By Eminent Domain

"Calling all Commies, calling all Commies. Sitting-duck American spies spotted in vicinity of chamber of commerce building. This is not a trap. Over." The radio crackled with static.

Sitting at his desk, mounds of wadded paper all around, Zhirinsky glared up at his aide.

"Whoever he is, he began broadcasting a few minutes ago," the young man offered worriedly.

Zhirinsky licked his mustache. "Who is stationed at the chamber of commerce building?" he asked.

"The Trotsky Brigade," his aide said. "I have tried to raise them, but I cannot."

The American voice broke in again.

"Okay, so it is a trap. But there's only two of us. What's the matter, you chicken or something?" Zhirinsky frowned as the radio speaker began to emit clucking sounds. "What is 'chicken'?" he asked his aide.

The young man shrugged nervously.

Zhirinsky's brow grew heavy. "It sounds like he is mocking me," he said with low menace.

The voice on the radio stopped clucking. "Hey, Chiun, how do you say stupid in Russian?" Another voice chimed in from the background. "Tupitsa."

"Zhirinsky's a tupitsa-ass," taunted the first man. In his office the ultranationalist's eyes nearly launched from their sockets. "He is mocking me," he gasped.

A raspberry issued from the speaker.

Ropy knots of rage tightened in Zhirinsky's neck. "Send all of the Institute men to their location! Whoever they are, I want them dead. Where is Skachkov? Where is that spineless assistant of mine, Kerbabaev?" Spittle flew from his spluttering lips.

"I will check," his aide said, scurrying from the room.

On the radio the voice had begun singing the "Star Spangled Banner."

Eyes furious, Zhirinsky snatched up the microphone. Blue veins bulged on his pale forehead. "Who are you?" he bellowed.

"The spirit of America," replied the hateful voice, "here to tell you that the only good xenophobe is an American xenophobe. Now, you wanna hurry up and kill us already? I've got a prophecy to hammer out and some overdue videos to bring back to the Juneau Blockbuster."

With a sharp crackle the radio went dead. Zhirinsky's address to the Russian people was forgotten. His ascension to power, the new Soviet Union, the turmoil back home-all faded into a chorus of nothing. His focus was now aimed entirely at this detestable American who would dare mock Vladimir Zhirinsky.

"I will show you who is poultry!" the ultranationalist raged. Grabbing the radio, he heaved it against the wall. Like Zhirinsky's sanity, it shattered into a hundred pieces.

Chapter 33

The first truck slowed to a stop on the cold Fairbanks street at 10:17 p.m.

From a darkened second-story window in the chamber of commerce building, Remo watched eight Russians with rifles disembark. Each wore a white face mask and goggles.

"They must only own one party dress," Remo commented.

Chiun sat in a lotus position on the floor, his hands resting lightly on his knees. "If I know my Russians, their government took their spare kimonos to give to those who didn't have kimonos and then traded them to Iraq for oil," he said dully. "Do any of them look like the false Master?"

"Tough to say," Remo replied as he watched the men outside. "With those masks I can't see if they fit the description Anna gave. So far they look like the same klutzes we've already met."

A yellow school bus pulled up. From the front and rear doors, thirty more soldiers climbed stealthily down to the dark street. Behind the bus, a few more large trucks unloaded even more men.

"Looks like the last of them," Remo said as the men grouped in the street.

The Master of Sinanju rose silently from the office floor, sliding in beside Remo at the window. Slender nails split the miniblinds wider.

The Russians were fanning out around the building. Some had already slipped around back. They kept to the shadows, joining with the darkness.

To Remo and Chiun's keen eyes, they might as well have had a hundred searchlights trained on each of them.

"This really burns me, Little Father," Remo said softly. "They don't deserve Sinanju. Not even a hint of it."

Chiun's weathered face was hard. "So it was with the others who stole from the House through the years," he intoned. "They are all dancers and board breakers who have appropriated but a reflected ray of the Sun Source. Unlike the other times in our history, we have an opportunity here to eliminate every practitioner of this illegitimate art."

"Hmm," Remo said absently.

