"Just checking. Have you?"
"Maybe."
"Does it possibly concern Russia?"
"No," Foxworthy admitted.
"Hmm. Maybe I'd better get back to you later."
"Look, we can't play games. This is national security. Let's just lay our cards down."
"You first."
Foxworthy made a face, then plunged in. "Reports out of Kuwait suggest border massing."
"Impossible. Our satellites show no Iraqi troop movements. The Republican Guard's safely holed up in Basra."
"That's a relief," said Foxworthy, crumpling up his notice and tossing it onto the trash. "What have you gat?"
"There's secret-weapon talk out of Moscow."
"Again?"
"Again."
"Not the—what was it called?"
"The elipticon."
"Yeah. Ever figure out what that was?" Foxworthy asked.
"High confidence is it's an explosive mixture of Russian hot air and vodka."
Foxworthy grunted a laugh. "That's our take, too. So what is it this time?"
"The duma is awash with rumors that Zhirinovsky has gone abroad to cut a deal for a secret terror weapon."
"Where'd he go?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
"Give me a sec." Putting the NSA on hold, Foxworthy called downstairs. "Roger. It's me again. Get me the whereabouts of Vladimir Zhirinovsky."
"The Russian ultranationalist?"
"If there's another Vladimir Zhirinovsky, give me his whereabouts, too," he said dryly.
A moment later the word came back.
"Subject left Moscow approximately twenty-eight hours ago. Flew to Budapest, changed planes for Zurich and is currently assumed to be in Switzerland."
"Assumed?"
"We have no record of further movements by subject."
"That doesn't mean anything and you know it."
"It's all I have."
"Thanks," Foxworthy said, his voice dripping bitterness. He stabbed the outside-line button. "Wool-handler. We can confirm Zhirinovsky departed Moscow yesterday. We tracked him to Zurich, after which he disappears."
"Hmm."
"You think he's trying to become a one-man nuclear power?"
"I don't think anything. I operate on hard intelligence these days."
Foxworthy sighed painfully. "Yeah, so do we. Man, I hanker for the days when you could tote up points for passing on every stray rumor, and if it fell apart, you were just seen as doing your job."
"Same here. Well, I guess we sit back and await developments. Keep me informed on this Iraqi thing."
"And you keep me up on Russia."
"Done."
Hanging up, Ray Foxworthy allowed himself to hum. If Russia continued destabilizing at this rate, maybe the good old days weren't far off after all.
It was a happy thought.
Chapter Eighteen
Remo woke with the dawn. As soon as his brain clicked into wakefulness, he tasted corn on his tongue. He realized he had been eating corn in a dream. He didn't remember the dream, but he could still taste the sweet flavor of corn.
Going to his private bathroom, he cleared his mouth with a half glass of cold tap water.
"Blah," he said, spitting out the trace metals his sensitive tongue had sponged up from the city water.
When he straightened up, his mouth felt as if it had been brushed with copper, zinc and fluoride, but he no longer tasted corn. And if he didn't taste it, Remo hoped he wouldn't crave it.
The Master of Sinanju was waiting patiently for him in the downstairs master kitchen. Every unit in the building had its own kitchen, but most were unused. They had converted a downstairs apartment into a gigantic kitchen with a restaurant-size stove, a Western-style oak table that seated twelve and a low lacquered taboret for intimate Eastern-style dining.
The floor was warm against Remo's bare feet. Chiun had insisted on installing Korean-style ondol floors, which covered heated water pipes that created a perfect indoor climate.
Now Chiun was insisting on breakfast. "I will have ginseng tea and steamed jasmine rice," he said loftily from the taboret, where he sat in his golden morning kimono.
"You know I'm not good at steaming rice."