"So sue me for cutting American-history class," Remo groused at them. "Sister Mary Elizabeth stunk like cheese and spit like a sprinkler."
"I wish you had managed to save one of the commandos, Remo," Smith said, steering them back to the topic at hand. "Did you at least find out how many there are?"
"Yeah," Remo said. "Somewhere in the neighborhood of 150."
"That many?" Smith asked. By his tone he was clearly troubled by the potential problem a number that large represented.
"Tell me about it," Remo agreed. "And by the looks of it, Purcell trained them to copy our mannerisms and everything. He's probably sitting with his crayons and bathrobe right now having a mountain of yucks at our expense."
"About that," Smith said. "To be safe, I checked on Purcell after our last conversation. He is still under heavy sedation. If he is to blame, then it is as you said. He trained these men prior to his hospitalization here. Have you had any luck establishing a more certain link?"
"No, Smitty," Remo admitted. "But it's him. Even Nuihc wouldn't have given away Sinanju wholesale. He'd know it's too precious a commodity in a few hands. This has the fingerprints of a happy-farm reject all over it."
At his words Chiun spun from the window, deep annoyance creasing his parchment face. "It is not Sinanju, Emperor," he called. "They do not even have the basic breathing techniques that are mastered by Korean pupils in the first months of training. What they have are tricks and deceptions. Things to fool the eye and nothing more."
"Tell Master Chiun that is only somewhat of a relief," Smith said.
"Chiun, Smitty says-"
"I heard," Chiun sniffed, turning back to the window.
"Anyway, we took out another eighteen of those guys here in Ustinkalot, or whatever the name of this place is. So we're up to twenty-eight we've packed on ice."
"It's a start," Smith said, exhaling. "If Zhirinsky's intention is to foment terror, cutting into his forces will make that more difficult to do."
"Still don't know what he's thinking with all this," Remo said. "He can wave the hammer and sickle till the cows come home, but there's no point. It's not like there's even a Soviet Union anymore."
"In Zhirinsky's mind there is," Anna chimed in. Since her secret was now out, there was no point in remaining silent. "Just because it has been shattered into pieces, that does not mean those pieces cannot be put back together. Zhirinsky sees himself as the glue that will make the old Soviet Union whole once more."
Her eyes were dull as she watched Remo from across the store.
Smith tried not to react to her voice. "Ms. Chutesov's analysis is correct," he said evenly. "However, without further information to go on, we are in a holding pattern. You cannot remain there. The authorities will be arriving shortly. Call me when-"
A muted beep sounded from the other end of the line.
"Please hold," Smith said crisply.
Remo heard the sound of Smith's fingers drumming the edge of his desk as the CURE director accessed whatever information the mainframes had just flagged for him.
It took but a moment before he was back.
"My God," the CURE director croaked. The words barely registered over the line. His throat had turned to dust.
"What's wrong, Smitty?" Remo asked, instantly wary.
Smith's breathing was a pained wheeze. "Zhirinsky's men have surfaced in Fairbanks," Smith said woodenly. "And if the claim they have just made is true, he may well have the means to take over a large portion of inhabited Alaska."
And his voice was as hollow as a tomb.
Chapter 25
Lavrenty Skachkov was the product of the improbable union of a grubby Sevastopol tractor mechanic and a retired Bolshoi ballerina.
In Soviet Russia the best that could generally be hoped for in life was eventual work as a KGB komendant in some out-of-the-way posting. That was the best. More than likely someone like Lavrenty would apprentice with his father, following not only in his footsteps as a mechanic, but modeling his entire life after the senior Skachkov. Endless grimy days would feed bitter drunken nights. There would be smoking, cancer at an early age and, mercifully, death.
This was the likeliest life for young Lavrenty because it had been the life for millions in his social class for generations. But fate had something different in store for Lavrenty. Something odd had happened in the strange genetic cocktail from which this young man of destiny had sprung.
"Stop running inside!" Lavrenty's grandmother would yell at him when he was only three.
"Get out of that tree!" Lavrenty's mother would shout into the courtyard they shared with a dozen other families.
More than once his father needed to borrow a ladder to get his son down off the gabled tile roof of the small apartment building in which the Skachkovs lived.
Lavrenty's youthful energy translated into a talent for sports. So good was he at nearly everything he tried that at the tender age of six he was taken from his family.
Olympic athletes were always in demand. Lavrenty Skachkov would win many gold medals for the motherland.
Lavrenty's trainers didn't need to experiment on their young protege with dangerous doses of chemicals-either legal or otherwise. Lavrenty came by his skills naturally.
He was an accomplished swimmer and diver. He was graceful enough to be a gymnast, though he was a bit too large and had not begun the formal training at an early enough age. When it came time to decide on what skills would best serve his country, his speed won out. The Olympic coaches chose to groom young Lavrenty as their greatest track and field star. And one day soon he would win gold medals.
He trained hard and long. And when his time finally came, Lavrenty Skachkov-the prodigy that everyone said could not lose-lost to an opponent no one expected. History.
December 25, 1991, brought an end to the Soviet Union. The entire Russian Olympic training program collapsed with the old Communist regime.
Lavrenty had bought into the promises of the state and of his coaches. When Russia collapsed, Lavrenty Skachkov saw his dreams collapse, as well.
For years his creature comforts-though few in number-were supplied by the state. But with little money offered by this new democratic government, Lavrenty was forced to find a job to subsidize his own training. The strain on his regimen dashed forever his Olympic dreams.
It was too humiliating to bear. After twelve years away from home, he returned in defeat to Sevastopol, where he crawled inside a vodka bottle. There he marinated.
Lavrenty might have followed-albeit belatedly-the pattern established by all preceding Skachkov males if not for one fateful day.
He was in the squalid apartment he shared with a raunchy Russian techno-punk band. When the pounding started at eight in the morning, Lavrenty, who was still hungover from the night before, assumed it was the band rehearsing. It took several bleary moments to realize that someone was at the door.
Head spinning, Lavrenty staggered to answer it. The impatient figure standing in the filthy, urine-soaked hallway wore a look of haughty disdain. "You are drunk," his visitor said in introduction. Lavrenry didn't remember much after that. The effort to open the door had been too much for him. As the stranger's face soured, Lavrenty's world spun crazily around his head. Spewing vomit, the former Soviet star athlete passed out.
When he awoke on his torn sofa it was afternoon.
The apartment had only one window. Brilliant yellow sunlight streamed in through the torn black shade. Lavrenty tried to blink the pain from his eyes. When he rolled his head to one side, he found he wasn't alone. The threadbare easy chair across from the couch was occupied.
"You are disgusting," his visitor sneered. "You live like a pig. This apartment is filthy."
"Who the hell are you?" Lavrenty snarled. Hand pressed to his forehead, he sat up.