"Sorry. But I had my orders."
Remo spotted a fallen telephone pole and pulled over. He looked it over carefully, then started off again.
A few hundred yards down the highway, there was another felled pole, this time on the opposite side of the road.
"And that's another thing," Robin went on testily. "Who are you really? I've checked and the General Accounting Office never heard of you."
"Here," Remo said, handing her a photocard from his wallet. Robin took it.
"Remo Fleer, IRS," Robin read. Remo snatched the card away.
"Oops! Wrong card. Try this one."
"Remo Overn, OSI! Oh, give me a break."
"Hey, I'm undercover. Just like you. Or are you still with the OSI?"
"If you were OSI, you'd know that," Robin spat.
"Actually I've been pretty busy lately," Remo said airily. "Haven't kept up. I just noticed you were out of uniform and I wondered."
"That gives you away right there," Robin said triumphantly. "We only wear uniforms when we're undercover. No one knows who we are-even our rank is secret."
"Oh, yeah? What is your rank anyway? Major? Colonel? What?"
"None of your business."
"Maybe it's in these files," Remo said, taking a packet of folded sheets from his back pocket.
Robin, noticing that they were copies of her official OSI report on the first LCF-Fox incident, blew up.
"Where did you get these?" she said, grabbing them. "And don't feed me that crap about belonging to the
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OSI. If either of us is caught with these, our goose is cooked."
"Oh, I have my ways," Remo said casually, retrieving his ID card. "Just like I'm going to find the Krahseevah."
"No chance. The trail's cold by now."
"Not to me. Want me to let you off somewhere?"
"You're not ditching me now."
"Look," Remo said seriously. "You've just come through a serious accident. You're at the very least banged up. You're certainly in no shape to play tag with this guy. So why don't I let you off somewhere where you can get medical treatment? It's for your own good."
"I can't. If I don't produce results, my plans will go up in smoke."
"What plans?" Remo wanted to know.
Robin fell silent. She leafed through the OSI files.
"Come on, what plans?" Remo prompted.
"If I crack this thing, maybe they'll let me join the Air Force for real," Robin admitted quietly.
Remo pulled over to the side of the road. "Hold the phone," he said. "You mean you're a fake?"
"No," Robin said levelly. She paused, took a breath, and went on shakily. "I've never admitted this to anyone before. I'm a service brat. Daddy didn't have any boys. Just me. I tried to enlist, to continue the family tradition."
"No go, huh?" Remo said sympathetically.
"I was rejected for a real chickenshit reason. They called it 'weight not in proportion to height.' The fatuous jerks!"
"Why not try again? You look pretty trim now."
"They weren't talking about my weight."
Remo frowned. "Then what-?"
"These aren't falsies, buster," Robin snapped, patting her breasts. "They're not detachable before induction physicals."
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"Oh," Remo said, starting the car again. "That explains it."
"Damn straight it does."
"I meant the way you've been acting. Sensitive. Defensive. Trying to prove yourself. It all makes sense now. So how were you able to pass yourself off as an OSI agent?"
"I am not passing myself off," Robin insisted. "I am OSI. They employ civilian agents too. I passed their damn physical with no sweat. I turned out to be a damn good special agent and my record was spotless until this mess started. Now all I want is a chance to keep it clean. Then maybe-just maybe-they'll loosen up their silly regs so I can wear the uniform officially, not just when I'm undercover. If only I hadn't been cursed with these monster knockers."
"If you hadn't," Remo said dryly, "your face would right now be decorating the windshield of that wreck back there."
Robin had no answer to that.
"Tell you what," Remo said finally. "You do me a favor and I'll let you tag along until we catch this guy. Maybe we can work it so you get some of the credit."
"What do I have to do?" Robin asked in a wary voice.
"Simple," Remo said with a smile. "Just eat those reports."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me. I was supposed to do it myself^ but I forgot. They're perfectly digestible. Even the ink."
"You're joking."
"Take it or leave it. There's a town coming up ahead. I'll just drop you off at a gas station."
Robin looked at the files in her hand and then at Remo's sober profile. She examined the files again. She nibbled on a corner experimentally. She swallowed. Her expression was quizzical.
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"How about you take half and I take half?" Robin suggested.
Remo thought about it, "Fair enough," he said. He put out his hand. They shook on it and then divided up Smith's files.
When they were done, Remo asked, "Now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Not enough ink," Robin muttered. "You said you had a way of finding the Krahseevah."
"See that telephone pole we just passed?"
"No."
"That's because it's lying on its side. That's the fifth toppled pole we've gone by."
"And?"
"You know how Indians used to snap branches to leave trails through the forest? Chiun is leaving a trail for me to follow."
"The little guy did that?" Robin said, pointing to a dramatically leaning telephone pole coming up on their right.
"Without even trying. My guess is he spotted the Krahseevah while you were playing chicken and took off after him."
"And I suppose he just happened to forget to bring his car along?"
"Chiun doesn't like cars much. He says they're too slow."
"I'll believe it when I see it," Robin said huffily, folding her arms. She winced. Her ribs hurt. And her breasts felt like two humongous throbbing bruises.
Noticing her reaction, Remo asked, "You think you're up for this?"
"I'll be fine once I catch that Russian."
The lights of a desert community appeared up ahead. And in the solemn glow, a palm tree abruptly shook, shivered, and fell over.
"We're getting close," Remo said, pushing the accelerator to the limit.
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Rair Brashnikov slowed down when he approached the town. Once he had changed his flat tire, he did not plan to stop again until he reached Los Angeles International Airport, but neither did he wish to attract the attention of the California authorities by driving too fast.
A neon sign on the left side of the road caught his eye. It said "Orbit Room Motel." As Rair drove past it, he saw that it was a low stucco building with an attached bar. The bar was dark but in the window rows of fine liquor bottles gleamed invitingly. Good American liquor was at a premium on the Russian black market.
Rair drove more slowly. Checking the rearview mirror, he saw no sign of pursuit.
He executed a careful U-turn and pulled into the Orbit Room parking lot, thinking: What harm could there be in it?
The Master of Sinanju left the palm toppled and sprinted on down the highway toward the lights of a town. He hoped that Remo was behind him. He could not understand what had happened to him.
Back at the place where they had waited for the Krahseevah, Chiun had been sitting in the car, his eyes keen and unwavering. He did not see the Krahseevah enter the building that for some reason was called by whites a plant, and did not see him leave it.
But it happened that his magnificent eyes spied his pupil, Remo, atop a building away from his post. Chiun recognized from Remo's crouching body language that he was stalking someone.
That was enough for the Master of Sinanju, who burst from the car like a blot of blackness. He circled the building, searching with his eyes.