"My mistake. I thought it was Shchit headquarters."
The pair exchanged glances, their eyes got sick and they mumbled unhappy excuses in a mix of English and Russian before taking their muzzles into their mouths and yanking back on the triggers.
Like watermelons under a chopping machine, their heads disintegrated and they fell dead.
"Check this out, Chiun," said Remo. "Guess I was right, after all. They liquidated themselves because their cover was blown."
Chiun floated to the panel and kicked it in, disclosing a long stainless-steel corridor marked by a ceiling-mounted security camera.
"They're going to see us coming," Remo warned.
Chiun nodded firmly. "This is good. It will encourage fear in their craven hearts."
"I wasn't thinking of that. Smitty'll have puppies if our faces are broadcast all over Moscow."
The Master of Sinanju considered.
"I will show you a trick you do not know, Remo," Chiun said thinly. He shook his head from side to side and kept shaking it until his pupil caught on.
Together, they crossed into the bowels of the organization that had ordered their destruction.
Chapter 26
Colonel Radomir Rushenko was wolfing down a good proletarian lunch of red caviar on black bread chased down by a glass of warm kvass when the red light on his desk started to go bap-bap-bap-bap.
The light happened to be buried under a sheaf of telexes from his operatives scattered about Russia and abroad, so the blinking light went unnoticed. The bapping was muffled, and at first Rushenko didn't hear it through the meaty sounds he made while consuming the overflowing sandwich.
A telex from Kazakhstan, where a Shield operative watched over the Baikonur Cosmodrome, had his attention.
Unable to develop reliable information at this time on recent Mir activities. Station not believed to be testing weapon.
Another telex from his mole in Glavkosmos was more substantive:
Widely believed here that recent Buran launch, reported to be test of new Mir docking coupler, was subsidized by commercial fee. Kremlin disinformation suspected. Unknown what was launched, by whom or for what purpose.
Rushenko frowned heavily. This suggested a foreign contractor.
The insistent bap-bap-bap of the desk alarm penetrated his thinking processes, and he swept the telexes away, scowling.
It was the intruder alarm. It meant only one thing: a penetration.
And penetration here in the most secret stronghold in holy Russia could mean only one of two things: the traitorods Russian police. Or worse, local mafiya biznesmeny intent upon extracting ransom from what was outwardly a legitimate business. It was absurd how these hooligans operated in the new, licentious Russia. Twice in the past, it was necessary to liquidate mafiya interlopers selling "protection." Yet still they came. Such things were inconceivable in the good old days of Red rule.
Engaging his intercom, Rushenko got his chief of security.
"I have an alarm. What is happening?"
"Two men have penetrated the outermost circle, comrade Colonel."
"Only two?"
"We have six casualties. Reinforcements are on the way."
"I am on my way," Rushenko said, rising from his chair so hastily his sandwich toppled to the floor. His shoes crushed a glop of red caviar into the red rug, and he tracked it down the corridor, whose scarlet ceiling lights proclaimed a highest-urgency penetration, and stormed into the security room.
It was a nest of TV monitors and radio equipment in a very confined space. Even for Shield, Moscow floor space was at a premium.
A Ukrainian in the uniform of the old Red Army but without insignia of rank was punching up views of the reception area, the second line of defense. This was the first penetration of the tailor-shop cover.
Rushenko winced to see crack former Spetsnaz commandos lying in their own blood alongside the latest heroine of Mother Russia. There was no sign of their assailants.
"Where are they?" he demanded, his hands turning to fists.
The security man tapped a screen on the second tier of monitors. "There, comrade Colonel."
Rushenko squinted. Two men were moving down the corridor. No sooner had he laid eyes on them than they vanished from sight. A pointing finger directed his gaze to another monitor that picked them up as they walked into an ambush.
The ambush consisted of two Spetsnaz kneeling at either side of the corridor terminus.
Rushenko smiled grimly. "They will not get past the outer ring alive."
"They should not have gotten into the outer ring in the first place," the security chief said tightly.
"Where are their weapons?" Rushenko asked suddenly.
"They have none."
And Rushenko lifted an eyebrow thick as a woolly caterpillar. "What is wrong with this camera?"
"Nothing."
"Their faces are two blurs."
The security chief adjusted the monitor. Try as he might, the faces of the interlopers couldn't be clarified, though other details were quite sharp.
"It does not matter," Rushenko grunted. "They will be dead soon."
The faceless duo slipped up the corridor. The camera showed the two commandos lying in ambush, prepared to whip their weapons around the corner and spray the stainless-steel corridor in a withering cross fire.
"All that will be left is blood and bio-matter for disposal," the security chief agreed.
As the moment of truth neared, Colonel Rushenko and his security chief involuntarily tensed. The two strange ones walked along casually, as if entering a cafeteria. Had they no inkling of the danger? Or did they imagine this would be an easy penetration?
The instant the two commandos jerked around their positions, Rushenko breathed, "Now!"
The AKs erupted, spewing a cross fire, back and forth, back and forth, so that a ball bouncing randomly down the corridor would have been shot to pieces.