Optical images taken by GEODES-the Ground-based Electro-Optical Deep Space Surveillance element of the Air Force Maui Optical Station-showed a dark ball framed by struts painted a stealth gray.
If this was a spy satellite, it was of a configuration and purpose that baffled Harold Smith. For one thing, there were no observable lens apertures. Logging off, Smith picked up the blue contact phone that connected him to Remo in Moscow.
"Remo, Object 617 exists. It's in the SPACETRACK inventory as a spy satellite. The Russian space shuttle did deploy it. That is confirmed."
"So I guess we need to talk to the Russian shuttle people."
"This will be difficult."
"Oh, I don't know," Remo said airily. "Our good friend Colonel Rushenko here has offered his help."
"Be certain to convert our new friend to a neutral posture at the end of this phase of the mission."
"Already thought of that," said Remo, hanging up.
"Thought of what?" Colonel Rushenko asked.
"Our boss just sent his regards."
"You cannot deceive me. I am to be liquidated because I know of you."
"Hey, you'd do the same for us. In fact, you tried pretty hard."
Rushenko made a fist with his fleshy face. "I have nothing more to say. Other than that, I have not finished my lunch and I am very hungry."
"No time," said Remo, picking him up by the scruff of his thick neck.
"There is candy in my desk."
Shrugging, the American rifled through the contents of the cherry-wood desk until he pulled out a brown wrapper. "This looks familiar," he said.
"It is a candy bar."
Remo showed the wrapper to the Master of Sinanju. Chiun squeezed his eyes at the red letters that spelled "Mapc."
"What's this say?" asked Remo.
"Where did you find this!" Chiun hissed.
"Belongs to Colonel Klink here."
"The word is the same as your 'Mars.'"
"No kidding." Remo looked to Colonel Rushenko. "This is a Russian Mars bar?"
"I normally detest American products, but Russian chocolate has seriously deteriorated since the collapse."
Remo stripped the wrapper, pocketed it as a souvenir and trashed the rest.
"I desired that," Colonel Rushenko protested.
"Might have been poison."
"Who would poison good chocolate?"
"The same manner of cretin who would consume fish while they are but eggs," said the Master of Sinanju in a distasteful tone.
And steely constricting fingers brought unwelcome unconsciousness to Colonel Rushenko's unhappy brain.
Not to mention his growling stomach.
Chapter 28
Bartholomew Meech watched the computer screen in his sprawling lab where monitoring systems pulsed and beeped and the incessant rain made the windows swim, blocking out the oyster gray world beyond them.
He drained a cup of heavily sugared Starbucks black coffee and hoped the screen wouldn't beep. But he knew it would. Then it did, and flashed, "You have mail!"
Meech brought it up.
To: R From: RM@qnm.com Subject: I'm back Just blew back into town. What's the latest?
Meech composed his reply with caffeine-shaky fingers.
To: RM@qnm.com From: R Subject: . . . . I killed a man. The NASA crawler driver.
The reply hit the screen a moment later:
Not your problem. You're only a cog in the corporate machine. Go to confession on your own time. On company time, you do what the firm requires. What's Pagan saying now?
Meech replied:
He's talking up asteroids again. And ozone holes. But it's not what Pagan is saying. It's what the press is saying. They're blaming Russia now. We've ignited a global incident.
The response:
Great! We need to throw up more smoke, keep the Russians from figuring things out and throw the blame back on the Martians. Hit Baikonur. Hit it hard.
Bartholomew Meech shook and shook as he read the green glowing words. Then he composed his reply: "What about Russian casualties?"
He knew what the reply would be before it appeared: "They're only vodka-swilling peasants. This is our jobs. Go to it."
Bartholomew Meech came out of his chair heavily and prepared to fulfill his responsibilities to his employer. His glasses were as steamy as the windows that looked out over a fog in which a gigantic, saucer-shaped object ringed with illuminated windows seemed to float disembodied in a gray drizzle like the advance guard from another world.
Chapter 29
For the head of Russia's most secret counterintelligence agency, Colonel Radomir Rushenko was very open.