Chiun's face was unflinching. He stared down at the young girl with eyes of hazel stone. Remo's own expression mirrored that of his teacher. They stood there for a moment, side by side. Neither man said a word.
It was Remo who broke the silence.
"We're getting the guy who's behind this, Little Father," Remo vowed quietly. His tone was enough to chill the already frigid air.
No more words were needed. With sad and steely resolve, the only two true Masters of Sinanju slowly turned away from the tiny body.
Chapter 23
The Hind might as well have been purchased from a junk dealer. When it was delivered, it had been rusted and moss covered, with rotten wiring and missing seats. The parts needed to restore the helicopter to its former military specifications had taken forever to acquire on the black market. But acquire them he did.
The fact that Vladimir Zhirinsky could buy Red Army hardware in this new Russia was convenient to the cause. Still, it disgusted him. All would change soon enough.
The old Mil Mi-24 squatted now in the snow behind him, painted with cold-climate camouflage. His troops stood around it. At the moment they were six dozen strong. And that number would grow over the next few hours. Greater still in the days ahead.
Some had only recently joined the cause. A few of the SVR men who had warned him he was under surveillance in Moscow were here. Ready to fight for the motherland.
The other men he was bringing with him were all good, faithful Communists. All had been unable to forge lives in this new, sham Russia. Of course, they weren't trained like his special force in Alaska. Not yet. But they were loyal.
To the east behind both helicopter and men, the Anadyr Range was a blurry blue streak against the pale winter sky.
Zhirinsky stood in the cold of the Chukotsky Peninsula. He was at the very edge of Mother Russia, the end of the world for his nation for far too many years. Just a few miles away from the spot where he now paced were the frigid black waters of the Bering Strait. And on the other side of that, Vladimir Zhirinsky's destiny. And that of the new Soviet Union.
"They tried to stop me," Zhirinsky said to himself. "But my comrades would not allow it. History is on my side. I smell victory in the air!" he announced as he marched back and forth in the powdery snow. A path had been stamped flat beneath the squeaking soles of his long black boots.
Ivan Kerbabaev jumped. "'Victory, comrade!" he parroted nervously.
Zhirinsky slapped an enthusiastic paternal palm to the younger man's raw cheek. In the intense cold, the hand stung like fire.
"You smell it, too, eh?" Zhirinsky boomed. He pounded a balled fist to his own chest. "You have a strong Russian sense of smell. Like me."
The last thing Ivan Kerbabaev wanted his ultranationalist boss to talk about was anything that had to do with smelling or sniffing or picking or anything even remotely associated with noses.
"Uh, no. I mean. No. I mean..." A flash of desperation. "I must get going." He waved vaguely in the direction of Alaska. "There are preparations there that the others cannot be trusted to do."
Zhirinsky waved an angry hand. "They are Russian!" he proclaimed. "Of course they can be trusted."
"I did not mean-" Ivan said, shrinking from his employer.
But Zhirinsky didn't seem interested. Arms dropping to his hips, the ultranatlonalist studied the eastern sky with eyes of black.
Standing in the snow behind Vladimir Zhirinsky, Ivan dared not press the issue. But the truth was, more concerned him than just the work that was waiting for him in Alaska.
Ivan had only recently learned that the team left behind near Kakwik had not arrived at the designated rendezvous. Before breaking this news to his employer, he wanted to make sure Zhirinsky was in a good mood. A full stomach might help, so Ivan was anxious to hear back from the men who had been sent to gather Vladimir Zhirinsky's Eskimo take-out at Umakarot. They, too, were late in calling in.
Ivan gave an anxious smile. "The men in Fairbanks-" He cringed at the glare Zhirinsky gave him. "Zhirinskygrad," he corrected. "I really need to get over to them."
Zhirinsky threw his arms up. "Skachkov is there, is he not?"
"He will be arriving soon."
"There is no one better. We are poised to succeed. The Americans are weak. They haven't the will to fight back. After we reclaim Russian Alaska, our people will rise up to overthrow the whores in the Kremlin. Is anyone else hungry?"
The last words took Ivan off guard.
As he spoke, Zhirinsky seemed to have become fixated on Ivan's face. Hypnotized by sudden fear, the young man stood locked in place.
"Comrade?" he gulped.
When the broad smile flashed sharp, yellow teeth beneath Zhirinsky's bushy black mustache, Ivan suddenly realized that it was already too late.
Growling savagely, Zhirinsky lunged.
Ivan fell back, stumbling into a line of waiting soldiers.
"Comrade, it's me!" Ivan pleaded.
But Zhirinsky didn't hear. Blood lust sang in his ears.
"Hold him," Zhirinsky commanded.
The men grabbed on tight. Strong hands forced the thrashing aide to the ground. When Vladimir Zhirinsky knelt in the snow, a warm frothy drool was already forming at the edges of his great mustache.
"Do you really smell victory, Ivan?" he hissed. "I must see for myself."
Ivan jerked his head to one side. A set of unseen hands clamped firmly to either side of his head, twisting him straight. Zhirinsky loomed above. Eyes wild, he pressed in close.
"Comrade!" Ivan begged. "Your Eskimos! Do you want to spoil your supper?"
Zhirinsky's mouth was open, his tongue brushing the tip of his assistant's nose. His breath was warm and rancid as he considered. All at once, Vladimir Zhirinsky drew back, his teeth bared now in a thoughtful smile.
"I did order supper," he agreed.
"Yes, yes," Ivan insisted, relieved.
"Still, I think I can sneak one little appetizer." Ivan had closed his eyes in panting relief. They sprang open just in time to see Zhirinsky lunge. Sharp incisors snapped on tight. With a mighty chomp and a twist, Vladimir Zhirinsky ripped off his screaming assistant's nose. He gobbled it greedily, his Adam's apple bobbing appreciatively above the stiff neck of his Red Army greatcoat.
When Zhirinsky stood, blood streamed down his chin.
On the ground at his back, Ivan lay in shock. Watery blood bubbled from the gaping holes of his exposed nasal cavities. No one moved to help him.
"More addictive than American potato chips," the ultranationalist observed as he licked the blood from his teeth. His expression was deeply thoughtful. "You cannot eat just one."
Patting his slight paunch, Vladimir Zhirinsky raised his black eyes. To once more study the cold eastern sky.
Chapter 24