By Eminent Domain

"Lesson number three-die with dignity." He gave them no time to do otherwise.

Hands darting forward, he grabbed a fistful of ski mask in each and brought them sharply together. Waterproof masks quickly became home to a pair of misshapen masses that had formerly been human skulls.

"Lesson number four," Remo said coldly as the bodies slipped from his hands. "Steal from the rest or face the wrath of the best."

He heard a slippery hiss behind him. Wheeling, he was just in time to see the steaming red sack that was the tenth and final commando's internal organs slopping from out a yawning incision in his abdomen. The man joined his insides on the ground. Chiun stood above the gutted body, a look of deep disdain on his leathery face.

"Dammit, you didn't save one," Remo groused. "Neither did you," the Master of Sinanju replied. He flicked an imaginary dollop of blood off his index fingernail as he padded over to his pupil.

"Perfect," Remo scowled. "We better start figuring out a schedule for whose turn it is to save one, 'cause we sure as hell can't keep doing this all the time." He pointed at one of the dead men. "That one yelled some Russian claptrap at you before you finished him off. What'd he say?"

Chiun folded his hands inside his kimono sleeves. "'It is you,'" he replied, his voice betraying mild curiosity.

Remo looked from the body to the Master of Sinanju. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"I am Reigning Master of Sinanju. Perhaps my reputation has preceded me," the old man speculated.

"Right," Remo said skeptically. "Probably has your Topps rookie assassin trading card in a plastic collector's case on his bureau back home."

He squatted to pull the mask off the dead man. It wasn't easy, given the fact that the man's eyes were oozing down his face like a pair of runny two-minute eggs.

"Yuck," Remo complained as he tugged the mask free. He flung it to the snow. "You ever see this guy before?"

After peering at the dead man for but a moment, Chiun shook his head. "Whoever he is, he is unknown to me."

Standing, Remo surveyed the small encampment with a frown. There was no sign of how the men had gotten there. They might as well have been actual ghosts, dropped in the middle of nowhere like this.

Stooping, Remo checked a few pockets. He came up empty.

"Well, ain't this just hunky-dory," he groused.

When he glanced at the Master of Sinanju, he found that the old man wasn't listening to him. Lips puckered, Chiun had turned a shell-like ear to the south.

Remo cocked an ear the same way. The faint sound of a distant helicopter carried to his ears.

Chiun was already marching back toward the hill. "I hope it's their ride," Remo grumbled, following. "And if it is, question first, eviscerate second, got it?"

"Do not blame me if you can't keep track of your own silly plan," the Master of Sinanju called back. Up the hill and back down into the narrow gorge, they retraced their steps back out to the plain. By the time they emerged from the low hills, the helicopter had swept in close. A few hundred yards distant, it flew back and forth through the night sky.

The helicopter almost seemed to be lost. But when Remo and Chiun emerged from the hills, it suddenly found focus. Banking right, it steered a beeline for them.

"Infrared," Remo commented as they walked across the surface of the ankle-deep snow. He had detected the telegraphing signals directed from the approaching chopper.

The helicopter was of an unfamiliar design. An extra set of rotor blades rose into the sky above it. Furiously chopping at air, the helicopter quickly ate up the distance to them, coming to an angry hover above the two lonely men on the desolate plain.

Swirling clouds of snow blew out all around. "You think we're just gonna stand here looking at each other until the spring thaw?" Remo called to Chiun over the roar of the rotors.

His eyes had left the helicopter for but a moment. The instant they did, he saw a sudden look of tight concern appear on the wrinkled face of the Master of Sinanju.

Remo followed the old man's gaze back to the helicopter.

A face now peered out the small rear window. A fringe of blond hair peeked out from under a furry parka hood.

Remo's stomach sank.

An instant after he'd seen her, the face of Anna Chutesov disappeared from view and the helicopter began to descend from the frigid black sky.

Remo shot a hard look at the Master of Sinanju. "It's official," he called over the roar of the rotors. "We have a new winner in the Suckiest Week of My Life Sweepstakes."

His words swirled away in a vacuum of wind-tossed snow.

Chapter 16

Remo could tell by the grave look on Anna Chutesov's face when she emerged from the Kamov that things were even worse than either he or Chiun imagined.

She hurried over to them, the wind plastering the fur fringe of her heavy parka against her forehead. Her delicate face-used to freezing Russian winters-was bare. A scarf was knotted at her neck, spilling up around her pale chin.

"Are you gonna start showing up now every time we kack a Russian hit squad?" Remo asked her. "Because at the rate we've been going lately, you're gonna be racking up some major frequent-flyer miles."

"You killed some of them?" Anna asked by way of greeting. "Where are they?" Her tense voice was urgent.

"Nice to see you, too," Remo said dryly. "And since we've dispensed with the pleasantries, you mind telling me just what the hell you people think you're doing here?"

"The last time I checked I was a single person," Anna said thinly.

"Why buy the cow when it gives its milk away like a barnyard harlot?" the Master of Sinanju volunteered. His hands in his kimono sleeves, he appraised the Russian with bland distaste.

"I don't mean you you," Remo said to Anna. "I mean Russia you. We've got more dead Russians back there than you had running that backward country of yours back in the early eighties." He stabbed a thumb at the hills behind him.

"They are there?" Anna said, her voice intent. "How far? How many?"

"Ten," Remo replied. "About a mile and a half in."

Before he could say any more, she had turned on her heel and was marching back through the snow to the Kamov.

Remo gave Chiun a questioning look.

"Do not look at me," the old Korean sniffed. "She is your scarlet woman."

Turning wordlessly from his teacher, Remo dogged Anna back to the helicopter. Chiun padded alongside him.

"Where are you going?" Remo demanded,

"I must examine the bodies," Anna answered. "You may come along if you wish."

"That's mighty white of you," Remo said aridly. "And don't waste your time. I checked them already. No ID."

"You will forgive me, Remo, if I question your thoroughness?" Anna droned as she boarded the Kamov.

Remo's face fouled. "Who swiped your Pamprin?" he said. He tried to board the helicopter but the Master of Sinanju pushed past him, settling into the seat behind Anna's.

The Kamov was lifting off the ground even as Remo was pulling the door shut behind him. At Anna's direction, the pilot steered for the low hills.

"So what's the big Russian deal here?" Remo demanded as they swept across the plain.

"My government is not responsible for what is happening if that is what you mean," Anna replied. She was looking out the window. The first low hills dropped away behind them. "These men are renegades. There are more than just the ten you say you stopped. With any luck, this group can offer us some clue where the others might be."

"Yeah, well, we'd kind of like to know, too," Remo said. "Seeing as how these guys have somehow gotten hold of some bogus, watered-down version of Sinanju."

Anna's heart rate quickened. Both Remo and Chiun noted the change.

"I know," she admitted darkly.

"No, you don't," Remo said. "Sinanju the discipline is Sinanju the village's bread and butter. If someone steals from Sinanju, they're stealing food out of my people's mouths."

"Your people," Anna stressed.

"Yes, my people," Remo nodded. "They might be a pack of ugly, ungrateful backstabbers, but they're our pack of ugly, ungrateful backstabbers. We're responsible for them, and if someone else gets hold of Sinanju skills-any Sinanju skills-they dilute the market for the real deal. Not to mention making us look bad with their sloppy techniques. Back me up here, Little Father."

The old man's face was unchanged. "I do not have to, for you are doing well enough on your own," he said.

At the Korean's words and tone, Anna raised an eyebrow.

"There, you see?" Remo pressed. "So where the hell'd these guys learn their moves?"

Anna started to speak, but something out the window caught her eye.

"Wait," she said.

The helicopter was sweeping up the ravine, lights from the belly illuminating the terrain. They might have missed the bodies if not for the blood. The pilot managed to settle the Kamov in a small adjacent valley. As he cut the engines, Anna was popping the door.

She hurried through the ravine, coming into the encampment in the direction opposite the one Remo and Chiun had first used. The two Masters of Sinanju followed.

The first body was of the man Chiun had eviscerated. Stepping gingerly around the gore, Anna pulled off the man's goggles and mask.

The face beneath was ghostly pale in death. The Russian's hair was dark. That was the extent of her examination. Anna threw down the mask, moving quickly on to the next body.

"You know, someone of a suspicious nature might wonder what you were doing way out here," Remo suggested as she tugged off another mask.

"Since these men are Russians, I was sent by my government to stop what could become an international incident," Anna explained as she worked. "We were flying near the village where the slaughter took place when a radio transmission we intercepted said that two very unusual CIA agents had set off on foot through the snow. They said the men were underdressed and ill-equipped to survive in such a hostile environment." She raised a thin eyebrow beneath her fringe of hood. "However did I know it was the two of you?" she said with dull sarcasm.

Finished with that body, she moved on. Remo shot a glance at the Master of Sinanju. Chiun was playing once more with his hat flaps, supremely uninterested in both Remo and Anna. "You might work up a head of steam on this one, Chiun," Remo said. "It's your village these guys stole from."

"It is our village," Chiun replied. "You have just said so. And nothing of any real value can be stolen from the village. We are Sinanju's greatest resource. Well, l am. But you are a close second. Third or fourth at the most."

There was an odd undertone to the old man's words. As if his apathy were feigned.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Remo droned.

Turning from his teacher, Remo found Anna in the process of pulling off yet another mask. She grunted displeasure at the man's brown hair.

"I can't help noticing you're not patting down pockets," Remo observed. "Care to tell us exactly which Russian you're looking for up here in the Great White North?"

"Great Frontier," Anna corrected tensely, wiping blood from her hands on a white jumpsuit. She used the toe of her boot to roll over the next man. His belly was burned black where he'd landed on the campfire. "The Great White North is Canada," she explained as she pulled off the latest ski mask.

"You sure?" Remo asked. "I thought Great Frontier was space."

"In that case, the Great Frontier is what exists between your ears," the Master of Sinanju offered.

"Ha-ha," Remo said dryly. "Say, Anna," he called, one sly eye on the old Korean, "gimme the name of one of these Russians. I'm in the market for an assassin's helper."

He saw a flash of silk just before a whizzing snowball caught him square in the back of the head. "No? Okay, maybe a Frenchman," Remo muttered as he went to retrieve his hat from a snowbank near Anna.

Anna was at the tenth and final body. It was the man whose mask Remo had earlier removed. She looked down on the face of the corpse, her own expression one of disgust.

"Lavrenty Skachkov," she announced.

Remo was knocking snow from his hat. "God bless you," he said.

She fixed him with a dull eye. "You asked for the name of one of these," she said, waving a hand across the field of Russian dead. "Skachkov is one. The most dangerous of all these. And he is not here."

She spun away, marching past Remo.

"So is this Crotchcough the guy in charge here?" Remo asked, following. Chiun fell in behind.

"Unfortunately, no," Anna admitted as she walked. "Skachkov is a follower, not a leader." She quickly amended her own words. "Or, rather, he is leader to a select few. Whatever is going on here is not his doing."

In the valley at the mouth of the narrow ravine, Anna's pilot saw them approaching. The Kamov's twin rotor stacks spluttered to life.

"All right," Remo said. "So whose doing is it?" Anna stopped dead, turning on the two Masters of Sinanju. Snow thrown up from the helicopter's downdraft whipped the fringe of fur on her parka.

Her ice-blue eyes were deadly serious.

"An utter madman," Anna Chutesov insisted with cold certainty.

Jaw locked in grim determination, she turned, hurrying for the waiting helicopter.

Chapter 17

Crazed. Demented. Mentally unbalanced.

When being kind, that was what they said about him.

Insane. Psychopath. Sociopath.

These terms filled psychological profiles stashed away at intelligence agencies all around the world. But informally, when they were discussing Vladimir Zhirinsky, men and women from all shades of the political spectrum, both at home and abroad, often found themselves agreeing with the private assessment of an American State Department official: "It is my sincere opinion that Vladimir Zhirinsky is a raving, ranting, slobbering, foaming, nuttier-than-a-fruitcake loon-with a capital L."

For Vladimir Zhirinsky their words had no sting. After all, it was only natural for the weak to attack the strong. And if strength could be judged by the viciousness of verbal attacks, then he was by far the strongest man to stride the face of the planet since Hercules.

Not that he believed in ancient myths of gods. Vladimir Zhirinsky knew with a certainty as deep as the marrow of his Russian-born bones that there were no gods. No heaven. No hell. Eternal judgment was a bedtime story.

There was only man and his environment. Or, as he liked to put it, the Worker and the State.

A truer Communist than Vladimir Zhirinsky had never been born. Even after the Iron Curtain collapsed and communism became as hopelessly out of fashion as last year's bourgeois French fashions, Zhirinsky remained a rabid believer.

The State, he argued to anyone who would listen, was supreme. The Worker existed to benefit the State. And when the State prospered, so did the Worker. Russia, Zhirinsky screamed from atop soapboxes in Moscow's Gorky Park, needed communism. It was dead without it.

The world would never respect a Russia lacking the ideological purity of communism. The Soviet philosophy was the unifying force that had kept the nation strong for seven decades after the October Revolution. Without it, Russia was nothing more than a Third World country. A husk. A pathetic shell of its former glorious self.

In the early 1990s the Russian experiment in democracy was still new. Luckily for Zhirinsky, the changes were frightening to enough old-fashioned zealots. When election time came, his brand of fiery finger-waving and venomous rhetoric gained him a seat in parliament. He attacked both his job and the new Russia with demented glee.

It wasn't unusual for Vladimir Zhirinsky to get into fistfights in the great senate chamber of the Kremlin.

One representative from Belorussia who disagreed with him wound up with a bust of Stalin to the side of the head. A Moldavian senator who accidentally sat in Zhirinsky's chair went home that night to find his apartment broken into and his cat, Buttons, drowned in the toilet.

Trying to steer clear of Zhirinsky did no good. Even when he had no specific ax to grind, Vladimir Zhirinsky still tripped colleagues down the Duma stairs, slammed doors into people's faces and keyed cars in the Kremlin parking lot.

Everyone knew that when a smile appeared beneath the crazed senator's great bushy mustache, it was time to run back and see if the office or the wife and kids were on fire.

For a time his unorthodox behavior made him a hero. Zhirinsky the iconoclast challenged authority, ironically by seeking restoration of a government that would crush such challenges. He had even run for the Russian presidency.

Alas for Vladimir Zhirinsky, his brief popularity bubble among the Russian people had burst unexpectedly. It happened during a nationally televised debate. On the live broadcast, Zhirinsky's opponent had said something that the senator couldn't counter and, in rebuttal, Zhirinsky had done the first thing that came to him. He bit off the man's nose.

Worse, when the hapless moderator demanded he spit the nose back out, the ultranationalist smiled a blood-smeared smile before swallowing visibly. His great Adam's apple bobbed, and the screaming politician with the hole in his face lost his nose forever. It was little comfort to him as he was led, bleeding, from the Moscow studio that the night that robbed him of his nose was also the night that ended the career of Vladimir Zhirinsky.

In the wake of this event, the crazy nationalist lost not only the presidency but also his senate seat. And around the world was quiet relief that a man so unstable was no longer a serious candidate to assume the leadership of Russia.

Soon Vladimir Zhirinsky was forgotten.

It was the lowest time in his life, this public exile. To be forgotten while stuck in some faraway Siberian labor camp was one thing, but to be shunned on the very streets of Moscow was worse than any gulag.

His life for the past several years had been lived in shadows. But as he rode through the streets of Moscow this bleak February day, Vladimir Zhirinsky no longer felt the heavy depression of days past. His time of public exile was now, at last, coming to an end.

The sky over the capital was a sallow gray. Here and there snowflakes whispered to the pavement. Frozen pedestrians scurried past piles of dirty snow. Scarves and collars met in tight fists as men and women hurried home to cold walk-up flats.

Winter in Russia was a depressing season. One could feel it in the air. But that same cold made weak men strong.

Vladimir Zhirinsky sat bundled in his greatcoat in the rear of his battered Zil limousine. The rusted old car coughed and spluttered through the cold streets of Moscow.

Through careful eyes he studied the city as it passed his tinted windows.

They had just driven by McDonald's. Burger King, too. Radio Shack, Dunkin' Donuts and Pizza Hut all had franchises in Russia's capital. A few days before, Zhirinsky had traveled on business to San Francisco. It sickened him to see the same capitalist logos adorning buildings in his beloved Moscow as he'd seen in America.

An old Russian proverb spoke of the land of his birth as "not a country, but a world." If that was true, then in his lifetime, Vladimir Zhirinsky had seen the world grow smaller.

For the Communist it had been a waking nightmare. Poland, Czechoslovakia, Romania, Hungary, Yugoslavia and Bulgaria were gone overnight. They were followed by Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, Kirghizia, Georgia, Uzbekistan and a hundred other puny states no bigger than a mile across.

All of them were ingrates. And they would each one pay.

The Soviet Union was gone only temporarily. If Vladimir Zhirinsky had his way, Mother Russia would rise again.

As he drove through the cold streets, the Kremlin rose up under the gloomy sky, its great onion domes touching the gray clouds. When he saw the buildings from the rear of his car, a smile curled beneath Zhirinsky's drooping mustache.

"Pray to your capitalist gods," he said with low menace, "for your end is near."

"Comrade?"

The nervous question came from the front seat. Even though the term was long out of fashion, Zhirinsky insisted his people use "comrade," the old Soviet form of address.

When he looked up, he found the fearful face of his young driver staring back at him in the rearview mirror.

"Nothing," Zhirinsky grunted with an impatient wave of his hand. His brow sank low in thought. "Their lackey president has a small nose," he mused as the Kremlin disappeared behind them, replaced by the bland facades of Moscow's downtown buildings. "Not like the last president. Now, there was a big Russian nose."

As he considered the nose of the last Russian leader, a thin dollop of drool rolled from the corner of his mouth.

He was patting his belly hungrily when the Zil pulled to the curb minutes later.

Zhirinsky's building was a good, solid Soviet-era affair. This was clear by the chunks of broken concrete on the sidewalk. Zhirinsky had to dodge hunks of falling mortar on his way to the cracked front door.

Inside, the elevator wasn't working. Even though it had never worked since it was installed in 1968, Zhirinsky blamed the capitalists who now owned what was rightly state property. He took the stairs.

Those people he met on his way up ran for the nearest exits when they saw the wiry, middle-aged man with the pale complexion coming toward them. Even while running, they kept their hands clamped firmly to their noses.

On the third floor, Zhirinsky steered down the dingy corridor. A crude hammer and sickle was outlined in red on the cracked veneer of one warped old door. Zhirinsky grabbed the wobbly doorknob, flinging the door open with a vengeance.

As the former Russian senator stomped into his cramped office, a pair of startled eyes shot up across the room.

"Comrade Zhirinsky," said the breathless young man from behind an overflowing desk.

Ivan Kerbabaev had been assisting Zhirinsky ever since he'd lost his job as a file clerk in the office of the chairman of Material Reserves.

Ivan jumped to attention, knocking a stack of pamphlets to the dirty floor. Mouth locking open in horror, he shot a look at his employer. Luckily, Zhirinsky seemed distracted.

He pulled off his hat, flinging it to his own desk. A tousled mess of brown-turning-to-gray hair spilled out.

"What is the latest intelligence?" Zhirinsky barked. Ivan's eyes grew wider. "Oh. The intelligence," he stammered. "About that..."

Fearful eyes darted around the office, but other than his desk drawers there was no place to hide. Ivan had a sudden mental image of Vladimir Zhirinsky stuffing his dismembered body parts into his desk. He shivered.

"Well," Ivan continued carefully, "everything seems to be going along perfectly. Better than perfectly. It is fan-socialist-tastic."

When he smiled weakly, Zhirinsky fixed Ivan with cold black eyes. His demented gleam sparkled with flecks of gray.

"So the capitalists have surrendered Russian America to us?" Zhirinsky said, his voice flat.

Ivan hedged. "Not yet, comrade," he admitted. "Not technically surrendered. I suspect they are getting things together. Packing, phoning ahead to see if there are hotel rooms ready, that sort of thing."

As he spoke, he pretended to scratch a persistent itch on the bridge of his nose.

"There should have been something by now," Zhirinsky said to himself. "I have crippled their oil pipeline and destroyed an entire village. Not to mention the demonstration against their army. I- Take your hand away from your face!" he snapped, suddenly distracted.

