Mark remembered the unreformed Communist from a few years back. In fact, one of his first suggestions as a CIA analyst had been to warn his superiors of the threat Zhirinsky presented. As he scrolled through the profile, he found the term "loon" had been applied to the ultranationalist by a State Department official.
"Score one for the State Department," he said as he reacquainted himself with Zhirinsky's biographical data.
Mark was surprised to learn that Zhirinsky was no longer a member of the Duma. He typed in the Russian's name, executing a quick search through CURE's most recent files. He was surprised to find Zhirinsky mentioned in a file dated that very day.
Upon accessing it, Mark found that the file had been routed from the FBI. One of the Bureau's agents had been brutally assaulted in San Francisco earlier in the week. He had been found in a closet at the airport, and had only just regained full consciousness that morning.
When Mark read the details of the assault, he felt his heart trip.
The man's nose had been torn off in the attack. Worse, there was every indication that it had been bitten off.
Even before reading it a few minutes ago, Mark had remembered well the incident where Vladimir Zhirinsky had chewed off his debate opponent's nose on live Russian television.
All at once, Mark Howard was beginning to get a very strong feeling.
Hands moving swiftly across the keyboard in a vain attempt to keep pace with his racing mind, Mark allowed his intuition to take over. Unmindful of where it might lead him.
Chapter 20
Remo left Chiun and Anna to oversee the refueling of the Russian agent's Kamov. At a pay phone in the Fairbanks airport terminal, he stabbed out the multiple 1 code that automatically rerouted the call to the CURE director's office. Remo was relieved to hear Smith's tart voice on the other end of the line. For a moment he had been afraid the older man's new assistant might answer.
"More bad news, Smitty," Remo announced. "The problem here might be bigger than we bargained for."
"Explain," the CURE director said tightly.
Remo quickly told him about the ten men he and Chiun had encountered. "So that's it," he concluded. "Except Chiun's all wigged out that we're facing down some renegade Sinanju Master. Oh, and I think the Dutchman might be to blame."
The tension in Smith's tone was evident. "Has Purcell escaped?" he asked, voice growing sick.
"Not unless he took off after we left. I think he trained these guys before he took a permanent powder from sanity at Folcroft. It's the only explanation."
Smith cleared his throat. "Perhaps not. Remo, Master Chiun has been known to on occasion-" he paused, searching for the right word "-solicit outside work. Could he-"
"I know where this is heading," Remo cut in, "and the answer is no. Chiun doesn't have time to train any armies. He's got too much on his plate as it is, what with catalog shopping for a house and brownieing up to the new guy."
"Army? Remo, how many of these individuals are there?"
"Oops. Forgot to ask her. I'll have to get back to you on that one, Smitty."
Smith's voice suddenly seemed to drop. His acid tone took on a worried edge. "Her who?" the CURE director asked.
Remo hadn't even realized he'd misspoken. His eyes darted around the airport terminal as if searching for a convincing lie among the thin crowd of travelers.
"Um," he said. "Just someone we-" Inspiration struck. "You know that FBI agent that helped us out in Barkley a couple of days ago?"
"Brandy Brand," Smith supplied, his voice perfectly even.
"Yeah, her," Remo said. "She's here, too. She must get all the 'When Good Russians Go Bad' cases these days."
"You are saying that she has been assigned to this case and is working in Alaska right now?" Smith asked. By now his voice had grown distinctly dubious.
Remo suddenly got the impression he was being set up. But he'd come too far to bail out now. "Yes?" he said cautiously. It came out sounding too much like a question.
"That is odd," Smith said. "Because my information has Agent Brand still in California. She is directing the FBI's follow-up investigation into those individuals at Barkley University and elsewhere in town who were involved in smuggling and assembling the device that was used to wreak havoc on the global satellite network earlier this week."
He let the words hang between them.
Caught in an obvious lie, Remo didn't know what to say. He shook his head in tired annoyance. "What are you even doing checking up on Brandy, Smitty?" he asked wearily.
"It would seem the situation that involved her is tied to events in Alaska," the CURE director explained. "While conducting research, Mark linked an assault on Agent Brand's partner at San Francisco Airport with a Russian nationalist by the name of Vladimir Zhirinsky. Apparently, her partner recognized Zhirinsky but did not know from where. He remembered when he recovered this morning from the shock and heavy sedation he had been under."
"Bully for the prince regent," grumbled Remo, who now had a new reason to dislike Mark Howard. "Zhirinsky's the guy who's pulling the strings on the soldiers up here," he said. "I was calling to have you keep tabs on him."
"I have already issued orders to put Zhirinsky under surveillance," Smith said. "And you still have not answered truthfully my original question. Since it is not from the woman you claimed, from whom did you get this information?"
Remo's mouth thinned. "Trust me on this one, Smitty. You don't want to know."
"I fear I already do," Smith said gravely. "Remo, is Anna Chutesov still alive?"
Remo felt his heart sink. "Oh, boy," he said. "How long have you known? You must've just found out with that mess in California. Just do me a favor, Smitty, and make sure you don't say I'm the one who told you. She's gonna kill me when she finds out."
For a few seconds there was nothing but dead air on the other end of the line. When the CURE director at last spoke, his voice was a barely audible croak. "My God, so it is true," Smith said.
A continent away, in his Spartan Folcroft Sanitarium office, Harold Smith gripped the edge of his black desk with his free hand. His arthritic knuckles grew white.
"Oh," Remo said over the blue contact phone. "You mean you didn't know for sure already?"
Smith's grip on the desk did not relax. "No, I did not. Have you known this all along?" he demanded.
"No, Smitty," Remo said. "We all thought she died on that assignment years ago. She just popped up and said 'hi' this week when we were in Barkley after that screwy Russian general. I'm lucky I had my nitroglycerine tablets on me."
"How did she escape this time?" Smith asked. A pause.
"I don't follow," Remo said.
"Obviously she escaped from you. Otherwise she would not be alive now."
"Oh. That," Remo said slowly. "I kind of let her go."
"Let her go," Smith said, his voice perfectly flat. "Given the knowledge she possesses of this agency. In spite of the danger she represents to everything we do, you let her go?"
"Well, if you put it that way, sure it's gonna sound bad," Remo admitted. Before the CURE director could speak, Remo forged on. "Look, Smitty, she kept our secret for more than ten years. The proof's in the pudding on that, otherwise we wouldn't still be in business. Anna was afraid you'd send me to kill her, so she took the only way out she thought was open to her. And before you try to get me to bump her off, the answer is no. And Chiun's on the same page because he knows I'd be pissed at him if he kills her."
"Then I will do it myself," Smith said.
"Try it and you can find yourself a new enforcement arm," Remo warned.
Smith relaxed the tension in his fingers. His hand slipped from the desk, falling wearily beside his worn leather chair.
"Remo, this is an untenable situation," he said tiredly.