Even after the Cold War ended, the Institute remained. The Soviet Union had long collapsed beneath the relentless marching heels of history, yet when the new age dawned, that huge building was as it had always been. Unchanged from the days when the last premier walked the halls of the Kremlin.
No one was quite sure what went on inside, which was good enough for the people who lived nearby. Most did their best to keep from even looking at the building as they passed by it, let alone pry into its secrets. Many avoided the Institute altogether, taking torturous routes through the narrow, winding streets of Kitai Gorod that brought them no closer than two blocks from the sinister building that was a throwback to another era.
There was one person, however, who could not avoid the big building or the secrets it held.
The office of the Institute's director was buried deep below street level. If there was automobile traffic, it went unheard so far beneath the ground. An explosion big enough to level the building far above could go off without this area of the complex even knowing it.
The director's office was small, without ornamentation.
A television played on a pressboard stand in the comer. The used table had been picked up for twenty U.S. dollars at a bazaar in Zagorsk. On the TV screen was a grainy image of two men walking down a crowded boulevard.
The director watched the television with a vacant stare.
On the metal desk sat a plain black phone, out of date by at least thirty years by Western standards. Next to the phone was an open bottle of French wine and a lone glass. The wine was being given a chance to breathe. There was irony in that, which was not lost on the director.
As the silent television played to blankly staring eyes, the old-fashioned phone suddenly jangled to life.
It came as no surprise.
The weary figure pulled up the heavy receiver. "Yes, sir."
"I have studied the information you have sent to me," the voice of Russia's president said without preamble.
The former KGB official who now ruled Russia had no time for pleasantries. It was a most worrisome attribute. The director of the Institute understood all too well that a man with power who was always in a hurry was a man to fear.
"That data is already old," the director said. "There has been another incident since the first two. A commercial communications satellite."
The president swore softly. "Do the Americans know about this yet?" he asked.
"Not that I have been able to ascertain. I have no doubt, however, that elements of their government will eventually make the connection."
The president hissed angrily. "Feyodov," he growled. "Who knew the coward would grow claws?"
"It is my belief that he is driven by fear, revenge and greed. All are motivations that can make the most timid man seem brave. Had I been given his dossier as I requested after the events in Chechnya more than a year ago, I would likely have seen this coming."
"Forgive me," said the president with parched sarcasm, "but when I assumed this post, my predecessor failed to tell me of your clairvoyance." His voice grew firm. "You must stop him," he ordered.
For the first time there came a flicker of emotion on the director's face. The head of the Institute leaned forward. The rusted metal springs of the desk's matching chair creaked in protest. A soft sound in the small room.
"You are aware, Mr. President, that the Institute exists only to advise. We have no field agents."
"You have an entire building of field agents," the Russian president insisted. "Use them."
This was the one command the director feared. "Those men are not traditional field agents," the Institute head explained. "They were not trained for such a task. Unleashing them on American soil would surely bring unwanted attention directly to this organization. I would advise you to use SVR agents."
The SVR was the agency that had succeeded the KGB.
"No," the president declared, his voice steely. "This cannot be allowed to spread any further. If you will not use the men at the Institute, you will go yourself."
"That would be an unwise use of materials," the director said. "In addition, it would create an unacceptable risk."
"That was not a request," the president growled hotly. "You were a field agent once. Arrogant enough to think that you were better than any man, as I recall."
In another life, the two had met briefly. It was back before the director had gone into a decade of deep cover. When the president assumed his leadership of Russia, he had been dismayed to learn that this testament to conceit was still alive. Worse, that the former agent had been made head of something as important as the Institute.
"You will go to America," the president commanded. "You will kill General Feyodov, and you will suppress this information at all costs. Am I clear on this matter?"
There was no room for argument. The head of the Institute nodded to the empty office.
"Yes, sir."
"And be warned," the Russian leader said. "If you fail, there will be an open grave waiting for you on your return." With that, he severed the connection.
Coming as it did from a former KGB man, the words were no idle threat. The black office phone fell heavily back into its cradle. So that was that. America awaited.
And in that small basement office there was an old fear in the director's blue eyes that had absolutely nothing to do with the Russian president's threat.
Chapter 9
Remo and Chiun took a late flight from JFK, arriving at San Francisco International Airport at dawn. Although the temperature was only in the high fifties this early in the day, the sun and lack of snow was a welcome change for Remo.
"This sure beats the hell out of freezing in the New England icebox," he commented as they made their way to the rental-car agency.
"I like New England," the Master of Sinanju sniffed. "It was near enough to Smith without being too near. And despite the unpleasant name, there were no Old Englanders anywhere to be seen."
"Both pluses, I suppose." Remo nodded. "Still, if we do get a new house, my vote's for someplace hot."
"And the moment your vote counts more than mine, you may live in the inferno of your choosing. Until such time, the sacred scrolls dictate that it is for the Reigning Master to decide where he and his apprentice will live."
"Where do the scrolls ever give a rat's ass about where we're supposed to live?" Remo asked, smelling a scam.
Chiun waved a hand. "Somewhere in the back, I believe. Now, please, Remo, hurry and rent us a carriage. I do not want some street-reeking lazybones to claim squatter's rights over our new residence."
Still dubious, Remo rented them a car. They took the Bayshore Freeway across the Oakland Bay Bridge. It was a short trip up the eastern shore of San Paolo Bay to Barkley.
Remo sensed trouble as soon as they hit town. A battered Volkswagen Beetle came puttering toward them, a faded McGovern For President sticker plastered to its bungee-corded front bumper.
The Master of Sinanju's face grew displeased the instant he saw the ancient yellow car.
"Were not those ghastly contraptions banned by your government?" Chiun asked.
"No," Remo said as the car passed by. "Worse, they started making them again, even uglier than before. We won the war, but the Germans get the last laugh."
Chiun didn't hear him. A bony hand suddenly clasped Remo's forearm.
"There!" the old man screeched, stabbing a quivering nail at the windshield. "Yet another approaches." His breath abruptly caught and he squeezed Remo's arm even tighter. "Can it be?" he exhaled.