Jumping, Ivan slapped his hands to his sides. "The Soviet Union must be rebuilt piece by piece," Zhirinsky continued. "Russian America was lost even before the Revolution. By retaking it, we will signal the start of the new Revolution. The new age that will bring order back to this nation of thieves and whores." Before Zhirinsky, Ivan's hands quivered at his sides.

"Actually, comrade, there may be a slight problem." Ivan hated to admit it, but he feared the repercussions if he did not. His eyes were fixed squarely on his employer's sharp teeth. "The Kosygin Brigade has not reported in."

Black eyes narrowed. "Where were they last located?"

"Near Kakwik," Ivan explained. "There was not enough room to airlift them out with the rest. They were to be collected tomorrow."

Zhirinsky's next word was a hiss. "Skachkov?" he asked.

"He was not with them, comrade," Ivan promised. The brief flash of concern faded. "Is it a communication problem?" he suggested.

"There was some snow in that region of the Alyeska Republic," Ivan said, visibly relieved at his employer's calm acceptance. "The storm could have affected communications."

All remaining tension drained from Zhirinsky's bushy eyebrows. "Then that is what happened," he insisted. "Given their abilities, there is no other explanation." He frowned as he took a seat at one of the desks. "I do not like the fact that the Americans are ignoring us. Contact Skachkov. Tell him to purge another village. If they will not evacuate our property willingly, we will remove them one by one."

Ivan almost tripped over his own feet in his haste to leave the office. He couldn't use an office phone to call. The Moscow telephone company could rarely get them to work. He'd have to run around the corner to Arby's.

He was bounding out into the hallway when Zhirinsky's voice boomed behind him.

"Ivan!" the ultranationalist bellowed.

When the terrified young man turned, the former Russian senator was thoughtfully stroking his bushy mustache.

"Tell him to save the noses," he commanded. There was a hungry look in his demented eyes.

As Ivan left, shuddering, Vladimir Zhirinsky bowed his graying head and began sorting through the day's mail.

Chapter 18

The ground flew by beneath the belly of the racing Kamov, a blanket of soothing white stretching off to the horizon.

Remo, Chiun and Anna were in the back of the helicopter. The two Masters of Sinanju were side by side. Anna sat across from them.

"What the hell's a Zhirinsky?" Remo was asking Anna.

"He is an ultranationalist," she explained. "He was a senator in my country at one time. He is also one of many who would like nothing better than to see a return to the old Soviet totalitarian system."

"So much for my first guess," Remo said. "I thought it was one of those shitty kerosene-powered Eastern European cars with the bicycle tires. So where'd these guys of his get Sinanju training?"

"It is not Sinanju," Chiun interjected firmly. "Whatever it is they possess was not given them by a true Master and is therefore false. Since it is not Sinanju, it is less than Sinanju. These are no different than the thieving ninjas or Sherpas or all the others who would steal embers from the flame that is the true Sun Source."

"Sherpas?" Remo asked.

"Not now," Chiun intoned. "Your prostitute is about to speak."

"These men do have a Master," Anna said, ignoring the old man. "Lavrenty Skachkov is the most skilled of them all. He has guided the training of the rest of the men, who look on him with awe. They even call him Mactep. 'Master.'"

Chiun's face grew concerned. "This is true?" he demanded of Anna.

She nodded. "Skachkov is a true danger," she said. "He is not like the rest. I caution you to be very careful if you encounter him."

Remo's brow furrowed. "That Mactep thing sounds familiar," he said. "Where did I hear that word before?" He snapped his fingers. "I know. That whacko general with the death wish in California. Fraidykov."

"Yes," Anna said, nodding. "He apparently mentioned the word to you before he died. I told you that it was the name of the program General Feyodov led that was intended to bring Sinanju to Russia."

"Yeah, but you said it was just to get me and Chiun to work for you. And that was years ago. You didn't say anything about any other recruits."

"I am afraid I was not completely truthful with you," Anna admitted. In her blue eyes was a hint of genuine shame.

"There's a surprise," Remo said with a scowl. "I suppose I shouldn't have expected any more. This from a woman who managed to make a full recovery from being dead for thirteen years."

"Forget her," Chiun said in Korean. "We have a danger far greater here."

"What danger?" Remo asked. "These guys are no great shakes. We just took out ten of them without breaking a sweat."

"Did you not hear the woman?" Chiun insisted. "Or did you forget so soon the prophecy of Wang? 'Of Sinanju, yet not of Sinanju.' And what are these night tigers if not an army of death? We must beware this Master, Remo."

"I don't know, Little Father," Remo said. "I figured the false Master would be Korean, not Russian. After all, just saying you're a Master of Sinanju doesn't automatically make you a Master of Sinanju."

"That is not entirely true, either," Chiun said, his lips pulled tight, as if relating some painful truth.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Remo asked, noting the sudden stiff posture his teacher had affected.

"It means listen to this woman's advice," the Master of Sinanju said. "We must both exercise great caution, for the future of the line of the Great Wang rests on both our shoulders. And it is you who must ultimately face the false Master alone."

"Who says?" Remo asked.

"It was part of Wang's prophecy. I may assist you to remove his night tigers, but the Master must be dealt with by the youngest of the line. That is you."

Remo exhaled. "No pressure there," he muttered to himself. He turned his attention back to Anna.

"What was that all about?" she asked. Since she could not speak Korean, she had been unable to follow their conversation.

"Same old, same old," Remo sighed. "Last train for sanity's already left Removille, and I'm not on it. So where'd these soldier guys learn their moves?"

She looked from one man to the other, her brow knotted, before answering.

"In Moscow there is a training facility," Anna replied. "For more than a decade men have been recruited. Skachkov was one of the earliest. He, like many of the others, was a former athlete. Those who showed natural physical abilities were enrolled in the program."

"That's the what, but not the who," Remo said. "Someone had to have trained Scratchcop, right? If he's the almighty false Master, who taught him?"

Chiun also seemed interested in her response. "That is something you will have to ask him," Anna said.

There was a hint of vagueness in her tone. Although Remo missed it, Chiun did not.

Before she had even finished, Remo was turning to Chiun. "Nuihc was dead ages before this."

"Do not speak that name to me," Chiun said, his face fouling at the mention of his traitorous nephew and former pupil.

"I'm just saying we can eliminate him is all," Remo said. "The Dutchman might not be out of the equation, though." He glanced at Anna. "You said ten years, right?"

"Perhaps a few more," she admitted.

"The time frame fits," Remo said. "He could have hired out to Feyodov to train this Scratch guy before that last time we beat him."

"It is possible," Chiun replied. He was studying Anna Chutesov through narrowed eyes.

"Only explanation," Remo insisted. "Unless you've got another undead Master of Sinanju stashed up your sleeve, it'd have to be him. So let me guess," he said to Anna. "These guys along with Zhirwhosie were with Feyodov in the black market. But when we bumped off their sugar-daddy general a couple days ago they all snapped. Am I close?"

"Zhirinsky had been dealing with Feyodov and others in the black market a great deal lately," Anna admitted carefully. As she spoke, she stared out the helicopter's side window. The dark sky and light ground formed a fuzzy, perpetual twilight. "The SVR was interested in his transactions," she continued. "He has been receiving a great many donations lately from others with political leanings like his own. He was spending the money on a rather exotic collection of black-market items. Some feared he might be staging a coup to take back the Russian government for the hard-liners."

"No such luck," Remo said. "Instead of rooting through your own garbage, he's got to come kick over our cans. What's he think he's going to accomplish in Alaska anyway?"

"Why does a man do anything?" Anna asked. "They are insane. Strutting and crowing to prove their worth. If Zhirinsky is worse, it is only a matter of degree." She seemed to be harboring some secret anger. Her icy eyes flashed hot as she stared out at the night.

"Okay, this time let's try to answer leaving out all the NOW rhetoric, shall we?" Remo said reasonably.

She glanced at him. "Zhirinsky wants Alaska," she said simply. "He is a madman with a mind to act. And this twisted mind doubtless thinks a stunt like this will be met with public approval back home. Given the present state of my country, he is probably correct."

"Does the phrase 'World War III' mean anything to him?" Remo asked.

"Zhirinsky is a true Communist," Anna said bitterly. "He would be willing to sacrifice the lives of millions in order to gain power."

"Happy days are here again," Remo grumbled. "You know, a lesser man might take this opportunity to point out that if you'd shared some of this information with us like our original agreement all those years ago instead of pulling that disappearing act of yours, we might have been able to nip this in the bud."

She shook her head. "Zhirinsky only just made his intentions known," she said, her voice distant. "As it is, he is free somewhere in Russia. I could not trust the SVR to apprehend him, for they might have decided to join him. I am the only person I trust to stop him, and when I heard what was going on here I had to leave him at large in Russia to travel to Alaska. I am alone, Remo. And I have been alone for a long, long time. I told you already what it would mean to share information with you. I was not willing to sacrifice my life, which is what would have been the result had I broken my silence."

It was Remo's turn to shake his head. "I know you think I would have killed you, but I wouldn't have," he insisted. "Smith would have thought you were a security risk, but I know better. I don't know why you're so sure about this, but you're wrong, Anna. I would not have killed you. Period."

She turned to him once more. A hint of warm sadness melted the iciest depths of her deeply intelligent blue eyes.

"You would have," she said quietly.

And the seriousness of her tone seemed to leave no room for argument.

The lights of Kakwik appeared to the far right of the helicopter.

"Should I have my pilot change course so that you can retrieve your vehicle?" Anna asked.

"Let's ditch it," Remo said. "We'll see this through together."

"Yes," the Master of Sinanju said, breaking his studied silence. "Let us remain close."

Remo saw that he was watching Anna with suspicious hazel eyes. He automatically chalked it up to the old man's distaste for the relationship Remo and Anna had shared in the past.

"The events have been confined to this region of the state," Anna said. "We should assume that the troops are near here."

"Alaska's a big town," Remo said. "But I guess we're stuck till they make their next move. In the meantime I'll give Smitty a call."

Anna's features tightened. "Remo," she warned.

"I know, I know," he promised. "You're still dead. But it'd be nice if someone kept track of this Zhirinsky while we're cooling our jets, don't you think?"

The tension drained from her face. "Agreed," she said reluctantly. "Just please think of a plausible lie to explain where you learned the information I have given you."

"Don't sweat it," Remo promised. "I'm on it." And the smile of self-confidence he flashed her was such that Anna Chutesov regretted more than ever her participation in the events that had led her here, to the end of the world.

Chapter 19

Though he knew he was in Folcroft, Mark Howard didn't know exactly where.

It was a hallway like any of the others. Apparently, night had fallen. At least there was no sign of daylight beyond the barred windows.

Funny, as he walked he couldn't remember seeing bars on any of the windows before. But there they were. Solid steel, preventing escape. The world beyond the thick panes was as black as death.

A cold wind snaked up the hallway, icy fingers brushing Mark's shivering spine.

A voice. Soft. More a plaintive moan than spoken words. It stopped abruptly.

For an instant he thought he'd imagined it. He paused to listen.

Nothing. Just the forlorn sigh of the wind and the creaking of the sedate old building.

He strained to hear.

And as he listened to the shadows, he swore he saw something moving in the darkness before him. The flicker of movement turned to a flash. Whatever it was had flown to his side at a speed impossible even for his mind's eye to reconcile. And the voice that was the wind and the dark and everything else in this lost place bellowed with rage and pain and hate in his ear. Come for me!

"WHAT?" Mark called, snapping awake. It took him a moment to orient himself.

He was alone in his small Folcroft office. The blinds were open. Gray daylight bathed the naked trees beyond his one window. The thin snow that had been spitting down since he'd come to work early that morning continued to drop to the ground. Where it struck, it melted on contact.

Mark rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

A dream. He'd been dreaming. Somehow he had fallen asleep at work.

"Great," he mumbled, annoyed with himself. "Just the right way to start a new job."

Shaking away the weird feeling of dread the strange dream had given him, Mark turned his attention to his computer.

The monitor wasn't high tech like Dr. Smith's. A simple old-fashioned screen and keyboard sat before him. When not in use, a concealed stud lowered the monitor into the surface of the scarred oak desk, hiding it from prying eyes.

According to Eileen Mikulka, the desk had belonged to Dr. Smith. Mark assumed it had been with the older man for much of his stewardship of CURE. With a somber appreciation for the history that the battered desk represented, Mark reached for the keyboard.

After only a few moments he had banished all thoughts of the disturbing dream.

Dr. Smith had asked him to look into the Russian angle of what was taking place in Alaska. Since the survivor of the Kakwik massacre had mentioned an old Soviet rather than a modern Russia connection, Mark had begun by searching for known ultranationalists. He quickly found that the list of unrepentant hard-liners was discouragingly long. The names on the screen seemed to scroll forever. There were far too many to go through them all.

Dumping the list, Mark altered the search parameters. Reasoning that whoever was behind this would almost certainly have to be unbalanced, he instructed the CURE mainframes to limit the search to Russian ultranationalists with known or suspected mental problems.

When the list reappeared after a few scant moments of analysis, Mark was troubled to find that it was nearly identical to the first roster of names.

His search had once more been too broad. The vague category of mental problems he had used was too all-encompassing to isolate those who would restore Communist rule and enslave the Russian population.

He leaned back in his chair to think, careful not to bump his head on the wall. Almost as soon as he'd tipped back, a thought came to him. Deciding that whoever would launch such an attack on American soil would have to be insane, Mark returned to his keyboard, typing something more straightforward.

"L-O-O-N," he said aloud as he entered each letter. The word he'd typed on a whim yielded instant results. A single file appeared. At its top was the name Vladimir Zhirinsky.

Mark remembered the unreformed Communist from a few years back. In fact, one of his first suggestions as a CIA analyst had been to warn his superiors of the threat Zhirinsky presented. As he scrolled through the profile, he found the term "loon" had been applied to the ultranationalist by a State Department official.

"Score one for the State Department," he said as he reacquainted himself with Zhirinsky's biographical data.

Mark was surprised to learn that Zhirinsky was no longer a member of the Duma. He typed in the Russian's name, executing a quick search through CURE's most recent files. He was surprised to find Zhirinsky mentioned in a file dated that very day.

Upon accessing it, Mark found that the file had been routed from the FBI. One of the Bureau's agents had been brutally assaulted in San Francisco earlier in the week. He had been found in a closet at the airport, and had only just regained full consciousness that morning.

When Mark read the details of the assault, he felt his heart trip.

The man's nose had been torn off in the attack. Worse, there was every indication that it had been bitten off.

Even before reading it a few minutes ago, Mark had remembered well the incident where Vladimir Zhirinsky had chewed off his debate opponent's nose on live Russian television.

All at once, Mark Howard was beginning to get a very strong feeling.

Hands moving swiftly across the keyboard in a vain attempt to keep pace with his racing mind, Mark allowed his intuition to take over. Unmindful of where it might lead him.

Chapter 20

Remo left Chiun and Anna to oversee the refueling of the Russian agent's Kamov. At a pay phone in the Fairbanks airport terminal, he stabbed out the multiple 1 code that automatically rerouted the call to the CURE director's office. Remo was relieved to hear Smith's tart voice on the other end of the line. For a moment he had been afraid the older man's new assistant might answer.

"More bad news, Smitty," Remo announced. "The problem here might be bigger than we bargained for."

"Explain," the CURE director said tightly.

Remo quickly told him about the ten men he and Chiun had encountered. "So that's it," he concluded. "Except Chiun's all wigged out that we're facing down some renegade Sinanju Master. Oh, and I think the Dutchman might be to blame."

The tension in Smith's tone was evident. "Has Purcell escaped?" he asked, voice growing sick.

"Not unless he took off after we left. I think he trained these guys before he took a permanent powder from sanity at Folcroft. It's the only explanation."

Smith cleared his throat. "Perhaps not. Remo, Master Chiun has been known to on occasion-" he paused, searching for the right word "-solicit outside work. Could he-"

"I know where this is heading," Remo cut in, "and the answer is no. Chiun doesn't have time to train any armies. He's got too much on his plate as it is, what with catalog shopping for a house and brownieing up to the new guy."

"Army? Remo, how many of these individuals are there?"

"Oops. Forgot to ask her. I'll have to get back to you on that one, Smitty."

Smith's voice suddenly seemed to drop. His acid tone took on a worried edge. "Her who?" the CURE director asked.

Remo hadn't even realized he'd misspoken. His eyes darted around the airport terminal as if searching for a convincing lie among the thin crowd of travelers.

"Um," he said. "Just someone we-" Inspiration struck. "You know that FBI agent that helped us out in Barkley a couple of days ago?"

"Brandy Brand," Smith supplied, his voice perfectly even.

"Yeah, her," Remo said. "She's here, too. She must get all the 'When Good Russians Go Bad' cases these days."

"You are saying that she has been assigned to this case and is working in Alaska right now?" Smith asked. By now his voice had grown distinctly dubious.

Remo suddenly got the impression he was being set up. But he'd come too far to bail out now. "Yes?" he said cautiously. It came out sounding too much like a question.

"That is odd," Smith said. "Because my information has Agent Brand still in California. She is directing the FBI's follow-up investigation into those individuals at Barkley University and elsewhere in town who were involved in smuggling and assembling the device that was used to wreak havoc on the global satellite network earlier this week."

He let the words hang between them.

Caught in an obvious lie, Remo didn't know what to say. He shook his head in tired annoyance. "What are you even doing checking up on Brandy, Smitty?" he asked wearily.

"It would seem the situation that involved her is tied to events in Alaska," the CURE director explained. "While conducting research, Mark linked an assault on Agent Brand's partner at San Francisco Airport with a Russian nationalist by the name of Vladimir Zhirinsky. Apparently, her partner recognized Zhirinsky but did not know from where. He remembered when he recovered this morning from the shock and heavy sedation he had been under."

"Bully for the prince regent," grumbled Remo, who now had a new reason to dislike Mark Howard. "Zhirinsky's the guy who's pulling the strings on the soldiers up here," he said. "I was calling to have you keep tabs on him."

"I have already issued orders to put Zhirinsky under surveillance," Smith said. "And you still have not answered truthfully my original question. Since it is not from the woman you claimed, from whom did you get this information?"

Remo's mouth thinned. "Trust me on this one, Smitty. You don't want to know."

"I fear I already do," Smith said gravely. "Remo, is Anna Chutesov still alive?"

Remo felt his heart sink. "Oh, boy," he said. "How long have you known? You must've just found out with that mess in California. Just do me a favor, Smitty, and make sure you don't say I'm the one who told you. She's gonna kill me when she finds out."

For a few seconds there was nothing but dead air on the other end of the line. When the CURE director at last spoke, his voice was a barely audible croak. "My God, so it is true," Smith said.

A continent away, in his Spartan Folcroft Sanitarium office, Harold Smith gripped the edge of his black desk with his free hand. His arthritic knuckles grew white.

"Oh," Remo said over the blue contact phone. "You mean you didn't know for sure already?"

Smith's grip on the desk did not relax. "No, I did not. Have you known this all along?" he demanded.

"No, Smitty," Remo said. "We all thought she died on that assignment years ago. She just popped up and said 'hi' this week when we were in Barkley after that screwy Russian general. I'm lucky I had my nitroglycerine tablets on me."

"How did she escape this time?" Smith asked. A pause.

"I don't follow," Remo said.

"Obviously she escaped from you. Otherwise she would not be alive now."

"Oh. That," Remo said slowly. "I kind of let her go."

"Let her go," Smith said, his voice perfectly flat. "Given the knowledge she possesses of this agency. In spite of the danger she represents to everything we do, you let her go?"

"Well, if you put it that way, sure it's gonna sound bad," Remo admitted. Before the CURE director could speak, Remo forged on. "Look, Smitty, she kept our secret for more than ten years. The proof's in the pudding on that, otherwise we wouldn't still be in business. Anna was afraid you'd send me to kill her, so she took the only way out she thought was open to her. And before you try to get me to bump her off, the answer is no. And Chiun's on the same page because he knows I'd be pissed at him if he kills her."

"Then I will do it myself," Smith said.

"Try it and you can find yourself a new enforcement arm," Remo warned.

Smith relaxed the tension in his fingers. His hand slipped from the desk, falling wearily beside his worn leather chair.

"Remo, this is an untenable situation," he said tiredly.

