And Remo was getting annoyed with Chiun's job hunting. It was one thing to expect America to fold and collapse by three o'clock the next afternoon, but looking around to other countries for work… why, that was wrong. And Remo's thinking it was wrong was the only proof he ever needed that he was not the master of Sinanju and never could be. Chiun was an assassin; all sides were the same to him as long as they paid on time. Remo was a patriot; he wished to use his skills for no one but America. He would make no moral judgment about which attitude was better. It was just that he and Chiun were different.
"Any assassin who came to work for Mother Russia would find warm welcome," said Valashnikov. He looked to Chiun. "High honors," he said. He looked to Remo. "Much money."
"Company car?" asked Remo.
"Yes," said Valashnikov eagerly. "Not only that. But apartment. Two bedrooms. Right near Moscow. Seventeen-inch television set. Your own radio. Charge account at Gumm's."
He smiled suddenly, and just as suddenly the smile vanished. "I understand that is what your leaders call an offer you can't refuse."
"Isn't he a nice man, Remo?" asked Chiun. "Don't you like him?"
"He's sweet, Little Father, and so are you. I hope you'll be very happy together." He got up from the bed. "I'm going for a walk. The idea of my own seventeen inch television set has staggered me. I need air to clear my head."
Remo walked outside, resolved to put the Russian out of his mind for a while. He had other problems. The Apowa tribesmen were ready to blow up the monument and the church with a .155 millimeter cannon unless Remo delivered the RIP gang. Now how was Remo going to get them all to the Big A?
That was problem number one. And if Remo failed, Brandt would use his cannon and more than likely wipe out America by setting off the Cassandra.
Against that the Russian problem paled into insignificance. He would let Chiun continue negotiating with Valashnikov for a pure gold offer to go to Russia. When push came to shove, Remo could end those negotiations in a flash. He had a special secret weapon that Chiun didn't know about.
The idea of the Russians sending a recruiter all this distance to try to snatch up Chiun!
And then Remo found he had another problem. Walking along the dirt road leading from the motel toward the press compound, he met Van Riker. The general was striding crisply along the street at a hundred twenty steps per minute. He saw Remo, smiled and asked, "Where's the Oriental?"
"He's back in his room being propositioned by a Russian agent," said Remo airily.
Van Riker looked surprised, not sure whether or not to believe Remo. Finally he said, "Oh? Who?"
"Valash-something," said Remo.
Van Riker's face turned pale under his tan. "Tell me. Did he say Valashnikov?"
"Yeah, that's it."
"Oh, my God," said Van Riker.
"What's the problem?"
"He was a Russian intelligence officer. His job was to find the Cassandra. When he failed, he was exiled. And now he's back. After all these years. And this time, he's found it."
"I don't think so," said Remo. "I really think he just came to offer Chiun a job."
"Maybe he's doing that, too. But he came here because of the Cassandra. He knows it's here."
"So what?"
"Then its whole value is gone," said Van Riker. "If its location is known, an enemy can knock it out on the first strike. And we've lost our destroy-in-death capability."
"If he knew it was here, would he have come here?" asked Remo.
"Hmmmm," Van Riker reflected. "You're right, you know. He suspects, but he's not sure."
"All right," said Remo. "Then just play dumb. Leave him to me."
He walked away from Van Riker, telling himself he would have to call Smith that afternoon for more instructions on how to deal with the Russian. Killing him might be simple, but it would infuriate Chiun, who would think Remo did it only to prevent Chiun's taking the Russian offer.
Problems, problems, problems.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Smith, as usual, had been analytical. No, it would not do for Remo to kill Valashnikov because if the Russians did not now know the location of the Cassandra, Valashnikov's sudden death would be all the proof they needed that the missile was at Wounded Elk.
There were, if Remo would but remember, two goals to his assignment. The first and most important was to make sure that the Cassandra was not detonated. Remo was still working on that one and should concentrate on it. Keeping the Russians from finding out Cassandra's location was only a secondary goal… a poor second.
Smith had gone on in this fashion for nine minutes before Remo finally stopped him by hanging up. Remo had done what he had to do: alert Smith. He would leave the problem of Valashnikov to him now.
Remo's own problem was getting the RIP contingent up to the village of Wounded Elk, and he felt pretty good about that. He had a plan. He whistled happily as he trotted along the dark road toward the RIP encampment in the Episcopal church. His plan would work. It would be a snap. The thinking man won every time.
"Who goes there?"
Oooops. If he didn't want to be noticed, he decided, he had better stop whistling.
He froze. He was dressed in black, and his dark shape blended with the darkness. The guard, ten feet away, looked around carefully but saw nothing. He wheeled suspiciously around and looked behind him. Still he saw nothing. Suspicious to the last, he peered again into the darkness toward Remo, but finally he put down his rifle and resumed leaning on it.
Remo moved off softly past the guard, continuing toward the church.
It would be easy.
The RIP people wanted booze. Remo would tell them he had found some. He would load them all into the back of the sacred buffalo TV van, which the TV crew had been afraid to demand back, and he would drive them all up to Brandt's store. And that would be that.
Brilliant, Remo.
Up ahead, the church glared with light, the only bright spot in a black night. Remo heard singing, the voices soft at first, then louder as he drew nearer.
"Back your ass against the wall… Here I come…"
They were singing dirty songs. And loud, Remo realized as he drew even nearer.
"I know a girl who lives on the hill. What she won't do, her sister will. Sound off…"
They were screaming now. Well, at least he wouldn't have to wake them. As Remo paused at the foot of the church steps, he heard a sound: "Psssst. White-eyes."
He turned toward the hedges at the left side of the church steps.
"Psssst. In here."
He stepped forward and heard a rustling sound.
"You're late."
He looked down. Lying on the ground, her buckskin shirt up around her hips, was Lynn Cosgrove. But she wasn't alone. Lying beside her, apparently sleeping, was Jerry Lupin. He was naked.
"Late for what? Cover yourself up. That's indecent."
"You said you'd be here at three. It's five after. The human body is never indecent. It is glorious in all its rampant sexuality. Besides, I'm your slave. You have violated me and stolen my honor. I am yours to do with as you will. So do with me. Please! I've been waiting."
"Waiting? With him?" asked Remo, pointing to Lupin.
Lynn Cosgrove smiled. "I found out it's good with anybody. Anybody at all."
"Good," said Remo. "Stick with him."
"You promised," she screamed.
"You know you can't trust a white man," Remo said.
"You can't trust anyone over thirty," she said.
"You can't trust a reactionary," he said.
"You can't trust a man," she said. "A sexist, mind less pig. I'm not your object, you know. I'm a human being, with human feelings."
"You could have fooled me," Remo said.
"Are you going to rape me?"
"No."
"You must. You have to rape me."