"Likewise."
"I do not need bodyguard. I do not need advisers. I do not need Sinanju."
Remo reversed direction. "Did you say Sinanju?"
"I said Sinanju. But I do not need it."
"Why do you need Sinanju?"
"I do not."
"But if you did, why would you need Sinanju?"
"To conquer world, of course."
Remo knelt at the man and turned his face so the streetlight hit it squarely. The loose, pasty face was starting to look familiar. But it kept swimming like putty so the lines were indistinct.
Remo fished the vodka bottle out of the bushes. The face on it rang a bell. And it wasn't because Remo had the real face sprawled at his feet, either.
"What language is this?" Remo asked.
"Engleesh. I talk exshellent Engleesh."
"No. I mean on the label."
"You are ignoramus. I may be clown. But you are ignoramus not to know Russian. When I annex USA, you will be hung by thumps and forced to kiss the boot that crushed you."
"You're—"
"Yes. Exactly. You know now."
"I don't remember the name, but you're him."
"Zhirinovsky," slurred the drunk, reaching for the bottle. And on the label, in Cyrillic letters, many of them seemingly formed backward to Western eyes, appeared to be an approximation of the name Zhirinovsky.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Remo asked.
"What I do everywhere. Being kicked out. Everyone love Zhirinovsky so much they kick him out. Been kicked out of Poland. Serbia. Constantinople."
"Constantinople doesn't exist anymore."
"When I conquer world, I will rename America Constantinople. Now surrender bottle if you value thumps."
Remo compressed his hand, the bottle broke and the man on the ground was so devastated by the awful sight that he fell backward.
"It's thumbs."
"I am not clown."
Remo decided if this was who he thought it was, dumping him in the bushes wouldn't cut it. So he dragged the man to the subway station and dumped him in the back of a waiting cab.
The cabbie was firm. "Hey, I don't haul drunks."
"Here's six hundred dollars. Cash," Remo told the driver. "Take him home."
"Where's home?"
"Bismark, North Dakota. Six hundred bucks get him there?"
"Can I stop for food and lodging?" the cabbie asked.
"You bet."
The cabbie folded the wad of cash, kissed it and stuffed it into a pocket. "In that case, tell his folks to expect him home sometime next week. I know a short cut to Bismark via Atlantic City."
"You're the professional."
As the cab took off, Remo ran back home, hoping what he feared wasn't true.
The second he opened the front door, the metallic smell of fresh blood hit him like an unpleasant wave.
There was only one body on the stairs leading up. That was good. One body was easily disposed of. Maybe if Remo broke it into small pieces, it would slip down the garbage disposal.
A second body occupied a toilet on the second floor. Remo knew he was dead without listening for a heartbeat because heads immersed in toilet water for long periods of time usually belonged to the deceased.
Outside the tower room, there was a stack of bodies, very neatly arranged. It was hard to tell exactly how many bodies there were, the stacking was so professional. In some cases more than one arm was jammed into a coat sleeve, and other limbs were interlocked so that rigor mortis setting in would make it easier for Remo to pick up the bodies as a unit.
That was Chiun. In the old days, when the Master of Sinanju was addicted to American soap operas, anyone who interrupted them was subject to his instant death penalty. Many times Remo returned home to find a similar pile of corpses needing disposal.
The sight of these made Remo feel almost nostalgic.
Letting the dead decompose in peace, Remo entered the meditation room. "Chiun?"
"I have been awaiting your return," Chiun said.
"Well, I'm back."
"In time to take out the garbage."
"Who were they?"
"Russians."
"Yeah?"
"Lying Russians. I would have accepted truthful Russians, although it was a grave breach of decorum to send emissaries when first contact should be through a letter or simple message. I do not treat with pretenders or their bodyguards."