"Why?" Remo asked. "Anna worked with us before. Why can't we just go back to where we left off?"

"Because things have changed drastically in the intervening years," Smith explained. "There is no Soviet Union. We were arm's length allies while our countries were both superpowers. Our pact at that time benefited both nations. With Russia in its current state, however, Anna Chutesov simply is not needed any longer."

"Don't be so sure on any of that, Smitty," Remo said. "If this Zhirinsky guy gets his way, the old-line Commies might be back singing 'Hail Freedonia' while splashing around naked in the celebratory vodka fountain."

Smith was loath to leave the topic of Anna Chutesov, but for the moment they were at an impasse. And Remo was right. Right now Vladimir Zhirinsky was the more immediate threat.

"I will issue orders to the Moscow police to pick up Zhirinsky," Smith sighed.

"You might want to hold off on that," Remo suggested. "Anna seemed pretty sure that a lot of people might throw in with him, including law enforcement. She was afraid to even have the SUV come in on this."

"SVR," Smith said. "They are successor to the KGB."

"Whatever they are, they can't be trusted," Remo said. "You better let me and Chiun take care of him. Except we can't go right now because we've got a bunch of Sinanju thieves and their Master to track down up here, and maybe a moldy old Sinanju prophecy to deal with in the bargain."

"Huh," Smith mused. "It was the SVR that I had ordered to watch Zhirinsky. Ms. Chutesov is probably correct about their divided loyalties. I will pull them off."

Even as he spoke, he reached for his desk. An alphanumeric keyboard appeared as if by magic beneath his summoning fingers. Typing swiftly, he began issuing the surreptitious orders that would suspend the surveillance orders on Vladimir Zhirinsky.

"See, Smitty?" Remo said as the CURE director worked. "She's coming in handy already."

Smith allowed the remark to pass.

"We cannot allow a lunatic like Zhirinsky to excite militaristic passions in the Russian people," the CURE director said as he typed. "The former Red Army is a shambles. For defense, Russia is relying almost exclusively on its nuclear arsenal. Even a small force operating on American soil could cause a destabilizing chain reaction with cataclysmic effects."

"Not a problem," Remo replied. "The first ten weren't anything special. Some glorified karate moves and camo suits to help them hide. We'll pull the plug on however many are left and then take a spin back to Russia for Zhirinsky."

Smith was only half listening. Peering down at his angled desk monitor, his gray face had grown troubled.

"That might prove difficult," he said. "Zhirinsky has apparently disappeared." Eyes of flint-gray scanned the translated report he had accessed from the SVR's Moscow mainframes. "It would seem he became aware of SVR interest in him and fled. His whereabouts are currently unknown."

"Sounds like they tipped him off," Remo said.

In the silence of his office, Smith nodded. "So it would seem," the CURE director agreed. Determination clenched his jaw. "We will attempt to find him from here. Mark has discovered the alias he used to travel to San Francisco earlier in the week. Perhaps he will use the same name again. In any event you and Chiun have work to do."

"Smitty?" Remo said as the older man was hanging up.

Smith returned the phone to his ear. "What?"

"You didn't know Anna was still alive," Remo began. "You didn't even know we bumped into her in Barkley, right?"

"That's true," Smith conceded.

"So what made you even think it after all this time?"

Smith placed a cautious, flat palm to the surface of his desk. "While conducting research into Vladimir Zhirinsky, Mark accessed some of our old Russia-related files. He found Anna's name among the data."

"So what?" Remo asked. "That still doesn't mean anything. She should have just been a name on a page to him. How did he know she wasn't really dead?"

The CURE director grew uneasy. He was grateful Remo was thousands of miles away and unable to see the disturbed expression that had taken root on his patrician face.

"Upon reading the details of her death, Mark had a hunch," Smith explained. He quickly added, "Now please excuse me. We both have work to do." Before Remo could pry any more, the CURE director hung up the phone.

A shadow of concern formed a brief knot in the old man's brow. Feeling sudden empathy for the lifelong efforts Mark Howard had gone through to hide his gift from the world, Harold Smith turned slowly to his computer, a thoughtful expression on his lean face.

Chapter 21

The Master of Sinanju posed imperiously on the airport tarmac. Beside him, Anna Chutesov watched the fuel line that was feeding the Kamov's hungry tanks.

No one seemed interested in the odd-looking helicopter, which was licensed to a private geological surveying company.

Chiun had been careful not to make his suspicions about Anna known to Remo, lest some misguided sense of chivalry cause him to come to the defense of his former concubine. When Remo left to phone Smith, the old man waited until he was well out of earshot before turning his attention to Anna.

"You know more than you are admitting," Chiun announced bluntly. His eyes beneath the brim of his hat were accusing.

Anna was studying the helicopter refueling. "Why am I not surprised that you would be suspicious of me?"

"Because you are not stupid," Chiun replied. "And it is in your nature to lie when it suits you. Just as it is in my son's nature to be too trusting. Especially when it comes to you. You blind him to your deceptions."

The smile that brushed Anna Chutesov's pale cheeks was sad. "You invest too much power in me," she said softly. "The time when that might have been true was long ago."

Years before Anna Chutesov had been able to manipulate the many men who worshiped her. But by rejecting her, Remo had changed all that. Blue eyes grew wistful at the memory.

"It is not your wiles, but Remo's sentimentality that is the problem," Chiun insisted. "He sees you for what he thinks you were. If only he could see you for but a moment through my eyes." His face remained impassive. "He would blame me if any harm were to befall you by my hand, so I cannot force the truth from you. Therefore you may keep your silly secret, on one condition. Tell me if Remo is at risk."

Anna considered for a long moment. At last she relented, her shoulders sinking almost imperceptibly. "The only immediate risk to either of you is that which I have already told you," she admitted quietly.

Chiun could see she was telling the truth. Accepting her words with a nod of his bald head, he turned back to face the helicopter. Wind whipped the skirts of his kimono.

Anna was relieved when he pried no further. Eyes of ice turned from the Master of Sinanju, facing once more the Kamov.

"You have both changed since last I knew you," she said softly. As she spoke, she still did not turn to the old man.

Chiun took a few seconds to reply.

"Remo is no longer the child he once was," the tiny Asian admitted. "He has achieved the level of full Master."

"Ah," Anna said, nodding. "That is why you cede authority to him. How long ago did he succeed you as Reigning Master?"

Chiun's jaw clenched. His sliver of beard whipped wildly in the wind. "He has not yet assumed the mantle of Reigning Master," he admitted tightly.

Anna glanced, curious, at the old Korean. "I do not wish to offend, but should he not have done so by now? After all, at your age..." She let her voice trail off.

But Chiun was through answering her questions. "These are private matters, not to be discussed with outsiders," he said stiffly. "Remo's former concubine or not, if you wish to keep your tongue, I would advise you to keep your theories of Sinanju succession to yourself."

He offered the Russian agent his frail back. The old man stared out across the airport, a figure of ancient wisdom lost in deep thought. The darkness of the long and lingering Alaska winter night weighed heavy on his bony shoulders.

It was clear she had inadvertently struck a raw nerve. Biting her lip, she left the old man to his private thoughts.

Ten minutes later the fuel line was just being detached when Remo appeared through a side door in one of the low terminal outbuildings. He hurried to rejoin Anna and Chiun.

"I talked to Smith," he said, his voice tense. "Looks like Zhirinsky's pulled a disappearing act." Anna's expression made it clear that this was in no way good news.

"How long has he been gone?" she asked.

"Don't know. Didn't ask. Does it matter?"

"It does, depending on where he is going," she said, her tone troubled. "You were careful to keep me out of your discussions with your Dr. Smith?"

Remo grew sheepish. "Well..." he said.

Anna's voice grew flat. "You didn't," she accused.

"I didn't," Remo said quickly. He just as quickly reconsidered. "I guess I sort of did. But only after he did it first. Smitty's got this new assistant, Anna. Somehow the little nit figured out you weren't dead." Chiun's curiosity was piqued. "How did Prince Mark divine such a thing?"

"I dunno." Remo shrugged. "Probably just dumb luck." When he turned to Anna, he found that the Russian agent's beautiful face had taken on a cavedin look. "Don't sweat it, Anna," he said. "I told him that Chiun and I are hands-off in the killing-you department. When this is over, I'll talk him into letting us go back to our old arrangement."

Anna shook her head. "Things have changed too much since then," she said. Her soft words seemed spoken only for herself. Ice-blue eyes sought the imperious face of the Master of Sinanju.

Remo would have said more, but they were interrupted by the Kamov's pilot. The man was scurrying down from the helicopter cockpit. His face urgent, he approached Anna, spouting a stream of Russian while he ran.

He was barely finished before she was turning on the others. Her face remained without a hint of emotion.

"There has been another massacre," Anna said dully. "A small town to the west of here."

"How long ago?" Remo demanded.

"Apparently it is happening right now," Anna replied. "One of the townspeople has radioed for help." Expression still flat, she turned to her pilot, issuing a few brief Russian commands. The man turned and ran back for the Kamov.

"I forgot to ask before," Remo said as the engine coughed to life. "How many of these guys are there?" He was surprised by her answer.

"Nearly 150," Anna said, her tone lifeless.

"Looks like our work's cut out for us, Little Father," Remo said tightly.

The Master of Sinanju offered a sharp nod of agreement. Hiking up his kimono skirts, he hurried to the waiting Kamov.

The wobbly rotors had just begun to slice the chill air.

Remo began to follow his teacher, but paused. Anna still appeared to be shell-shocked.

"Don't worry," he vowed softly to her. "You're safe as long as I'm around." Giving her a reassuring smile, he turned and ran for the helicopter.

Alone for a moment, Anna shut her tired eyes.

Blocking out the cold, the wind and the growing roar of the Kamov.

"No, Remo," she said quietly to the night. "That is when I am at the greatest risk."

Shoulders hunched against the freezing wind, Anna Chutesov hurried to the waiting Kamov.

Chapter 22

Anna's pilot dropped them a mile outside town. The Russian agent and the two Sinanju Masters made their cautious way down to the village.

The small Inuit settlement of Umakarot was a snowcapped junkyard. Half-scavenged cars and trucks rose from the drifts like the bones of frozen metal beasts. Sheets of tin on tumbledown homes rattled in the wind.

And amid all the squalor lay the bodies.

In spite of the pervasive gloom, Anna could still see well enough to note that the first body they passed had been mutilated. The villager's nose had been removed. A gaping red triangle sat beneath the dead man's wide-open eyes.

The others they saw were like the first. "Zhirinsky," Anna hissed knowingly. With a tear of Velcro, she pulled her automatic from the pocket of her parka. Her eyes studied the washed-out grays and blacks that shadowed the village.

Remo and Chiun were proceeding cautiously. There was nothing in their movements that indicated either safety or danger. Anna pitched her voice low.

"Are we alone?" she asked.

"Nah," Remo replied. "We're pretty much surrounded."

From where they were walking, Remo and Chiun took note of eighteen commandos, all dressed in the same concealing off-white uniforms.

"Hey, be careful where you point that thing," Remo said.

Anna's gun barrel had strayed to his back as she studied the blank shadows. She quickly shifted it away.

"What are they doing?" Anna asked.

"Standing," Remo said. "If it wasn't for the guns they've got pointed at us, I'd say they kind of looked like snowmen. Albeit smelly, skinny Russian snowmen, one of which I think is carrying a beach pail full of noses. Yuck." His brow lowered. "Why do you suppose they haven't opened fire?"

"Perhaps they want my autograph," the Master of Sinanju sniffed as he padded along.

"Huh," Remo said. "That's weird."

"What?" Anna whispered. She had yet to see a living soul.

"One of these guys is kind of moving his hands funny," he said, making a point not to appear too interested in the soldier who loitered in the shadow of a fix-it shop. "Chiun tells me I move my hands like that, don't you, Chiun?"

The old Asian nodded. "There," he said, with a subtle chin motion. "Another does the same." When he followed the old man's gaze, Remo found a Russian standing in shadow near a tall stack of useless snowmobile chassis. To Remo's surprise, this soldier was also rotating his wrists absently.

"Now that's freaky," Remo mused. "You think Purcell taught them that to try to throw me off guard?"

"We do not know who taught them anything," Chiun cautioned. "Nor do we know how much they know. Therefore we must remain cautious."

"Fiddlesticks," Remo said. "Guy uses a gun's a guy who ain't so tough. Look, I'll prove it."

They were in the process of passing within a breath of one of the soldiers. Remo reached out casually, clamping on to the man's black goggles. With a yank he pulled them a foot away from the startled soldier's face and let them fly.

The goggles shot back much faster than they should have. With a thwack they struck his face, burying deep back in bone and brain.

The soldier appeared as if out of the ether, flopping to his back in the snow. He didn't move again. "See?" Remo pointed out with a knowing nod. "I told you."

Anna met the sudden appearance of the soldier with shallow shock. Her brain didn't have time to fully absorb what had happened before she felt herself being hoisted in the air. As the guns of the remaining soldiers abruptly blazed to life, Remo flung Anna to safety behind the nearby heap of half-dismantled snowmobiles.

"Stay put," Remo suggested as he twisted and twirled around the incoming spatter of screaming lead.

Leaving Anna crawling on her knees in the snow, Remo and Chiun swirled into the center of the small village. Like moths drawn to a flame, the soldiers converged.

The men continued firing even as their shielded eyes told them that they had to already have hit their targets. Any doubts they might have entertained were quickly settled by the Master of Sinanju.

Chiun launched himself at the soldiers. A flying kick to the forehead of a charging commando sent the man's head back like a swatted tennis ball. It struck the face of the man directly behind. Skull met skull in a fusion of bone that instantly turned the two soldiers into Siamese twins conjoined at the head.

"Remember, we keep one for questioning this time," Remo warned as the two men fell.

He slapped a gun barrel up into a soldier's chin. It sprang like the first spring dandelion from the top of the man's head.

"It is your turn," the Master of Sinanju replied, tossing aside a pair of kidneys. The man to whom the kidneys belonged fell to the snow, a gaping hole in his lower back.

"Sez who?" A pulverizing forearm sheered the top clean off a soldier's head. The bucket of noses he carried spilled to the snow.

"Do you recall who saved one for questioning several months ago on another of Emperor Smith's errands?" the old man asked indignantly.

Remo couldn't recall. "No," he admitted.

"In that case it is definitely your turn," Chiun concluded. With that, he swirled away in a flurry of kimono skirts.

"I think I've been had," Remo said as he wheeled into the next tight group of four Russians.

They aimed their guns at Remo's chest and fired. He danced around the blast, coming up beside the startled men.

"Eenie, meenie, miney, moe. One of you has got to go," Remo sang.

His hand flashed forward and he tapped one commando dead center in the forehead. Behind thick goggles, Moe's eyes rolled back in his head. Before the other three knew what had happened, Remo had picked up the unconscious soldier and thrown him behind the pile of snowmobile chassis.

Eenie, Meenie and Miney swirled to Remo. There was a grunt of muffled Russian from beneath one ski mask.

"Mactep," the man breathed fearfully.

Remo had already been exercising greater caution with these soldiers. But with mention of the Russian word for "Master," his senses tripped higher.

Straining alertness, he tried to detect any concealed signs of life or stealthy movements in the area, anticipating the approach of Chiun's false Master of legend.

None was evident. In fact, as the soldiers raised their guns once more-now in shaking hands-their goggles were aimed squarely on Remo.

"Maybe they just know quality work when they see it," Remo mused with a shrug.

Before the men could fire, he smacked the barrels of the two on either side. Already squeezing their triggers, the two outside men blasted the man in the middle to ribbons even as they were mowing each other down in the cross fire.

As this latest trio was falling, Remo skipped on to the rest, the promise of doom writ large on his cruel face.

ANNA WAS KNEELING in the cold snow, her pistol still clasped tightly in her hand. She was forced to scramble out of the way when the soldier Remo had knocked unconscious came sliding back to join her.

Moe slid to a stop, a soft mound of snow gathering like a pillow beneath his head.

Tearing her eyes from the battle in the street, she crawled cautiously over to the man. When she saw he didn't stir, she sat her gun on her thigh and-very delicately-tugged off his ski mask and goggles.

The soldier had black wiry hair and harsh features. When she saw that it was not Skachkov, her face grew darkly disappointed.

Behind Anna, the crack of bones rose from the street. Remo and Chiun would be finished soon.

She dropped the mask to the snow, picking up her gun once more. She cast one last look over the unconscious man in the snow.

"I am sorry, Yuri," she whispered softly.

Jaw determined, she raised her automatic to the face of the slumbering man.

REMO WAS in the process of disarming his last soldier. As the armless man fell screaming to the snow, Remo finished him with a sharp toe to the bridge of the nose.

He twirled on the Master of Sinanju. Chiun, too, had only one soldier left. The commando was lunging at the old Korean, knife in hand.

"Have you saved one?" Chiun asked tersely as he dodged the sharp blade.

Remo nodded even as he tossed away the arms of his final soldier. "We're covered this time. The rest are baggage."

Chiun nodded sharply. "I have enough luggage," the old Asian sniffed.

Long-nailed hands raked the last startled Russian's throat. The man died not with a scream, but with a gurgle.

The two Masters of Sinanju were turning from the last Russian body when they heard the crack of a single gunshot. It came from where Remo had left Anna and the soldier he'd saved.

Fearing the worst, the two men raced back down the street, ducking around the pile of scrap metal. They found Anna climbing to her feet, gun still in hand. Lying in the snow was the man Remo had kept for questioning. A gaping bullet hole decorated the dead soldier's forehead.

As they rounded the snowmobile heap, something near the corner of the adjacent house caught the Master of Sinanju's eye. Leaving Remo's side, the old man padded beyond Anna, stopping a few yards away. Remo stopped before the Russian agent.

"Dammit, Anna, what did you do that for?" Remo complained, waving a hand at the soldier's body.

"Forgive me, but are we not here to stop them?" Anna asked blandly. She dusted snow from her knees.

"Yeah, but I wanted to question that one. Why do you think I tossed him over here?"

Her face grew impatient. "If, Remo, your secret code involves flinging bodies, you two are constantly sending messages. What is the key? The way they fly through the air, or the way in which they land?"

"Har-de-har-har," Remo scowled. Hands on his hips, he looked down at the dead man. "This is just peachy. Next time you wanna help, count to ten and then don't."

"We haven't the time for this," Anna said, shaking her head. "Did any of these men offer any great resistance?"

Remo sighed. "No. Same as the last batch. Couple of moves here and there. That's it."

She seemed grimly satisfied. "Then it is unlikely any of them was Skachkov. He is better than the rest by far. Nevertheless, I had better make certain."

Turning, she headed out to the street where the Russian soldiers lay.

Remo glanced one last time at the dead man before spinning away in disgust. It was then that he spied the Master of Sinanju standing alone in the snow. The old man was peering down at something near his feet.

Puzzled, Remo walked over to his teacher. Before he'd even reached the tiny Korean, he saw what the Master of Sinanju was looking at.

A small body lay in the snow. It was a young girl, no more than nine years old.

Remo saw by the way the body was positioned that the child was the victim of a Sinanju floater stroke. It had been sloppily executed, but was effective just the same.

Chiun's face was unflinching. He stared down at the young girl with eyes of hazel stone. Remo's own expression mirrored that of his teacher. They stood there for a moment, side by side. Neither man said a word.

It was Remo who broke the silence.

"We're getting the guy who's behind this, Little Father," Remo vowed quietly. His tone was enough to chill the already frigid air.

No more words were needed. With sad and steely resolve, the only two true Masters of Sinanju slowly turned away from the tiny body.

Chapter 23

The Hind might as well have been purchased from a junk dealer. When it was delivered, it had been rusted and moss covered, with rotten wiring and missing seats. The parts needed to restore the helicopter to its former military specifications had taken forever to acquire on the black market. But acquire them he did.

The fact that Vladimir Zhirinsky could buy Red Army hardware in this new Russia was convenient to the cause. Still, it disgusted him. All would change soon enough.

The old Mil Mi-24 squatted now in the snow behind him, painted with cold-climate camouflage. His troops stood around it. At the moment they were six dozen strong. And that number would grow over the next few hours. Greater still in the days ahead.

Some had only recently joined the cause. A few of the SVR men who had warned him he was under surveillance in Moscow were here. Ready to fight for the motherland.