The soldiers approached from all around. On the street they moved toward the front. Those around back had to be closing in by now. A creak came from above, followed by soft footfalls.

"Looks like the gang's all here," Remo said, turning from the window. "You wanna go front, back or roof?"

Chiun's keen ears filtered the many thudding heartbeats that were converging on the three-story building. Only a few came from above.

"The roof," he said firmly, his hand snaking from the blinds. The metal slats closed soundlessly.

Side by side, the two men ducked out the door. Dark specters, they slid through the elongated shadows of the hallway. The stairwell brought them up to the roof-access door. At the steel door Remo paused.

Eight heartbeats came from beyond. Two were just outside the closed door.

As Remo waited, he felt a fingernail press his lower back.

"Go," Chiun breathed impatiently. Remo held up a staying hand.

On the other side of the door, the handle rattled. A scuffed foot sounded on the roof.

Remo made a disgusted face. "Purcell's gotta be the crappiest teacher in town," he whispered. In punctuation he slapped the flat of his palm against the door's surface.

The steel door sprang open, sweeping into the two men who stood just beyond it and carrying them around to the wall. With a horrid crunch of bone, the two startled Russians were crushed between door and wall.

The remaining six men who were creeping across the roof saw barely a flash of movement from the door before Remo and Chiun exploded through the opening.

Remo took the ones on the left, Chiun the three to the right.

The Master of Sinanju's flashing nails formed gills of spurting blood in the throats of his three commandos. As they fell to their knees, clutching necks, three pulverizing heel strikes to the forehead launched Russian bone shards deep into Russian brains.

Beside the old man Remo grabbed a commando head in each hand. He snapped them together, the head of the third soldier in between. Skulls cracked and commandos dropped.

All six soldiers formed a tangled pile of limbs on the dark roof.

"Count?" Remo asked, spinning to Chiun. "Seventy-three," the old man replied.

He tipped his head, reconsidering.

Whirling, the Master of Sinanju's outstretched toe caught the chin of a commando just peeking over the roof's edge. The man's head came loose in precisely the way heads weren't supposed to. The head bounced to the neighboring roof, rolling to a stop near an air vent. The body plummeted to the dark alley below. The wizened Korean turned a bland eye to his pupil. "Seventy-two," he amended.

Remo heard the headless body thud to earth. Hushed voices called urgently to one another far below.

"Say, Chiun, I've got a game for you," Remo said. "Ever play lawn darts?"

Chiun stroked his thin beard. "I do not believe I am familiar with it."

"You're gonna love it," Remo assured him. "It's right up your alley. Or down, as the case may be."

Remo quickly gathered the eight rifles that had been dropped by the Russians. Bringing them to the edge of the roof, he leaned seven on the ledge, keeping one in his hand.

"The object is to use a dart," Remo said, holding out a gun, "to hit your target. Permit me to demonstrate."

Raising the rifle like a spear, he leaned over the edge of the roof. With a crack the gun rocketed from his fingers, disappearing down into the dark alley.

Leaning on the ledge, both men watched the rifle scream into the head of an Institute soldier who was standing among the group that encircled the decapitated body.

The flying barrel buried deep into skull and torso. By the time it stopped burrowing, the soldier looked as if he'd sprouted a gun-butt dorsal fin.

"See?" Remo said, smiling at Chiun as the other commandos began firing in a blind panic up at the roof. "Lawn darts is more of a suburbs thing. I had stickball and kick-the-can growing up. But there's really nothing to it."

Chiun appeared to agree. "Move, amateur," he commanded. Muscling past Remo, he grabbed a gun in each hand.

The frantic firing of a moment before had begun to slow, but as soon as Chiun's bald head peeked over the roof's edge, the shooting began in earnest once more. Bullets whizzed around the flaps of the old man's hat. Frowning, Chiun ducked back, the guns still clutched in his hands.

"Am I given extra points for distractions?"

Remo shook his head firmly. "Part of the challenge."

Chiun nodded. "I accept your rules," he said. As he tilted forward, fingers like sticks of bone hurled the guns down.

