"Get me the files on Colonel Karbenko," Stantington barked into his telephone.
As he waited, he thought about it, and the more he thought, the more sure he was. It was Karbenko. Of course. He felt good about the decision. He felt like a real spy. The buzzer rang. "Yes?" he said.
"Sorry, sir, there are no files on Colonel Karbenko."
"No files? Why not?"
"They were probably stolen yesterday afternoon."
"Yesterday? What was yesterday?" "Don't you remember, sir? You proclaimed it Meet-Your-CIA Day. An open house. We had thousands of people here. Somebody must have taken the files."
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Stantington slammed the telephone back on its base. It didn't matter. He was still going to save the Russian premier.
Dulles International Airport was cleverly located so far out of Washington, D.C., that most people couldn't afford the taxi ride to the city and had to take a bus. The smart ones packed a lunch.
The Russian premier and his wife, Nina, arrived quietly in a leased British plane that had picked them up at an airfield in Yugoslavia where they had transferred from a Russian Aeroflot plane.
Colonel Karbenko had made the arrangements. He had to choose among British, French, Italian, and American planes for the last leg of the journey. He had rejected the Italian plane because it might get lost, the French because he knew what French airport mechanics were like, once having lived in Paris. Left to choose between a British aircraft and an American, he picked the British, because, like the Americans, they were competent, and unlike the Americans, the pilot would not immediately sit down to write a book entitled, Mystery Passenger: A Journey Into Tomorrow.
Karbenko had an unobtrusive green Chevrolet Caprice parked next to the plane. He went into the plane's passenger compartment, and a moment later, came down the steps followed by the premier and Nina.
The premier was wearing dark sunglasses with a straw hat pulled down over his face. His wife had on a red wig and blue tinted glasses. She wore a two-piece brown suit, so formless that it
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looked as if it had originally been fitted to a refrigerator.
"We speak the English," the premier said. "That way, nobody know we not Americans."
Karbenko led them across the tarmac of the runway toward his car. He glanced up and noticed Remo and Chiun standing there.
"Good work," said Remo.
"How'd you get here?" Karbenko asked.
"Hail, mighty premier of all the Russias," said Chiun.
"Who is this ?" asked the premier.
"I don't exactly know," Karbenko said.
"I am not an administrative assistant," Chiun said. "Hail again."
"Thank you," the premier said. "It is a great pleasure to be here among my American friends."
"I am not an American," Chiun said.
"But I am," Remo said.
"Forget him," Chiun said to the premier.
"What are you doing here?" Karbenko repeated.
"Just making sure," Remo said, "that everything goes right."
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Two cars followed them as they drove away from the British jetliner. There were four men in each of the cars, and when Vassily Karbenko saw them, he grunted softly and tromped down on the gas pedal of the Chevrolet Caprice.
The car was speeding down an unused runway at the airport, toward an emergency exit onto the highway that surrounded the field. As Karbenko's car sped up, the two other cars separated and increased their speed also, moving up on either side of the premier's car.
The premier seemed oblivious to the chase. His neck was craned and he was looking out across the broad network of runways and hangers at the scores of commercial jetliners. His wife, though, saw the two following cars. She looked toward Karbenko.
"Are they your men, Vassily?" she asked.
"No."
The two cars had pulled up even with Karbenko now. The occupants looked like Americans, Remo thought. The cars started to pull ahead.
"They're going to nose in and nip you between them," Remo said.
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"I know," said Karbenko.
The car on the right had its driver's window open.
Remo rolled down his window.
"Vassily," he said. "You stomp on that gas pedal and swerve in close to this car."
"What for?"
"Just do it," Remo said. "When I tell you." Remo raised himself up in the seat, and put his left .hand on the door of his car. The car was about two feet in front of them.
"Now," Remo yelled. Karbenko pressed down heavy on the accelerator. The big powerful car surged forward and as it came alongside the car on the right, Karbenko swung the wheel so that only a few inches separated the two cars. At that moment, Remo leaned out his open window. His hands flashed into the car alongside them. Karbenko heard a cracking noise. He glanced to his right, in time to see Remo sinking back into his seat, the steering wheel from the other car in his hands. Beyond Remo, the driver of the other car looked as if he had gone into shock. His face was contorted and his hands waved futilely as he sought some way to steer the car, ripping along the runway at almost 80 miles an hour.
"Get out of here," Remo said. Karbenko powered the Chevrolet forward, just as the driver of the car to their right hit the brakes. But his wheels were not straight and the sudden braking action spun the car sideways and its 80-mile-an-hour forward momentum turned the car over on its side. As Karbenko watched in the rearview mirror, he saw the car roll over three times and
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then, upside down, skid into the second chase car, knocking it out of control and into a flat grassy field next to the runway, where the driver finally muscled it to a stop.