A CONTINENT AWAY Harold W. Smith frowned at the dead air issuing from his phone.
Across the desk from the CURE director, Mark Howard sat on his usual hard-backed chair. His jacket was draped over the back of the battered couch near the door.
"Is something else wrong?" Mark asked when he saw the look on his employer's face.
Smith was still holding the blue contact phone. He looked up at Howard. "No," he said tightly.
As the CURE director replaced the phone, Mark stood.
"So they came through?"
"Yes. Apparently, Zlurinsky's bomb did not work. They have eliminated the special troops. The crisis is over."
"You didn't tell him about the satellite," Mark said.
It was Smith who had learned of Zhirinsky's plan to broadcast a call to arms to the Russian people. He had used CURE's resources to deny Zhirinsky access to the satellite.
"It wasn't necessary," Smith said absently. "Our work here is to identify crises and, when necessary, to support the efforts of our field operatives. They do not need to know all the details."
Booting up his computer, Smith began ordering the troops from Fort Wainwright to return to Fairbanks. Mark went to retrieve his jacket. As he was pulling it on, he glanced back at Smith.
Ghostly shadows thrown up from his hidden monitor gave the old man the appearance of an ambulatory cadaver.
"Are you-" Mark hesitated. "Are you going to tell them about me?" he asked all at once.
Smith peered up over his glasses. The gray line of his brow was shadowed in black. "I told you," the CURE director said. "They do not need to know every detail."
He turned his attention back to his computer. Across the room Mark gave a tired smile.
With a nod of silent relief, Mark Howard slipped from the office, leaving the gray-shrouded man to his life's work.
Chapter 37
Remo and Chiun spoke little on their flight from the United States. At Moscow's Sheremetevo II Airport, they parted company. The Master of Sinanju took one taxi while Remo climbed into another with Ivan Kerbabaev.
"Kitai Gorod," Ivan instructed through his gnarled knot of loosening bandages.
Crowds of people wandered Moscow's streets. From what Remo could see, no one looked very happy.
The two cabs rode together for a short time. Near the Kremlin, Chiun's veered away. Remo and Ivan continued deeper into the city.
They followed a tangle of crisscrossing streets and narrow lanes. More feckless crowds clogged the roadway.
Whenever the cab stopped, Ivan acted as interpreter. Remo quickly learned the Russian for "I don't know" was Ya ne znayu. It took some time, but they at last found someone who was able to direct them where they wanted to go.
An hour after leaving the airport, the cab pulled to a stop in front of a pair of somber gates. Looming above was a menacing building with bricked-up windows.
Remo stepped out onto the sidewalk.
The Institute building was of typical Soviet design. Big, blockish and ugly.
After taking only a few steps, Remo paused. Doubling back, he leaned in the cab.
"Beat it," he said to Ivan Kerbabaev.
Much of the masking tape sprang free. "Truly?" Ivan asked, pushing the bandages back in place.
"Don't tempt me," Remo warned. "And leave the cab."
Ivan hastily instructed the driver to remain at the curb. He quickly climbed out of the small car. Holding a hand to his flapping bandages, he ran down the cold Moscow street. He was gone from sight even before Remo had slipped through the heavy Institute gates.
ANNA HEARD the muffled gunfire through the thick walls.
There were only twelve of them here. They were the latest trainees to come to the Institute. Now they would be the last. She had left them out beyond. Left them to their inevitable fate. The same fate that would be hers.
It wouldn't be long now.
When the gunfire stopped, her fingers clenched reflexively around the object in her hand.
She didn't hear the footsteps as they came up the hall. Not that she expected to. She only knew he had found her when the iron door began to groan inward.
The door surrendered in a crunch of metal and exploding concrete. Buckling, it crashed into the office. Remo found Anna Chutesov sitting alone behind her desk. Across the room a television flickered. As he stepped inside, he noted the image on the TV screen.
The picture quality wasn't great, but it was good enough. He watched the videotaped image of himself and the Master of Sinanju walking through a crowded concourse.
Anna watched him watch the TV. "You do not seem surprised," she said without inflection.
He pulled his eyes from the screen. "Your boy Skitch Henderkov, or whatever the hell his name was, told us. By the way, you didn't have to be so worried about him. He was about as tough as college-football math class."
Anna's smile was weak. "I'm glad," she said. "His abilities far surpassed the others. I did not want you and Chiun put at risk because of me." She raised her chin to the TV. "You remember when this was?"
Remo glanced at the television. On it, the Master of Sinanju seemed to suddenly vanish. The Remo on the screen followed suit. When the camera caught up to him, he was talking to a man in a bear suit. Armed men stood all around. And as the tape rolled, the men abruptly began dying.
"Last time we met," Remo said, turning from the TV. "Just before you faked your death at that amusement park."
"Yes. After I fled, I happened upon the park security shed. Your enemy had made extensive video surveillance tapes of you. I took them back to Russia with me."
"Why, Anna?" Remo asked. There seemed something almost close to pleading in his dark eyes. They both understood the predicament this presented for Remo. As Apprentice Reigning Master of Sinanju and future head of the village, he was duty bound to seek vengeance against any who would steal from the House.
She shook her head. Short blond hair did a lazy twist around her long neck.
"I honestly do not know," she admitted. "That life was over for me. Maybe I took them as a memento, maybe to find a weakness in your techniques. I was not thinking clearly at the time. By the time I returned to Moscow, I had made up my mind to destroy them. But then some fool KGB functionary at the airport chose that trip to search my luggage. The tapes found their way to the president of Russia. It was after his attempt to blackmail your President into making you come to work for Russia. Even though you had made him forget the events of that incident, the Mactep program was still active. When the tapes were discovered, General Feyodov was relieved of his position here, and I was installed in his place."
"To train an army in Sinanju," Remo said.
Her shame was evident. "I did not wish to do so," she stated. "But it was made clear to me that someone would have this posting. If it was not me, it would have been Feyodov. And I do not know if he or any other man would have been able to keep the Mactep troops from ever being used. I kept them under lock and key for more than ten years. If not for that idiot Skachkov and the lunatic Zhirinsky, the men would have remained warehoused here forever."
"I don't get it," Remo said. "These tapes aren't anything. You can't even see the stuff that matters. How'd you use them to teach these guys anything?"
"We made copies from tape to film," Anna explained. "The films were enhanced by computer and the speed of your actions was cut down considerably. The men were hooked into a system that monitored their movements. They were then instructed to mirror you in every detail, with punishments given if they failed. As the men progressed in training, the speed of the films was increased."
Remo nodded. "That's why they did that wrist thing Chiun says I do," he said. "They were copying everything they saw." His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "And this sounds like something I saw on TV once. They were getting baseball players to adjust their swings by hooking them up to computers to correct their stances."