Ignoring the swelling bruise on his head, Ivan instinctively covered his bandaged face. "Who are you?" he repeated in English. His voice was pained and nasal.
"The spirit of America," Remo replied evenly. "I'm hiding out in Alaska these days, 'cause it's as far as I can get by Studebaker from the Washington, New York, Boston axis. Now how about being a good invader and tell the spirit how to pull the plug on this nuke of yours?"
Ivan's eyes grew sick. "What is nuke?" he asked weakly.
"The spirit has had his fill of Russians lying to him today," Remo said darkly.
Grabbing Ivan by the throat, Remo dragged him from the rear of the parked car.
On the street Ivan saw the young soldier who had bandaged his face. He was lying in the road, his limbs twisted at impossible angles. Above him stood a wizened figure whose weathered face and imperious stance reminded Ivan of one of the Inuit totem poles he had seen around town.
Beyond the Master of Sinanju was the tarpaulin-covered flatbed trailer on which sat the Russian nuclear device.
"Get disarming," Remo ordered, flinging Ivan at the back of the truck.
"I told you it was the boom," Chiun insisted.
"It looked like a logging truck," Remo said. "When they said bomb, I thought bomb, not missile." He turned to Ivan. "What are you doing dragging an ICBM around on this Smokey and the Bandit thing? Can't you just unscrew the nose?"
"Comrade Zhirinsky liked better the idea of an entire intact missile rather than just a bomb," Ivan explained.
"Doesn't take Sigmund Freud to figure out his problem," Remo grumbled. "Okay, let's go."
He dragged Ivan down the length of the trailer. Both Masters of Sinanju could feel the contaminating radiation. It didn't seem high enough to cause damage with short-term exposure.
At the back, Remo tossed Ivan up under the tarpaulin. He and Chiun hopped up after him. The crinkling tarp rattled above their heads as they ducked alongside the missile. They hurried past the rocket, up the shaft to the warhead.
When they stopped, Ivan turned his gauze-wrapped face to the two men, unsure what to do.
"Disarm it," Remo ordered.
Ivan hesitated. "It is difficult," he said.
"That so? Let me make it easy."
The Russian offered too tempting a target. Shelving the more intricate Sinanju methods of persuasion, Remo did something a little more direct. He socked Ivan in the face.
Remo's balled fist struck hard in the middle of Ivan Kerbabaev's bunched-up bandages. Blood spurted anew, streaming down from beneath tape and gauze. Ivan screeched in pain.
"I did not say I would not do it!" the Russian cried, grabbing at his aching nose bone.
"Good," Remo said. "Then get cracking."
Ivan's eyes were pleading. "I do not have to," he explained desperately.
"No? I've got five reasons why you do," Remo said. He punched the back of Ivan's hand, knocking it into his face.
Ivan shrieked, falling back against the shiny silver warhead. "Please!" he begged. Both hands now cradled his bleeding face. "You do not understand!"
Remo's brow dropped low. "What don't I understand?"
"Limit your response to this device," Chiun suggested. "For a complete inventory of things Remo does not understand would maroon us forever in this wasteland."
Ivan's mouth was stained red. He gulped, swallowing watery blood. "The bomb does not work," he insisted.
Remo blinked. "Come again?"
"It does not work," Ivan explained. "The bomb is defective. Broken."
Remo looked at the metal casing. Radiation continued to seep from the device. He looked back at Ivan, suspicious.
"It's radioactive," he warned.
"Residual radiation," Ivan promised. "It was disarmed in Ukraine years ago. The plutonium was removed before it was shipped back to Russia. It is worthless."
Remo drew back his fist. "Are you pulling my leg?"
Ivan recoiled. "Please, it is truth!"
It was plain to them both that the Russian wasn't lying.
"Why would this man have a boom device that does not work?" Chiun asked.
"Zhirinsky wanted a missile. Any missile," Ivan explained, teary eyed. "I would give the grymza usraty whatever he desired, whether it worked or not."
"Zhirinsky doesn't know it's broken?" Remo asked.
"Nyet," Ivan insisted, shaking his head fervently.
"Lemme get this straight. You got this dud for him and you never bothered to tell him before he invaded Alaska that it doesn't work? What kind of crummy henchman are you?"
"I am not henchman, I am prisoner," Ivan moaned. "He likes me and the govnyuk still bit off my nose. What do you think he would have done to me if I told him his missile was broken? Yes, I arranged for it to be bought from the black market, but even I could not bring myself to purchase the plutonium it needed." His black-rimmed eyes begged understanding above his thick wad of gauze.
Ramo absorbed his words. "Just to tie up all the loose ends, this black market twit who sold it to you was Boris Flavorice, wasn't it?"
Ivan nodded. "Boris Feyodov, yes," he said. "He is powerful figure in Russian Mafia."
"Tell that to the hundred tons of rock that made his head go squish," Remo said dryly. He turned to Chiun. "His nuke and army are gone. That leaves us with the big nut himself, about a hundred Sinanju-trained guys and a Wang prophecy to deal with. The day's starting to look up."
"We will dispose of the armies of death first," Chiun intoned. "He of legend will find us when the time comes."
Spinning, the old man marched down the missile's length.
When Remo turned back to Ivan, the Russian cowered.
"You know where his men are?" Remo asked.
Ivan nodded. "Yes," he said.
"Good. You just got promoted to tour guide."
As he was grabbing Ivan by the jacket collar, the terrified man looked up at Remo, sad hope in his watery eyes.
"As typical body-conscious American, you would not happen to have number of good plastic surgeon?" he asked.
As he spoke, another piece of tape popped loose.
Chapter 32
"So did Anna ever work with Zhirinsky?" Remo asked as they sped down the street.
Ivan Kerbabaev was sandwiched between the two Masters of Sinanju in the front seat of the Land Rover. "Anna?" Ivan asked, confused. The light dawned. "Ah, Anna Chutesov. As far as I know, they have never even met. Zhirinsky first mentioned her to me this week. She is apparently director of a secret organization in Russia. A man by the name of Lavrenty Skachkov contacted Zhirinsky months ago. He and the other specially trained soldiers worked for this Chutesov woman until they decided to defect to Zhirinsky's cause a few days ago. Apparently, they were dissatisfied with the restrictions she placed on them."
"Why?" Remo asked. "She only let them kill every other Saturday?"
Ivan shook his head. "From what I understand she never let them out. That was the problem."
Remo shot a glance at the Master of Sinanju. "Sounds like Anna kept a tight lid on Mactep," he said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.
"That does not matter," the old man sniffed.
"Maybe it should," Remo said softly.
Between them, Ivan looked from one man to the other. "Mactep?" he asked as he stuck loose bandage tape back down. "That is what the others call Skachkov."
Remo scowled. "Yeah?" he said. "Well, Master Scratchpost is about to find out who the real Master is."
A blinding flash. Like something sparking in his brain.
Remo's eyes blurred, and he felt the wheel go mushy in his hands. When he snapped back around an instant later, the shoulder of the road was racing toward them. He fumbled for the steering wheel, but a bony hand was already there.
With a squeal of tires, Chiun steered them straight. "Wow," Remo said, his hands fumbling to take control once more. "Another head rush."