"She's the anchor woman on Channel Three," Remo yelled out.
"Oh," said Smith. "I see. I'll see what I can do." 1Chiun tossed the telephone across the room. It landed in Remo's lap.
"It's for you," he said. "Smith." He sank back in front of the television.
"Yeah," Remo said.
"The tape you sent me has to do with laser coordinates on the moon. It must be part of the programming of the LC-111. What did you find out from Dr. Payton-Holmes?"
"That she needs a girdle."
"I warned you about her," Smith said.
"I know. That's why I'm even bothering to talk to you." Remo went on to tell him about Payton-Holmes's strange encounter with the garbageman and the garbageman's resemblance to the skinned murder victim Verbanic. He told him about Marco Gonzalez's abduction from the holding cell. He told him how Ralph Dickey had lost his laboratory entrance card after drinks with a man who wore gold balls around his neck.
"That's it," said Smith.
"What is?"
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"The gold balls. That is Mikhail Andreyev Isto-ropovich. He is one of the top agents of Moscow Center."
"That's their spy apparatus?" Remo said.
"Their absolute best. They sent out their big guns," Smith said. Remo could hear a small sigh over the telephone. "Unfortunately, I think they've succeeded," Smith said dully. "I've had every package on every airline leaving the United States checked for metal and electronic content, and that computer has not left this country intact."
"Maybe they're holing up here with it. Laying low."
"Highly unlikely. Moscow Center would never allow a property as important as the LC-111 to remain on American soil any longer than was absolutely necessary. There was only one way out, as far as I can see."
"What was that?"
"An Aeroflot flight that left L.A. International about twenty minutes ago had special provisions for a wounded man on a stretcher. The man was accompanied by three men with diplomatic passports. One of them matched Istoropovich's description, but Aeroflot claimed his immunity, and the authorities couldn't touch him. His luggage, of course, was clean. Not so much as a handgun."
"Who do you think the guy on the stretcher was?"
"I don't know. Maybe a corpse with some of the LC-lll's components fitted inside him. It's just a guess. I don't know."
"Was he Hispanic?"
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There was a pause. "Why, yes, I believe he was."
"Forget it," Remo said. "They don't have the computer. That guy on the stretcher was Gonzalez, the garbageman. They probably think he stole the computer, and they're on their way to Moscow Center to beat it out of him."
"That can't be. They wouldn't leave without—"
"I'm telling you, Smitty, that machine's right here someplace."
"I just can't take the chance," Smith said. "If you're not in Moscow Center soon, they'll rebuild the LC-111 and neutralize it. Then nothing will be able to stop the Volga."
"What's the Volga going to do that's so terrible? Bomb us? Don't we have rockets and things to stop that?"
"Bombing is the least of the Volga's functions," Smith said. "I've arranged for your passage on a special diplomatic envoy plane at 11:45 tonight. It'll take you there faster than any commercial
jet." "I can't leave yet," Remo said. 'I'm not working
right. My balance is off."
"How long will it take you to correct that?" Smith asked uncertainly.
"Chiun," Remo called. "How long before I'm well?"
"Ten years."
"He says ten years, Smitty," Remo said.
Smith snorted into the phone. "Get to Russia. Now." And hung up.
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CHAPTER TWELVE
"What's the matter with you? The oscilloscope needle just went off the scale." The professor checked all the electrodes hooked into Mr. Gor-dons's exposed metal chest cavity, blowing away clouds of talcum that fell from her artificially white hair.
"They're activated."
"What's activated?" the professor asked, alarmed.
"My dormant memory banks," he said.
"Which circuit?" She milled around the maze of wires excitedly.
"F-42,1 think. To the right."
"That's it, that's it!" She held the delicate little wire reverently. "Your creator was a genius." She beamed, the penciled-in wrinkles of her face radiating serenely. "A genius. Now, if I can modify the connection with F-26 . . ."
She joined two fuses with a tiny soldering iron
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and replaced them in Mr. Gordons's circuitry. "And if these new silver transistors melt with the heat of the fusion between D-641 and N-22 • . ." She fiddled with a mass of small wire terminals at the rear of Mr. Gordons's chest.
"How long will they take to melt?"