"Maybe he wants to get more men on the ground," Howard suggested.
"Mark, it is important not to read too much into situations. Your instincts are good, and it is sometimes necessary to extrapolate when enough information is not available. But it is possible to be too clever by half. Zhirinsky is a renegade, unpopular with the rulers of Russia. If they were to concoct such a scheme, they would not give it over to someone as unstable as him." Smith nodded firmly. "No, Zhirinsky alone is behind this."
Howard accepted his words with a thoughtful frown. "So Zhirinsky's alone in Fairbanks with a handful of troops," he mused. "What do you think his next move'll be?"
"More important, what is our next move?"
When Mark glanced down, he saw that the CURE director was staring up at him, a look of pinched expectation on his gaunt face. It was apparent that Smith knew something that needed to be done and was quizzing Mark to see if he knew, too.
Howard considered. "First thing we have to do is give Remo and Chiun room to work. We have to keep the Army out. I'd call the President and have him issue an order."
Smith nodded satisfaction. Like a first-grade teacher who had finally taught a troublesome student to raise his hand for permission to use the rest room. "Correct," he said. "Although there is no need to involve the President."
With nimble fingers he accessed the Pentagon's computer system. It took less than a minute to surreptitiously issue the orders that would keep the Army out.
"There," he said once he was through. "Now, as a safeguard to prevent the order from being overruled, I will phone the President."
Mark had to take a step back to allow him access to the bottom drawer and the red phone.
"You know, Dr. Smith," Howard said seriously as Smith waited for America's chief executive to pick up, "if Zhirinsky's as psycho as everyone says, he could set off the bomb the minute he hears Remo and Chiun are there."
"That thought had occurred to me," the CURE director replied with clinical detachment.
"Hello, Mr. President," Smith announced into the phone.
Whatever more was said, Mark Howard didn't hear. He had turned from the desk and its canted monitor. With one tired shoulder, he leaned against the big picture window frame.
Long Island Sound was cold and black.
"Are all your weeks like this one?" he said softly to himself. Behind him the CURE director continued to speak to the President of the United States in measured nasal tones.
As Smith spoke, Howard watched the waves roll into shore.
Chapter 28
Ivan Kerbabaev waited on the cold tarmac to greet the future premier of the new Soviet Union. Behind him was a lone limousine liberated from a Fairbanks car rental service.
Sheets of snow swirled all around as the twelve Hinds settled like roosting birds to the freezing ground.
With pain in his eyes, Ivan blinked away the snow. A dull, throbbing ache came from beneath the many bandages plastered to his face.
At least it wasn't as bad now as it had been. Ivan had found an empty dentist's office near the parked nuclear device in downtown Fairbanks. He had hoped that when Vladimir Zhirinsky arrived, the novocaine he'd shot himself full of would dull all the pain. But it seemed proximity to the ultranationalist caused his raw nerve endings to spark.
Zhirinsky hadn't even landed when the aching started anew. It only got worse when that demented face with its bushy mustache appeared on the steps of the Hind.
The Russian hard-liner had changed into a surplus Red Army general's uniform. The medals and ribbons and pins and badges that festooned the chest and shoulders of the outfit made him resemble an ambulatory Soviet Christmas tree.
"Welcome to Zhirinskygrad," Ivan announced. Zhirinsky shoved past him. He cast an awed gaze across the frigid landscape. With great puffs of rancid breath, he climbed down to his knees. Chapped lips sought asphalt.
He kissed the ground slowly and passionately. A little too passionately. Standing to one side, Ivan Kerbabaev swore Vladimir Zhirinsky was slipping Alaska the tongue.
As Zhirinsky lapped the asphalt, his small army piled out of the helicopters. They spread out across the airport.
Zhirinsky pushed up to his knees. "It is good to be home!" he boomed as Ivan helped him to his feet. His smile only grew wider when he spied the man climbing out of the nearby limousine.
Lavrenty Skachkov didn't so much walk as glide over to the ultranationalist. Seeing the deadly serious face the young commando wore, Zhirinsky's smile faded.
"What is wrong?" he asked, shooting a glare at Ivan.
Ivan slapped both hands over his face.
"I have just received word that Anna Chutesov is here," Lavrenty said, stopping before Zhirinsky.
An angry cloud crossed Zhirinsky's face. "The whores in the Kremlin have sent her to stop me," he hissed.
"She is not alone," Skachkov pressed. "There are two men with her. Men trained as I am."
Zhirinsky waved a hand. "You said that the handful who remained loyal to this Chutesov female and stayed in Russia were nothing. Let her bring her traitors to the cause, and we will have them all for supper."
"They are not from the Institute," Skachkov said. "These two are Masters of my discipline. The discipline for which I know no name."
"Two men?" Zhirinsky mocked. "Have your teams find them and kill them."
Lavrenty shook his white head. "To become Mactep-to truly earn the title that has been bestowed on me-I must face these two alone. It is my destiny."
With that, he turned on his heel and slid silently away.
Zhirinsky looked from the departing young man to Ivan Kerbabaev. Ivan shrank from the sudden attention.
"He may have his destiny," the ultranationalist growled. "For I have mine and it is greater than any other man's."
Brushing aside his aide, Zhirinsky marched for his limo.
REMO HAD EXPECTED the streets of Fairbanks to be swarming with Russian soldiers. Instead, the roads they drove on were eerily empty.
"I thought you said there'd be a bunch more soldiers on those helicopters," he said. "Where are all the black boots and empty Stolichnaya bottles?" "The normal capacity for a Mil is only twelve," Anna replied from the passenger seat. "That includes pilots and gunners. Even if he managed to squeeze a few extra on each of the twelve we saw, that is still only a handful of troops to occupy the city."
A thought occurred to Anna. Reaching over, she switched on the radio. Scanning the AM dial, she soon found what she was after. A Russian announcer was speaking excitedly.
From the back seat the Master of Sinanju listened to the radio along with Anna.
"Sounds like someone's got a full nelson on his nuts," Remo commented after listening to only a few seconds. "What's he so worked up about?"
"I was right," Anna said. "Zhirinsky is here." As she listened intently to the announcer's words, Chiun sniffed contemptuously.
"I have heard these false claims before," the old man said, wrinkled face puckered with disdain. "He dares invoke the name of Czar Ivan."
"The terrible?" Remo asked. "What's he saying about him?"
"Some nonsense about an upstart who fancies himself to be the new Russian czar," Chiun answered. "Don't you believe it. These modern Russians are always full of promises about enslaving the people this, or ruling with an iron fist that, but it always ends up the same. With an empty throne. This is just a new excuse to peek though people's cupboards and take their last ingot of gold. It is just like that thing they used to try. What was it called again?"
"Communism?" Remo suggested flatly.
"Yes, that's the thing," Chiun said with a shiver. Anna was still listening to the radio. "The announcer says that Zhirinsky will be making a speech shortly."
"He a typical Commie when it comes to hearing the sound of his own voice?" Remo asked. "If so, we just bought ourselves about nine hours of blabber time."