The other men he was bringing with him were all good, faithful Communists. All had been unable to forge lives in this new, sham Russia. Of course, they weren't trained like his special force in Alaska. Not yet. But they were loyal.

To the east behind both helicopter and men, the Anadyr Range was a blurry blue streak against the pale winter sky.

Zhirinsky stood in the cold of the Chukotsky Peninsula. He was at the very edge of Mother Russia, the end of the world for his nation for far too many years. Just a few miles away from the spot where he now paced were the frigid black waters of the Bering Strait. And on the other side of that, Vladimir Zhirinsky's destiny. And that of the new Soviet Union.

"They tried to stop me," Zhirinsky said to himself. "But my comrades would not allow it. History is on my side. I smell victory in the air!" he announced as he marched back and forth in the powdery snow. A path had been stamped flat beneath the squeaking soles of his long black boots.

Ivan Kerbabaev jumped. "'Victory, comrade!" he parroted nervously.

Zhirinsky slapped an enthusiastic paternal palm to the younger man's raw cheek. In the intense cold, the hand stung like fire.

"You smell it, too, eh?" Zhirinsky boomed. He pounded a balled fist to his own chest. "You have a strong Russian sense of smell. Like me."

The last thing Ivan Kerbabaev wanted his ultranationalist boss to talk about was anything that had to do with smelling or sniffing or picking or anything even remotely associated with noses.

"Uh, no. I mean. No. I mean..." A flash of desperation. "I must get going." He waved vaguely in the direction of Alaska. "There are preparations there that the others cannot be trusted to do."

Zhirinsky waved an angry hand. "They are Russian!" he proclaimed. "Of course they can be trusted."

"I did not mean-" Ivan said, shrinking from his employer.

But Zhirinsky didn't seem interested. Arms dropping to his hips, the ultranatlonalist studied the eastern sky with eyes of black.

Standing in the snow behind Vladimir Zhirinsky, Ivan dared not press the issue. But the truth was, more concerned him than just the work that was waiting for him in Alaska.

Ivan had only recently learned that the team left behind near Kakwik had not arrived at the designated rendezvous. Before breaking this news to his employer, he wanted to make sure Zhirinsky was in a good mood. A full stomach might help, so Ivan was anxious to hear back from the men who had been sent to gather Vladimir Zhirinsky's Eskimo take-out at Umakarot. They, too, were late in calling in.

Ivan gave an anxious smile. "The men in Fairbanks-" He cringed at the glare Zhirinsky gave him. "Zhirinskygrad," he corrected. "I really need to get over to them."

Zhirinsky threw his arms up. "Skachkov is there, is he not?"

"He will be arriving soon."

"There is no one better. We are poised to succeed. The Americans are weak. They haven't the will to fight back. After we reclaim Russian Alaska, our people will rise up to overthrow the whores in the Kremlin. Is anyone else hungry?"

The last words took Ivan off guard.

As he spoke, Zhirinsky seemed to have become fixated on Ivan's face. Hypnotized by sudden fear, the young man stood locked in place.

"Comrade?" he gulped.

When the broad smile flashed sharp, yellow teeth beneath Zhirinsky's bushy black mustache, Ivan suddenly realized that it was already too late.

Growling savagely, Zhirinsky lunged.

Ivan fell back, stumbling into a line of waiting soldiers.

"Comrade, it's me!" Ivan pleaded.

But Zhirinsky didn't hear. Blood lust sang in his ears.

"Hold him," Zhirinsky commanded.

The men grabbed on tight. Strong hands forced the thrashing aide to the ground. When Vladimir Zhirinsky knelt in the snow, a warm frothy drool was already forming at the edges of his great mustache.

"Do you really smell victory, Ivan?" he hissed. "I must see for myself."

Ivan jerked his head to one side. A set of unseen hands clamped firmly to either side of his head, twisting him straight. Zhirinsky loomed above. Eyes wild, he pressed in close.

"Comrade!" Ivan begged. "Your Eskimos! Do you want to spoil your supper?"

Zhirinsky's mouth was open, his tongue brushing the tip of his assistant's nose. His breath was warm and rancid as he considered. All at once, Vladimir Zhirinsky drew back, his teeth bared now in a thoughtful smile.

"I did order supper," he agreed.

"Yes, yes," Ivan insisted, relieved.

"Still, I think I can sneak one little appetizer." Ivan had closed his eyes in panting relief. They sprang open just in time to see Zhirinsky lunge. Sharp incisors snapped on tight. With a mighty chomp and a twist, Vladimir Zhirinsky ripped off his screaming assistant's nose. He gobbled it greedily, his Adam's apple bobbing appreciatively above the stiff neck of his Red Army greatcoat.

When Zhirinsky stood, blood streamed down his chin.

On the ground at his back, Ivan lay in shock. Watery blood bubbled from the gaping holes of his exposed nasal cavities. No one moved to help him.

"More addictive than American potato chips," the ultranationalist observed as he licked the blood from his teeth. His expression was deeply thoughtful. "You cannot eat just one."

Patting his slight paunch, Vladimir Zhirinsky raised his black eyes. To once more study the cold eastern sky.

Chapter 24

Remo called Smith from the counter phone at the Umakatot general store.

"Just me again," he announced when the CURE director picked up.

His face and tone were lifeless. The gruesome scene outside was too strong an image to casually dismiss. "Remo, thank God," Smith said. "There may have been another attack. Someone in a small village radioed for help."

"Been there, killed that," Remo said. He gave a quick rundown of events in Umakarot. "So that's it, Smitty," he finished. "Except that it is definitely not my fault we don't have one for questioning this time. I saved one, but-" He hesitated.

Anna stood near the entrance to the store. Her proud face was unapologetic.

"Well, our signals got crossed, that's all," Remo said. He cupped the phone. "You could at least look sorry," he snapped at Anna.

"That is unfortunate," Smith was saying. "I have been unable thus far to track down Zhirinsky."

"What, did Little Lord Fauntleroy blow a circuit in his magic eight ball?"

"Mark has been quite helpful in this crisis, Remo," Smith said, his tone growing vague. "And his input should not concern you. It is Zhirinsky who is the problem. Given what we already know, it seems clear that he wishes to absorb Alaska into the Russian federation."

"A guy after Chiun's own heart," Remo grunted. "Doesn't he have enough freezing weather back home?"

"Do not compare the creature responsible for this destruction to me," intoned the Master of Sinanju. He stood near Anna. His lifeless eyes were directed out the frosted front window of the general store.

"Sorry," Remo called. To Smith he said, "I just don't know why he's not trying to take over Hawaii instead."

"According to his published views on the topic, he considers Alaska to still be Russian property. After all, other than the convenience of its geographical proximity, Alaska was once part of Russia."

"Yeah, right," Remo scoffed. "So was Pittsburgh. Sounds like he's an even bigger nut than he's getting credit for."

"It's true," Smith insisted.

Remo frowned. "Get outta town. When did this happen?"

"Secretary of State William Seward purchased the territory in 1867," the CURE director said dryly.

"You sure about that?" Remo asked. "Or is this one of those things like the Japanese buying Manhattan or the Chinese buying a U.S. president? Because that Japanese one wound up not being true." Across the room came a hiss of annoyance from the Master of Sinanju. Even Anna was rolling her eyes. "How little did you learn in that Christian poorhouse?" Chiun asked.

"So sue me for cutting American-history class," Remo groused at them. "Sister Mary Elizabeth stunk like cheese and spit like a sprinkler."

"I wish you had managed to save one of the commandos, Remo," Smith said, steering them back to the topic at hand. "Did you at least find out how many there are?"

"Yeah," Remo said. "Somewhere in the neighborhood of 150."

"That many?" Smith asked. By his tone he was clearly troubled by the potential problem a number that large represented.

"Tell me about it," Remo agreed. "And by the looks of it, Purcell trained them to copy our mannerisms and everything. He's probably sitting with his crayons and bathrobe right now having a mountain of yucks at our expense."

"About that," Smith said. "To be safe, I checked on Purcell after our last conversation. He is still under heavy sedation. If he is to blame, then it is as you said. He trained these men prior to his hospitalization here. Have you had any luck establishing a more certain link?"

"No, Smitty," Remo admitted. "But it's him. Even Nuihc wouldn't have given away Sinanju wholesale. He'd know it's too precious a commodity in a few hands. This has the fingerprints of a happy-farm reject all over it."

At his words Chiun spun from the window, deep annoyance creasing his parchment face. "It is not Sinanju, Emperor," he called. "They do not even have the basic breathing techniques that are mastered by Korean pupils in the first months of training. What they have are tricks and deceptions. Things to fool the eye and nothing more."

"Tell Master Chiun that is only somewhat of a relief," Smith said.

"Chiun, Smitty says-"

"I heard," Chiun sniffed, turning back to the window.

"Anyway, we took out another eighteen of those guys here in Ustinkalot, or whatever the name of this place is. So we're up to twenty-eight we've packed on ice."

"It's a start," Smith said, exhaling. "If Zhirinsky's intention is to foment terror, cutting into his forces will make that more difficult to do."

"Still don't know what he's thinking with all this," Remo said. "He can wave the hammer and sickle till the cows come home, but there's no point. It's not like there's even a Soviet Union anymore."

"In Zhirinsky's mind there is," Anna chimed in. Since her secret was now out, there was no point in remaining silent. "Just because it has been shattered into pieces, that does not mean those pieces cannot be put back together. Zhirinsky sees himself as the glue that will make the old Soviet Union whole once more."

Her eyes were dull as she watched Remo from across the store.

Smith tried not to react to her voice. "Ms. Chutesov's analysis is correct," he said evenly. "However, without further information to go on, we are in a holding pattern. You cannot remain there. The authorities will be arriving shortly. Call me when-"

A muted beep sounded from the other end of the line.

"Please hold," Smith said crisply.

Remo heard the sound of Smith's fingers drumming the edge of his desk as the CURE director accessed whatever information the mainframes had just flagged for him.

It took but a moment before he was back.

"My God," the CURE director croaked. The words barely registered over the line. His throat had turned to dust.

"What's wrong, Smitty?" Remo asked, instantly wary.

Smith's breathing was a pained wheeze. "Zhirinsky's men have surfaced in Fairbanks," Smith said woodenly. "And if the claim they have just made is true, he may well have the means to take over a large portion of inhabited Alaska."

And his voice was as hollow as a tomb.

Chapter 25

Lavrenty Skachkov was the product of the improbable union of a grubby Sevastopol tractor mechanic and a retired Bolshoi ballerina.

In Soviet Russia the best that could generally be hoped for in life was eventual work as a KGB komendant in some out-of-the-way posting. That was the best. More than likely someone like Lavrenty would apprentice with his father, following not only in his footsteps as a mechanic, but modeling his entire life after the senior Skachkov. Endless grimy days would feed bitter drunken nights. There would be smoking, cancer at an early age and, mercifully, death.

This was the likeliest life for young Lavrenty because it had been the life for millions in his social class for generations. But fate had something different in store for Lavrenty. Something odd had happened in the strange genetic cocktail from which this young man of destiny had sprung.

"Stop running inside!" Lavrenty's grandmother would yell at him when he was only three.

"Get out of that tree!" Lavrenty's mother would shout into the courtyard they shared with a dozen other families.

More than once his father needed to borrow a ladder to get his son down off the gabled tile roof of the small apartment building in which the Skachkovs lived.

Lavrenty's youthful energy translated into a talent for sports. So good was he at nearly everything he tried that at the tender age of six he was taken from his family.

Olympic athletes were always in demand. Lavrenty Skachkov would win many gold medals for the motherland.

Lavrenty's trainers didn't need to experiment on their young protege with dangerous doses of chemicals-either legal or otherwise. Lavrenty came by his skills naturally.

He was an accomplished swimmer and diver. He was graceful enough to be a gymnast, though he was a bit too large and had not begun the formal training at an early enough age. When it came time to decide on what skills would best serve his country, his speed won out. The Olympic coaches chose to groom young Lavrenty as their greatest track and field star. And one day soon he would win gold medals.

He trained hard and long. And when his time finally came, Lavrenty Skachkov-the prodigy that everyone said could not lose-lost to an opponent no one expected. History.

December 25, 1991, brought an end to the Soviet Union. The entire Russian Olympic training program collapsed with the old Communist regime.

Lavrenty had bought into the promises of the state and of his coaches. When Russia collapsed, Lavrenty Skachkov saw his dreams collapse, as well.

For years his creature comforts-though few in number-were supplied by the state. But with little money offered by this new democratic government, Lavrenty was forced to find a job to subsidize his own training. The strain on his regimen dashed forever his Olympic dreams.

It was too humiliating to bear. After twelve years away from home, he returned in defeat to Sevastopol, where he crawled inside a vodka bottle. There he marinated.

Lavrenty might have followed-albeit belatedly-the pattern established by all preceding Skachkov males if not for one fateful day.

He was in the squalid apartment he shared with a raunchy Russian techno-punk band. When the pounding started at eight in the morning, Lavrenty, who was still hungover from the night before, assumed it was the band rehearsing. It took several bleary moments to realize that someone was at the door.

Head spinning, Lavrenty staggered to answer it. The impatient figure standing in the filthy, urine-soaked hallway wore a look of haughty disdain. "You are drunk," his visitor said in introduction. Lavrenry didn't remember much after that. The effort to open the door had been too much for him. As the stranger's face soured, Lavrenty's world spun crazily around his head. Spewing vomit, the former Soviet star athlete passed out.

When he awoke on his torn sofa it was afternoon.

The apartment had only one window. Brilliant yellow sunlight streamed in through the torn black shade. Lavrenty tried to blink the pain from his eyes. When he rolled his head to one side, he found he wasn't alone. The threadbare easy chair across from the couch was occupied.

"You are disgusting," his visitor sneered. "You live like a pig. This apartment is filthy."

"Who the hell are you?" Lavrenty snarled. Hand pressed to his forehead, he sat up.

"I am the person who is about to give you an offer that you do not deserve."

Bloodshot eyes suspicious, Lavrenty pushed to his feet. "It sounds like I'll need a drink for this," he said.

"Don't bother. I dumped all the liquor down the sink while you were unconscious."

Already halfway to the tiny kitchen, Lavrenty stopped. The apartment continued to spin.

"You what?" he demanded.

"Alcohol is not permitted in your new training regimen," his visitor said calmly.

With those words it was suddenly all very clear. Lavrenty's shoulders drooped and he fell against the nearby wall for support. "No, not again," he moaned.

"I am not with the Russian Olympic team. I have nothing to do with your silly running games. I am offering you something new. Something that you might not deserve and that you certainly do not now have. I offer you a life, a future. Both rare commodities in Russia at the present time. You need only say yes and your life changes today."

Lavrenty was still leaning against the wall. It was greasy. The floor was worse. Moldy and rotted. Rats scurried around it at night.

"I have heard this promise before," the former athlete said weakly. There was surrender in his voice. His visitor leaned forward. "No, you haven't. Before when they came for you, you could not decline." The truth of his visitor's words hung heavy in the fetid apartment air.

The stranger stood. "You will have food and shelter. There is no drink, and the training is difficult, but it is a better life than you will ever have here."

Lavrenty dragged his eyes around the dirty apartment. His gaze finally settled on his guest.

"What is the name of the person for whom I will be working?" he asked with tired acceptance. There was not a hint of satisfaction on his visitor's pale, chiseled face.

"My name is Anna Chutesov," she said crisply. And a glimmer of something that might have been regret touched the depths of her blue eyes.

A BLACK VAN WHISKED Lavrenty Skachkov to the airport that afternoon. By nightfall he was in Moscow. His training at the Institute began the next day.

Those first two years were a living nightmare. Everything he had learned as an Olympic athlete had to be unlearned. The lessons were endless. The instructors far more demanding than those in the Olympic training facilities.

He watched them in action a thousand times. A thousand times a thousand times.

The two men carried themselves with a grace of movement that was impossible, nearly inhuman. The first few hundred lessons, he couldn't unravel the complexity. When at last he saw the truth, he realized that it was simplicity disguised as complexity. At the same time the opposite was true. And in that paradox was their secret.

They never spoke. Never said a single word to Lavrenty. Yet they became his greatest teachers. One moved with a skittering grace, the other with a confident glide. They seemed able to appear and disappear at will.

"May I speak with them?" Lavrenty asked Anna Chutesov one afternoon after his first few months of training.

Anna glanced at Lavrenty's two teachers. A strange expression settled on her beautiful face. "No, you may not," she said quietly, as if afraid they might overheat.

"Then you tell me," Lavrenry whispered in awe. "How do they do what they do?"

"I don't know," Anna admitted. "But if you follow their example properly, you may one day be able to do the same."

Lavrenty couldn't believe it. Yet he had signed on to the program, called Mactep, and so had no choice. In an underground training chamber, Lavrenty was covered with grease-smeared electrodes. His silent teachers joined him. Technicians were in a sealed booth above the chamber to monitor his progress. Success went unrewarded. Failure was punished with excruciating electric shocks. Lavrenty received many shocks during his first months of training.

It was frustrating beyond belief. Much harder than the training he had endured in his youth. Most times he was certain that he could never succeed.

Then one day, when he least expected it, he actually matched a move.

Lavrenty was shocked. It was a small thing. A mere baby step compared to the abilities of his teachers. But to Lavrenty, it was life-changing. In that moment the impossible became possible.

A few more arduous years followed, during which Lavrenty eventually matched every move made by his teachers. When he was done, he couldn't believe how easy it had been. There was an obviousness to it all that should have been evident to him on that very first day.

A handful of others had preceded him in the program. These, he learned, had used their skills to protect the Institute from the mobs at the end of the Communist age. They had christened their skills in blood.

Lavrenty was better than them all. He surpassed the skills of all who came before or after him in the program. His superior ability inspired awe in the men with whom he shared quarters in that big, ominous building in Kitai Gorod. So revered was he that the others bestowed the program designation on him. Lavrenty became Mactep to them. Master.

Yet all his awesome skills were for naught. While some of the others had been able to put their lesser talents to use during the prodemocracy uprising, the great Master Lavrenty Skachkov was given no such chance.

When his training was complete, Lavrenty had gone to see Anna Chutesov.

She was in her small basement office. The big floor safe in the corner was open. As Lavrenty stood before her desk, he noted the rows of videotapes lined up on the shelves at the back of the safe.

"What is it, Lavrenty?" Anna had asked.

"I was wondering, Director Chutesov," he said, "when I would be allowed to test my skills." As he spoke, he rotated his wrists absently.

"We already test your skills daily," Anna had replied.

"Not here," he insisted. "I mean in the real world. Others have been used before me. When will I get my chance?"

Anna set her hands to her desk, her fingers interlocked.

"When will I permit you to kill-is that what you want to know?" she asked.

The twitch of one eye told her that this was his desire.

"We are agents to be deployed, are we not?"

"No," Anna answered evenly. "You are something else entirely. And if I have my way, you will never see active duty." Before he could object, she plowed on. "The men you have spoken to were sent by me to disperse the crowds during the days of civil unrest. It was an action not undertaken lightly and done only for the specific purpose of protecting the secrets of the Institute. Once the crowds left us alone, the men were withdrawn."

"So we are a counterinsurgency force," Lavrenty said, still wrestling with his confusion.

Anna shook her head. "You are a mistake, Lavrenty," she replied. "One for which I am responsible and one that the idiot men in power have seized upon." Her voice softened as she considered what had brought them to this point. "Before I became director of this agency, there was a plan to bring a pair of American agents over here to work for the Institute. That plan failed. Unwittingly, I offered those in the Kremlin another chance. Over my objections, they seized on it. All you have been through-all the pain, the sweat, the endless training-is the product of a stupid idea."

As she spoke, Lavrenty could feel his world slowly shrinking. "But what is our purpose?" he asked.

"To keep our idiot leaders happy," Anna replied. "Perhaps to keep them from making any rash decisions when dealing with America, although I think that time has long passed. We continued to do what we do here now because things were set in motion ten years ago and it is impossible to get a man to stop doing a stupid thing if he believes it to be smart. Ultimately, Lavrenty, you and the others are weapons that will never be used."

Harsher medicine Lavrenty Skachkov had never taken. All of the years, the electric shocks. All for nothing.

