She turned to Remo.
"Will you stop that, Remo?" she yelled.
"I didn't start anything. They're coming at me," Remo called back.
"Well, just stop it," she said, and turned away so she wouldn't see what would happen to three burly tankers who had now grabbed large steel wrenches and were going to try to beat the slim stranger with the thick wrists.
"I didn't start it," said Remo. "They were coming at me."
He was by her side now, looking up at Arieson. "Do you want the treasure of Sinanju?" asked Arieson.
"I do."
"What will you give me for it? Will you make the same deal as Chiun?"
"No," said Remo. "But I'm going to get the Premier and end this horde forever. We should have done it at the fringes of Europe when we took care of your boy Genghis Khan. Should have done the job right."
"Leave my horde alone. I've felt at home here more than with any other army."
"I don't want my country to be in a war with Russia."
"All right. All right. I'll go. There won't be a war. Will that make you happy?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, if that's your horrible price. You can have it this time. But I warn you, you can't stop me forever, especially now that I know you want the treasure of Sinanju."
"Do you know where it is?" asked Remo.
"Of course I do."
"How?" asked Remo.
"Ah," said Arieson, and it sounded like all the winds over all the deserts and all the battlefields that had ever been. And he sat no more on the Mongol pony before them. The pony whinnied and then scampered away, only to be brought quickly to rein by a young Mongol horseman in this forbidden encampment in the Siberian wasteland.
There was a silence all around them. Something important was no longer there, and neither Remo nor Anna knew what it was. Something seemed to go out of the Russian soldiers. There was no more bounce or joy or comradeship with the Mongols. They seemed like a bunch of men in uniforms stuck in a cold inhospitable place they would like to escape.
Only the Mongols seemed to stay the same, as a priest called out that Mr. Arieson remained in their hearts always.
"Anna, Anna," came the voice from a yak tent. A handsome bald-headed man wearing an ill-fitting Russian soldier's uniform was waving to Anna and Remo.
Remo recognized the face from the newspapers. It was the Russian Premier. "Anna, what are you doing here?"
"What are you doing here?" she answered.
"We are about to launch the greatest campaign in Russian history. Read this," he said. It was a piece of parchment with the Communist-party insignia on it.
Anna knew what it was. These things had not been seen for centuries, not since the advent of the sneak attack.
It was a declaration of war against America and it bore the Premier's signature. Arieson had gotten to the head of the Communist party as well as the soldiers. Here was a man who should have known better. He had lost his entire family in the great patriotic war in which Russia had defeated the lunacy of Nazi Germany.
Anna tore it up.
"What are you doing?"
"It's all over."
"It can't be. I was going to conquer America," said the Premier.
"Excuse me," said Remo. He stepped in between Anna and the Premier, and with limited power and maximum palm exposure slapped the Premier hard, like a giant towel whacking water. The Premier's eyes teared momentarily, then a silly smile appeared on his face. He sniffled back the sudden nosebleed.
"Friendship always between the glorious freedom-loving American people and their allies, the glorious Russian people enjoying the fruits and luxuries of socialism," said the Premier.
The Russian soldiers, getting back to normal, now began to fear the Mongols again, and the Mongols, sensing it, began closing in. But Remo called out that his protection was upon them, and so he, Anna, and the Premier, with the defecting army units, made their way that day out of the special tribal encampments reserved for the notorious horde of Genghis Khan.
Harold W. Smith received word from his Russian contact, Anna Cliutesov, that the danger of imminent war was now over. But according to the pattern of this new force, it would reappear again. This he had to stress.
"Yes, but we're learning more about him, Mr. Smith. We are learning Remo has something he wants."
"And what's that?"
"Remo and Sinanju have been in his way for centuries."
"But he, whatever he is, whoever he is, is still around."
"Ah, but Mr. Smith, you are missing the most salient point. So is Sinanju."
In Anna's apartment they made love on a fur rug, with the apartment dark, with the quiet lights of Moscow beaming in the near distance, their bodies becoming one, until Anna with delirious joy shrieked the completion of her ecstasy.
"You're wonderful, Remo,"
"Fair. My mind's elsewhere," said Remo.
"You didn't have to tell me that."
"I don't mean to insult you, but lovemaking is part of my skills. Sometimes they're good and sometimes they're fair, just like other strokes. It doesn't mean I don't care."
"Was it work for you, Remo?"
"With you it's never work, Anna."
"I hope so," she said. "But you know, I'll never know."
"You know," he said, kissing her gently. But she was right. Sometimes he didn't know either. When you were Sinanju, when you became a Master, Sinanju was not something you used or did not use; it was what you were.
When he had seen Mr. Arieson, there was no choice about whether he would be enthralled or not. He was disgusted, just as he would be disgusted by a bad smell. It was not a choice. His antagonism toward that force was as central to him as his breathing. And Remo did not know why.