"There's something I've been meaning to ask," Remo said with a scowl. "If you people know everyone who's in the damn black market, why the hell don't you arrest them?"
She smiled sadly. "Russia is now ruled by a handful of wealthy black marketers, called oligarchs," she explained. "And there is a saying now-how many oligarchs does it take to rule Russia?" When she saw Remo's blank expression, her smile only grew sadder. "All of them," she said quietly, in answer to her own question.
On the ground the dazed soldier stirred. His eyes strayed to Anna. When he saw her, something that almost seemed like guilt surfaced on his wind-burned face.
"Guess we don't need to save one anymore," Remo sighed.
"No," Anna said. "We do not."
Before another word could be spoken, Anna raised her automatic and fired point-blank into the soldier's face.
"When did they start paying you by the bullet?" Remo snarled, hopping back from the splatter.
But Anna was already turning away. Pocketing her gun, she headed back for their truck. Chiun padded in her wake.
Remo glanced down at the last soldier. When he looked back, Anna was climbing into the Land Rover. "Hmm," Remo said softly to himself.
With a thoughtful frown, he trailed the others back to the waiting truck.
Chapter 27
His years as director of CURE and as head of Folcroft Sanitarium had given Dr. Harold W. Smith a unique perspective into the mind of madness. As he and Mark Howard scanned the reports on Smith's monitor, experience would not allow the older man to share his young assistant's amazement.
"Unbelievable," Howard said. "Is this for real?"
"So it would seem," Smith replied. "The population of Fairbanks has been released. The first civilians reached Fort Wainwright's bivouacked Sixth Light Infantry Division ten minutes ago."
"Why let them go?" Mark asked, confusion filling his wide face. "Aren't they bargaining chips?"
"Not any longer," Smith said. "And if you are to survive in this job, it is vitally important for you to realize that madmen are not always as predictable as many textbooks and behavioral scientists would have you believe."
"Madmen? So you think Zhirinsky did this himself?"
Smith nodded. "This latest news came after Zhirinsky's incursion force of twelve Mil U-24 gunships were given free clearance across the Kuskokwim Mountains. They've reached Fairbanks by now. I believe Zhirinsky was on one of them."
The assistant CURE director stood beside Smith's old leather chair. As he studied the computer screen, Howard's knuckles rested beyond the edge of the capacitor keyboard.
"I've been checking to see if the Russian government is involved," Mark said. "Their president's holed up in the Kremlin. And the last two presidents have disappeared. No one knows where they are."
Smith shook his head. "I just got off the White House phone twenty minutes ago. When news of the nuclear bomb in Fairbanks broke, our President received a call from his counterpart in Russia pledging support. The Russian president has even offered troops."
"Maybe he wants to get more men on the ground," Howard suggested.
"Mark, it is important not to read too much into situations. Your instincts are good, and it is sometimes necessary to extrapolate when enough information is not available. But it is possible to be too clever by half. Zhirinsky is a renegade, unpopular with the rulers of Russia. If they were to concoct such a scheme, they would not give it over to someone as unstable as him." Smith nodded firmly. "No, Zhirinsky alone is behind this."
Howard accepted his words with a thoughtful frown. "So Zhirinsky's alone in Fairbanks with a handful of troops," he mused. "What do you think his next move'll be?"
"More important, what is our next move?"
When Mark glanced down, he saw that the CURE director was staring up at him, a look of pinched expectation on his gaunt face. It was apparent that Smith knew something that needed to be done and was quizzing Mark to see if he knew, too.
Howard considered. "First thing we have to do is give Remo and Chiun room to work. We have to keep the Army out. I'd call the President and have him issue an order."
Smith nodded satisfaction. Like a first-grade teacher who had finally taught a troublesome student to raise his hand for permission to use the rest room. "Correct," he said. "Although there is no need to involve the President."
With nimble fingers he accessed the Pentagon's computer system. It took less than a minute to surreptitiously issue the orders that would keep the Army out.
"There," he said once he was through. "Now, as a safeguard to prevent the order from being overruled, I will phone the President."
Mark had to take a step back to allow him access to the bottom drawer and the red phone.
"You know, Dr. Smith," Howard said seriously as Smith waited for America's chief executive to pick up, "if Zhirinsky's as psycho as everyone says, he could set off the bomb the minute he hears Remo and Chiun are there."
"That thought had occurred to me," the CURE director replied with clinical detachment.
"Hello, Mr. President," Smith announced into the phone.
Whatever more was said, Mark Howard didn't hear. He had turned from the desk and its canted monitor. With one tired shoulder, he leaned against the big picture window frame.
Long Island Sound was cold and black.
"Are all your weeks like this one?" he said softly to himself. Behind him the CURE director continued to speak to the President of the United States in measured nasal tones.
As Smith spoke, Howard watched the waves roll into shore.
Chapter 28
Ivan Kerbabaev waited on the cold tarmac to greet the future premier of the new Soviet Union. Behind him was a lone limousine liberated from a Fairbanks car rental service.
Sheets of snow swirled all around as the twelve Hinds settled like roosting birds to the freezing ground.
With pain in his eyes, Ivan blinked away the snow. A dull, throbbing ache came from beneath the many bandages plastered to his face.
At least it wasn't as bad now as it had been. Ivan had found an empty dentist's office near the parked nuclear device in downtown Fairbanks. He had hoped that when Vladimir Zhirinsky arrived, the novocaine he'd shot himself full of would dull all the pain. But it seemed proximity to the ultranationalist caused his raw nerve endings to spark.
Zhirinsky hadn't even landed when the aching started anew. It only got worse when that demented face with its bushy mustache appeared on the steps of the Hind.
The Russian hard-liner had changed into a surplus Red Army general's uniform. The medals and ribbons and pins and badges that festooned the chest and shoulders of the outfit made him resemble an ambulatory Soviet Christmas tree.
"Welcome to Zhirinskygrad," Ivan announced. Zhirinsky shoved past him. He cast an awed gaze across the frigid landscape. With great puffs of rancid breath, he climbed down to his knees. Chapped lips sought asphalt.
He kissed the ground slowly and passionately. A little too passionately. Standing to one side, Ivan Kerbabaev swore Vladimir Zhirinsky was slipping Alaska the tongue.
As Zhirinsky lapped the asphalt, his small army piled out of the helicopters. They spread out across the airport.
Zhirinsky pushed up to his knees. "It is good to be home!" he boomed as Ivan helped him to his feet. His smile only grew wider when he spied the man climbing out of the nearby limousine.