When he returned to the barracks to tell the others, morale at the Institute collapsed more completely than had the old Soviet system. All the men there had assumed they were being prepared for some higher purpose. The truth was almost too much for them to bear.

For the next few months, Lavrenty and the others went through the motions. They engaged in their training-much of which was now handled personally by Master Lavrenty-but it was hollow exercise. Life without purpose.

Lavrenty considered escape. They were meant to be enrolled in the Mactep program for life, but with the skills he now possessed it would be impossible for them to stop him. Yet these men belonged to him and he to them. They were part of a fraternity like no other. And so he stayed.

His pointless life at the Institute had begun to feel much like his life of drunken despair in Sevastopol, when fate once more intervened to rescue Lavrenty Skachkov.

He was on summer leave from the Institute. Instead of going home, he remained in Moscow. On the first evening of his vacation he went for a stroll through Gorky Park. Walking along a winding path, Lavrenty came across a small crowd. Men and women formed a circle around a speaker who stood on an upended Absolut crate. The man had wild graying hair, a big bushy mustache and unblinking black eyes that seemed to target every member of his audience like twin rifle scopes.

Lavrenty listened to Vladimir Zhirinsky rant and rave for over three hours. The sun had long fallen and the last of the crowd dispersed before the ultranationalist finally climbed down from his makeshift stage. By then he had already won over a new convert to his cause.

Zhirinsky wasn't entirely accepting at first. In fact, when Lavrenty went to introduce himself, the former Russian senator snapped his teeth like an angry dog. Only when the man who had been standing before him vanished and Zhirinsky found that he was not savoring a mouthful of nose did he start to get an inkling that there was something odd about this late-night encounter.

"Where did you go?" Zhirinsky asked the shadows of the park. His black eyes were slivers. "Trotsky?" he questioned softly. "Kosygin?" His voice grew awed, as if he scarcely dared entertain the notion. "Stalin?"

A tap on his shoulder. He wheeled.

He saw the young man again. Short white hair. Delicate features. Like a woman's. This was not one of the great leaders of days long past, come back to aid him in his struggle against the lapdogs of the West now in the Kremlin.

If he was not going to get help from the heroes of the Revolution, he was at least going to get a meal. His brief moment of hope dashed, Zhirinsky lashed out again. Again the man vanished.

Only the second time did Zhirinsky realize something large indeed might be going on here. When he reappeared this time, the young man's delicate face was serious.

"Comrade," Lavrenty said, surprised by how happy it made him to use the old form of address, "we need to talk."

That night Lavrenty broke the most important rule of the Institute. He told an outsider precisely what was going on in that somber building with the bricked-up windows.

For his part Vladimir Zhirinsky had a hard time controlling his drool, let alone his joy.

Together that very night, the two men hatched a scheme that would liberate the others from the Institute. Zhirinsky already had plans for Mother Russia. With the addition of these specially trained forces to the mix, he was more certain than ever that he could achieve his goals.

The only real problem would be Anna Chutesov. She was never away from the Institute for more than a few hours at a time. While Zhirinsky suggested they kill the pesky woman and leave with their heads held high, Lavrenty could not bring himself to do the deed. Director Chutesov had been the only person in his life who had ever made clear promises to him without ever breaking a single one.

With Anna there, they could not just up and leave, for she apparently had ties to the highest level of government. She would alert the army were they to defect.

And even his men might have difficulty against the entire Russian army.

The solution came as a surprise nine months after Lavrenty's first chance meeting with Vladimir Zhirinsky.

Anna Chutesov had summoned Lavrenty to her office to tell him she was going away. An assignment had come up, and she had been ordered to leave at once. Since the other men looked up to Lavrenry as their leader, she put him in charge of them during her absence. The way she spoke that day, it sounded almost as if she expected not to return.

She was gone no more than an hour when Vladimir Zhirinsky's rusted-out Zil pulled to a coughing stop before the Institute building.

Lavrenty met the ultranationalist at the curb. With a simple downward stroke of his hand, the Institute's reigning Master broke the chain on the driveway fence and led the former senator down into the heart of modern Russia's most closely guarded secret.

The others didn't know of his betrayal. They were shocked when he walked into their barracks with an outsider.

They all recognized Vladimir Zhirinsky. Many there agreed with his political views. Jaws dropped. Eyes looked to Lavrenty for an explanation while the ultranationaiist silently toured the rows of worn beds and battered bureaus.

At the far end of the barracks, Zhirinsky had stopped, turning slowly. His black eyes were dully accusing.

"Is this a kennel?" Zhirinsky had asked quietly. No one said a word. Initial confusion was slowly giving away to a sense of creeping hope. Zhirinsky's bushy eyebrows formed an angry V. "Have they removed your tongues as well as your will to fight for Mother Russia?" he exploded.

Fire lit in his dark eyes, igniting sparks in their own. Without even realizing it, they snapped to attention. "No, sir!"

The fire in his eyes grew cold.

"I am not a 'sir,'" he spit in contempt. "I am your comrade. Your equal. And together we comrades will make them all fear once more the might of a united Russia!"

When they saw Master Lavrenty cheer, the others knew they had finally found their special purpose. In the person of Vladimir Zhirinsky, they had their savior.

A cheer rose up from the buried basement of the Institute building, like a chorus of lost souls, muffled by dirt and concrete and the hum of passing cars.

And through it all, a smile remained plastered to the delicate face of Lavrenty Skachkov. He was finally going to be able to fulfill his purpose in life. The Mactep program had bestowed on him the powers of a god. With them, Lavrenty Skachkov was at long last going to be allowed to kill.

THEY WERE GHOSTS. Shadows upon shadows, slipping silently through the streets of Fairbanks.

Master Lavrenty led the Institute army. Here a lonely car moved. There a streetlamp sliced the night. The Russians avoided it all. Of the world, but not. According to Zhirinsky, the city of forty thousand would be an easy target. By the standards of the contiguous United States, it was a small town. But it was along the pipeline route, and so served a strategic purpose.

They had abandoned their trucks and helicopters well outside of town, coming in from the north.

Fort Wainwright lay sleeping beyond the Chena River on the east side of town. The Russians steered clear of the Army base. The clock had long struck midnight by the time they made their cautious way along First Avenue.

Lavrenty found the flatbed trailer precisely where it was supposed to be. Parked along the side of the road. Smuggled in so easily. Like all of their equipment.

Comrade Zhirinsky was right. Openness fed weakness. The Americans were too trusting. And for that, Master Lavrenty thought, they would pay dearly.

Huge tarpaulins-lashed down with heavy rope and chains-hid the vehicle's cargo from view. Even so, the long cylindrical outline was visible beneath the dirty tarps.

Lavrenty and the others stayed to the shadows. On cautious, gliding feet they approached the truck. The street was empty. Other than the rattling of the tarpaulins, the only sound came from a tiny scrap of paper that flapped in the wind under the windshield wiper of the truck's flat-nosed cab.

Lavrenty wore his goggles and white mask. He pulled them off now as he crept up the side of the truck. Cold wind stirred his short hair.

Unlike the rest, Lavrenty carried no gun. With one bare knuckle, he tapped twice on the driver's-side door.

A startled grunt came from inside. Fingers fumbled the lock and the door popped open.

The face that appeared looked ill.

Ivan Kerbabaev's head was wrapped in bandages. A big wad of blood-soaked gauze was plastered to the spot where his nose should have been. Lavrenty noted that there was no bump beneath. The bandages ran below Ivan's eyes, tied sloppily at the back of his head.

Ivan hitched the cotton dressing up around his right ear as he climbed down to the cold street.

"Are all your men here?" Zhirinsky's aide mumbled.

Speaking obviously caused him pain. When Ivan winced, the twitching caused his bloody bandages to bunch.

"My men are all around you," Skachkov said, uninterested in Ivan's discomfort.

A wave of his hand brought the other commandos out of hiding. They had been lurking along the shadowed walls of the nearby buildings. At his signal, they faded up out of the darkness on either side of the road, stepping into the cold amber light cast by the streetlamps.

"What about the bissing ben?" Ivan said, struggling with the words.

"Not yet," Lavrenty said. "And those sent after Comrade Zhirinsky's...souvenirs have not reported in yet, either. However, I am not concerned. No doubt it is a communications problem. They understand the plan and where they need to be. They will arrive before the night is over."

"Berry well," Ivan said. He seemed more concerned with his own pain than with the missing men. "The rest of our men will be arriving from Russia soon. You will be coordinating with dem when dey land."

Lavrenty's spine stiffened. "Do not call them 'our' men," he said. "My men are here. Whatever else may come, they are inferior to us."

Ivan seemed not interested in the least in the whitehaired man's disdainful words. He was shifting his bandages at his ears once more. He squinted at the fresh pain.

Lavrenry exhaled impatience at the pathetic little man.

"Is the warhead armed?" he spit.

Ivan's shaking hand scurried to his face. He cast a frightened eye back along the length of the truck. The tarpaulins continued to rattle in the wind.

"Yes," he said uncertainly. "I will contact the media as soon as your positions are secure."

As he spoke, a fresh gust of wind grabbed the scrap of paper under the truck's wiper, slapping it angrily against the glass. Lavrenty's face puckered in annoyance.

"What is that?" he asked. Reaching up, he plucked the paper free.

"A parking ticket," Ivan replied. "Comrade Zhirinsky did not give me any change for the meter." At their leader's name, Ivan winced once more. Offering a fresh look of disgust, Lavrenty wadded up the ticket, throwing it to the street. The wind took it, sweeping it off down the road, away from the trailer and its radioactive cargo.

Chapter 26

Anna Chutesov's helicopter whipped over plains of snow. With whining purpose it screamed toward Fairbanks. In the back Remo's expression was dark.

"Who's watching your nuclear secrets over there, Bill Richardson?" he snapped at Anna. "With all you've got invested in that bum-twaddle program of yours, you'd think you'd at least lock your bombs in a KGB closet somewhere like you did with Hitler's brain."

"Crime is rampant in Russia," Anna explained, her own face grave. "Anything can be had for a price."

"You've got a lot to learn about selective control of criminals," Remo grumbled. "The trick is to cave to them on all the small stuff. That way the medium stuff looks big and they stay away completely from the really big stuff. That's the American way."

Anna's expression grew bland. "Thank you, but Russia will handle Russia's crime problems," she said dryly.

"Whizbang job so far, Anna," Remo said. "And at least when our Mafia talks kilos, you know they're measuring cocaine, not tons."

"There is no record of a warhead being stolen from any of our bases."

"Yeah, and the black market's just so good about filling out all the proper forms," he said sarcastically. "And maybe they didn't need to take a whole one. The way things are going over there, maybe they built one from spare parts."

Anna frowned. "There is some record of Boris Feyodov's group being interested in certain technical items. Some could have been used to construct a bomb."

"Could have been?" Remo said. "Anna, Feyodov was the guy who smuggled a Russian particle-beam weapon into California piece by piece, remember?"

She ignored his acid tone. "As I told you, they had been working together."

"Perfect," Remo said. "We're probably flying smack-dab into ground zero."

He glanced at the Master of Sinanju. "We can set down anytime, Little Father," he said. "No sense both of us getting fried."

The old man shook his head. "It is your destiny to face the renegade Master," he intoned solemnly. "Knowing you, you would become distracted by his night tigers and allow him to get away. Or worse. I cannot allow five thousand years of Sinanju history to end because of your flitting mind."

In spite of the words, they both knew the truth. Chiun was worried for Remo. Remo turned back to Anna.

"By the sounds of it, our work's cut out for us," he said. "According to Smith, they took over all the public buildings during the night. Once they took the city hall, their mouthpiece let everyone know about the loose nuke. Smitty had the Army base evacuated out beyond the city limits when they threatened to set it off."

"He would not explode the boom if he wishes to keep this city as a prize," Chiun observed.

"I'm thinking that the nice man who eats people's faces might not be that easy to predict," Remo said. "And we've got a city full of people to worry about up there."

"Not long ago you were willing to sacrifice another city," Chiun suggested. He was looking out the window.

"Those people weren't mine," Remo said, his voice low.

Anna frowned. "I thought your people were in Sinanju."

"They are," Chiun insisted.

"Look, the fact is, I've got people there, people here. I've even got some stashed away on an Indian reservation. I'm up to my armpits in people. Right now I'm an American, and it's my job to protect the people in Fairbanks."

The Master of Sinanju's gaze was still directed out the side window. His hazel eyes narrowed.

"Tell me, Remo, for I have lost track," Chiun said. "Of all the many groups of people it is your duty to protect, which are the ones who are about to shoot us from the sky?"

As the old Korean spoke, there came a frantic shout from Anna's pilot. She darted to the cockpit even as Remo crowded the window beside the Master of Sinanju.

Two Navy F-14 fighters had appeared off the port side of the helicopter. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw two more through the opposite window. Their distance made them almost seem to match the Kamov's slower speed.

"Since they haven't figured out in Sinanju how to bang two rocks together to make fire, I'd say it's my American people," Remo said aridly. "I'd better go talk to them. One earful of Anna's accent and we'll be riding the rest of the way to town on the nose of a Sidewinder missile."

WHILE THE TOMCATS didn't shoot them down, they did force the Kamov to land a dozen miles outside of Fairbanks.

When Remo, Chiun and Anna climbed down to the snow, a hundred M-16 barrels were there to greet them.

A sea of U.S. Army soldiers surrounded the helicopter. The entire population of Fort Wainwright was bivouacked along the sides of Route 3.

"Why isn't anyone ever happy to see us?" Remo groused.

Digging in his pocket, he waved his bogus CIA ID over his head like a lit road flare until it attracted the attention of an Army Colonel. The man was in his early fifties, with a sour disposition and a face bitten raw with cold. The name Hawkins was stitched to his heavy coat.

"What were you doing in a Russian helicopter?" Colonel Hawkins demanded as he inspected Remo's ID.

"Mostly I was being irritated," Remo replied. "But until you guys showed up, it was pretty much just at the Russian limit-one-weapon-of-mass-destructionper-crazy-man policy. Now, would you be a dear and let us take off? I've got World War III to stop."

"The Russians and Americans at war is the least of our worries," Chiun insisted. "Do not forget the curse of Wang."

"Sorry, sir," Colonel Hawkins said to Remo even as he eyed the old Korean. "There's a no-fly zone around Fairbanks. Orders from above. If you're not sanctioned by them to land, you won't get in in one piece."

"They have air support?" Anna asked.

Eyes widening, the Colonel took a step back. "She's a Russkie," he said. His hand dropped to his side arm.

"She's with us," Remo explained, uninterested. To Chiun he said, "And don't call it the curse of Wang. Makes it sound like we're out Viagra shopping."

The Colonel looked from Remo to Anna to the wrinkled face of the Master of Sinanju. When he looked back to Remo, he was shaking his head.

"You guys can't be for real," Hawkins said. Remo was no longer paying attention to him. "We need transportation," he said to the others.

"That vehicle will do," Anna announced, pointing to a nearby Land Rover. It was parked amid a sea of Army trucks and jeeps on the snow-lined highway.

As the three of them hurried over to the truck, the Colonel jogged to keep up.

"That's mine," Colonel Hawkins said. "And just where exactly do you think you're going?"

Remo ignored the question. "Keys," he said, sticking out his hand.

"What?" the Colonel said. "No way. CIA or not, you're gonna need some kind of authorization for this."

"Chiun, you want to show the nice man our authorization?" Remo asked.

Colonel Hawkins saw a flash of movement in the direction of the old Asian. At least he thought he saw something. In the next moment the Colonel suddenly gave less concern to what he might have seen than to what he actually felt.

A bony hand clamped on to his ankle. Before Hawkins knew what was happening, he was being lifted off the road and the world was spinning up on end.

Holding the soldier upside down, the Master of Sinanju shook him until the Land Rover's keys slipped out of the man's pocket. They landed with a jangle in the powdery snow. Along with his wallet, comb, dog tags and automatic.

As Remo fished the keys from the snow, Chiun stuck Hawkins deep into a snowdrift until only his frantically kicking legs were visible.

"We'll try not to scratch it," Remo promised the Colonel's boots as the three of them piled in.

As soldiers began to dig out the Colonel, the Land Rover's engine roared to life. Squealing tires threw a stream of dirty snow back across the struggling men as the vehicle pulled away from the shoulder.

Flying away from the tent city, the Land Rover tore off up the lonely stretch of highway toward Fairbanks.

VLADIMIR ZHIRINSKY WAITED in ankle-deep snow. Through the wispy white blanket peeked the hardpacked, blue-tinged surface of a glacier. Frozen wind churned the choppy black surface of the Bering Strait. Whitecaps raged against the towering glacier wall. Zhirinsky's destiny waited three miles away.

The ultranationalist was unbothered by the cold. Proud, bare Russian face mocked the desolate howling wind.

"Comrade?"

Zhirinsky glanced to the voice.

A soldier stood at his elbow, greatcoat collar drawn up tightly around his neck. Mucous dribbled from his nostrils, freezing on his chapped upper lip.

Zhirinsky stared hungrily at the man's runny nose. The soldier pushed up one shoulder so that his nose was hidden behind his collar. "It is Comrade Kerbabaev," he said, his voice muffled. He handed over the portable radio he was carrying before retreating to a safe distance.

"Speak," the ultranationalist commanded.

Ivan's every word sounded as if it were causing him excruciating pain.

"Skachkov and his men have secured the city," the scratchy voice said over the radio. "I have also shown their city leaders the nuclear device. The Army is staying away. They have agreed to an air corridor to allow you entry to the city. You may come over anytime." Zhirinsky's black eyes glinted.

"Before I reclaim Russia's property, I want the infestation removed," he said, his voice a low growl.

"Comrade?" Ivan asked, confused.

"The Americans. I want them gone," Zhirinsky said, the fire of long-smoldering rage swelling within him. "They are a disease. A poison. They pollute the world with their notions of freedom. They have corrupted Russia, corroding the will of a once mighty nation. I do not want to see a single American face when I set foot in Zhirinskygrad."

A pause on the line during which the only sound was that of the wind.

"Do you want them dead?" Ivan asked.

Beneath his great mustache, Zhirinsky's thick lips thinned. "All in good time. Once the Soviet Union has retaken its rightful position as superpower, we will deal with all of America. For now, expel them from my city."

Ivan tried to strike up a reasonable tone. "We did not expel the Poles or the Czechs or the Romanians," he said. "And with the American population gone, our position here will be weakened."

Zhirinsky's voice grew cold. "Do not make me question your loyalty, Comrade Kerbabaev," he growled.

The threat hung heavy in the cold air.

"No, sir, comrade sir," Ivan whimpered. "I will tell Skachkov to begin an evacuation."

Zhirinsky snapped off the radio, tossing it back to the runny-nosed soldier.

"Start the engines!" Zhirinsky commanded. Across the plain, men scrambled aboard two dozen waiting Hind gunship helicopters. As the engines coughed to life, Zhirinsky strode off toward them, eager to finally rendezvous with history.

THEY MET the first evacuees six miles out from Fairbanks. To Remo the trudging line of men and women was a vision out of some war-torn European country.

The people were wrapped in multiple layers of clothing. Some dragged duffel bags, suitcases-whatever they could carry. Farther down the road some luggage had already been abandoned. Weeping children cried freezing tears.

Remo pulled his borrowed Land Rover to a stop near a Fairbanks police department deputy. The haggard man was helping to shepherd the people along.

"What the hell's this?" Remo demanded, flashing his ID.

"We've been ordered to empty the town," the officer said.

Remo pulled his head back in the window. "How Fiddler on the Roof can you get?" he asked Anna and Chiun.

Powering up the window, he tapped the gas.

Mobs choked the road for miles into town. For much of the way the Land Rover had to crawl. It was only when they were a mile from town that the last stragglers slipped behind and the road opened up once more. Almost at once they spotted the roadblock. Soldiers in white patrolled a barricade of stolen cars. "More friends of yours," Remo said to Anna.

In the back of the truck, Anna studied the men as Remo sped toward them.

"Their masks," she said. "They've changed their masks." As she spoke she fumbled in the pocket of her parka, pulling out a pair of small binoculars.

Instead of the ski masks the other commandos had worn, these men wore simple white hoods, their faces exposed. Their light, centered stances telegraphed basic Sinanju.

"Are there any more than the four I see?" Anna demanded.

