Istoropovich gave a dry little laugh. "If ever you think you are a clever man, Yuri Alexovich, remember that I am ten years your junior and by far your superior officer."
"What does that mean?" Yuri asked defensively, clutching at the alligator on his shirt. "Sir."
"It means you have the brain of a walnut, and that is why you are and will always be a flunky to those more capable than yourself. You have read one dossier on the professor. One dossier! There are rooms of dossiers on Dr. Payton-Holmes in Moscow Center," he roared. "I, of course, have read them all. But the High Commander has studied these dossiers with the utmost care for nearly ten years. Psychologists and behaviorists have studied the professor's actions closely and written tomes about Dr. Frances Payton-Holmes. And what have they discovered?"
m
The bald-headed man looked up with a glimmer of recognition in his eyes. His rubbery lips formed a smile resembling a lifeboat. "She likes little boys?" he asked.
"Nol" Istoropovich shouted. He straightened his coat jacket and calmed himself down by sheer act of will. "Only you can lower me to such depths, Gorky," he said in a voice of menacing quiet.
"Sorry, Colonel," Gorky said, the light in his beast eyes diminishing.
"The professor's behavior profile shows her to be that most rare of human creatures: a person who does not fear death. She has no relatives, no emotional ties to any other soul on the planet. She consistently behaves in a reckless and willful manner, endangering herself and others for no more satisfaction than her whim of the moment." "Perhaps she's insane," Yuri offered. "Perhaps. Her warped patriotism would certainly point to that. She calls everyone she doesn't like a Communist."
"No," Gorky uttered, disbelieving. "Everybody likes Communists. Wherever the Red Armies go, people love us. They don't love us, we shoot bullets into their heads. Soon everybody loves us. How come she don't love us?" "Because she is insane," Yuri said. "Of course," Istoropovich said. "She drives an Edsel."
Istoropovich rubbed his chin. "Whatever the
reason, she does not live as if she fears dying. For
herself or anyone else. And without that fear,
comrades, an individual cannot be broken."
Gorky contemplated his superior's words by
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sticking his finger in his nose. Yuri asked if they could go to McDonald's for a Big Mac and a free Ronald McDonald glass. He explained that he could sell the glass in Moscow for 50 rubles. He had already made a deal to sell his American blue jeans to a KGB officer for five times their U.S. value.
"No time," Istoropovich said. "Arrange our passage to Moscow as soon as possible. On the next Aeroflot flight not scheduled for midair explosion. We'll be taking the American with us," he said, indicating Gonzalez.
Yuri looked over at Gonzalez's inert form and spotted something he had not seen before. Gonzalez was wearing a pair of Keds Red Ball sneakers. The Russian pulled them off and tucked them under his arm. "One hundred fifty rubles," he said with a wink to Istoropovich.
For good measure, he kicked Gonzalez in the shin. "Greedy capitalist pig," he said on his way out.
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CHAPTER TEN
At nine o'clock at night, the lights in the professor's software lab were still blazing.
"Hi," Remo said. "You free?"
The professor turned back from an array of liquor bottles and decanters she was arranging on top of an odd-looking metal table against the wall. "Dirt cheap, anyway," she said. "Have we met?"
"I'm Remo," he said. "The guy who's supposed to check out your missing computer."
The professor's eyes darted back to the table holding the liquor. "Uh, it's gone," she said distractedly.
"I know. That's why I'm here. Hey, are you feeling all right?"
She wished Remo would go away. It would make things so much simpler. The LC-111 was back, in whatever form Mr. Gordons felt like being, and there was no more national
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emergency. Still, Gordons didn't want to reveal his identity to this Remo person until he remembered who Remo was. The professor didn't think it mattered much who Remo was, but he had some fine pecs on him, and if he didn't leave soon, she was going to jump on his bones.
"You're awfully cute," she said, trying unsuccessfully to fight off the waves of lust that were overtaking her. Those dreamy brown eyes, the fine, hard body. The thick wrists. Oh, that mouth.
"Thank you, ma'am," Remo said. "Well, I guess we ought to start."
"Ready when you are, babe," the professor said, whipping off her lab coat. In the span of 58 seconds, she had shed the rest of her clothing as well, and stood before Remo, stripped to the buff.
"I meant we ought to start talking. About the computer."
"Talk, talk, talk. Doesn't anybody screw anymore?"
Remo shook off one of the professor's arms, which had become entwined, snakelike, around his thigh. "I'd really rather talk," he said. "With your clothes on, if you don't mind."
"Communication is what matters, young man. Not talking," she panted as she came at him in a flying tackle. "Just see how much better we communicate once your pants are down. Whee." She slid his belt out of his pants and twirled it above her head like a lasso. "How's about a little drink, gorgeous?"
"No, thanks," Remo said, catching the belt in mid-swing and replacing it around his waist. The professor slinked over to the table and poured
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some gin from a decanter directly into her throat, which she had primed with an olive.
As she gulped, a small voice seemingly from out of nowhere whispered to her, "Get him on this table."
"What?"
"On this table. On his back, if possible."
"What for?"
"Please, Mom," the table said. "Get his back on the table."
"Okey doke," she said, giggling lewdly.
From across the room, Remo shook his head as he watched the Nobel-Prize-winning scientist standing stark naked, guzzling gin and talking to herself. She was even nuttier than Smith had warned him.
"Come and get it," she called. All the charms of middle-aged spinsterhood were on display as she undulated to Remo in invitation. Remo suppressed a shudder.
"Hop to it, big boy. I'm hotter than an É-C 135 on target range, as they say at NASA." She licked one finger and made sizzling noises as she held it to a heavily dimpled hip. "Get over here. It's the only way I'm going to talk to you."
"Oh, hell," Remo said, obeying reluctantly.
"Now sit up here." She patted the table.
He sat. Her hand went immediately to his leg.
"Couldn't we skip this part?" he asked.
"And deprive you of the ecstasy of making love to me? Are you kidding?"
With a sigh, Remo began the series of maneu-vers-Chiun had taught him long ago, the meticulous steps designed to bring a woman to shrieking
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fulfillment. In the case of Dr. Frances Payton-HoJmes, however, it almost wasn't worth the time spent. This dame, Remo said to himself, could find fulfillment sitting on a ping pong ball.
"Could we please talk now?" Remo said, placing his hand on a spot on the professor's left kneecap that set her teeth chattering with joy.
"Of course, darling. I was born in Madison, Wisconsin, the only child of a prosperous dairy farmer. ..."
"I was thinking of more recent events," Remo said. "Like the disappearance of the computer. What's it called again?"
"The LC-111," she moaned. "The most important technological breakthrough in the past decade. The new defender of the free world." "What's it do?"
"That's a state secret." Remo touched á spot above her navel. "It tracks missiles and controls them," the professor screamed. "One missile in particular."