A breeze freshened out of the east to set his thin hair blowing. It was nice. It helped the illusion.
Colonel Hannibal Intifadah received the first news reports of the carnage in upper Manhattan with glee.
"This is what I hungered for," he said, slapping the briefing report on his desk.
Pyotr Koldunov said nothing. He was thinking of the one thousand dead Americans and felt queasy. There would have been many more dead, but he had stalled until he knew it was Saturday in New York, when fewer would be in their offices.
"I assume, then, that Comrade Colonel is satisfied with the performance of the Accelerator," he said finally.
"Yes, of course. I would rather have pulverized the White House, but this will do."
"Then may I assume that since you have achieved your objective, this project can be quietly dismantled?"
"Dismantled? I said I was satisfied, I did not say I was finished. I have struck a great blow. I will strike even greater blows in the weeks to come."
Pyotr Koldunov grimaced. He was about to speak when the colonel's desk telephone rang.
"Yes, what is it? I told you that I was not to be disturbed. Oh, yes. Always. Put him on."
To Pyotr Koldunov's surprise, the brutish face of Colonel Intifadah softened. He actually smiled. Not a savage barbarian smile, but one of pure pleasure. He wondered if he was talking to his lover-but then he dismissed the idea. According to KGB intelligence, when Colonel Intifadah felt amorous, he took to the desert. The speculation was that he mated with goats. His father had been a nomadic goatherd, so it was not unlikely. Besides, he was calling the other person his friend.
"Yes, Friend. How many? Three. Yes, definitely. What? That is quite a bit more money than we discussed. I do not care if they are museum pieces. I am not collecting antiques. Yes, I understand the difficulty. They must be untraceable. And you say there may be more? At the moment, three will do. Yes, I will pay your price, but only because I am in a hurry. Yes, thank you. The bank draft will be deposited in your account at once."
Colonel Intifadah hung up, his face not quite as pleased as it had been before.
"We have three more revenge vehicles. They will ship today."
Koldunov nodded. "Of course, it will take time to ready the launcher."
"I am a patient man."
Koldunov wanted to say, "Since when?" but he held his tongue. Instead he said, "I have not been allowed to call my homeland in several days. I would like to do so now."
"Impossible," said Colonel Intifadah. "The power shortage from the last launch has disrupted our international phone lines."
"But you were just using them," Koldunov protested.
"Did I say I was speaking with someone outside of this country?" Colonel Intifadah inquired coolly.
"No, but I assumed you were purchasing foreign engines. Even you would not dare use an engine that could be traced to Lobynia."
"When the phones are up again, you may place your call."
The bastard, Koldunov thought. He has the first code and he wants to keep that knowledge from Moscow.
At that moment a messenger brought in another dispatch. Colonel Intifadah glanced at it and suddenly shook with rage. He pounded a swarthy fist on his desk. He pointed to the messenger. "Have that man executed!" he raged.
Instantly the Green Guards came in and took away the hapless messenger. A shot rang out and then a thud and Pyotr Koldunov knew that the elevator-shaft disposal had received another of Colonel Intifadah's "enemies."
"Listen to this," Colonel Intifadah howled. "This is from the American media. They are claiming the Manhattan destruction was the result of a gas leak!"
"A cover story to calm their people. They know better."
"I want the world to know that this is a retaliation!"
"Colonel, you cannot mean that," Koldunov said hastily. "The Americans would obliterate Lobynia if they traced the attack to us."
"I want them to suspect! To guess! To wonder! To regret the bombing of Dapoli. I do not want to give them proof. I only want the American leadership to toss and turn in their beds, fearful and ashamed."
"But the leadership that bombed this city is no longer in office."
"I do not care!" Colonel Intifadah howled. "You, Russian, get to the launcher. I want it ready as soon as the new engines arrive. My wrath will rain down on America until they cry out to their infidel God for mercy!"
"Yes, Comrade Colonel," replied Pyotr Koldunov. As he left the office, he thought that surely there was some way to thwart this madman. The more launches, the greater the risk of discovery. If the Americans ever learned the full truth, their missiles would strike Lobynia only as an afterthought.
Mother Russia would be their primary target.
As he closed the green door after him, he heard Colonel Intifadah call back his mysterious friend and shout that money would no longer be an object. He would take every engine that could be delivered, museum-piece prices or not.
Koldunov shuddered.
Chapter 22
Within minutes of deplaning from the Swissair flight at Zurich's Kloten Airport, Remo and Chiun tried flagging down one of the tiny Volvo taxis. The cab displayed a sign that said "Im Dienst," and Remo, who did not speak Swiss, asked the Master of Sinanju what it meant-on duty or off.
"Why ask me?" Chiun said petulantly.
Remo frowned. He had never seen the Master of Sinanju encounter a language barrier before.
"I thought you once told me you spoke almost every known language."
"Yes."
"So what does Im Dienst mean?"
"Search me. I speak only languages known to Sinanju."
"I'll try waving," Remo said.
The taxi pulled up, and Remo opened the door for Chiun. Chiun gathered up his kimono skirts and settled into the rear seat. Remo gave the driver an address and closed the door behind him.
"I'm surprised you don't speak Swiss, Little Father. Switzerland isn't exactly a backwater."
"To Sinanju it is. When was the last time you ever heard of Swiss political difficulties?"
"I know they stayed neutral during World War II."