"Don't know," Remo said. "Depends on which four you see."

"That is all of them," Chiun answered thinly.

"Good," Anna said, pocketing her binoculars. "You are safe, for none of them is Skachkov." Chiun's prophecy and Anna's obsession over this one commando were finally getting to Remo.

"How good is this guy?" he muttered.

"Just be careful, Remo," Anna stressed.

When he glanced in the rearview mirror, he saw a look of genuine concern on Anna's pale face.

"Whatever," he grumbled. "Just stay in the car. Chiun and I will take care of these guys."

The soldiers didn't seem very concerned about a lone vehicle approaching their conquered town. One had been talking on a stolen cell phone as Remo's truck approached. He continued his conversation as the Land Rover stopped, a blandly arrogant eye directed toward the intruders.

Only when Remo and Chiun emerged did the soldier with the phone suddenly grow interested. As the other three commandos raised their weapons, the fourth man spoke in rushed, almost reverent tones into his phone.

"What gives?" Remo asked as he swung his door shut.

As he and his pupil walked over to the men at the barricade, the Master of Sinanju cocked an ear.

"He says he recognizes you," Chiun replied. The instant he said it, the old Asian's face registered surprise.

"What?" Remo asked, noting his teacher's expression.

"He claims to know me, as well."

"Just like the one in the camp," Remo mused. "And one of the guys in that village called me Master just before I pulled his plug. Gotta be Purcell. He told them about us."

"He did not tell them everything," Chiun intoned ominously. "For he obviously did not warn them of the penalty for stealing from the House of Sinanju." Shoving in front of his pupil, he flounced over to the commandos. "Attention, thieves!" he proclaimed. "Being Russian and, thus, used to having everything of value stripped from you all your wretched lives, including gold, dignity and sobriety, you no doubt knew that this day of atonement would come the moment you first chose to steal from Sinanju. Now, although you deserve no mercy, mercy shall be granted nonetheless. I promise you, your deaths will be swift. The line forms here. No shoving."

He folded his arms imperiously over his narrow chest.

Before him, the four Russians didn't know what to make of the strange little man. The soldier on the phone was whispering into the mouthpiece when he spotted something beyond Remo and Chiun. His eyes widened.

Hissing a few final words, he stuffed the phone away.

Remo had sensed Anna exiting the truck. Before he could tell her to get back inside, the men had raised their guns to her. A single shot cracked the cold air.

The bullet fired from Anna's automatic caught the soldier with the cell phone in the chest. He flopped back onto the hood of a Dodge that was part of their barricade.

As the first fell, the rest opened fire.

"Dammit, Anna, can't you keep it in your pants?" Remo growled. He was already moving on the men. With the flat of his palm, Remo met the blazing barrel of a Kalashnikov in the infinitesimal sliver of time between fired bullets. A nudge sent the weapon launching back, severing the arm of the soldier at the shoulder. Both arm and gun flew backward, the itching finger still firing. Unfortunately for the commando, something had come between the gun and its original target.

Bullets fired from his own gun by his own traitorous arm popped the soldier's head like a ripe August melon.

"That woman is a menace," Chiun fumed, swirling in beside his pupil. A flying foot separated a head from its neck. "She has brought chaos to an orderly surrender. I don't know what you ever saw in her."

"Then you're not looking hard enough," Remo said.

There was only one soldier left. He twisted his gun between Remo and Chiun, unsure what had just happened.

"Gimme that, dummy," Remo said.

Tugging the rifle from the man's grasping fingers, he bopped the soldier on the head. The stunned commando dropped to his bottom on the cold road.

Even as the last man was falling, Anna was scurrying out from behind the Land Rover and hurrying to the barricade. Her gun was still clutched in her hand.

"We are in trouble," Anna said.

"Why? Did you run out of people to shoot?" Remo asked.

Ignoring his sarcasm, she waved her gun at the sky. Both Remo and Chiun had already heard the rumbling coming from the west. It had been soft at first, carried on the cold wind. But it was growing louder. The black dots of a fleet of Hind gunships speckled the gray sky. A sound like distant thunder rumbled closer. Passing the road a mile to the north, the attack helicopters swept into Fairbanks.

"Zhirinsky," Anna hissed.

Remo glanced at her. "You sure?"

She nodded. "He purchased several dozen Hinds from General Feyodov's black market cell. And this grand entry is just like him. The conquering hero of the Soviet Union."

"There's something I've been meaning to ask," Remo said with a scowl. "If you people know everyone who's in the damn black market, why the hell don't you arrest them?"

She smiled sadly. "Russia is now ruled by a handful of wealthy black marketers, called oligarchs," she explained. "And there is a saying now-how many oligarchs does it take to rule Russia?" When she saw Remo's blank expression, her smile only grew sadder. "All of them," she said quietly, in answer to her own question.

On the ground the dazed soldier stirred. His eyes strayed to Anna. When he saw her, something that almost seemed like guilt surfaced on his wind-burned face.

"Guess we don't need to save one anymore," Remo sighed.

"No," Anna said. "We do not."

Before another word could be spoken, Anna raised her automatic and fired point-blank into the soldier's face.

"When did they start paying you by the bullet?" Remo snarled, hopping back from the splatter.

But Anna was already turning away. Pocketing her gun, she headed back for their truck. Chiun padded in her wake.

Remo glanced down at the last soldier. When he looked back, Anna was climbing into the Land Rover. "Hmm," Remo said softly to himself.

With a thoughtful frown, he trailed the others back to the waiting truck.

Chapter 27

His years as director of CURE and as head of Folcroft Sanitarium had given Dr. Harold W. Smith a unique perspective into the mind of madness. As he and Mark Howard scanned the reports on Smith's monitor, experience would not allow the older man to share his young assistant's amazement.

"Unbelievable," Howard said. "Is this for real?"

"So it would seem," Smith replied. "The population of Fairbanks has been released. The first civilians reached Fort Wainwright's bivouacked Sixth Light Infantry Division ten minutes ago."

"Why let them go?" Mark asked, confusion filling his wide face. "Aren't they bargaining chips?"

"Not any longer," Smith said. "And if you are to survive in this job, it is vitally important for you to realize that madmen are not always as predictable as many textbooks and behavioral scientists would have you believe."

"Madmen? So you think Zhirinsky did this himself?"

Smith nodded. "This latest news came after Zhirinsky's incursion force of twelve Mil U-24 gunships were given free clearance across the Kuskokwim Mountains. They've reached Fairbanks by now. I believe Zhirinsky was on one of them."

The assistant CURE director stood beside Smith's old leather chair. As he studied the computer screen, Howard's knuckles rested beyond the edge of the capacitor keyboard.

"I've been checking to see if the Russian government is involved," Mark said. "Their president's holed up in the Kremlin. And the last two presidents have disappeared. No one knows where they are."

Smith shook his head. "I just got off the White House phone twenty minutes ago. When news of the nuclear bomb in Fairbanks broke, our President received a call from his counterpart in Russia pledging support. The Russian president has even offered troops."

"Maybe he wants to get more men on the ground," Howard suggested.

"Mark, it is important not to read too much into situations. Your instincts are good, and it is sometimes necessary to extrapolate when enough information is not available. But it is possible to be too clever by half. Zhirinsky is a renegade, unpopular with the rulers of Russia. If they were to concoct such a scheme, they would not give it over to someone as unstable as him." Smith nodded firmly. "No, Zhirinsky alone is behind this."

Howard accepted his words with a thoughtful frown. "So Zhirinsky's alone in Fairbanks with a handful of troops," he mused. "What do you think his next move'll be?"

"More important, what is our next move?"

When Mark glanced down, he saw that the CURE director was staring up at him, a look of pinched expectation on his gaunt face. It was apparent that Smith knew something that needed to be done and was quizzing Mark to see if he knew, too.

Howard considered. "First thing we have to do is give Remo and Chiun room to work. We have to keep the Army out. I'd call the President and have him issue an order."

Smith nodded satisfaction. Like a first-grade teacher who had finally taught a troublesome student to raise his hand for permission to use the rest room. "Correct," he said. "Although there is no need to involve the President."

With nimble fingers he accessed the Pentagon's computer system. It took less than a minute to surreptitiously issue the orders that would keep the Army out.

"There," he said once he was through. "Now, as a safeguard to prevent the order from being overruled, I will phone the President."

Mark had to take a step back to allow him access to the bottom drawer and the red phone.

"You know, Dr. Smith," Howard said seriously as Smith waited for America's chief executive to pick up, "if Zhirinsky's as psycho as everyone says, he could set off the bomb the minute he hears Remo and Chiun are there."

"That thought had occurred to me," the CURE director replied with clinical detachment.

"Hello, Mr. President," Smith announced into the phone.

Whatever more was said, Mark Howard didn't hear. He had turned from the desk and its canted monitor. With one tired shoulder, he leaned against the big picture window frame.

Long Island Sound was cold and black.

"Are all your weeks like this one?" he said softly to himself. Behind him the CURE director continued to speak to the President of the United States in measured nasal tones.

As Smith spoke, Howard watched the waves roll into shore.

Chapter 28

Ivan Kerbabaev waited on the cold tarmac to greet the future premier of the new Soviet Union. Behind him was a lone limousine liberated from a Fairbanks car rental service.

Sheets of snow swirled all around as the twelve Hinds settled like roosting birds to the freezing ground.

With pain in his eyes, Ivan blinked away the snow. A dull, throbbing ache came from beneath the many bandages plastered to his face.

At least it wasn't as bad now as it had been. Ivan had found an empty dentist's office near the parked nuclear device in downtown Fairbanks. He had hoped that when Vladimir Zhirinsky arrived, the novocaine he'd shot himself full of would dull all the pain. But it seemed proximity to the ultranationalist caused his raw nerve endings to spark.

Zhirinsky hadn't even landed when the aching started anew. It only got worse when that demented face with its bushy mustache appeared on the steps of the Hind.

The Russian hard-liner had changed into a surplus Red Army general's uniform. The medals and ribbons and pins and badges that festooned the chest and shoulders of the outfit made him resemble an ambulatory Soviet Christmas tree.

"Welcome to Zhirinskygrad," Ivan announced. Zhirinsky shoved past him. He cast an awed gaze across the frigid landscape. With great puffs of rancid breath, he climbed down to his knees. Chapped lips sought asphalt.

He kissed the ground slowly and passionately. A little too passionately. Standing to one side, Ivan Kerbabaev swore Vladimir Zhirinsky was slipping Alaska the tongue.

As Zhirinsky lapped the asphalt, his small army piled out of the helicopters. They spread out across the airport.

Zhirinsky pushed up to his knees. "It is good to be home!" he boomed as Ivan helped him to his feet. His smile only grew wider when he spied the man climbing out of the nearby limousine.

Lavrenty Skachkov didn't so much walk as glide over to the ultranationalist. Seeing the deadly serious face the young commando wore, Zhirinsky's smile faded.

"What is wrong?" he asked, shooting a glare at Ivan.

Ivan slapped both hands over his face.

"I have just received word that Anna Chutesov is here," Lavrenty said, stopping before Zhirinsky.

An angry cloud crossed Zhirinsky's face. "The whores in the Kremlin have sent her to stop me," he hissed.

"She is not alone," Skachkov pressed. "There are two men with her. Men trained as I am."

Zhirinsky waved a hand. "You said that the handful who remained loyal to this Chutesov female and stayed in Russia were nothing. Let her bring her traitors to the cause, and we will have them all for supper."

"They are not from the Institute," Skachkov said. "These two are Masters of my discipline. The discipline for which I know no name."

"Two men?" Zhirinsky mocked. "Have your teams find them and kill them."

Lavrenty shook his white head. "To become Mactep-to truly earn the title that has been bestowed on me-I must face these two alone. It is my destiny."

With that, he turned on his heel and slid silently away.

Zhirinsky looked from the departing young man to Ivan Kerbabaev. Ivan shrank from the sudden attention.

"He may have his destiny," the ultranationalist growled. "For I have mine and it is greater than any other man's."

Brushing aside his aide, Zhirinsky marched for his limo.

REMO HAD EXPECTED the streets of Fairbanks to be swarming with Russian soldiers. Instead, the roads they drove on were eerily empty.

"I thought you said there'd be a bunch more soldiers on those helicopters," he said. "Where are all the black boots and empty Stolichnaya bottles?" "The normal capacity for a Mil is only twelve," Anna replied from the passenger seat. "That includes pilots and gunners. Even if he managed to squeeze a few extra on each of the twelve we saw, that is still only a handful of troops to occupy the city."

A thought occurred to Anna. Reaching over, she switched on the radio. Scanning the AM dial, she soon found what she was after. A Russian announcer was speaking excitedly.

From the back seat the Master of Sinanju listened to the radio along with Anna.

"Sounds like someone's got a full nelson on his nuts," Remo commented after listening to only a few seconds. "What's he so worked up about?"

"I was right," Anna said. "Zhirinsky is here." As she listened intently to the announcer's words, Chiun sniffed contemptuously.

"I have heard these false claims before," the old man said, wrinkled face puckered with disdain. "He dares invoke the name of Czar Ivan."

"The terrible?" Remo asked. "What's he saying about him?"

"Some nonsense about an upstart who fancies himself to be the new Russian czar," Chiun answered. "Don't you believe it. These modern Russians are always full of promises about enslaving the people this, or ruling with an iron fist that, but it always ends up the same. With an empty throne. This is just a new excuse to peek though people's cupboards and take their last ingot of gold. It is just like that thing they used to try. What was it called again?"

"Communism?" Remo suggested flatly.

"Yes, that's the thing," Chiun said with a shiver. Anna was still listening to the radio. "The announcer says that Zhirinsky will be making a speech shortly."

"He a typical Commie when it comes to hearing the sound of his own voice?" Remo asked. "If so, we just bought ourselves about nine hours of blabber time."

Anna was deep in thought. "We do not know where the bomb is," she said. "Until we do, we cannot dismantle the greatest danger."

Remo raised a finger. "Hello? Sinanju prophecy? Line of Wang ending, me having to fight some renegade Master. Could be bigger than a garden-variety Russian nuke." When Anna gave him a withering look, he shrugged. "I'm just saying, that's all."

"I do not like this program," Chiun complained from the back seat. "Try another station." He reached between them and began poking at the radio with the tip of one long nail.

Anna ignored them both, pressing ahead. "Since the people are gone, there is no longer a threat to the civilian population. We should cut off Zhirinsky's means of escape."

Remo nodded. "I gotcha," he sighed. "He's less likely to set off the bomb when he's stranded in the blast zone."

Anna shook her head. "Not at all," she said seriously. "In fact, he is unhinged enough that he might relish the notion of playing the martyr. If he feels threatened in the least-the very least-he could set off the bomb."

"In that case we should go after him first," Remo said.

"We do not know what sort of failsafes he has devised," Anna said. "To go after him could trigger the bomb."

"Perfect," Remo grumbled. "Damned if you do, nuked if you don't. Could anything make this day any worse?"

Chiun suddenly found a station that was playing a Wylander Jugg song. With a delighted squeal, the old man settled back into his seat.

"Ask a stupid rhetorical question," Remo muttered to himself. Hunching over the steering wheel, he headed off in the direction of the airport and the fleet of Hinds.

FOUR MEN in shabby Red Army uniforms marched proudly before the steps of Fairbanks city hall. Gloved hands chopped air with each accompanying sharp kick from highly polished boots.

When he stepped from his limo to the sidewalk, Vladimir Zhirinsky wept for joy at the sight of the men.

"Is everything ready for my address?" he sniffled as he brought a handkerchief to his great Russian nose.

Ivan Kerbabaev had stepped from the limo behind him.

Ivan was nauseous. The pain in his face was worse. He was in desperate need of another injection and didn't need his mad employer flaunting his own nose in front of him.

"Yes, comrade," Ivan said weakly. "There was a problem at first. The global satellite system suffered a great deal of damage earlier in the week due to an interstellar dust cloud. But we have found one to carry our signal."

Ivan dared not tell the lunatic that he had bought time on an American commercial satellite. He could only imagine what his employer would do if he found out his great call to arms to the Russian population to retake the nation for the people was being broadcast on an ABC-Disney-owned satellite.

Zhirinsky nodded satisfaction. Honking loudly, he stuffed his handkerchief in the pocket of his uniform coat and began mounting the stairs. Two steps up, he froze. He spun to Ivan, face twisted furiously.

"What is that still doing there!" he roared.

He pointed to the flagpole beside the steps. High above their heads, the American flag fluttered in the wind.

"I thought you would want to be here for this," Ivan said fearfully. He clapped his hands sharply. The soldiers hurried to the pole. Hand over hand, they brought the flag down, dumping it unceremoniously into a metal trash barrel. As bare rope clanged against the hollow pole, another soldier marched forward carrying a bundle of tightly folded red cloth. The new flag was hooked and hoisted high into the air. At the top of the pole, the wind took the flag and unfurled it wide. The golden hammer and sickle stretched proudly across the sky.

Vladimir Zhirinsky gasped.

"How proud this day," the ultranationalist intoned. "We will not soon forget it."

Dabbing at his eyes, he hurried up the steps.

"I gnow I won't," Ivan said glumly, gingerly touching his bloody bandages. Desperate for another novocaine fix, he trudged morosely up the stairs.

THEY SKIRTED the south bank of the winding Chena River, stopping at the top of a hill near the tall wire fence that surrounded Fairbanks Airport. Below, the twelve silent Hinds lined the main runway. Some of the soldiers who had flown over from Russia milled about between the idle craft.

Remo, Chiun and Anna stood near the fence. From their vantage point they could see almost the entire airfield. While some men worked around the Hinds, others stood sentry between the big gunships. Counting white camo suits, there were only a few Sinanju-trained soldiers at the airport.

"You sure Zhirinsky's not down there?" Remo asked.

"According to the radio, he plans to make his address from the city hall," Anna said.

"It's days like this that make me happy I forgot what little Russian I knew," Remo grumbled.

He grabbed hold of the fence, wrenching it apart. Links popped and brackets split. Peeling back a section, he and Anna slipped through.

Behind him Chiun clucked disapproval. Stepping up to his own section of undamaged fence, the Master of Sinanju pulled his hands from his sleeves as if unsheathing ten sharp blades. With sure downward strokes, he attacked the fence. The links split like soft butter, forming a perfect five-foot outline of his body, through which Chiun stepped.

The old man's face was deadly serious.

"You cannot always stomp and tear your way through life, Remo," the Master of Sinanju warned. "If you are not using me as a set of walking bolt cutters, you are attacking with your own clumsy mitts. While I know you stubbornly refuse to grow your nails to their proper length, be on guard. For the false Master of legend might."

Remo sighed. "Let's see about that," he said with tired determination. He turned to Anna. "Does this soldier of yours have long fingernails or short?"

It was one of the few times in his life he could remember seeing Anna Chutesov react with surprise. The moment her face fell, he knew he was right.

Anna quickly regained her composure.

"Just because he is Russian does not make him my responsibility," she said.

"No, him being your responsibility makes him your responsibility," Remo replied. He shook his head, annoyed. "You think I'm blind, deaf and dumb, Anna? I remember what that crazy Russian general said back in California just before he died. He said you'd stolen something from us. And you kept trying to shoot him before he could talk, just like the guys you've been shooting left and right here. It's that dumbass Mactep program you told us about. The one where the Russian government tried to blackmail us into going to work for them. When that failed, they put their best agent on the case. You. And the first thing you did was track down that nutbar Purcell in order to train your unholy army of the night. That's why you're here. To try to put the toothpaste back in the tube and keep us from finding out in the process. You double-crossed us, Anna. And don't lie, because in spite of what you, Chiun and the whole damn world might think, I'm not stupid."

As he spoke, Anna appeared to grow very small and cold. The weight of more than ten years of betrayal seemed to suddenly fall like lead onto her shoulders, her body sagging -beneath its great burden.

"It is not what you think, Remo," she said softly. "The decision to do this was taken out of my hands long ago."

Beside Remo, Chiun's face grew shocked. "Do my ears hear true?" the old man gasped. "It is you who has stolen food from the mouths of the children of Sinanju?"

Anna's shoulders sank lower. She raised her head, defiant eyes of blue now filled with shame. "Yes," she said.

