Remo called Smith from the Fairbanks city hall. "Report," the CURE director ordered, his voice taut.
"The Russians are going, the Russians are going," Remo announced. "And on a personal note, it's about damn time."
"Explain."
"The short of it is that we pulled the plug on the commandos here and that big bomb was a big dud. I think there might be a few loose fuzz-hats running around up here, but Chiun and I got all the Sinanju ones, so the rest won't be any problem."
"Several have already surrendered to the Army a few miles outside of Fairbanks," Smith told him. "What of Zhirinsky?"
Remo glanced out the window. The body of Vladimir Zhirinsky dangled halfway up the city hall flagpole, its neck firmly entangled in the flag of the Soviet Union. Glassy dead eyes stared out at the night.
Far above Zhirinsky, the American flag flew once more, illuminated by floodlights from the ground. "He's gonna be hanging around up here for a while, Smitty," Remo replied.
Across the room sulked Ivan Kerbabaev. The Russian stood near a tall window, a frown creasing his mass of crusted bandages. Ever since Remo had dug him from his snowbank, he had been complaining about the fact that he wasn't going to be allowed to rip off one of Zhirinsky's ears as promised.
On the phone Smith could tell by Remo's tone that it wasn't necessary to press further about Zhirinsky. "It is safe, then, to send in the Army," the CURE director said. "I will issue the proper commands. You and Chiun may report back to Folcroft."
"No can do, Smitty," Remo said. "We've still got a couple of loose ends we have to tie up."
Smith grew puzzled. "I thought you said everything in Alaska was secure."
"In Alaska," Remo agreed. Voice trailing off, he dropped the receiver back into its cradle.
A CONTINENT AWAY Harold W. Smith frowned at the dead air issuing from his phone.
Across the desk from the CURE director, Mark Howard sat on his usual hard-backed chair. His jacket was draped over the back of the battered couch near the door.
"Is something else wrong?" Mark asked when he saw the look on his employer's face.
Smith was still holding the blue contact phone. He looked up at Howard. "No," he said tightly.
As the CURE director replaced the phone, Mark stood.
"So they came through?"
"Yes. Apparently, Zlurinsky's bomb did not work. They have eliminated the special troops. The crisis is over."
"You didn't tell him about the satellite," Mark said.
It was Smith who had learned of Zhirinsky's plan to broadcast a call to arms to the Russian people. He had used CURE's resources to deny Zhirinsky access to the satellite.
"It wasn't necessary," Smith said absently. "Our work here is to identify crises and, when necessary, to support the efforts of our field operatives. They do not need to know all the details."
Booting up his computer, Smith began ordering the troops from Fort Wainwright to return to Fairbanks. Mark went to retrieve his jacket. As he was pulling it on, he glanced back at Smith.
Ghostly shadows thrown up from his hidden monitor gave the old man the appearance of an ambulatory cadaver.
"Are you-" Mark hesitated. "Are you going to tell them about me?" he asked all at once.
Smith peered up over his glasses. The gray line of his brow was shadowed in black. "I told you," the CURE director said. "They do not need to know every detail."
He turned his attention back to his computer. Across the room Mark gave a tired smile.
With a nod of silent relief, Mark Howard slipped from the office, leaving the gray-shrouded man to his life's work.
Chapter 37
Remo and Chiun spoke little on their flight from the United States. At Moscow's Sheremetevo II Airport, they parted company. The Master of Sinanju took one taxi while Remo climbed into another with Ivan Kerbabaev.
"Kitai Gorod," Ivan instructed through his gnarled knot of loosening bandages.
Crowds of people wandered Moscow's streets. From what Remo could see, no one looked very happy.
The two cabs rode together for a short time. Near the Kremlin, Chiun's veered away. Remo and Ivan continued deeper into the city.
They followed a tangle of crisscrossing streets and narrow lanes. More feckless crowds clogged the roadway.
Whenever the cab stopped, Ivan acted as interpreter. Remo quickly learned the Russian for "I don't know" was Ya ne znayu. It took some time, but they at last found someone who was able to direct them where they wanted to go.
An hour after leaving the airport, the cab pulled to a stop in front of a pair of somber gates. Looming above was a menacing building with bricked-up windows.
Remo stepped out onto the sidewalk.
The Institute building was of typical Soviet design. Big, blockish and ugly.
After taking only a few steps, Remo paused. Doubling back, he leaned in the cab.
"Beat it," he said to Ivan Kerbabaev.
Much of the masking tape sprang free. "Truly?" Ivan asked, pushing the bandages back in place.
"Don't tempt me," Remo warned. "And leave the cab."
Ivan hastily instructed the driver to remain at the curb. He quickly climbed out of the small car. Holding a hand to his flapping bandages, he ran down the cold Moscow street. He was gone from sight even before Remo had slipped through the heavy Institute gates.
ANNA HEARD the muffled gunfire through the thick walls.
There were only twelve of them here. They were the latest trainees to come to the Institute. Now they would be the last. She had left them out beyond. Left them to their inevitable fate. The same fate that would be hers.
It wouldn't be long now.
When the gunfire stopped, her fingers clenched reflexively around the object in her hand.
She didn't hear the footsteps as they came up the hall. Not that she expected to. She only knew he had found her when the iron door began to groan inward.
The door surrendered in a crunch of metal and exploding concrete. Buckling, it crashed into the office. Remo found Anna Chutesov sitting alone behind her desk. Across the room a television flickered. As he stepped inside, he noted the image on the TV screen.