Valashnikov caught a nod from the KGB liaison. It meant that having been vindicated, his organization would allow itself to admit a minor slip, especially if it were part of an overall correct attitude.
"So," said Valashnikov, "a less competent agent was assigned. An agent who listed the cleaning man as tan. Now when the report came back, also to a minor department, tan was read as brown, which was translated to Negro, which was translated right back to cleaning man. At that time there were no Negro nuclear physicists or nuclear engineers. But let us, comrades, translate tan back to tan, and we will find that there is a nuclear engineer who lives in the Bahamas and has a very nice tan. His name is Van Riker, our own General Van Riker, who was seen at Wounded Elk, albeit partially blocked out by the kimono of someone in his car." Valashnikov looked around the table.
"I congratulate you," said Diplomatic Liaison. "But for one thing, you have made a good case. If that monument were the Cassandra, would the American government not move in to protect it against the demonstrators, lest the very center of the country blow up? If we had a Cassandra, it would be protected by division upon division upon division. Now would you have us believe a ring of United States marshals are sitting placidly by while a bunch of renegades dance over their special doomsday device? Be realistic. Be realistic, comrade."
"You forget, comrade," said Valashnikov, "that Cassandra's best defense has always been the fact that we did not know where it is."
"And we did not know where it is," said Diplomatic Liaison, "because it never existed. Yes, it is my conclusion that it never existed. I too am aware of how strong America was vis-à-vis Russia in the early 1960s. Wouldn't it have been clever of them to waste our resources looking for a nonexistent bomb?"
"Cassandra," said Valashnikov, "was the name of a prophetess of doom in Western literature. No one listened to her. She had the power to see the future, but her curse was that no one would listen. Perhaps the American vehicle of death was aptly named, after all. Perhaps just for a moment such as this, so we would listen before making a miscalculation."
There was quiet in the room. Then Diplomatic Liaison spoke. "You have not addressed yourself to the question of why there is no protection of Cassandra right now. No country would leave something that dangerous unprotected. At the mercies of a band of lunatics."
Valashnikov saw the KGB liaison nod assent. The admiral of the fleet nodded assent. The general of the missile forces nodded assent. All the important heads were nodding, and Valashnikov was lost. Then the chief of KGB snapped his fingers twice.
"Flash that photograph of Van Riker again," he said. An assistant immediately darkened a screen area and put in the proper slide.
"That design on the kimono at the car door… I've seen it before. Recently, in the last year," said KGB. "Where have I seen it?"
"It is a Korean rendering of a Chinese ideograph, sir," said an aide.
"But what? Where have I seen it? It came across my desk, and if it came across my desk, it had to be important."
"The ideograph means 'absolute' or 'master,'" said the aide. "The letter had something to do with Sinanju, an employment query. Assassins, sir, a rather ancient house of them."
"And what was the disposition of that request to work for us?"
"There wasn't exactly any disposition, sir. It was a long, rambling letter about the lack of appreciation in a young country for assassins and how the House of Sinanju was looking for a new employer once it could successfully retrieve its investment from the pale ingrates."
"Investment? What investment?" asked the chief of the KGB.
"Well, sir, we couldn't quite make it out." He paused. The letter seemed not really the sort of thing one brought before the military leaders of a nation. It was better suited for a weepy romance novel. "Sir, the investment was in the training of a white man, to whom the master gave the best years of his life. It goes on at length, sir, about various forms of ingratitude. It seems, sir, highly self-pitying."
"So how does a crackpot letter wind up on my desk?"
"Sir, Sinanju is not what we classify as crackpot. The house of assassins once worked for the Romanovs, and the letter specifically referred to Ivan the Great. We found references to Sinanju in the czar's archives. It seems he was fond of them and they of him. In any case, sir, when the revolution came, we dispensed with what had been a yearly retainer."
"Why?"
"Idealism. This house has been associated with every reactionary regime since the Ming Dynasty."
"Would you call this Sinanju thing effective protection? I mean, one man?"
"That's just why it was on your desk, sir. Yes, sir. In some cases, far superior to a division. Sinanju was the original creator of hand fighting. It is called the sun source of the martial arts."
"That man in the kimono looks old."
"According to the archives, the master of Sinanju who served Czar Ivan was ninety when he slaughtered a Cossack troop for the entertainment of the czar."
There was a hushed clearing of throats in the room. Then Diplomatic Liaison spoke: "Well, Valashnikov, congratulations on finding your Cassandra. You must confirm it, of course."
"Yes," said KGB. "You are also authorized to hire that Sinanju person. We are at your full disposal."
"You know, if we can definitely pinpoint the Cassandra—without any doubt—there are limitless nuclear variations we can employ," said the commander of Russian missile forces. And in that room they knew what no one else knew at the time: that the balance of nuclear power in the world might just have been unalterably changed because an aide recognized a Korean symbol.
But what they did not know was that while the master of Sinanju liked their police state tactics and thought very highly of their very quick judicial system, to him there was not much difference between the tanned, white-haired nuisance with the Geiger counter and the others who called themselves Communists. They were all white to him. He even had some difficulty in telling them apart.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"How many must we be forced to kill in the liberation of our land?" asked Burning Star as she and Remo sped through the night toward the Apowa village of Wounded Elk. "How many must die in our search for the buffalo before the great eagle nests in the cliffs of his father's home?"
"You mean at the Apowa supermarket?" asked Remo. Up ahead he saw the cluster of lights, a flashing neon arrow, and a huge neon sign that read, "Big A Plaza—Open Late."
"At the new buffalo hunting grounds, yes. Will we slay tens or hundreds or tens of hundreds to liberate our sacred buffalo and return his skin to the lodge where men can look upon themselves as men and not as helpless children driven by the white man's alcohol to debase themselves and their sacred heritage."
"We're going to pay for the food it that's what you're asking."
"But it is our food. Our buffalo. While I condemn the killing itself, I can understand why we must do this. To bring attention to the injustices done our people."
"I've got a pocketful of money," said Remo. "And I'd just as soon pay for the goods. Besides, do you want to load the truck?"
Burning Star shook her head, her bright red curls flashing from side to Side. "As our ancestors were robbed of their land, so shall we rob these oppressors of their stolen buffalo."
"Hey, Cosgrove," said Remo, pulling into the lot, "these stores are all owned by full-blooded Apowas."
"They are Sacajaweas."
"Sacks of what?"
"Sacajawea. She was the traitor who guided Lewis and Clark across our land."