impatient hand. "They might have. I have weighty issues of my own to consider. I do not have time to entertain the wrong thoughts of every door-to-door religious crackpot who intrudes on my peace."
"Religious?" Remo asked, frowning.
Chiun was tapping his foot impatiently. "Are we eating or aren't we?"
"Smith gave us the okay to get out of Stenchburg," Remo mused. "If someone wants to kill us, they're going to have to follow us back home."
He turned to the gunmen who were still trying to shoot them. "Sorry, boys," he called to the increasingly frustrated men, "but we're officially off duty."
As the bullets ran dry, Remo and Chiun headed down the hall in the opposite direction. Leaving the baffled gunmen helplessly reloading, the two Masters of Sinanju ducked into the stairwell and were gone.
AFTER HOURS SPENT at the docks of New Briton, a tired but triumphant Petrovina Bulganin returned to her small hotel room flushed with success.
She had accomplished much more than her mission's original objective. Not only had she proved the Novgorod was behind the scow sinkings, she had also captured it. The renegade submarine had been stopped, its crew was in custody and-as a bonus-former Premier Nikolai Garbegtrov had been collected and quietly locked away at the Russian embassy.
In a serious crisis, Petrovina had both proved her own mettle and demonstrated the effectiveness of the Institute to Russia's male-dominated espionage community.
Yes, Remo and Chiun had helped. But no one need ever know the extent of the American agents' involvement. Vlad Korkusku wouldn't talk. Who would believe him if he did? The same with his men.
They would be laughingstocks if they mentioned any of what they had seen. Thrown out of the SVR. No, this was Petrovina Bulganin's victory to savor.
She pulled her suitcase from the closet floor, setting it on her bed. Removing her laptop from a zippered flap, she sat down at the small writing desk.
Since the ground lines were useless and she was now without a cell phone, her computer's satellite hookup was the only way she could check in with the Institute. As she booted up her computer, she thought of her special cell phone. Another exultant smile passed her full lips.
Even an unplanned accident had worked out in her favor. Everything about this assignment was working out perfectly.
When she checked her mail she found several urgent notes from Director Chutesov. Checking the time, she found that the first was already many hours old.
As Petrovina scanned the first note, her smile of triumph slowly faded. By the time she finished the second and third notes-written by Director Chutesov on a flight from Moscow-Petrovina's hands were shaking.
They were still shaking as she stabbed out the number to Remo's room. The internal lines worked. The phone rang and rang without answer. Woodenly she hung up.
Petrovina fumbled in the suitcase pocket where her computer had been hidden away. For a moment she didn't seem to know what to do with the pistol she pulled out. Finally she stuffed it in her belt, zipping her jacket up over it.
When she stepped numbly from the room a moment later, the usually efficient Petrovina Bulganin didn't even notice that she had left her computer on and the door wide-open.
Chapter 26
Captain Gennady Zhilnikov was lying on the bunk in his New Briton prison cell when he heard the distant clacking of footsteps far up the corridor beyond the iron door.
Zhilnikov tuned out the sound.
People had been coming and going all afternoon. Ever since he and his men were brought here by the local authorities. There had been local and federal police. The Russian ambassador stopped by, voicing disapproval of this whole affair. One of the SVR agents who had been on the boat that helped capture the Novgorod-an SVR neanderthal named Vlad Korkusku-came by with the ambassador. He growled and threatened and puffed out his chest in the way only old KGB could do. When he left, Korkusku told Gennady Zhilnikov that he was looking forward to seeing him back in Moscow.
Now, hours later, hands behind his head as he stared up at the springs of the empty bunk above him, Captain Zhilnikov smiled. As prison cells went, this one was not so bad. In fact, it was more spacious than his quarters on the Novgorod.
Despite Vlad Karkusku's bluster, things were not as dire as they could be. Zhilnikov had chosen the right time to go mad. With all eyes focused on Mayana, there was no way the Mayanans would deal harshly with their prisoners. Even a return to Moscow would not necessarily be the end. Ten years ago death would have been certain. Now? Who knew?
He had been told that the Russian government was already working to extradite the crew of the Novgorod. If they succeeded, the cell he would end up in would be nowhere near as pleasant as his current accommodations.
Zhilnikov didn't care so much about himself. He was more concerned about the treatment of his men. Still, the most important thing of all was that revenge had been served. There were cameras waiting when he arrived at shore. He shouted Garbegtrov's name at all of them. Although Zhilnikov hadn't heard anything yet, the former premier was certainly disgraced by now.
The captain of the Novgorod was smiling once more when he heard keys jangling outside his door. The cell door swung open. Two men in suits loomed in the doorway.
"Get up. You're coming with us."
Zhilnikov assumed he was being brought before some sort of magistrate. Climbing out of his bunk-which was more comfortable than his old worn mattress back on the Novgorod-he followed the two men out of the cell.
