"This was not our operation," Rushenko said with a trace of regret.
"Then whose was it?"
"This is unknown to us. We are investigating."
"Why would you investigate a U.S. problem?"
"Because someone is attempting to blame Mother Russia for this matter, of course. Why do you think?" A finger and a thumb reached out and squeezed Colonel Rushenko's thumb. The tip turned red, then purple, then popped like a Concord grape. It was exceedingly painful to behold, never mind endure.
"Lose the attitude," the American agent requested.
"Da. It is gone," Ruskenko gasped.
"I want to hear about Shield."
"It does not exist," Colonel Rushenko said.
The squeezing fingers drew additional blood.
"It has no official existence, I meant to say," Rushenko gasped. "The Kremlin does not even know about us."
"That's better. Who sanctioned it?"
"No one. I created it."
The Master of Sinanju came up, his hazel eyes interested. "Why?"
"To safeguard Mother Russia until Soviet rule is restored."
"You could have a long wait," the American said dryly.
"But it will be worth it," said Colonel Rushenko fervently.
"Okay. Enough of Shield. We gotta get to the bottom of this thing."
"I agree. I have operatives at Glavkosmos and Baikonur looking into this even as we squabble."
"We will await these reports," said the Master of Sinanju.
And Colonel Rushenko found himself sitting back in his red leather chair, into a gooey mess that he belatedly realized was a puddle of red caviar. He was relieved. He thought he had soiled his trousers.
The old Korean sifted through the desk papers, reading classified telexes with a casual air before ripping them to shreds and wastebasketing them.
"How did you find this place?" Rushenko asked at one point. "Kinga did not know its location."
"We traced the e-mail back."
"It has no listed address."
"We got the street. After that, it was easy."
"How so?"
The American jerked a thumb at the preoccupied Korean. "He recognized the cover."
"I have watched American television, too," said the old Korean blandly.
"What show was that, by the way?" Remo asked.
"Ask Uncle Vanya."
Remo snapped his fingers. "I get it now. I never watched that one much. Too farfetched."
While they waited for incoming reports, the American with the thick wrists passed the time by stacking the bodies of defunct Shield agents about the room.
"What killed them?" Rushenko asked.
"Sloppiness," sniffed the Master of Sinanju.
And Colonel Rushenko understood. They were liquidated by the finest assassin of the modern world. It was no wonder his security levels were so ridiculously pregnable.
The calls poured in over the next two hours.
The American lifted the receiver to Colonel Rushenko's mouth each time, squeezing his neck threateningly with his free hand. Colonel Rushenko felt obliged to answer in his normal tone of voice.
"Comrade Colonel, there is news out of America."
"Yes?"
"Our mole in the American CIA reports that SPACETRACK has isolated the orbital device responsible for the strange accidents in America."
"Yes?"
"It is dubbed Object 617 in their catalog of objects in the near cosmos."
"Yes, yes."
"It went into orbit a month ago. The orbit is polar."
"Who launched this infernal thing?"
"We did."
"Again?"
"It was the payload of Buran 2."