"I Russian spy," he bawled. "This American capitalist missile."
He reached the spot Chiun had pointed out. He stumbled, and fell against it. A section of the marble block moved away, revealing a new section of the marble beneath it.
Valashnikov saw it as he fell. "No, no," he whimpered. "No, no." And then he was still. The cameras whirred and newsmen crowded around his lifeless body, which lay in front of a marble legend that read:
CASSANDRA 2.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The reporters looked at each other.
"What's Cassandra 2?" Jonathan Bouchek asked Remo.
"A secret missile designed to blow up the entire world," Candler answered for him.
Bouchek turned to him. "Do you know that for a fact?"
"What else could it be?" said Candler. "What else…"
He stopped as they heard the first noise. It sounded like a faint wind blowing from the east, and then it increased in intensity and pitch, as if it were growing stronger, coming nearer. It was behind them and they turned.
And then they saw the source of the noise.
At the crest of the mesa upon which the Apowa village of Wounded Elk was located, one man became visible. Then another. Then another. Then clusters of them. And soon the entire edge of the bluff was filled with men on horseback, shoulder to shoulder. They wore feathers and war paint. They were naked to the waist, and across their backs they had strapped guns and bows. Now they stopped to look down the half-mile toward the church, where the RIP members were drinking peacefully, and then one man in the center, astride a pinto pony, waved his rifle over his head, and with an earth-shattering scream, the Apowa braves came charging down the hillside on their ponies, heading for the church.
Remo smiled to himself. Brandt was not going to be cheated out of his revenge by any old bent cannon.
"It's the Indians attacking," one reporter cried.
"Don't be fooled. It's probably green berets in disguise," said Candler. "Why would Indians attack the RlP forces who are seeking justice for all red men?"
"That's true," said Jonathan Bouchek. "Let's go," he told his cameraman, and they began trotting along the road from the monument to the church. Other reporters broke into a run and followed.
The Apowa warriors, two hundred strong, were now down off the hill and galloping across the open prairie toward the church, their banshee wails filling the prairie.
The noise brought the church to life, too. Inside, the RIP members were celebrating the arrival of Perkin Marlowe with a cocktail party at which the most popular drink was Scotch with Scotch on the side. Dennis Petty heard the sound first.
"Getting so noisy around here, you can't even have a good party," he said, tossing an empty bottle at the corner of the altar, where it fell and cracked again a pile of bottles. Then, drink in hand, he strolled to the front of the church. "Perkin, old kemosabe, make yourself a drink." he said. He opened the front door of the church and looked out. "Holy shit," he whistled.
"What is it?" called Lynn Cosgrove, who sat in a nearby pew taking notes.
"It's Indians," said Petty. "Hey, it's Indians," he yelled to the entire church. "Real Indians."
"Probably planning to rape all us women," said Cosgrove.
"Hey! Shit! They're coming here," Petty yelled. "They're coming here."
"What are they yelling?" asked Marlowe, moving toward Petty.
"They're yelling, 'Kill RIP. Kill RIP.' Shit. Sheeeit! I'm getting out of here."
"They're government lackies," said Cosgrove without turning.
"Right," said Perkin Marlowe.
"Government lackies, my ass. They're Indians. Real Indians. I ain't screwing around with no real Indians," Petty said.
By now all forty RIP members had moved to Petty's side.
"Shit is right," said one of them. "They look mean. I'm getting out of here."
"Let's go," said Petty. "Before one of us gets hurt."
They started down the steps of the church and broke into a run toward the line of federal marshals.
As they ran, Petty ripped off his dirty T-shirt and waved it over his head. "Sanctuary!" he screamed. "We surrender. Sanctuary."
The other RIP members followed his lead, ripping off their shirts, waving them over their heads.
"Help! Protect us! Sanctuary!" Beer bottles and whiskey flasks dropped from their pockets as they ran.
The reporters made the mistake of trying to head them off and were trampled.
"Get out of my way, you nitwit bastards," shouted Petty, slamming a straight arm into Jerry Candler and stepping on Jonathan Bouchek.
Finally convinced and bringing up the rear of the RIP stampede, but gaining ground every minute, was Perkin Marlowe. He was whimpering, "I just wanted to help. I just wanted to help. Don't let me get hurt."
In an instant the RIP members were past the press. Candler lifted himself up on one elbow and looked at the fleeing figures. He turned to Bouchek, who lay on his back in the dust. "Can't blame him for panicking. I mean, after all, he's under terrible pressures, with those disguised soldiers after him, trying to kill him."
Candler looked up and saw a man on a pinto pony standing over him. The man was red-skinned and wore a headdress of feathers. He held a rifle loosely in his right hand.
"Who are you?" the man asked.
Candler scrambled to his feet. "I'm glad you asked. I'm Jerry Candler of the New York Globe and I know what you think your game is, but you're not going to get away with it, terrifying those poor Indians like that."
"You mean all those Indians from Chicago's South Side?" asked Brandt, looking down from his pony.
"The world will hear about this atrocity," said Candler.
"Were you born a fool, or did you study it in school?" asked Brandt. He looked up and saw the RIP members had crossed the line of federal marshals and were surrendering as fast as the marshals could get to them. Then he turned to the rest of his war party. "Come, men. Let's go and clean the garbage out of our church."
They turned their ponies and trotted away. Candler began walking toward the marshals, already composing the lead for his Sunday column: "Vietnam. Attica. San Francisco. And now Wounded Elk joints the long list of American atrocities."
Remo had watched the charge and the near battle from a seat atop the marble monument. He felt satisfied at its outcome and turned to get Chiun's reaction. But Chiun was deep in discussion with Van Riker. "There," Chiun was saying. "There is the weapon you would have invented, had you any brains."
"What do you mean?" asked Van Riker. "You've just let the world know that this is Cassandra."
Chiun shook his head. "This is Cassandra 2. It says so on the plaque I made. That means there is a Cassandra 1, and no enemy will be able to find it, and it will not hurt anyone, either."
Van Riker looked confused. "The Russians?"
"The Russians will be more sure that Cassandra exists because they have seen parts from Cassandra 2. I have made for you the perfect weapon. Harmless but effective. The only kind white men should be allowed to play with."
Van Riker's tanned face opened into a slow smile. "You know, you're right." He looked toward the marble slab, where the dead Valashnikov lay, and shook his head. "I feel sorry for him in a way. All those years he spent finding this missile, and then, when he does, he loses anyway."
"Pfffffui," said Chiun. "Death is too good for him. There is no man lower than a man who lies to an assassin about his wages."
Together, the three men walked back to the motel, where Van Riker immediately got busy. He called Washington, and ordered nuclear crews in to dismantle Cassandra 2. He did it on an open line and talked to every clerk who answered the telephone, just to make sure his orders were not only intercepted but given the widest possible public distribution.