When he turned back around, Howard pitched his voice low, as if shadow or snow might overhear his words.
"I was sent by the President to help you, Dr. Smith," he whispered. "I'm the new assistant director of CURE."
The shocking words were like a fist to the thin chest of Harold W. Smith.
Mark Howard offered a weak, apologetic smile. Smith didn't even acknowledge it.
The older man blinked behind the cold lenses of his glasses. And when they slipped from his stunned arthritic fingers, the sound of Smith's keys striking the pavement was swallowed up by the howling, desolate wind.
Chapter 12
Despite the wishes of the Russian president, the head of the Institute had not come to America alone.
A team of six SVR men with foreign experience had been drafted into service directly from the Moscow offices. When Pavel Zatsyrko, the head of the SVR, found out one of his squads had been activated by someone with security clearance greater than his own, he would not be pleased.
It had been a calculated risk. The Institute director's reasoning was simple. The mission would either be a success and this minor defiance would be overlooked, or the mission would end in failure and no amount of disobedience would alter the director's fate.
The six agents had worked as a unit years before, assigned to the Soviet embassy in Washington. Time had been as kind to them as it had to the nation they once served. The men were mostly twitchy and balding, with growing bellies and the relentlessly scanning eyes of former KGB agents.
One was a hulking brute whose youthful muscle had long ago started the middle-aged slide into flab. At the other end of the evolutionary scale was Vadim Zhdanov, their leader in the SVR. A short man with deep, intelligent eyes, he scrutinized every move the Institute director made.
Zhdanov had not wanted to come back to America, especially after all these years. His men were no longer the field agents they had once been. Nor was he. Even though he had done his best to stay fit over the years, time had slipped past all of them. Yet the activation orders came from so high up they could not be refused. And so he and his five men had reluctantly returned to America.
Guns bulged beneath six armpits.
All seven Russians were crowded into a balcony box above the hall where the Buffoon Aid fundraiser was being held. The six SVR men were stuffed in behind a thick red curtain. The Institute head alone sat in a seat. A pair of infrared binoculars bathed the crowd in spectral green.
"There," the director announced, aiming a certain finger at the main floor of the auditorium.
Vadim crept forward, accepting the binoculars. Sitting next to the director, he trained them to the front of the vast crowd.
In the fourth row from the back on the left-hand side of the stage sat a stone-faced man. While others around him laughed uproariously, his expression never changed.
"That man is Yuri Koskolov. He is a known associate of General Feyodov," the director said, quietly. "You and your men will capture Koskolov. Repeat that order, for I do not want you to claim a misunderstanding if you blunder and kill him."
At this, Vadim frowned. "I am not a child," he said.
"No," the director agreed. "You are worse. You are a man. Now repeat the order, or I will put one of these others in charge."
Vadim had heard of this brusqueness. It was somewhat legendary in certain intelligence circles. He had always found the hushed tales amusing. Now that he was on the receiving end, however, his own attitude had changed.
As his five snickering men looked on, he repeated the command.
"We will capture Koskolov," the old agent said. "We will not kill him."
The director nodded curtly. "There is one other thing, this more important than anything else. There might be two men here in town looking for General Feyodov. One is a thin Caucasian with very thick wrists, the other an Oriental who is very, very old. If you see either of them, run. Do not approach them, do not speak to them and under no circumstances attempt to engage them either with weapons or physically. If you happen upon General Feyodov and they are in the vicinity, shoot the general and then run for all you are worth."
Vadim wasn't sure if this was some attempt at humor. The look on the director's face was deadly serious.
"You are joking, yes?" the SVR man asked.
"If you are stupid enough to involve yourself in a contest with these two men, you will be dead before the breath of shock reaches your throat," the Institute head continued icily. "With any luck you will not even encounter them. If you successfully apprehend Koskolov, he will lead us to our renegade general. Perhaps we can clean up this mess before anyone here finds out the truth. Now, go."
Vadim Zhdanov nodded. Getting up from his seat, he herded the cluster of hiding SVR agents out from behind the curtain and through the balcony door.
After they were gone, the director raised the special binoculars once more. A green glow descended on the crowd.
With precise movements, the director scanned the mob, looking once more for the face of General Feyodov.
It was worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. Intelligence had put the general in San Francisco. Sketchier were the reports that had placed him in Barkley. It was only after seeing Yuri Koskolov, a former Red Army major and associate of Feyodov's, enter this building that the director knew they were on the right track. But the prize was the general himself, and every moment he remained at large increased the chance that the director would be
The spyglasses abruptly froze in place.
Two new figures had just entered the hall. When the Institute head saw who they were, a wave of cold fear slipped across the director's body like a ghostly fog.
One was a thin man with exceptionally thick wrists. Beside him stood an ancient Korean.
It had happened. After all these years.
And to the shaking director, the terrible dream that had haunted many a sleepless night for more than a decade had finally become a waking nightmare.
"PEE-YEW. I smell Russians."
Remo's face was puckered in displeasure as they entered the hall where the Buffoon Aid event was being held.
At shoulder level beside him, the Master of Sinanju turned his unhappy button nose into the air. "There are at least eight," the old man replied. Hazel eyes scanned the balconies to the left of the hall where the bulk of the odor seemed to be concentrated.
"Dammit, they've had democracy for-cheez, gotta be ten years by now," Remo griped, fanning the air with his hand. "Why can't those Volgapaddlers smell like something other than turnips boiled in Stolichnaya?"
"Were I American born, I would not be so quick to find fault with the cultural odors of others," the Master of Sinanju droned in reply. "Until my delicate senses adapted, my first five years in this heathen land I could smell nothing but frying cow flesh. Although in defense of America, most of that issued from your smelly pores."
The old man's eyes narrowed when he noted the last balcony box far down near the stage.
"Yeah, well, I'm here 'cause Smith wanted us outta his hair, not to stamp out any beet-eating Russians," Remo said, "so they can watch us till their mutant Chernobyl cows come slithering home. I don't care. I'm not looking back."
On some level that Remo never quite understood, he could sense when he was being given more than just casual attention. Such was the case now.
Instead of looking at the person observing them, Remo turned his determined gaze on the distant stage.
For his part, Chiun was staring at a pair of very big lenses. They obscured the face behind. A pair of small, pale hands held them in place. Beyond was shadowy blond hair.
"Yes," the Master of Sinanju said, "by all means, Remo, do not look." The old man's tone betrayed just a hint of some buried emotion.