Ivan opened his eyes just a crack. He saw the needle closing in. With a groan he squeezed his eyes shut. The soldier held him by the side of the head with one hand while he slipped the needle in. Ivan felt a tiny prick near the bone of what had been his nose. When the needle came back out a moment later, Ivan's shoulders sagged.
It would take a moment for the novocaine to take effect. Ivan kept his eyes closed as the soldier applied fresh gauze.
"When the new revolution comes, Russia will once more have the best doctors in the world," the soldier said as he bit off a strip of masking tape he'd stolen from the health-and-beauty-aids section of the local Sam's Club. "They will fix you up."
"Russia never had good doctors," Ivan moaned. "My father went to a clinic to have an ingrown toenail removed and they cut off his foot. He died of gangrene. The only doctors that might have been able to do anything at all for me were chased away by the crazy man in whose belly my nose now rots."
The soldier's eyes grew flat at the treasonous words. "State doctors are the best," he insisted dully.
"There is no state," Ivan spit. "There is a small city in the middle of nowhere. No matter what the madman thinks, the Americans will not wait forever." He leaned back against the seat. "My only hope is that they take pity on me for what the crazy man has done to me."
The soldier applied a final piece of tape, stowing the dispenser in the case with the novocaine and needles.
"If that is your attitude, why did you participate in this glorious crusade?" he sniffed.
Ivan opened his eyes. He could see by his body language that the soldier was displeased. Good. Maybe he'd report him. At this point Ivan didn't even care.
"I am scared to death of that lunatic, that is why," Ivan said morosely, shutting his eyes once more. The novocaine was blessedly starting to take effect. "When I answered his newspaper ad, I did not know better. I had heard the stories about him, but I didn't believe them. After that it was too late. Did you ever try quitting a job when your boss is certifiably insane? Every day I tried to, and every day I saw visions of him slamming my head in the filing cabinet or pushing me down the elevator shaft. I knew I should have taken that job as second-shift manager at the Moscow McDonald's."
For a brief instant Ivan felt a shiver of cold. He assumed the soldier who had driven him here had rolled the window down to throw something else out into the street. Opening his eyes lazily, he was met with a fresh shock.
When he saw that the face looking back at him was no longer that of the young soldier, Ivan jumped so hard he banged his head against the roof.
"Kto dyela?" he winced, dropping back to his seat. "Speakie the English," demanded Remo Williams. Remo now sat in the back seat across from the Russian. Looking around, Ivan saw no sign of the soldier who had been tending to his wound.
Ignoring the swelling bruise on his head, Ivan instinctively covered his bandaged face. "Who are you?" he repeated in English. His voice was pained and nasal.
"The spirit of America," Remo replied evenly. "I'm hiding out in Alaska these days, 'cause it's as far as I can get by Studebaker from the Washington, New York, Boston axis. Now how about being a good invader and tell the spirit how to pull the plug on this nuke of yours?"
Ivan's eyes grew sick. "What is nuke?" he asked weakly.
"The spirit has had his fill of Russians lying to him today," Remo said darkly.
Grabbing Ivan by the throat, Remo dragged him from the rear of the parked car.
On the street Ivan saw the young soldier who had bandaged his face. He was lying in the road, his limbs twisted at impossible angles. Above him stood a wizened figure whose weathered face and imperious stance reminded Ivan of one of the Inuit totem poles he had seen around town.
Beyond the Master of Sinanju was the tarpaulin-covered flatbed trailer on which sat the Russian nuclear device.
"Get disarming," Remo ordered, flinging Ivan at the back of the truck.
"I told you it was the boom," Chiun insisted.
"It looked like a logging truck," Remo said. "When they said bomb, I thought bomb, not missile." He turned to Ivan. "What are you doing dragging an ICBM around on this Smokey and the Bandit thing? Can't you just unscrew the nose?"
"Comrade Zhirinsky liked better the idea of an entire intact missile rather than just a bomb," Ivan explained.
"Doesn't take Sigmund Freud to figure out his problem," Remo grumbled. "Okay, let's go."
He dragged Ivan down the length of the trailer. Both Masters of Sinanju could feel the contaminating radiation. It didn't seem high enough to cause damage with short-term exposure.
At the back, Remo tossed Ivan up under the tarpaulin. He and Chiun hopped up after him. The crinkling tarp rattled above their heads as they ducked alongside the missile. They hurried past the rocket, up the shaft to the warhead.
When they stopped, Ivan turned his gauze-wrapped face to the two men, unsure what to do.
"Disarm it," Remo ordered.
Ivan hesitated. "It is difficult," he said.
"That so? Let me make it easy."
The Russian offered too tempting a target. Shelving the more intricate Sinanju methods of persuasion, Remo did something a little more direct. He socked Ivan in the face.
Remo's balled fist struck hard in the middle of Ivan Kerbabaev's bunched-up bandages. Blood spurted anew, streaming down from beneath tape and gauze. Ivan screeched in pain.
"I did not say I would not do it!" the Russian cried, grabbing at his aching nose bone.
"Good," Remo said. "Then get cracking."
Ivan's eyes were pleading. "I do not have to," he explained desperately.
"No? I've got five reasons why you do," Remo said. He punched the back of Ivan's hand, knocking it into his face.
Ivan shrieked, falling back against the shiny silver warhead. "Please!" he begged. Both hands now cradled his bleeding face. "You do not understand!"
Remo's brow dropped low. "What don't I understand?"
"Limit your response to this device," Chiun suggested. "For a complete inventory of things Remo does not understand would maroon us forever in this wasteland."
Ivan's mouth was stained red. He gulped, swallowing watery blood. "The bomb does not work," he insisted.
Remo blinked. "Come again?"
"It does not work," Ivan explained. "The bomb is defective. Broken."
Remo looked at the metal casing. Radiation continued to seep from the device. He looked back at Ivan, suspicious.
"It's radioactive," he warned.
"Residual radiation," Ivan promised. "It was disarmed in Ukraine years ago. The plutonium was removed before it was shipped back to Russia. It is worthless."
Remo drew back his fist. "Are you pulling my leg?"
Ivan recoiled. "Please, it is truth!"
It was plain to them both that the Russian wasn't lying.