The wizened Korean's eyes saucered. "Perfidy!" he whispered. "Jezebel! Viper in our very midst! I knew you were harboring a secret, woman, but this?" He spun on Remo. "If you value the sanctity of our traditions, you will slay this treacherous female at once," he commanded.

Remo's head was bowed. He was very quiet as he considered his teacher's words. The world around him seemed to still. The airport below, the men, the helicopters-all were background noise. A chorus of nothing.

When he at last raised his head, his eyes were filled with some unreadable emotion.

"This is bad, Anna," he said in a voice soft and cold.

She winced at his words.

"Bad?" Chiun scoffed. "It is an outrage. If you will not slay her, I will." When he took a step toward Anna, he found Remo's outstretched arm blocking his way. "You cannot protect her, Remo," he warned. "Not with what she has done. Tradition in this matter is clear."

Remo was trying to think. "I know," he snapped. "Dammit, I know." When he looked back to Anna, he shook his head. "This is bad, Anna," he repeated, in a voice more frightening given the quiet conviction with which the words were delivered.

And that was all. He turned from her and headed down the hill.

Chiun shot her an evil look. With a shake of his head that snapped the flaps of his winter hat, he followed his pupil down to the airport.

At the top of the hill near the torn-apart fence, Anna stood alone. For a long moment she seemed to be trying to gather strength.

It had happened. After so many years of skulking and guilt, her worst fear had become a reality. And in the keenly analytical mind of Anna Chutesov, the outcome-at least for her-was now inevitable.

She finally moved, trudging down the hill on feet of lead: In the corners of her ice-blue eyes were frozen tears.

Chapter 29

Piles of plowed snow lined the runway. Low-lying buildings offered cover for their approach. They made it down to the tarmac's edge undetected, stopping behind a pile of dirty snow.

"How many guys were trained, exactly?" Remo asked Anna once she'd caught up to them.

"One hundred and sixty-two," Anna admitted. Both Masters of Sinanju knew she was telling the truth.

"Are they all in Alaska?"

"No. Eighteen remain in Moscow. Six are with the three Russian presidents who oversaw Mactep. Twelve more are recent trainees. They are at a safehouse near the Institute. I had not introduced them yet to the others in the program."

"How many have we knocked off so far, Little Father?" Remo asked Chiun.

"Thirty-two," the Master of Sinanju replied. Remo started to add the numbers in his head. Seeing that they could be there all night, Chiun exhaled annoyance.

"That leaves 130," the old man hissed. "From that we take away the eighteen she claims are not here. Assuming she is not lying about that, too."

"I'm not," Anna promised, shamefaced.

"Okay, that's 114 here."

Chiun gave him a withering look. "And what was your excuse for skipping your math lessons?" he asked thinly.

"Didn't skip. Slept. Why, that's not right?"

"It is 112," Chiun snapped.

Remo turned back to Anna. "This guy who's supposed to be such hot stuff. He included with them?" She had only been half listening. Head swimming, she was seeing the world now from the end of a long, dark tunnel.

"Skachkov is one of them," she nodded.

"Fine," Remo said. "We take out the choppers and hopefully keep your guys contained. With any luck we can get rid of all the ones here before they skip town."

He didn't even look at Anna.

The two Masters of Sinanju ducked around the dirty snow pile. Anna followed. Unzipping her parka pocket, she pulled out her automatic and headed out onto the tarmac.

Beyond the runway's edge, the three of them split up. Remo and Chiun left the nearest gunship to Anna. The two Masters of Sinanju glided toward the next helicopters, veering apart after a few yards.

Remo's Hind had no guard. Unseen, he ducked under the belly of the helicopter. There was a panel under the tail assembly. When he popped it, he found a greasy cable.

Remo grabbed the thick cable in both hands, snapping it in two. Running up the back of the compartment was a plastic hose. When he ripped it out, a river of oily black fluid splattered to the ground. Two more panels surrendered handfuls of multicolored wires.

"I might not know what makes it work, but I know what makes it not," Remo muttered to himself. Dropping the wires to the frozen ground, he slipped out from beneath the Hind. On swift, silent feet, he struck off toward the next in line.

ACROSS THE WINDSWEPT runway, the Master of Sinanju slid unseen past a pair of armed soldiers. Once he was out of their line of sight, he moved under his helicopter's tail.

Coming up on the far side, the old Korean bounded up onto the wing. Not stopping long enough for the skirts of his kimono to settle, he jumped to the roof. Sure feet found the outer fuselage.

Ducking below the main rotor, Chiun raced down the narrowing length of the tail. At the far end, one bony hand took hold of the crooked swept fin as the other found the thick bolt of the stabilizing rotor. With the scoring edge of his index nail he made two neat swipes across the bolt.

That was all. Finished with his task, he floated back to the ground. He hit at a sprint. Hands and feet pumping in perfect rhythm, the Master of Sinanju moved like a great flapping butterfly to the next helicopter.

THE HIND'S INTERIOR was cold and dark.

No one had seen her climb aboard. Anna Chutesov made sure no one was watching as she slid the cabin door closed. She latched it tightly.

She made her careful way up through the main cabin to the cockpit.

The extreme nose was empty. Gunner and navigator were not aboard. Above, the pilot was gone, as well. Sitting alone in the chilly upper level, the copilot was securing a small instrument panel, his back to Anna. With fumbling fingers he dropped a small screw to the floor.

When it rolled from sight, he swore softly to himself. They were the last words he ever spoke.

Anna raised her automatic and fired a single round. The bullet struck the man in the back of the head, and the copilot fell across his chair.

Anna dumped the body out of the way. Pocketing her gun, she slid into the pilot's seat. With swift, experienced hands she began the start-up routine.

All around, the Hind seemed to shiver as the helicopter's engine coughed to life. As the rotors began to slowly turn, Anna watched them slice overhead. Shadows of a guillotine that seemed to drop lower and lower toward the doomed head of Anna Chutesov.

REMO WAS TEARING the guts from his third gunship when he heard Anna's helicopter splutter awake. When he turned, he saw the Russian agent through the cockpit bubble. She was fussing with the control panel.

"What the hell?" Remo asked.

The Master of Sinanju was just flouncing up beside him. The old man's lips thinned when he spied Anna. "What's she think she's doing?" Remo demanded.

"Betraying us," Chiun said, his tone matter-of-fact. He shot a look over his shoulder.

The instant the tiny Korean looked away, Remo felt the pressure waves of a rifle barrel aiming his way. With it came a few shouted voices. He glanced back just as the lead Russian in an advancing squad of soldiers opened fire.

Dodging bullets, Remo frowned at his teacher. "Care to explain yourself?" he asked as more Russians joined the first. Pockmarks peppered the nearby Hind.

"Only the moon can hide the sun," Chiun replied, swirling like a gaily colored pinwheel around a hail of lead.

"That a highfalutin way of saying you were spotted?"

The old man raised a haughty brow. "If I was, it was probably due to the distraction of having to worry about how you plan to deal with your treacherous harlot."

For this, Remo had no response. As bullets trailed him, he ducked under the Hind. Chiun followed. They had no sooner reached the far side than the shooting stopped. At the same time, they heard the distinct sound of more gunships spluttering to life. "And once more, Remo, your misplaced trust begets more betrayal," Chiun sniffed.

"Lay off," Remo said. His senses had suddenly tripped alert. "We've got company."

Chiun had felt it, too. The displaced air of advancing troops. Except unlike regular men, there were no accompanying footfalls or straining muscles.

When the first cautious face peered out from under the belly of the Hind, Remo grabbed a fistful of hood and steered the Russian's head into the helicopter's side. Flesh met metal with a crunching clang.

Several more men scurried into view, all dressed in the familiar uniforms of Anna Chutesov's Institute soldiers.

"Their breathing is pitiful," Chiun remarked. To underscore that point, eight sharp talons pierced a chest between ribs. They reappeared dragging dangling lungs in their wake like inside-out pockets.

"I'm thinking they're not even as good as ninjas," Remo said as he took out two more. "See? Simple thrusts at half-speed. Chuck Norris on a bad-wig day would've dodged that."

Chiun sent a heel into a brittle sternum. "Yes," he agreed. "They lack the finesse of even the lowly Japanese. If the Dutchman is responsible for them, he is a better adversary than he is a teacher."

Ten of the Institute men had been left to guard the airport. They flashed through the last few in no time. Remo twisted the head of the final Russian. With a blinding snap, it completed two full circles on a rubbery neck column.

"And that's the end of that chapter," he said, clapping imaginary dust from his hands.

More shouts in Russian. Remo wasn't sure if he should be relieved they weren't directed at either him or Chiun.

"What now?" he complained.

When he and the Master of Sinanju raced back to the main runway, they found the soldiers who had flown in with Vladimir Zhirinsky from Russia had taken an interest in Anna's helicopter. Some were moving to surround it.

Inside the Hind, Anna had climbed down into the gunner's cockpit.

"What's she think she's doing?" Remo asked. His question was answered in the next instant. Like a blaze of hellfire, a Swatter missile erupted from the outboard pylon of Anna's Hind. Hopping the launch rail, the laser-guided missile screamed across the runway, impacting with the side of another helicopter.

The Hind exploded in a cloud of brilliant yellow. No sooner had she fired the first missile than she let a second fly. Another idling Hind was engulfed in flame. The airport shook as smoking debris rained all around.

Anna's missiles had sent the Russian army scattering. Many raced for cover in a nearby hangar. Those who remained outside ran smack-dab into Remo and Chiun.

The first soldier in line tried to shoot Remo. Remo prevented him from doing so. He did this by separating from the rest of his body that part of the soldier's anatomy that was responsible for telling said rest of his body to do such nasty things as shoot people or swear or think unkind thoughts.

When they saw Remo lop off the soldier's head, the rest of the army froze. When he held the head aloft for them to examine, they gulped.

"Okay, here's the deal," Remo announced, waggling the head. "No surrendski mean no headski, capisce?"

Although the language was foreign, some things were universal. Forty rifles clattered to the ground, and eighty hands shot into the air.

"While we've got their attention, ask them where the nuke is," Remo said to the Master of Sinanju. There were a lot of shrugs from the crowd. A few men replied in Russian, waving vaguely in the same direction.

"They think it is in the center of town," Chiun said. "But they do not know where exactly."

"Big help," Remo sighed. "Now we need a POW camp."

At the coaxing of the two Masters of Sinanju, the soldiers were quickly herded into the hangar where the rest had sought cover. Remo was dragging the door shut when he heard the sound of a helicopter lifting off. When he wheeled around, he saw that it was one of the first that had been in line when he and Chiun came onto the airport.

"Damn-tit, Chiun, that was yours," he griped.

He made a move to intercept the still-hovering Hind but the Master of Sinanju took him by the wrist, holding fast.

"Ye of little faith," the old man said calmly.

The instant he spoke, Remo's hypersensitive ears heard a gentle ping within the roar of the gunship's engine. Sharp eyes followed the sound. Only then did Remo see the faint marks where Chiun's hardened fingernails had scored the tail-rotor bolt.

As he watched, the metal pulled apart like taffy. It grew brittle all at once, snapping in two.

The three-bladed tail rotor shrieked as it skipped off the swept fin, striking the ground in a spray of sparks. Chewing up frozen asphalt, it bounced across the runway, burying itself deep in the side of a stationary helicopter.

Without its stabilizing rotor, the tail of the Hind began to spin. It completed a half circle before the tip struck pavement, drawing the spinning rotors of the listing helicopter inexorably toward. the ground.

As the guiding edges of the blades were kissing the pavement, Remo and Chiun were ducking around the side of the hangar to avoid the chunks of flying shrapnel.

They found the soldiers they'd locked inside the hangar trying to sneak out a side door. When Remo took off another head, the remaining men hightailed it back inside.

"Don't make me come in there," he warned, slapping the door shut. As he banged it closed, an explosion sounded out on the runway.

When Remo and Chiun emerged into the open, the flames from the crashed Hind fed a thick black cloud that rose into the frosty white sky. And through the smoke flew three more Hinds.

Remo immediately spied Anna in the trailing helicopter. For a moment he thought she was going to fire on the other two. But as he watched, the nose of her Hind spun away. With a scream of engines, the helicopter tore off in the opposite direction. Away from the other two Hinds, away from Fairbanks. Away from Remo.

His face darkened as he watched her make good her escape. "So much for the old team effort," he grunted.

Before them, one of the gunships had swirled to face the hangar. The four-barrel guns in the remotecontrol turret under the nose screamed to life, chewing the ground at Remo and Chiun's feet. Frightened shouts issued from within the hangar as bullets pierced the flimsy walls.

With an angry scowl Remo stooped, snapping up a chunk of smoking rotor blade. His body automatically compensated for the heat of the metal by producing a protective sheen of sweat on his palm. Hefting the metal fragment over one shoulder, Remo dropped his arm. With an audible snap the metal left his fingers.

Whistling all the way, the blade segment zoomed through the air, impacting with the nose of the firing Hind. The metal tore up through the cockpit at an angle, striking the gunner square in the face. Continuing up in a deadly spiral, it made it as far as the main cockpit before coming to a final, fatal stop in the chin of the pilot.

With a lurch the helicopter plopped back to the runway.

By this time the second airborne Hind had gotten its bearings. Nose tilted, its weapons were aimed squarely at Remo and Chiun.

Remo grabbed another chunk of broken rotor blade. The Master of Sinanju quickly tugged it from his hands.

"You already had your turn," the old man clucked. Remo eyed the helicopter warily. It had not yet fired its guns, yet the gunner could still be seen through the frontal dome fussing around his instruments.

"No fooling, Chiun," Remo warned. "I think he's going for the rockets this time."

The Master of Sinanju held his ground. "Wait," he commanded.

Narrowed eyes grew tighter until they became slits of wrinkled parchment as the old man studied the movements of the gunner. When the Russian finally lunged for the panel, Chiun made his move.

The broken rotor section was up and around in a slivered heartbeat. Kimono sleeves snapping, the metal left his bony hand like a jet-propelled spear.

Across the runway two Swatters were detaching from rails on opposite sides of the Hind. One left on a plume of fire, soaring from the wing toward Remo and Chiun. The second was stopped in midlaunch by Chiun's metal fragment.

The blade impacted with the nose of the rocket before it cleared the pylon. The ensuing explosion ripped the pylon, flinging it up into the swirling rotors even as the flames from the blast were engulfing the Hind. The gunship burst apart like shattered glass.

Remo and Chiun weren't there to witness the blast. As the second loosed missile screamed across the runway, the two Masters of Sinanju were running fullout away from its path. By the time it struck the hangar where they'd been standing, they were half a mile away and still going.

Only when the flames and the heat had subsided did the two of them double back.

They found the hangar in ruins. Fire licked the two walls that were still upright. Charred bodies of the Russian soldiers they'd herded inside were scattered all around.

"This has gotta be against the Geneva Convention," Remo said as he eyed the bodies.

Chiun surveyed the damage, his expression bland. "They tried to get Master Hwa to sign that silly white agreement. He chained their emissaries to the Horns of Welcome and let the seagulls feast on their carcasses."

Turning on his heel, he marched off through the smoke.

Remo's eye strayed from the old man's retreating back. With a thoughtful frown he watched the sallow sky in the direction Anna had flown.

He finally turned away. Face grim, he trailed the Master of Sinanju across the battle-scarred runway.

Chapter 30

Word of what was happening in Alaska had seeped into the outside world. In Russia many greeted the news of the takeover of Fairbanks with nationalistic optimism. For the first time in years, some saw hope for a nation in despair to recapture the pride of days long past. Men and women who ten years before had demonstrated in the hope of what free elections would bring, only to be held captive by poverty and corruption at the highest levels of government, had begun to take to the streets. It was beginning to look like-19I7 all over again. And with a new threat from Vladimir Zhirinsky to address the nation on a pirate radio frequency, civilian and military authorities had been placed on high alert.

Director Pavel Zatsyrko of the SVR had been summoned to the Kremlin before events had become known to the greater Russian populace. For the past two days of the escalating crisis, he had been directing the operations of his agency from the Grand Palace itself. He was reviewing the latest data on leaders of the hard-line movement currently residing in Moscow when the door of his temporary office burst open.

A deputy raced in without knocking, his youthful face pale. "He is on the phone!" the young man blurted.

When he saw that the agent wasn't carrying a gun, the SVR leader hid his great relief. With the gangs now marauding through Moscow's streets, he had feared that the rebels had pierced the defenses of the Kremlin itself.

"You are to knock before you enter this room," Zatsyrko said with forced bluster.

"But he is on the phone now," the young man cried, breathless. "He called the switchboard. He wishes to speak with the president."

"Who is on the phone?" Pavel Zatsyrko asked unhappily.

When he learned who it was that had made his young deputy risk his career by abandoning agency protocol, all color drained from the face of the SVR director.

Barking an order to wait five minutes before putting the caller through on the special line, Zatsyrko raced from the room. He flew through the corridors of the Kremlin. Veering from the main polished floors, he ran into an unused wing off one of the less ostentatious buildings. In a dusty corridor well off the beaten path, he exploded into a small room.

The president of Russia sat at a tiny table in a cramped kitchen. Four men sat on a bench across the room. When Zatsyrko flew into the room, they looked up in unison.

The furnishings in the room were almost a century old. The only sop to the times were a banker's lamp that sat in the middle of the table and a clumsy yellow telephone that rested at the president's elbow.

The phone had just begun to ring as Zatsyrko burst into the room. "It is him!" he panted. Wheezing to catch his breath, he stabbed a finger at the phone. "Zhirinsky."

The president had been reaching for the ringing phone. When he learned who was on the other end of the line, he hesitated. His small hand hovered an inch above the phone for a moment before he gained the courage to lift the receiver to his ear.

"Zhirinsky, what is this madness?" the president of Russia demanded without preamble.

"Oh, you are there," Vladimir Zhirinsky said with bland surprise. "I assumed when you took so long to answer that you had fled Russia. I should have known. After all, you are the fool who not only publicly arrests those who should be shipped in silence to gulags, but you also remain on vacation as submarines full of sailors suffocate on the ocean floor. I gave you credit for having too much sense."

"Sense?" the president blurted. "Zhirinsky, you are a menace. I will see to it that you are forced to live on rats and muddy water in the deepest, dankest cell in Lubyanka Prison for the rest of your lunatic life."

"I do not think so," Zhirinsky said with oily superiority. "Do you think I don't know what is happening in Mother Russia? The match is lit. The people have heard the cry of revolution and have taken to the streets. Moscow is mine, and you do not even know it. You are a prisoner in your own palace, Mr. President." The words dripped contempt. "When I make my address at midnight tonight, the days of lapping the boots of the capitalists will be over."

The president's grip tightened on the phone.

It was true after all. He had hoped that the rumor was false. The crazy man Zhirinsky intended to address the Russian population. And with the current national mood, the madman could actually become a figure of revolution.

The great purges under Stalin and Lenin, the nightmares of the gulags, the persecution of any dissenting thought, the decades of the evil terror of the KGB-all would be as nothing compared to what would become of Russia if Vladimir Zhirinsky were to take the reins of power.

"I will stop you," the president vowed darkly.

"You cannot," Zhirinsky replied. "You have not the capability to disrupt my signal. If you were a wise man, you would land a helicopter within the Kremlin's walls and fly out this evening. You have been a dutiful lapdog. The Americans would no doubt let you hide behind their skirts."

"I have spoken to their President," the Russian leader said. "I have offered military assistance to remove you."

He could almost see the smile bloom beneath Zhirinsky's bushy mustache.

"Send your soldiers. When was the last time any of them were paid? Every true Russian will turn to my cause. Not only that, but you know it to be true, for I smell your fear. If I were you, I would begin packing. And if you are still there when I arrive in Moscow in triumph..."

There came a delighted sound of clicking teeth on the other end of the line. With that, the phone went dead in the president's ear.

With wooden movements he replaced the big yellow receiver. His fingers felt fat and clumsy.

Pavel Zatsyrko still stood near the plain wooden door, an anxious expression on his face.

"Is it true?" the SVR man asked the president. "Did you offer troops to the American President?" At his wobbly table, the president looked up. Dark bags rimmed his pale eyes.

"He refused," he said. "According to him, they have their best already in Alaska." The Russian glanced back at the four men seated against the wall. "But I do not see how two men could go up against an army," he muttered under his breath.

