Yuli complied. The operator jabbed a button several times to make the conveyor belt inch forward. The case disappeared into the innards of the X-ray machine, Yuli's right hand following it in right up to the elbow.
"Will this hurt?" Yuli asked awkwardly. He had to lean on the machine to keep his balance. This was very difficult.
"Just hold that pose," the operator told him. Then he pressed a button. He pressed it again.
"What is wrong?" Yuli demanded nervously.
"Minor glitch. Be just another second. Don't worry."
"I do not want my hand to be X-rayed to what you Americans call a crisp."
"Not a chance," the operator assured him. He tapped the machine again. It seemed to tap back. And then the operator smiled.
"Okay," he said brightly, "you can pull it out now."
Batenin pulled the familiar case out again. He looked at his hand fearfully, but appeared not to be discolored from overexposure.
Nodding to the guard, the X-ray operator said, "He checks out. Let him through."
Major Batenin inclined his head to the two Ameri-
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cans as diplomatically as he could and hurried to the gate, muttering curses on the head of Rair Brashnikov under his breath.
The aircraft doors were locked after Yuli boarded. The moment he sat down, he felt the cold perspiration soaking his suit. But he breathed a slow sigh of relief.
But just to be certain, he kicked off one shoe and extracted the key as the wide-bodied Ilyushin-96 backed away from the gate. He put the key in the lock and twisted. The key would not turn. He forced it. It broke in the lock.
"What?" he muttered. Then he noticed that the bracelet attached to the case's handle was warped. He looked closer. It was fused at the locking point. It had not been that way during the drive. Could the multiple X-rays have fused the metal? he wondered anxiously.
And what about the contents?
Yuli Batenin pulled another key from his right shoe. It would not open the case. Not at all.
Fiercely, fearing the worst, he tore at the case with fingers like hooks. He broke his nails in the process, but by sheer might he ripped away one corner of the case.
Bits of torn paper fluttered out. There had been no paper in Batenin's case. Anxiously he dug his fingers in. They came away red. He had cut them on something. Glass.
"There was no glass in this case," he howled aloud.
Digging further, he found a slick sheet of paper. It looked like a page from a book or magazine. There was a color photograph printed on it. A woman's face. Yuli Batenin thought the face was familiar. It took him until the Aeroflot flight had rolled into position for takeoff before he recognized the face of the famous American singer and actress Barbra Streisand.
"Let me off plane!" Batenin screamed. "I must get off!"
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Back at the X-ray station, the operator pointed out to the guard that foot traffic had finally quieted down.
"Wanna get us both a cup of coffee?" he suggested.
"Sure. Take it black?"
"Yeah, black is fine," said Remo, to whom a cup of coffee was the equivalent to a dose of strychnine.
After the guard had disappeared around the corner, Remo rapped on the X-ray device and whispered, "It's okay, Chiun. You can come out now."
The Master of Sinanju slithered out of the compartment with a distasteful expression on his parchment face. He hauled a big boxy case with him.
"Next time, I will handle the buttons and you will hide inside," he hissed.
"Let's hope there isn't a next time," Remo said, taking the case. "And I apologize for the long wait. How was I to know he'd wait until the very last minute to board?"
"At least we did not have to resort to further subterfuge to make him relinquish his case."
"Yeah," Remo said as they walked away. "Funny how that worked out. I must've shown my FAA ID card to thirty or forty airline reps before they'd let me sub for the regular X-ray operator, and then had to coach the guard over and over to pretend the guy's diplomatic card had expired so we could get at the case. He was so nervous, I was positive he was going to blow it. And what happens? The Russian loses his ID. Must be my lucky day."
"Next time, I will handle the buttons," Chiun repeated as they sat down in a quiet corner of a waiting area.
"You know how you are with machines. Something could have gone wrong." Remo looked into the case. His face fell. "Uh-oh, I think something did."
"What?" Chiun asked quickly, leaning over to see.
"You did switch cases, didn't you?"
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"Do you doubt my prowess?" Chiun asked huffily.
"No, but I think we've been rooked. Look."
Remo held up an assortment of squares, like graphite tiles. Except they were a flat unreflective black and seemingly nonmetallic.
"What are these?" Chiun asked.
"Got me," Remo said quietly. "They look like Dracula's bathroom tiles. One thing for sure, they're not missile components or anything of the kind."
"Then you have failed," Chiun said coldly.
"Me? You did the switch."
"But you pressed the buttons."
Remo sighed. "Let's grab the next flight home. Maybe Smith can make sense of things," he said, sending the tiles clattering back into the case.
They went in search of a flight back to New York.