When he saw some of his men already standing in the hall, Zhilnikov frowned. There were more Mayanans in suits in the dank corridor. They were turning keys in locks, releasing the rest of the Russian submarine crew.
"What is meaning of this?" Zhilnikov asked.
"It's judgment day," the Mayanan replied. "And you fellows have bought yourselves a front-row seat."
Puzzled, Zhilnikov looked to his men.
The Mayanans had drawn handguns. They were waving the weapons at the sailors, herding them together and steering them toward an open rear door. The door didn't lead to the main street. Zhilnikov saw an alley wall. The men began shuffling out into the late-afternoon sun.
"I am confused," Gennady Zhilnikov said, hesitantly trailing his men. "Are we going before judge now?"
At this, the Mayanans shared a wicked smile. "You're going before the ultimate judge," one promised. "And woe to you sinners, his wrath shall be great."
With a rough shove between the shoulder blades, the Mayanans propelled Captain Gennady Zhilnikov out the prison door and into the lengthening afternoon shadows.
Chapter 27
By the time Remo and Chiun finished supper, dusk was sweeping away the last of lingering daylight. He'd asked for recommendations from the hotel staff. Their restaurant was near the dock where the Novgorod had been brought. Remo parked his rented car near a seaside bar that had been built on a pier above the gently lapping waters of a deep inlet. The windows of the bar had been recently boarded up. A closed sign hung on the door.
The inlet was home to a large marina that was virtually abandoned. There were no people to be seen. Unused pleasure boats lined both shores. The houses on the far side were walled and gated. Remo saw for-sale signs on many of them.
It was no wonder. Junk from the scows that had sunk in the Caribbean had washed in to shore. Garbage from around the world clogged the beaches. Chunks of Styrofoam, plastic bottles and other trash floated atop the sparkling water.
"Tough luck for anyone who bought retirement property down here," Remo commented as he and Chiun strolled the sidewalk along the shore. "Although, actually the climate's pretty good. If the land's selling for cheap enough, maybe we should relocate the entire population of Sinanju here. It's a lot warmer, and the shit smell isn't half as bad."
He glanced at his teacher for the reaction his Sinanju-bashing usually provoked.
Padding along beside him, Chiun wore a concerned frown. Through the afternoon and into early evening, the old man's expression hadn't changed. It had started when he answered the cell phone Remo had found in the hotel hallway.
"I have a dream," Remo announced all at once.
"If I give you a dollar, will you promise to keep it to yourself?" the old man asked blandly.
Remo was undeterred. "I have a dream," he repeated, "that one day you'll let me in on everything. I have a dream that you won't just make me memorize every Master of Sinanju without telling me their legends, just so you can dish the stories out on a need-to-know basis. I have a dream you'll let me in on what kind of contract you cut with Smith. I have a dream you'll let me know exactly what you're planning for your retirement, so I don't wake up one morning to find you've gone back to Korea forever. But mostly I have a dream that now that I'm Reigning Master of Sinanju, you'll finally let me in on all those
tiny little everyday secrets you've insisted on keeping from me for the past thirty years."
Chiun nodded thoughtfully as Remo spoke, giving weighty consideration to his pupil's words. When Remo was finished, the former Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju raised his wattled neck from his kimono collar. He turned as if to address an equal, not a student. And he did say, in low and serious tones, "Keep dreaming, round eyes."
"Why am I not surprised?" Remo said with a shrug.
"As long as we are on the subject of desires, I would live in an ideal world where I would have trained a pupil who trusted his Master enough to mind his own business."
"In an ideal world Julio Iglesias would have been born sterile. We play the hand we're dealt."
As they closed in on their car, Remo noted something in the air that was more than just the omnipresent odor of garbage. Soft pressure waves were directed at the two men.
"For cripes' sake, not again," he complained. Up ahead, Remo caught sight of a man in a suit lurking behind a bunch of shrubs. He recognized him as one of the gunmen who had attacked them outside their hotel room. He spied the other man behind some drying fishing nets.
"What did you say those guys you killed yesterday were-religious fanatics?" he asked Chiun. "What did you mean?"
"They mentioned something about suffering the wrath of their deity. In truth I did not listen to all they said. The selling moments were over and my show had begun again. Besides, I would give audience to a Calcutta leper before I would an American who knocks on my door to discuss religion."
"American? What makes you think that?"
"The rudeness? The smell? The big mouths? Stop me when you hear something you do not already know."
Remo was only half listening. Through narrowed eyes, he noted that another figure had joined the party.
Up ahead, a man was snooping around Remo's car.
As he lurked, Vlad Korkusku scowled at the world as only ex-KGB agents could. When he spied Remo and Chiun coming toward him, the scowl flashed to dread.
Waste Not, Want Not td-130 Page 21