"No such luck," Remo said. "Instead of rooting through your own garbage, he's got to come kick over our cans. What's he think he's going to accomplish in Alaska anyway?"
"Why does a man do anything?" Anna asked. "They are insane. Strutting and crowing to prove their worth. If Zhirinsky is worse, it is only a matter of degree." She seemed to be harboring some secret anger. Her icy eyes flashed hot as she stared out at the night.
"Okay, this time let's try to answer leaving out all the NOW rhetoric, shall we?" Remo said reasonably.
She glanced at him. "Zhirinsky wants Alaska," she said simply. "He is a madman with a mind to act. And this twisted mind doubtless thinks a stunt like this will be met with public approval back home. Given the present state of my country, he is probably correct."
"Does the phrase 'World War III' mean anything to him?" Remo asked.
"Zhirinsky is a true Communist," Anna said bitterly. "He would be willing to sacrifice the lives of millions in order to gain power."
"Happy days are here again," Remo grumbled. "You know, a lesser man might take this opportunity to point out that if you'd shared some of this information with us like our original agreement all those years ago instead of pulling that disappearing act of yours, we might have been able to nip this in the bud."
She shook her head. "Zhirinsky only just made his intentions known," she said, her voice distant. "As it is, he is free somewhere in Russia. I could not trust the SVR to apprehend him, for they might have decided to join him. I am the only person I trust to stop him, and when I heard what was going on here I had to leave him at large in Russia to travel to Alaska. I am alone, Remo. And I have been alone for a long, long time. I told you already what it would mean to share information with you. I was not willing to sacrifice my life, which is what would have been the result had I broken my silence."
It was Remo's turn to shake his head. "I know you think I would have killed you, but I wouldn't have," he insisted. "Smith would have thought you were a security risk, but I know better. I don't know why you're so sure about this, but you're wrong, Anna. I would not have killed you. Period."
She turned to him once more. A hint of warm sadness melted the iciest depths of her deeply intelligent blue eyes.
"You would have," she said quietly.
And the seriousness of her tone seemed to leave no room for argument.
The lights of Kakwik appeared to the far right of the helicopter.
"Should I have my pilot change course so that you can retrieve your vehicle?" Anna asked.
"Let's ditch it," Remo said. "We'll see this through together."
"Yes," the Master of Sinanju said, breaking his studied silence. "Let us remain close."
Remo saw that he was watching Anna with suspicious hazel eyes. He automatically chalked it up to the old man's distaste for the relationship Remo and Anna had shared in the past.
"The events have been confined to this region of the state," Anna said. "We should assume that the troops are near here."
"Alaska's a big town," Remo said. "But I guess we're stuck till they make their next move. In the meantime I'll give Smitty a call."
Anna's features tightened. "Remo," she warned.
"I know, I know," he promised. "You're still dead. But it'd be nice if someone kept track of this Zhirinsky while we're cooling our jets, don't you think?"
The tension drained from her face. "Agreed," she said reluctantly. "Just please think of a plausible lie to explain where you learned the information I have given you."
"Don't sweat it," Remo promised. "I'm on it." And the smile of self-confidence he flashed her was such that Anna Chutesov regretted more than ever her participation in the events that had led her here, to the end of the world.
Chapter 19
Though he knew he was in Folcroft, Mark Howard didn't know exactly where.
It was a hallway like any of the others. Apparently, night had fallen. At least there was no sign of daylight beyond the barred windows.
Funny, as he walked he couldn't remember seeing bars on any of the windows before. But there they were. Solid steel, preventing escape. The world beyond the thick panes was as black as death.
A cold wind snaked up the hallway, icy fingers brushing Mark's shivering spine.
A voice. Soft. More a plaintive moan than spoken words. It stopped abruptly.
For an instant he thought he'd imagined it. He paused to listen.
Nothing. Just the forlorn sigh of the wind and the creaking of the sedate old building.
He strained to hear.
And as he listened to the shadows, he swore he saw something moving in the darkness before him. The flicker of movement turned to a flash. Whatever it was had flown to his side at a speed impossible even for his mind's eye to reconcile. And the voice that was the wind and the dark and everything else in this lost place bellowed with rage and pain and hate in his ear. Come for me!
"WHAT?" Mark called, snapping awake. It took him a moment to orient himself.
He was alone in his small Folcroft office. The blinds were open. Gray daylight bathed the naked trees beyond his one window. The thin snow that had been spitting down since he'd come to work early that morning continued to drop to the ground. Where it struck, it melted on contact.
Mark rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
A dream. He'd been dreaming. Somehow he had fallen asleep at work.
"Great," he mumbled, annoyed with himself. "Just the right way to start a new job."
Shaking away the weird feeling of dread the strange dream had given him, Mark turned his attention to his computer.
The monitor wasn't high tech like Dr. Smith's. A simple old-fashioned screen and keyboard sat before him. When not in use, a concealed stud lowered the monitor into the surface of the scarred oak desk, hiding it from prying eyes.
According to Eileen Mikulka, the desk had belonged to Dr. Smith. Mark assumed it had been with the older man for much of his stewardship of CURE. With a somber appreciation for the history that the battered desk represented, Mark reached for the keyboard.
After only a few moments he had banished all thoughts of the disturbing dream.
Dr. Smith had asked him to look into the Russian angle of what was taking place in Alaska. Since the survivor of the Kakwik massacre had mentioned an old Soviet rather than a modern Russia connection, Mark had begun by searching for known ultranationalists. He quickly found that the list of unrepentant hard-liners was discouragingly long. The names on the screen seemed to scroll forever. There were far too many to go through them all.
Dumping the list, Mark altered the search parameters. Reasoning that whoever was behind this would almost certainly have to be unbalanced, he instructed the CURE mainframes to limit the search to Russian ultranationalists with known or suspected mental problems.
When the list reappeared after a few scant moments of analysis, Mark was troubled to find that it was nearly identical to the first roster of names.
His search had once more been too broad. The vague category of mental problems he had used was too all-encompassing to isolate those who would restore Communist rule and enslave the Russian population.
He leaned back in his chair to think, careful not to bump his head on the wall. Almost as soon as he'd tipped back, a thought came to him. Deciding that whoever would launch such an attack on American soil would have to be insane, Mark returned to his keyboard, typing something more straightforward.
"L-O-O-N," he said aloud as he entered each letter. The word he'd typed on a whim yielded instant results. A single file appeared. At its top was the name Vladimir Zhirinsky.