At this, Vadim frowned. "I am not a child," he said.
"No," the director agreed. "You are worse. You are a man. Now repeat the order, or I will put one of these others in charge."
Vadim had heard of this brusqueness. It was somewhat legendary in certain intelligence circles. He had always found the hushed tales amusing. Now that he was on the receiving end, however, his own attitude had changed.
As his five snickering men looked on, he repeated the command.
"We will capture Koskolov," the old agent said. "We will not kill him."
The director nodded curtly. "There is one other thing, this more important than anything else. There might be two men here in town looking for General Feyodov. One is a thin Caucasian with very thick wrists, the other an Oriental who is very, very old. If you see either of them, run. Do not approach them, do not speak to them and under no circumstances attempt to engage them either with weapons or physically. If you happen upon General Feyodov and they are in the vicinity, shoot the general and then run for all you are worth."
Vadim wasn't sure if this was some attempt at humor. The look on the director's face was deadly serious.
"You are joking, yes?" the SVR man asked.
"If you are stupid enough to involve yourself in a contest with these two men, you will be dead before the breath of shock reaches your throat," the Institute head continued icily. "With any luck you will not even encounter them. If you successfully apprehend Koskolov, he will lead us to our renegade general. Perhaps we can clean up this mess before anyone here finds out the truth. Now, go."
Vadim Zhdanov nodded. Getting up from his seat, he herded the cluster of hiding SVR agents out from behind the curtain and through the balcony door.
After they were gone, the director raised the special binoculars once more. A green glow descended on the crowd.
With precise movements, the director scanned the mob, looking once more for the face of General Feyodov.
It was worse than looking for a needle in a haystack. Intelligence had put the general in San Francisco. Sketchier were the reports that had placed him in Barkley. It was only after seeing Yuri Koskolov, a former Red Army major and associate of Feyodov's, enter this building that the director knew they were on the right track. But the prize was the general himself, and every moment he remained at large increased the chance that the director would be
The spyglasses abruptly froze in place.
Two new figures had just entered the hall. When the Institute head saw who they were, a wave of cold fear slipped across the director's body like a ghostly fog.
One was a thin man with exceptionally thick wrists. Beside him stood an ancient Korean.
It had happened. After all these years.
And to the shaking director, the terrible dream that had haunted many a sleepless night for more than a decade had finally become a waking nightmare.
"PEE-YEW. I smell Russians."
Remo's face was puckered in displeasure as they entered the hall where the Buffoon Aid event was being held.
At shoulder level beside him, the Master of Sinanju turned his unhappy button nose into the air. "There are at least eight," the old man replied. Hazel eyes scanned the balconies to the left of the hall where the bulk of the odor seemed to be concentrated.
"Dammit, they've had democracy for-cheez, gotta be ten years by now," Remo griped, fanning the air with his hand. "Why can't those Volgapaddlers smell like something other than turnips boiled in Stolichnaya?"
"Were I American born, I would not be so quick to find fault with the cultural odors of others," the Master of Sinanju droned in reply. "Until my delicate senses adapted, my first five years in this heathen land I could smell nothing but frying cow flesh. Although in defense of America, most of that issued from your smelly pores."
The old man's eyes narrowed when he noted the last balcony box far down near the stage.
"Yeah, well, I'm here 'cause Smith wanted us outta his hair, not to stamp out any beet-eating Russians," Remo said, "so they can watch us till their mutant Chernobyl cows come slithering home. I don't care. I'm not looking back."
On some level that Remo never quite understood, he could sense when he was being given more than just casual attention. Such was the case now.
Instead of looking at the person observing them, Remo turned his determined gaze on the distant stage.
For his part, Chiun was staring at a pair of very big lenses. They obscured the face behind. A pair of small, pale hands held them in place. Beyond was shadowy blond hair.
"Yes," the Master of Sinanju said, "by all means, Remo, do not look." The old man's tone betrayed just a hint of some buried emotion.
Remo failed to notice the catch in his teacher's voice.
"I'm not," Remo said firmly. "Just said so." Chiun's slivered gaze never wavered. "Binoculars, right?" Remo said absently. "If you ask me, binoculars are just a big fat cheat. Oh, they're gone. Good riddance to Bolshevik rubbish." Whoever had been watching them had abruptly stopped. Remo felt the cessation of pressure waves on his body. He didn't seem interested in the least in their silent observer.
The auditorium was large, the seats filled nearly to capacity. Given the three-day nature of the marathon event, people didn't feel as obligated to stay put as they otherwise might. Streams of concertgoers were coming and going up and down the six long aisles that ran the length of the big hall.
The houselights were dimmed, the stage lights up full.
Remo was busy watching the man onstage. To his surprise, he had found upon entering that he actually liked the comedian who was performing.
The portly old man wore a black suit and red tie. He had once starred in a movie about a successful businessman who enrolled in college to be closer to his estranged son. Even though it was now more than ten years old, whenever he passed by that movie on TV Remo still stopped to watch it.
"Let's find some seats," Remo said.
Chiun's somber weathered face did not reflect his pupil's uncharacteristically bright tone.
When the binoculars had lowered, their owner had already been darting back into the balcony box. The old man had seen just a flash of a face. But it was enough.
Chiun looked as if he had seen a ghost.
Far down the hall a set of doors opened. In the general commotion of the hall, they went unnoticed. Six men hurried through them and began marching up the aisle.
"The Russians are coming," Chiun observed. He cast a wary eye at his pupil. He seemed relieved to find that Remo had not so much as glanced at the balcony. The younger Master of Sinanju had not seen the specter in the box.
The Russians were coming full steam ahead, elbowing people aside in their haste to reach the back of the room. Although they had not yet unholstered their side arms, the hands of all but the leader strayed under their jackets.
"Russians, schmussians," Remo griped. "I'm sick of Russians. Don't they know they're not even topical anymore? They should have the decency to be Chinese. C'mon, there's two empty seats down there."
He had no sooner spoken than the man onstage completed his act. There was a round of thunderous applause during which the comedian departed and a slight, balding man with a curly fringe of black hair stepped up to the microphone.
"Oh, balls," Remo griped when he saw who it was.
Bobby Stone was a film actor, occasional Oscar host and one of the three regular emcees of Buffoon Aid. He had been in one hit film about a group of middle-aged men who signed aboard a ship as merchant mariners for a two-week adventure vacation. Aside from Land Lubbers, Stone's movies were generally bombs so large the studio should have fired their PR team and replaced it with a demolition squad.
As Stone lapsed into a painfully unfunny improvisational routine, Remo spun to the Master of Sinanju.
"Let's get out of here," he griped.
Chiun remained motionless. "Smith would want us to see why those Russians are here," he said.