Smith leaned back in his chair. His brow wrinkled like an old blanket and his lips became a bloodless line behind which his teeth clamped tightly. The nutlike hardening of his jaw muscles betrayed his dilemma.
Anna Chutesov was correct, in all of it. She could, Smith imagined, convince Remo Williams to aid in the search for the Yuri Gagarin. It would solve many problems, and solve them quickly. Smith, at first worried that the shuttle's landing was a Soviet thrust against CURE, now had only one more concern.
"You are an honorable person, Ms. Chutesov. I will ask you for your word on something before I agree to this."
"Ask. "
"Give me your word that the Gagarin's landing is not a hostile act against either America or CURE."
"To the best of my knowledge, neither is the case," replied Anna Chutesov truthfully.
"Accepted," said Smith.
Smith reached for his intercom.
"Mrs. Mikulka, could you have Mr. Chiun sent up here?"
"That nice patient who insists upon calling you Emperor Smith?" asked Smith's secretary.
"Yes, that Mr. Chiun," Smith said tiredly.
"Immediately, Dr. Smith. He's such a sweet little dear. It's too bad about his problem."
"Yes," said Smith. "It is too bad."
Anna Chutesov cocked a slim eyebrow at Smith. "Problem?" she inquired.
"For security purposes, Chiun is on the books as a Folcroft patient. The staff believes he's suffering from Alzheimer's disease. It covers most of his inexplicable behavior, such as boasting to the other patients that he is the sole defender of the American Constitution."
"Does it ever worry you, Dr. Smith," Anna Chutesov asked plainly, "that the greatest secret of your young nation is entrusted to a man who would babble it away to anyone who would listen?"
"Yes," said Smith. "It bothers me. It bothers me a lot." And he asked Anna Chutesov to excuse him as he downed the rest of the bottle of Maalox.
Chapter 8
Anna Chutesov had met her match. There was no question about it. Over the years, she had hacked through the bureaucratic jungle of the Kremlin as if it were a golden staircase designed solely for her feet. Until today, she had never encountered a man who was immune to her wiles, her cool authoritative sensuality, her womanly praise, or-if all else failed-that most potent weapon, her withering scorn.
The secret of her success was simple: never want anything from a man more than he wants something from you. Men desired her. She refused to acknowledge her interest in them. She had learned that lesson as a member of the Komonsol, the Soviet youth group. A political leader had recognized her brains. At the same time, he couldn't keep his eyes off her legs. The man had made Anna, then sixteen, a leering offer. One night of passion in return for a place in a Komonsol-sponsored trip to Sweden.
Anna had accepted. The night was not the most enjoyable of her life. The man was a slobbering unwashed brute who combined the technique of an octopus with the equipment of a chipmunk. But she survived the experience.
When, a week later, the man had all but ignored her at the political lectures, Anna cornered him in the back of the bustling indoctrination hall.
"I have been waiting to hear about my trip," she asked low-voiced. In truth, she was ashamed to face the man. Ashamed of her actions as much as his own. But she wanted to see the world beyond her country, and such experience usually led to political advancement, which was her deepest desire.
"Trip?" the brute had asked. His eyes were black and unreadable.
"Yes, our deal. Surely you have not forgotten?"
"Show me a piece of paper documenting this so-called agreement," the man said coldly.
"You know there is none."
"Then there is no agreement, is there?" And he had walked off, leaving Anna Chutesov clutching the Komonsol pin attached to the new sweater which she had purchased to wear in the Swedish capital, and quaking in cold rage.
Anna Chutesov vowed never again to want something so badly that she betrayed herself to get it.
Instead, she worked her way up the party ladder. It was surprisingly easy. If thwarted, she shrugged disinterestedly and tried another approach, transferred to another directorate. She found that if she betrayed no preference, asked no favors, and offered none, she was almost always promoted on merit. It was simply a matter of never letting the bastards know what you really wanted. They usually gave it to you anyway when they understood they could extort nothing in return.
Even in her two encounters with Remo Williams, whose magnetic sexuality had thawed her long-suppressed yearnings for love, she had never surrendered. That was because Remo Williams had wanted her more than she had wanted him. Perhaps not by a great margin, but Anna had refused to let Remo know she desired him more than just casually.
But now an eighty-year-old Korean with the manner of a babushka and the sex appeal of a tortoise had Anna exactly where he wanted her: in the passenger seat. "Slower," Anna shouted. "Drive slower."
"How?" asked the Master of Sinanju, his head straining to see over the dashboard of the car they had borrowed from Dr. Smith. He sat on a pair of cushions.
"Press the brake with your foot," said Anna. She closed her eyes as a light post whipped past the open window at nearly ninety miles an hour.
"I cannot."
"Why not?"
"My foot is on the pedal that makes it go," Chiun said worriedly. "If I take my foot off, the vehicle will stop and those behind us will crash into the back end."
"It doesn't work that way," said Anna Chutesov. "The brake will slow us first. Hurry! Before we are smeared all over the road."
The Master of Sinanju switched to the other pedal. The car, slowing, began to careen crazily.
"Stay in this lane!" screamed Anna Chutesov, vowing to herself that if she survived teaching the Master of Sinanju to drive, she would immediately return to Russia and for the first time in her life admit to failure. Even if she had to swim back to the Motherland.
"Why should I stay on that side of the road?" Chiun said reasonably. "This other is not in use."
"The cars come in the opposite direction on this side of the road," said Anna desperately. "The solid yellow lines mean do not cross."
"When they see me coming, they will stop and get out of the way. American drivers are like that. Polite." The first American driver to come along swerved to avoid them and ran his vehicle off the road and into a thicket.
"See?" the Master of Sinanju said happily. "Politeness. It is an American national characteristic. That driver recognized that I am a novice driving a motor carriage and tactfully made way."
"I hope he is not dead," said Anna, "almost as much as I hope we do not die on this road."
The next driver had to swerve into the oncoming lane. He swung about and began chasing them, screaming at the top of his lungs and gesticulating obscenely through an open window.
"What about him?" Anna asked.
"He is driving a Japanese machine. All Japanese are like that. Rude."
"He looks American to me," said Anna Chutesov, her head flying wildly from the imminent danger before them to the maniac in pursuit. "In America, they sometimes settle traffic disagreements with gunfights. I have read this in Pravda. Perhaps we should get rid of him."