"No," the president declared, his voice steely. "This cannot be allowed to spread any further. If you will not use the men at the Institute, you will go yourself."
"That would be an unwise use of materials," the director said. "In addition, it would create an unacceptable risk."
"That was not a request," the president growled hotly. "You were a field agent once. Arrogant enough to think that you were better than any man, as I recall."
In another life, the two had met briefly. It was back before the director had gone into a decade of deep cover. When the president assumed his leadership of Russia, he had been dismayed to learn that this testament to conceit was still alive. Worse, that the former agent had been made head of something as important as the Institute.
"You will go to America," the president commanded. "You will kill General Feyodov, and you will suppress this information at all costs. Am I clear on this matter?"
There was no room for argument. The head of the Institute nodded to the empty office.
"Yes, sir."
"And be warned," the Russian leader said. "If you fail, there will be an open grave waiting for you on your return." With that, he severed the connection.
Coming as it did from a former KGB man, the words were no idle threat. The black office phone fell heavily back into its cradle. So that was that. America awaited.
And in that small basement office there was an old fear in the director's blue eyes that had absolutely nothing to do with the Russian president's threat.
Chapter 9
Remo and Chiun took a late flight from JFK, arriving at San Francisco International Airport at dawn. Although the temperature was only in the high fifties this early in the day, the sun and lack of snow was a welcome change for Remo.
"This sure beats the hell out of freezing in the New England icebox," he commented as they made their way to the rental-car agency.
"I like New England," the Master of Sinanju sniffed. "It was near enough to Smith without being too near. And despite the unpleasant name, there were no Old Englanders anywhere to be seen."
"Both pluses, I suppose." Remo nodded. "Still, if we do get a new house, my vote's for someplace hot."
"And the moment your vote counts more than mine, you may live in the inferno of your choosing. Until such time, the sacred scrolls dictate that it is for the Reigning Master to decide where he and his apprentice will live."
"Where do the scrolls ever give a rat's ass about where we're supposed to live?" Remo asked, smelling a scam.
Chiun waved a hand. "Somewhere in the back, I believe. Now, please, Remo, hurry and rent us a carriage. I do not want some street-reeking lazybones to claim squatter's rights over our new residence."
Still dubious, Remo rented them a car. They took the Bayshore Freeway across the Oakland Bay Bridge. It was a short trip up the eastern shore of San Paolo Bay to Barkley.
Remo sensed trouble as soon as they hit town. A battered Volkswagen Beetle came puttering toward them, a faded McGovern For President sticker plastered to its bungee-corded front bumper.
The Master of Sinanju's face grew displeased the instant he saw the ancient yellow car.
"Were not those ghastly contraptions banned by your government?" Chiun asked.
"No," Remo said as the car passed by. "Worse, they started making them again, even uglier than before. We won the war, but the Germans get the last laugh."
Chiun didn't hear him. A bony hand suddenly clasped Remo's forearm.
"There!" the old man screeched, stabbing a quivering nail at the windshield. "Yet another approaches." His breath abruptly caught and he squeezed Remo's arm even tighter. "Can it be?" he exhaled.
"Hey, trying to drive here," Remo said, wincing at the pressure being exerted on his forearm.
"It is," Chiun said, with a trace of unaccustomed fear in his voice. "Remo, turn this vehicle around at once!"
"What the-? Chiun, will you let go of my goddamn arm, for crying out loud?"
"A pippie!" the Master of Sinanju cried. In a flurry of frightened fingers he ducked below the dashboard as the second Volkswagen chugged by.
The car was covered with rubber daisies and peace symbols. The driver looked as if he shopped at the dump for his clothes and bathed once every two decades whether he needed to or not.
"What's gotten into you, Meryl Streep?" Remo asked.
"Turn this vehicle around at once!" Chiun shrieked in horror from the footwell.
"Huh? Why the hell should I do that?"
"Some wicked magic has obviously cast us back in time to the most odious era in your nation's history," the Master of Sinanju insisted. He tried grabbing for the steering wheel, but Remo held on tight.
"We haven't time traveled," Remo insisted. "This is just Barkley. As long as you keep your hands inside the car at all times, the locals won't bite."
A gasp from far below.
"Horror upon horrors!" Chiun wailed. "This is your fault for taunting the gods. I have become victim of their excess wrath. If we reverse our direction, perhaps we can escape this nightmare."
Chiun blindly tried to shift into reverse. Remo held tightly to both the steering wheel and gearshift lever.
"Will you knock it off?" he snapped. "I told you, we haven't gone through a time warp."
Hazel eyes appeared above the dash.
"I do not know what those words mean, but that was the most warped time since time began. I would gouge my eyes from my head and flee into the wilderness before reliving that dismal era."
"Okay, first order of business-no gouging," Remo insisted. "We're still in the present, those cars were really old and if you grab the wheel one more time I'm buying a banana plantation on Maui for both of us and having the natives hoist the Sinanju flag."
Sensing his pupil's certainty, the old man eased cautiously up to the edge of his seat.
"Purchase what you want where you want, but you will be swinging from your ancestral trees alone," the Master of Sinanju said. "Now explain this place quickly." Wary eyes watched the road ahead.
"Barkley is lost in time, but not in any supernatural way," Remo said. "I blame the college. There isn't a bigger factory for PC Jim Morrison hashhuffers than higher education. And the freaks they've got running Barkley U are the worst poncho-wearing gladiolis this side of the touring company of Hair. Dopey professors plus dopier kids equals LSD trips on daddy's credit card and vintage Volkswagens still tooling around the streets."
Chiun was caught between skepticism and his long-held belief that any lunacy was possible in America.
"Why would your nation allow a place filled with mental defectives to exist?"
"Don't know about you, but I'd rather keep all the assorted nuts in one can," Remo said.
And because it was the first time he could remember his pupil or America ever making sense, Chiun settled cautiously back in his seat. Nevertheless, he kept a careful eye on their surroundings as they drove deeper into the city.
Remo was surprised by the large number of potholes on the main streets. Their rental car bumped and bounced its way to the center of town. As they drove, he had noted a shape looming up over some of the low buildings.
At first he ignored it, but when they came to a set of traffic lights, he saw through a break in the buildings two massive black eyes staring down at them.
"What the hell is that?" Remo remarked, looking up at the huge statue at Barkley's center.
"It appears to be the image of some god," Chiun observed.
"Some god is right," Remo said sarcastically. "Looks like a big black turd with the top lopped off."
"That's right, Remo," Chiun said blandly. "Perhaps this is the one god left that you have not yet insulted. I will bring you back to Sinanju after this latest angry deity has transformed you into a pillar of salt. The fish salter can chip bits off of you to cure the catch for the long winter months." He watched the statue with quiet reverence.