"Just me again," he announced when the CURE director picked up.
His face and tone were lifeless. The gruesome scene outside was too strong an image to casually dismiss. "Remo, thank God," Smith said. "There may have been another attack. Someone in a small village radioed for help."
"Been there, killed that," Remo said. He gave a quick rundown of events in Umakarot. "So that's it, Smitty," he finished. "Except that it is definitely not my fault we don't have one for questioning this time. I saved one, but-" He hesitated.
Anna stood near the entrance to the store. Her proud face was unapologetic.
"Well, our signals got crossed, that's all," Remo said. He cupped the phone. "You could at least look sorry," he snapped at Anna.
"That is unfortunate," Smith was saying. "I have been unable thus far to track down Zhirinsky."
"What, did Little Lord Fauntleroy blow a circuit in his magic eight ball?"
"Mark has been quite helpful in this crisis, Remo," Smith said, his tone growing vague. "And his input should not concern you. It is Zhirinsky who is the problem. Given what we already know, it seems clear that he wishes to absorb Alaska into the Russian federation."
"A guy after Chiun's own heart," Remo grunted. "Doesn't he have enough freezing weather back home?"
"Do not compare the creature responsible for this destruction to me," intoned the Master of Sinanju. He stood near Anna. His lifeless eyes were directed out the frosted front window of the general store.
"Sorry," Remo called. To Smith he said, "I just don't know why he's not trying to take over Hawaii instead."
"According to his published views on the topic, he considers Alaska to still be Russian property. After all, other than the convenience of its geographical proximity, Alaska was once part of Russia."
"Yeah, right," Remo scoffed. "So was Pittsburgh. Sounds like he's an even bigger nut than he's getting credit for."
"It's true," Smith insisted.
Remo frowned. "Get outta town. When did this happen?"
"Secretary of State William Seward purchased the territory in 1867," the CURE director said dryly.
"You sure about that?" Remo asked. "Or is this one of those things like the Japanese buying Manhattan or the Chinese buying a U.S. president? Because that Japanese one wound up not being true." Across the room came a hiss of annoyance from the Master of Sinanju. Even Anna was rolling her eyes. "How little did you learn in that Christian poorhouse?" Chiun asked.
"So sue me for cutting American-history class," Remo groused at them. "Sister Mary Elizabeth stunk like cheese and spit like a sprinkler."
"I wish you had managed to save one of the commandos, Remo," Smith said, steering them back to the topic at hand. "Did you at least find out how many there are?"
"Yeah," Remo said. "Somewhere in the neighborhood of 150."
"That many?" Smith asked. By his tone he was clearly troubled by the potential problem a number that large represented.
"Tell me about it," Remo agreed. "And by the looks of it, Purcell trained them to copy our mannerisms and everything. He's probably sitting with his crayons and bathrobe right now having a mountain of yucks at our expense."
"About that," Smith said. "To be safe, I checked on Purcell after our last conversation. He is still under heavy sedation. If he is to blame, then it is as you said. He trained these men prior to his hospitalization here. Have you had any luck establishing a more certain link?"
"No, Smitty," Remo admitted. "But it's him. Even Nuihc wouldn't have given away Sinanju wholesale. He'd know it's too precious a commodity in a few hands. This has the fingerprints of a happy-farm reject all over it."
At his words Chiun spun from the window, deep annoyance creasing his parchment face. "It is not Sinanju, Emperor," he called. "They do not even have the basic breathing techniques that are mastered by Korean pupils in the first months of training. What they have are tricks and deceptions. Things to fool the eye and nothing more."
"Tell Master Chiun that is only somewhat of a relief," Smith said.
"Chiun, Smitty says-"
"I heard," Chiun sniffed, turning back to the window.
"Anyway, we took out another eighteen of those guys here in Ustinkalot, or whatever the name of this place is. So we're up to twenty-eight we've packed on ice."
"It's a start," Smith said, exhaling. "If Zhirinsky's intention is to foment terror, cutting into his forces will make that more difficult to do."
"Still don't know what he's thinking with all this," Remo said. "He can wave the hammer and sickle till the cows come home, but there's no point. It's not like there's even a Soviet Union anymore."
"In Zhirinsky's mind there is," Anna chimed in. Since her secret was now out, there was no point in remaining silent. "Just because it has been shattered into pieces, that does not mean those pieces cannot be put back together. Zhirinsky sees himself as the glue that will make the old Soviet Union whole once more."
Her eyes were dull as she watched Remo from across the store.
Smith tried not to react to her voice. "Ms. Chutesov's analysis is correct," he said evenly. "However, without further information to go on, we are in a holding pattern. You cannot remain there. The authorities will be arriving shortly. Call me when-"
A muted beep sounded from the other end of the line.
"Please hold," Smith said crisply.
Remo heard the sound of Smith's fingers drumming the edge of his desk as the CURE director accessed whatever information the mainframes had just flagged for him.
It took but a moment before he was back.
"My God," the CURE director croaked. The words barely registered over the line. His throat had turned to dust.
"What's wrong, Smitty?" Remo asked, instantly wary.
Smith's breathing was a pained wheeze. "Zhirinsky's men have surfaced in Fairbanks," Smith said woodenly. "And if the claim they have just made is true, he may well have the means to take over a large portion of inhabited Alaska."
And his voice was as hollow as a tomb.
Chapter 25
Lavrenty Skachkov was the product of the improbable union of a grubby Sevastopol tractor mechanic and a retired Bolshoi ballerina.
In Soviet Russia the best that could generally be hoped for in life was eventual work as a KGB komendant in some out-of-the-way posting. That was the best. More than likely someone like Lavrenty would apprentice with his father, following not only in his footsteps as a mechanic, but modeling his entire life after the senior Skachkov. Endless grimy days would feed bitter drunken nights. There would be smoking, cancer at an early age and, mercifully, death.
This was the likeliest life for young Lavrenty because it had been the life for millions in his social class for generations. But fate had something different in store for Lavrenty. Something odd had happened in the strange genetic cocktail from which this young man of destiny had sprung.
"Stop running inside!" Lavrenty's grandmother would yell at him when he was only three.
"Get out of that tree!" Lavrenty's mother would shout into the courtyard they shared with a dozen other families.
More than once his father needed to borrow a ladder to get his son down off the gabled tile roof of the small apartment building in which the Skachkovs lived.