"What is wrong?" he asked, shooting a glare at Ivan.
Ivan slapped both hands over his face.
"I have just received word that Anna Chutesov is here," Lavrenty said, stopping before Zhirinsky.
An angry cloud crossed Zhirinsky's face. "The whores in the Kremlin have sent her to stop me," he hissed.
"She is not alone," Skachkov pressed. "There are two men with her. Men trained as I am."
Zhirinsky waved a hand. "You said that the handful who remained loyal to this Chutesov female and stayed in Russia were nothing. Let her bring her traitors to the cause, and we will have them all for supper."
"They are not from the Institute," Skachkov said. "These two are Masters of my discipline. The discipline for which I know no name."
"Two men?" Zhirinsky mocked. "Have your teams find them and kill them."
Lavrenty shook his white head. "To become Mactep-to truly earn the title that has been bestowed on me-I must face these two alone. It is my destiny."
With that, he turned on his heel and slid silently away.
Zhirinsky looked from the departing young man to Ivan Kerbabaev. Ivan shrank from the sudden attention.
"He may have his destiny," the ultranationalist growled. "For I have mine and it is greater than any other man's."
Brushing aside his aide, Zhirinsky marched for his limo.
REMO HAD EXPECTED the streets of Fairbanks to be swarming with Russian soldiers. Instead, the roads they drove on were eerily empty.
"I thought you said there'd be a bunch more soldiers on those helicopters," he said. "Where are all the black boots and empty Stolichnaya bottles?" "The normal capacity for a Mil is only twelve," Anna replied from the passenger seat. "That includes pilots and gunners. Even if he managed to squeeze a few extra on each of the twelve we saw, that is still only a handful of troops to occupy the city."
A thought occurred to Anna. Reaching over, she switched on the radio. Scanning the AM dial, she soon found what she was after. A Russian announcer was speaking excitedly.
From the back seat the Master of Sinanju listened to the radio along with Anna.
"Sounds like someone's got a full nelson on his nuts," Remo commented after listening to only a few seconds. "What's he so worked up about?"
"I was right," Anna said. "Zhirinsky is here." As she listened intently to the announcer's words, Chiun sniffed contemptuously.
"I have heard these false claims before," the old man said, wrinkled face puckered with disdain. "He dares invoke the name of Czar Ivan."
"The terrible?" Remo asked. "What's he saying about him?"
"Some nonsense about an upstart who fancies himself to be the new Russian czar," Chiun answered. "Don't you believe it. These modern Russians are always full of promises about enslaving the people this, or ruling with an iron fist that, but it always ends up the same. With an empty throne. This is just a new excuse to peek though people's cupboards and take their last ingot of gold. It is just like that thing they used to try. What was it called again?"
"Communism?" Remo suggested flatly.
"Yes, that's the thing," Chiun said with a shiver. Anna was still listening to the radio. "The announcer says that Zhirinsky will be making a speech shortly."
"He a typical Commie when it comes to hearing the sound of his own voice?" Remo asked. "If so, we just bought ourselves about nine hours of blabber time."
Anna was deep in thought. "We do not know where the bomb is," she said. "Until we do, we cannot dismantle the greatest danger."
Remo raised a finger. "Hello? Sinanju prophecy? Line of Wang ending, me having to fight some renegade Master. Could be bigger than a garden-variety Russian nuke." When Anna gave him a withering look, he shrugged. "I'm just saying, that's all."
"I do not like this program," Chiun complained from the back seat. "Try another station." He reached between them and began poking at the radio with the tip of one long nail.
Anna ignored them both, pressing ahead. "Since the people are gone, there is no longer a threat to the civilian population. We should cut off Zhirinsky's means of escape."
Remo nodded. "I gotcha," he sighed. "He's less likely to set off the bomb when he's stranded in the blast zone."
Anna shook her head. "Not at all," she said seriously. "In fact, he is unhinged enough that he might relish the notion of playing the martyr. If he feels threatened in the least-the very least-he could set off the bomb."
"In that case we should go after him first," Remo said.
"We do not know what sort of failsafes he has devised," Anna said. "To go after him could trigger the bomb."
"Perfect," Remo grumbled. "Damned if you do, nuked if you don't. Could anything make this day any worse?"
Chiun suddenly found a station that was playing a Wylander Jugg song. With a delighted squeal, the old man settled back into his seat.
"Ask a stupid rhetorical question," Remo muttered to himself. Hunching over the steering wheel, he headed off in the direction of the airport and the fleet of Hinds.
FOUR MEN in shabby Red Army uniforms marched proudly before the steps of Fairbanks city hall. Gloved hands chopped air with each accompanying sharp kick from highly polished boots.
When he stepped from his limo to the sidewalk, Vladimir Zhirinsky wept for joy at the sight of the men.
"Is everything ready for my address?" he sniffled as he brought a handkerchief to his great Russian nose.
Ivan Kerbabaev had stepped from the limo behind him.
Ivan was nauseous. The pain in his face was worse. He was in desperate need of another injection and didn't need his mad employer flaunting his own nose in front of him.
"Yes, comrade," Ivan said weakly. "There was a problem at first. The global satellite system suffered a great deal of damage earlier in the week due to an interstellar dust cloud. But we have found one to carry our signal."
Ivan dared not tell the lunatic that he had bought time on an American commercial satellite. He could only imagine what his employer would do if he found out his great call to arms to the Russian population to retake the nation for the people was being broadcast on an ABC-Disney-owned satellite.
Zhirinsky nodded satisfaction. Honking loudly, he stuffed his handkerchief in the pocket of his uniform coat and began mounting the stairs. Two steps up, he froze. He spun to Ivan, face twisted furiously.
"What is that still doing there!" he roared.
He pointed to the flagpole beside the steps. High above their heads, the American flag fluttered in the wind.
"I thought you would want to be here for this," Ivan said fearfully. He clapped his hands sharply. The soldiers hurried to the pole. Hand over hand, they brought the flag down, dumping it unceremoniously into a metal trash barrel. As bare rope clanged against the hollow pole, another soldier marched forward carrying a bundle of tightly folded red cloth. The new flag was hooked and hoisted high into the air. At the top of the pole, the wind took the flag and unfurled it wide. The golden hammer and sickle stretched proudly across the sky.
Vladimir Zhirinsky gasped.
"How proud this day," the ultranationalist intoned. "We will not soon forget it."