"Only two men?" Zatsyrko asked, amazed.

The president shook his head. "He did not tell me that. I heard this from our agent in Alaska. She is on her way back here even as we speak. She has assured me that they are more capable than any army."

Pavel Zatsyrko did not ask who this mysterious woman was. Apparently she was very highly placed, for she did not come under his jurisdiction at the SVR.

"Let us hope so," Zatsyrko said seriously. "For if Zhirinsky truly does have a nuclear bomb and uses it within the United States, the anarchists who roam Russia's streets will become the least of our problems."

The president didn't seem to hear. Tiny fingers drummed the wooden table.

"The two former presidents are still here in the Kremlin?" he asked suddenly.

"They could not leave if they wanted to," Zatsyrko said. "Their cars would not be able to get past the mobs."

"Bring them here," the president insisted. "And have them bring their bodyguards with them." His voice grew soft, his gaze distant. "If she is correct, the worst for me may come if the American agents somehow manage to succeed."

BEHIND HIS DESK in the Fairbanks city hall, Vladimir Zhirinsky took his hand from the phone.

Framed in the window at his back was the fluttering hammer and sickle of the Sovyetskii Soyuz. The flag waved proudly over Zhirinskygrad's cold night streets. The ultranationalist smiled into the camera.

"And ...cut," Zhirinsky ordered.

Across the room, an aide lowered the video camera he'd taken from the home of a Fairbanks real-estate agent.

"We must record every moment of this," Zhirinsky insisted. He smoothed out his mustache with two quick strokes of his index finger.

With fussing hands he picked up the pen from his desk and began to make grand sweeps across the clean, top sheet of a yellow legal pad.

"Um, Comrade Skachkov phoned a few minutes ago," the aide said nervously. He held the camera protectively to his chest. "He is still looking for the American spies."

Zhirinsky noted the quaver in the man's voice. His pen froze in place as he raised his dark eyes. "Is there something wrong?" he asked suspiciously.

The man with the camera thought of what Skachkov had told him. About all the dead soldiers at the airport and the fact that every one of their helicopters had been destroyed. He also thought of what Zhirinsky had done to Ivan Kerbabaev.

The nervous young man worked only part-time two days a week in the ultranationalist's Moscow office. And if his boss was willing to bite the nose off a full-timer, he dared not imagine what Zhirinsky might do to him.

"No, no," he said, smiling sickly. "Nothing more. But perhaps you should deliver your speech now instead of waiting until midnight. By all accounts, the people are ready. You have inspired them with your actions here. There is no reason why the revolution needs to wait any longer. We can leave for Russia as soon as you are done."

"Nonsense," Zhirinsky said. "We have all the time in the world." He tapped his pen to his chin as he licked the bristles of his bushy mustache. "What rhymes with 'invade Afghanistan'? Ah, yes."

Sticking his chin deep into his uppermost medals that adorned his jangling chest, he got back to work. With a feeling of deep dread, the man with the camera backed quietly from the room.

Chapter 31

Ivan Kerbabaev's eyes were clamped tightly shut. With one hand he clasped the door handle. With the other he gripped firmly on to the front of the rear seat. "Hurry," Ivan begged.

"I will try not to cause any pain."

"I am already in pain," Ivan said, his voice quavering.

Ivan sucked in a gust of injured air at the sudden tearing at his face. Opening his eyes, he saw nothing between them but a tiny nub of white bone. The spot where his nose should have been felt wet and open. Ivan made a few pitiful sobbing moans.

On the back seat next to him, the Russian soldier who had just removed the bandages winced.

Blood bubbles percolated out of exposed nasal cavities. A strand of cartilage hung from the tip of the triangular bone. The discolored flesh around the wound was curling inward. Teeth marks were visible on the skin.

The soldier forced an encouraging smile. "It does not look so bad," he said.

Ivan had just caught a glimpse of his deformed face in the rearview mirror.

"Oh, God," Zhirinsky's aide wailed pathetically.

"Maybe you should see a doctor," the soldier suggested.

"There are no doctors," Ivan moaned. "That bristle-faced lunatic has banished them all from town." The soldier stiffened. Comrade Kerbabaev's words were troubling. They would need to be reported. Careful to remain without expression, the young soldier rolled down the window. He threw the bloody bandages out into the street. A cold wind grabbed the gauze, blowing it away. Rolling up the window, he reached to the floor of the car where he began fussing with a small case Ivan had liberated from the downtown dentist's office.

"Aren't you ready yet?" Ivan begged after what seemed like an eternity. "I am in agony."

"I am all set. Do not move."

Ivan opened his eyes just a crack. He saw the needle closing in. With a groan he squeezed his eyes shut. The soldier held him by the side of the head with one hand while he slipped the needle in. Ivan felt a tiny prick near the bone of what had been his nose. When the needle came back out a moment later, Ivan's shoulders sagged.

It would take a moment for the novocaine to take effect. Ivan kept his eyes closed as the soldier applied fresh gauze.

"When the new revolution comes, Russia will once more have the best doctors in the world," the soldier said as he bit off a strip of masking tape he'd stolen from the health-and-beauty-aids section of the local Sam's Club. "They will fix you up."

"Russia never had good doctors," Ivan moaned. "My father went to a clinic to have an ingrown toenail removed and they cut off his foot. He died of gangrene. The only doctors that might have been able to do anything at all for me were chased away by the crazy man in whose belly my nose now rots."

The soldier's eyes grew flat at the treasonous words. "State doctors are the best," he insisted dully.

"There is no state," Ivan spit. "There is a small city in the middle of nowhere. No matter what the madman thinks, the Americans will not wait forever." He leaned back against the seat. "My only hope is that they take pity on me for what the crazy man has done to me."

The soldier applied a final piece of tape, stowing the dispenser in the case with the novocaine and needles.

"If that is your attitude, why did you participate in this glorious crusade?" he sniffed.

Ivan opened his eyes. He could see by his body language that the soldier was displeased. Good. Maybe he'd report him. At this point Ivan didn't even care.

"I am scared to death of that lunatic, that is why," Ivan said morosely, shutting his eyes once more. The novocaine was blessedly starting to take effect. "When I answered his newspaper ad, I did not know better. I had heard the stories about him, but I didn't believe them. After that it was too late. Did you ever try quitting a job when your boss is certifiably insane? Every day I tried to, and every day I saw visions of him slamming my head in the filing cabinet or pushing me down the elevator shaft. I knew I should have taken that job as second-shift manager at the Moscow McDonald's."

For a brief instant Ivan felt a shiver of cold. He assumed the soldier who had driven him here had rolled the window down to throw something else out into the street. Opening his eyes lazily, he was met with a fresh shock.

When he saw that the face looking back at him was no longer that of the young soldier, Ivan jumped so hard he banged his head against the roof.

"Kto dyela?" he winced, dropping back to his seat. "Speakie the English," demanded Remo Williams. Remo now sat in the back seat across from the Russian. Looking around, Ivan saw no sign of the soldier who had been tending to his wound.

Ignoring the swelling bruise on his head, Ivan instinctively covered his bandaged face. "Who are you?" he repeated in English. His voice was pained and nasal.

"The spirit of America," Remo replied evenly. "I'm hiding out in Alaska these days, 'cause it's as far as I can get by Studebaker from the Washington, New York, Boston axis. Now how about being a good invader and tell the spirit how to pull the plug on this nuke of yours?"

Ivan's eyes grew sick. "What is nuke?" he asked weakly.

"The spirit has had his fill of Russians lying to him today," Remo said darkly.

Grabbing Ivan by the throat, Remo dragged him from the rear of the parked car.

On the street Ivan saw the young soldier who had bandaged his face. He was lying in the road, his limbs twisted at impossible angles. Above him stood a wizened figure whose weathered face and imperious stance reminded Ivan of one of the Inuit totem poles he had seen around town.

Beyond the Master of Sinanju was the tarpaulin-covered flatbed trailer on which sat the Russian nuclear device.

"Get disarming," Remo ordered, flinging Ivan at the back of the truck.

"I told you it was the boom," Chiun insisted.

"It looked like a logging truck," Remo said. "When they said bomb, I thought bomb, not missile." He turned to Ivan. "What are you doing dragging an ICBM around on this Smokey and the Bandit thing? Can't you just unscrew the nose?"

"Comrade Zhirinsky liked better the idea of an entire intact missile rather than just a bomb," Ivan explained.

"Doesn't take Sigmund Freud to figure out his problem," Remo grumbled. "Okay, let's go."

He dragged Ivan down the length of the trailer. Both Masters of Sinanju could feel the contaminating radiation. It didn't seem high enough to cause damage with short-term exposure.

At the back, Remo tossed Ivan up under the tarpaulin. He and Chiun hopped up after him. The crinkling tarp rattled above their heads as they ducked alongside the missile. They hurried past the rocket, up the shaft to the warhead.

When they stopped, Ivan turned his gauze-wrapped face to the two men, unsure what to do.

"Disarm it," Remo ordered.

Ivan hesitated. "It is difficult," he said.

"That so? Let me make it easy."

The Russian offered too tempting a target. Shelving the more intricate Sinanju methods of persuasion, Remo did something a little more direct. He socked Ivan in the face.

Remo's balled fist struck hard in the middle of Ivan Kerbabaev's bunched-up bandages. Blood spurted anew, streaming down from beneath tape and gauze. Ivan screeched in pain.

"I did not say I would not do it!" the Russian cried, grabbing at his aching nose bone.

"Good," Remo said. "Then get cracking."

Ivan's eyes were pleading. "I do not have to," he explained desperately.

"No? I've got five reasons why you do," Remo said. He punched the back of Ivan's hand, knocking it into his face.

Ivan shrieked, falling back against the shiny silver warhead. "Please!" he begged. Both hands now cradled his bleeding face. "You do not understand!"

Remo's brow dropped low. "What don't I understand?"

"Limit your response to this device," Chiun suggested. "For a complete inventory of things Remo does not understand would maroon us forever in this wasteland."

Ivan's mouth was stained red. He gulped, swallowing watery blood. "The bomb does not work," he insisted.

Remo blinked. "Come again?"

"It does not work," Ivan explained. "The bomb is defective. Broken."

Remo looked at the metal casing. Radiation continued to seep from the device. He looked back at Ivan, suspicious.

"It's radioactive," he warned.

"Residual radiation," Ivan promised. "It was disarmed in Ukraine years ago. The plutonium was removed before it was shipped back to Russia. It is worthless."

Remo drew back his fist. "Are you pulling my leg?"

Ivan recoiled. "Please, it is truth!"

It was plain to them both that the Russian wasn't lying.

"Why would this man have a boom device that does not work?" Chiun asked.

"Zhirinsky wanted a missile. Any missile," Ivan explained, teary eyed. "I would give the grymza usraty whatever he desired, whether it worked or not."

"Zhirinsky doesn't know it's broken?" Remo asked.

"Nyet," Ivan insisted, shaking his head fervently.

"Lemme get this straight. You got this dud for him and you never bothered to tell him before he invaded Alaska that it doesn't work? What kind of crummy henchman are you?"

"I am not henchman, I am prisoner," Ivan moaned. "He likes me and the govnyuk still bit off my nose. What do you think he would have done to me if I told him his missile was broken? Yes, I arranged for it to be bought from the black market, but even I could not bring myself to purchase the plutonium it needed." His black-rimmed eyes begged understanding above his thick wad of gauze.

Ramo absorbed his words. "Just to tie up all the loose ends, this black market twit who sold it to you was Boris Flavorice, wasn't it?"

Ivan nodded. "Boris Feyodov, yes," he said. "He is powerful figure in Russian Mafia."

"Tell that to the hundred tons of rock that made his head go squish," Remo said dryly. He turned to Chiun. "His nuke and army are gone. That leaves us with the big nut himself, about a hundred Sinanju-trained guys and a Wang prophecy to deal with. The day's starting to look up."

"We will dispose of the armies of death first," Chiun intoned. "He of legend will find us when the time comes."

Spinning, the old man marched down the missile's length.

When Remo turned back to Ivan, the Russian cowered.

"You know where his men are?" Remo asked.

Ivan nodded. "Yes," he said.

"Good. You just got promoted to tour guide."

As he was grabbing Ivan by the jacket collar, the terrified man looked up at Remo, sad hope in his watery eyes.

"As typical body-conscious American, you would not happen to have number of good plastic surgeon?" he asked.

As he spoke, another piece of tape popped loose.

Chapter 32

"So did Anna ever work with Zhirinsky?" Remo asked as they sped down the street.

Ivan Kerbabaev was sandwiched between the two Masters of Sinanju in the front seat of the Land Rover. "Anna?" Ivan asked, confused. The light dawned. "Ah, Anna Chutesov. As far as I know, they have never even met. Zhirinsky first mentioned her to me this week. She is apparently director of a secret organization in Russia. A man by the name of Lavrenty Skachkov contacted Zhirinsky months ago. He and the other specially trained soldiers worked for this Chutesov woman until they decided to defect to Zhirinsky's cause a few days ago. Apparently, they were dissatisfied with the restrictions she placed on them."

"Why?" Remo asked. "She only let them kill every other Saturday?"

Ivan shook his head. "From what I understand she never let them out. That was the problem."

Remo shot a glance at the Master of Sinanju. "Sounds like Anna kept a tight lid on Mactep," he said, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

"That does not matter," the old man sniffed.

"Maybe it should," Remo said softly.

Between them, Ivan looked from one man to the other. "Mactep?" he asked as he stuck loose bandage tape back down. "That is what the others call Skachkov."

Remo scowled. "Yeah?" he said. "Well, Master Scratchpost is about to find out who the real Master is."

A blinding flash. Like something sparking in his brain.

Remo's eyes blurred, and he felt the wheel go mushy in his hands. When he snapped back around an instant later, the shoulder of the road was racing toward them. He fumbled for the steering wheel, but a bony hand was already there.

With a squeal of tires, Chiun steered them straight. "Wow," Remo said, his hands fumbling to take control once more. "Another head rush."

His mind was clearing. As it did, a thought that had almost formed scampered back into the back of his brain. And as it fled, his earlier frustration returned.

"Still sure you don't want to tell me what it is I'm missing?" he asked the Master of Sinanju.

The old man shook his head. "You must find your own path."

"Great," Remo muttered.

Ivan wasn't sure what had just happened. "You are not from the Institute," the Russian said evenly. "We're from better than the Institute," Remo replied.

Ivan looked first at the ancient Korean sitting on one side of him, then to the younger man in the light windbreaker who had just had some kind of seizure that had almost driven them off the road. "Skachkov is very, very good," he warned.

"I'm sick of people saying that," Remo snapped. "Now, unless you want an elbow to that nose-nub of yours, you'll pipe down and tell us where to go." Ivan did as he was told.

With Zhirinsky's aide offering directions as they went, Remo eventually stopped near a medical building around the corner from Fairbanks Hospital. It was a plain two-story structure. A few trucks were parked out front.

From the car Ivan pointed up at the brick building. "The Brezhnev Brigade is in there."

"Wait here," Remo instructed as he and Chiun popped their doors and slid out.

As Ivan ducked behind the dashboard, the two Sinanju Masters met at the front of the car.

"Stealthy or straightforward?" Remo asked. Chiun's neck craned like an angry bird from the brocade collar of his kimono.

"Prepare to pay in blood for your thievery, Russian dogs!" the Master of Sinanju cried up at the first-story windows. Fists knots of righteous anger, he whirled up the front staircase.

"Settles that," Remo said to himself. Hands thrust deep in his pockets, he strolled up the stairs after Chiun.

The two men disappeared inside the building. Alone in the car, Ivan waited. He jumped when, a minute after the two men had disappeared inside, there came a few muffled shots from the building.

That was it. They were dead.

Maybe he could convince Vladimir Zhirinsky that he had led these two into a trap. Who knew? The delusional lunatic was probably so far gone by now he'd believe anything. Not that it really mattered to Ivan any longer.

He was about to start the engine when the driver's door sprang open. Remo shoved Ivan from behind the wheel.

"For future reference, I don't like my seat kept warm," Remo said as he got in next to Ivan. "That goes double for Russian asses."

Ivan felt a stinging swat on his right knee. When he spun to its source, he found Chiun sitting calmly next to him.

"Stay on your side," cautioned the Korean.

"What's this bring us down to, Little Father?"

"Eighty-six," the old Asian replied.

"Wish there was a faster way to thin this herd," Remo frowned. He started the engine and pulled from the curb.

Craning his neck, Ivan looked back at the building, amazement blossoming on the visible parts of his face. "There were sixteen men in there," he said.

"I know," Remo said, peeved. "It's a pain running all over the place like this. At least he had all those other troops at the airport. Lot more convenient for us that way."

"Yes, they are there for now," Ivan said. "But he plans to disperse them to fortified positions after his speech."

"He'll need a set of barbecue tongs," Remo said. "And you should work on your tenses, schnozzy. I said 'had.' I meant by putting all the Russian eggs in one basket it was easier for us to handle. Bizz-bang-boom, we were done."

Ivan seemed to finally realize what Remo was saying.

"You mean you eliminated all of his troops at the airport?" he asked, inching up to a sitting position. A tiny spark of hope swelled in the pit of his cold stomach.

"I eliminated most of them," Chiun interjected.

"Technically, they mostly eliminated each other, Little Father," Remo pointed out.

Ivan watched them both. "Do you intend to kill Zhirinsky?" the Russian asked, eagerness in his soft voice.

"Now that we know he can't melt the polar icecaps," Remo replied.

Ivan's eyes grew cunning. "Let me help. I offer my services as a double agent."

"What do you think you're doing right now, genius?"

The cunning changed to a look of cold vengeance. "Kill me, then. I no longer care. But before you do, allow me to tear off the lunatic's nose."

"Sorry. Got dibs on that," Remo said darkly. Ivan slumped back in the seat like a pouting child.

A wet moan of disappointment rose from beneath his mound of bloody bandages.

Remo rolled his eyes. "Look, tell us where the next batch of Institute guys are and you can have an ear." A grin sprang so abruptly to Ivan's face, another piece of tape popped free. "Take the next left," Ivan Kerbabaev instructed giddily. With joyous, nimble fingers he pressed the tape back to his mangled face.

Ivan quickly turned from reluctant tour guide to eager collaborator. The next stop was the Fairbanks chamber of commerce. As an afterthought as they were getting out of the car, Remo tapped three fingers to the Russian's forehead. Ivan was frightened when Remo came at him, but when his captor's hand withdrew, a look of great relief washed over the Russian's face. His facial pain had disappeared.

As Remo and Chiun walked away from the car, the look of love Ivan gave Remo was the sort generally reserved to dogs for their owners.

"You do not need to spoil him," Chiun complained.

Remo's face was flat. "His whimpering was getting to me. Besides, I need him for something once we're done here."

They mounted the steps to the chamber of commerce.

"Only five inside," Remo said, tuning his senses to the interior of the building. "Sounds like they're asleep."

Chiun nodded sharp agreement. "We will send the thieves to eternal slumber," he intoned.

A sharp slap opened the door. Chiun swirled inside.

Remo followed the wizened figure up the darkened main hallway. They found the five soldiers curled in sleeping bags on a first-story office floor.

"Think we should wake them up?" Remo whispered. "Hardly seems sporting not to give them a fighting chance."

The old man gave him a baleful look before turning away.

Kimono hems whirling around his bony ankles, Chiun bounded from the door. One sandaled heel found the crunching skull of a slumbering man. Springing from head to head as if seeking stones in raging rapids, Chiun quickly finished off the five. Giving his heel a grinding crunch to the final skull, the Master of Sinanju padded back to Remo.

"Leave chance to sport," the old man said blandly. "I am a professional."

They were about to leave when Remo spied something on the floor next to one of the dead soldiers. "Wait a sec," he said. "I have an idea."

He headed for the body.

At the door Chiun paused impatiently. "I have warned you to inform me beforehand when that one special day in each decade comes around," the old man droned, "that I might arrange to be out of town."

"Don't knock my ideas," Remo warned as he snatched up the soldier's portable radio. "I'm sick of running all over this icebox. Besides, you're gonna love this one."

VLADIMIR ZHIRINSKY STARED at the radio in his aide's hand with a look of dumb shock.

The man had run into his office a few seconds ago. The future premier of the reborn Soviet Union couldn't believe what he was hearing.