Even though Remo did his best to be polite, the operator quailed from him as if from a polar bear lumbering into her cubicle. It was the plaster dust on his face and hair that frightened her. She had fielded the frenzy of calls during the early-morning hours when it looked as if the hotel was about to come crashing down.
"One . . . one moment," she said jerkily. She called up a file on her terminal screen.
"One call was made at five-oh-two," she told him. "It lasted less than a minute."
"What's the number?" Remo asked.
"It's this one," she said, placing a trembling pink-painted nail on a line of green glowing digits.
Remo memorized the number.
"Okay. Now get me an outside line."
When the operator handed him her headset, Remo took her by one elbow and eased her out of her chair.
"This is private," he said gently but firmly. "Take a coffee break. I won't be long."
Remo dialed a number. It rang a chiropractor's office in Santa Ana, California, and then was routed through the switchboard of radio station KDAD in
93
94
nearby Riverside, finally ringing a phone on the desk of Dr. Harold W. Smith in Folcroft Sanitarium, the cover for CURE.
"Smith? Remo here. We're making progress. I don't have time to explain it all right now, and maybe you wouldn't believe me if I did, but we traced the thief to a Holiday Inn. Recovered some of the stuff he filched. But he slipped away.'"
"Where?" Smith's lemony voice inquired.
"Into the Twilight Zone, for all I know. Look, it's complicated. I'll fill you in later. Just trust me. Here's a phone number. Can you tell me who he was calling? It's our only lead."
"One moment, Remo," Smith said.
At Folcroft, Smith called up the reverse telephone directory data base. It was an electronic version of a telephone-company publication few knew existed. It listed all phone numbers in numerical order by region, cross-referencing each one to the subscriber's name and address.
Smith keyed in the area code-which he recognized as Washington, D.C.-then the exchange, and finally the last four digits.
"Oh, my God," he said hoarsely, staring at the answer.
"Yeah? What've you got?" Remo asked.
"It's the Soviet embassy in Washington."
"Great! It fits, Smitty. The thief spoke Russian."
"He did? Remo, if the Soviets have been systematically looting LCF-Fox, there's no telling how much damage they could do-have already done."
"Maybe it's time Chiun and I paid a courtesy call on the embassy," Remo suggested.
"No. Don't. Things are bad enough. This could escalate into a major diplomatic incident. This requires careful planning. If the trail is cold, you will both return to Folcroft for debriefing at once. I will decide how to proceed once I speak with the President."
95
"You're the boss, Smitty. See you soon."
By the time Remo left the switchboard desk, the lobby was filled with local police officers and a contingent of high-ranking Air Force officers and SP's from Grand Forks Air Force Base.
Robin Green was excitedly attempting to explain the ruined state of the fifth floor.
"I'm telling you," she flung at them, "I didn't steal any of that stuff. It was the Russian. And he's probably hiding inside one of these walls laughing at us. But you turkeys are so afraid of lawsuits you won't check it out."
Chiun stood back from the tight knot of uniforms, his face as innocent as a child's.
Remo sidled up to him. "What's going on?"
"They are badgering that poor girl," Chiun told him.
"They're going to want to talk to us next," Remo said. "And Smith is recalling us to Folcroft. Let's slip out the back."
"Oh, they will not bother us. I have already told them I do not even know that poor unfortunate girl whose ravings are plainly the product of a deranged mind."
"You said that?"
"Of course. How could I keep Emperor Smith waiting?"
"But you didn't know that Smith wanted us back until I told you just now."
"Nonsense," Chiun said as they slipped out a fire exit. "I knew you were calling Smith and I knew Smith would call us home. For what else can we do here?"
"I wish there was something we could do to help Robin," Remo said as they got to the waiting jeep.
"I am sure they will find a nice quiet place for her to rest in," Chiun said.
"That's what I'm afraid of," Remo muttered as he
sent the jeep out of the parking area. "Still, that voice does get on the nerves after a while, doesn't it?"
Chiun nodded. He idly picked up a leaf that had blown onto his lap and held it up to the wind. The wind tore it away. "She complains too much," he sniffed.
Remo gave Chiun a sidelong skeptical glance and shook his head slowly.
10
Captain Rair Brashnikov knew he was dead.
All the signs were there. He felt light, disembodied, and he was moving through a dark tunnel at incredible speed. He swished. It was exactly as his grandfather, Illya Nieolaivitch Brashnikov, had once described it to him back in Georgia, USSR, when he was a boy.