Inside his office, Smith was drumming the fingers of both hands on top of his desk. He told Remo and Chiun, "I have spoken to Colonel Kar-benko. The Russian premier is arriving this afternoon at Dulles Airport in Washington. Fourfifteen."
"Good," said Chiun. "We will make his death a lesson for all those everywhere who would dare to trifle with this glorious country of the Constitution, Emperor."
Smith shook his head. "No, no, no, no."
He looked at Remo for help. Remo looked out the window.
"I want you both to make sure nothing happens to him while he's here," Smith said. "Until this missing assassin can be turned up."
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"AH right," Remo said.
"Of course, mighty Emperor," said Chiun. "Your friends are our friends."
"Karbenko is meeting him at the airport," Smith said.
"He knows we're coming?" asked Remo.
"Not exactly."
"How not exactly?" Remo said.
"He wouldn't hear of having any American personnel involved. He wants to do it on his own."
"Very wise," Chiun said.
"He runs a risk of losing the man," Smith said. "But it's a matter of pride with him."
"Very foolish," Chiun said.
"We'll keep him alive," Remo said. "That's it?"
Smith looked at him for a moment, then turned slowly in his chair to look out the one-way windows toward Long Island Sound. "That's it. For now."
Remo had heard those "for nows" before. He stared at Smith's back. The CURE director continued, looking out the window.
Outside Folcroft, Chiun said to Remo, "I do not understand this. Russia is your country's enemy, correct?"
"Yes."
"Then why are we saving the head of all the Russias? Why do we not kill him and install our own man on their throne?"
"Chiun," Remo said decisively. "Who knows?"
Admiral Wingate Stantington was walking around the perimeter of his office. The clicking
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sound of the pedometer on his hip gave him a sense of satisfaction. It was the first time he had felt reasonably good since he had been taken out of his office in a Hefty bag.
Not that he had forgotten that. He never would. And he would get even, he vowed. With the dark-eyed American. With the old Oriental. That black woman who set it all up. His own secretary who allowed it to happen.
He would fix them all. In due time.
It probably had been easier in the old days. He could have just unleashed a CIA hit team, given them their targets and told them to do it. And afterwards, they would be whisked out of the country, set to work in a foreign mission somewhere, and that would be that.
It was different now. Try to find somebody who'd do a little dirty work without worrying all the time about being arrested and indicted. Try to find one who could do it without writing a book about it later on.
When it came time to write his book, he'd let them know what he thought. All of them.
When his private telephone line rang, it was the President telling him that the premier of Russia was arriving that afternoon.
"He can't," Stantington said.
"Why not, Cap?" the President asked.
"We haven't had a chance to put together any kind of security arrangements," Stantington said.
"That's not your concern. I'm just alerting you so you know what's happening in case you hear anything later."
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Stantington depressed the button on his telephone tape recorder.
"Officially, Mister President, I have to advise you that I am against this entire idea. I think it is needlessly risky, fraught with peril, and ill-advised."
"I have received and noted your opinion," the President said with chill in his voice as he hung up.
All right, Stantington thought. He was on record. When things went wrong, as they were bound to later, he could tell any Congressional committee with a clear mind and heart that he had advised the President against this course of action. And he had it on tape. He'd be damned if he'd be arrested and indicted for somebody else's mistake.
Stantington sat heavily behind his desk and sighed. But was that enough? Was it enough that he had protected his ass ?
He thought about that for no more than thirty seconds and reached his decision.
Yes, it was. There was nothing more important than surviving. The man who had the job before him could languish in a prison chowline. The President could bumble and blunder about. But Admiral Wingate Stantington was going to be as clean as a hound's tooth, and perhaps someday, when they were looking around for viable, clean candidates for offices like President, Wingate Stantington would stand out like a silver dollar atop a pile of pennies.
He leaned back in the chair as he had an idea. He might be able to help that process along-par-
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ticularly if he was the man who prevented World War III and saved the Russian premier's life in the bargain.
The killings of the three ambassadors had been done by people close to the targets. Now it was Vassily Karbenko's idea to bring the premier to America and Karbenko, it was well known, was like a son to the premier.
Karbenko might fool some others, but could there be any doubt that he was bringing the premier to America so that he would be within the range of Karbenko's own guns ?