The soldiers in the alley barely had time to register the blurry black apparition high above before two more rifles howled into their midst. Two upraised faces snagged the guns in nudgoggle. The barrels exploded out the backs of skulls, burying deep in asphalt. Like insects in a science project, the men were pinned to the alley floor.

The shooting intensified, even more frantic than before.

Chiun dodged the bullets, clapping his hands delightedly.

"Bull's-eyes!" he sang happily as he slipped back to the safety of the roof.

Bullets continued to zing through vacant air.

"Not bad," Remo said. "But I wouldn't make room in the trophy case yet. We've still got sixty-nine more to go."

Reaching over, he grabbed another makeshift dart.

THEY LOST CONTACT with the Khrushchev Brigade at 10:30 p.m. When they called the Molotov Brigade, the Institute commando in charge failed to answer his radio.

When the first sounds of gunfire pierced the night, Vladimir Zhirinsky jumped. Afterward the silence seemed all the more deafening, all the more menacing. The voices that did come over the radio were panicked and undisciplined.

It was the Institute training. The men were former athletes and dancers. They weren't soldiers. They had encountered something unexpected and were reacting to it like a bunch of frightened gymnasts and ballerinas.

"This is not happening," Zhirinsky said, his voice a barely audible rumble.

The walls of his office were very close. The world had closed in. Tighter than the room, smaller even than the space in which Vladimir Zhirinsky existed. He felt the crush of his collapsing universe behind his bleary eyes.

Around his ankles was a pile of crumpled paper. His great speech to Mother Russia. Worthless now. After the American voice had taunted him, he had decided to take his aide's advice and move up his address to the Russian people. Not only did he learn that the satellite on which the signal was to be broadcast belonged to Mickey Mouse, but he also found out that he had been dumped off the feed. The people would not hear his carefully crafted call to arms.

He snapped. In a moment of rage he decided to set off his precious nuclear bomb and ride the mushroom cloud into oblivion along with his unknown American tormentors. But when the men he sent to detonate the device attempted to do so, it flared to life, launching off the flatbed trailer before coming to a spluttering stop in the drive-through arch of a downtown bank. It failed to explode.

When he vowed to visit vengeance upon the incompetent head of the man to whom he had entrusted both the satellite and the missile, he learned Ivan Kerbabaev had disappeared.

And so Vladimir Zhirinsky sat. Dark lids failed to blink over bloodshot eyes.

More weak gunfire popped somewhere across town. Zhirinsky climbed to his feet, clutching his stomach. Sick eyes looked out the window.

Beyond the frosty pane the Soviet flag waved mockingly at him. Zhirinsky pressed a palm against the glass, his sagging face filled with longing.

When his part-time aide hurried into the room, Zhirinsky didn't even acknowledge his presence. "Comrade, we must leave," the young man announced.

Zhirinsky continued to stare out the window.

The dream was gone. The Americans had sent in some sort of commando force. Greater even than the men from the Institute. The Soviet Union was gone. Vanished into the mists of time like all great empires. It would never return.

"Comrade," the voice behind him pressed. Zhirinsky turned from the window.

His aide's face was pleading. "If we are to escape with our lives, we must go now," he begged.

The distant gunfire intensified, then ceased. Zhirinsky considered his words. He tried to think, tried to force some small, rational part of his mind to understand the wisdom of the words.

"We have failed," Zhirinsky admitted softly. "Listen. The gunfire has stopped. The men do not report that they are victorious, therefore they have failed."

"Which makes it all the more urgent that we go now."

"Go how?" Zhirinsky asked. "You have told me that our helicopters have been destroyed. We cannot take another plane from the airport, for our pilots are dead and I put into exile any Americans who could fly. I am trapped."

The aide shook his head urgently. "The vehicles that brought the commandos here are still parked at the edge of town. Comrade Skachkov told me where they are. We can escape into the wilderness. There are provisions for a hundred men hidden at the camps the men were using. When they stop looking for you, we can flee back to Russia."

Zhirinsky absorbed the man's words.

"Skachkov," he said quietly. "You have spoken to him?"

"He called a few minutes ago. His radio malfunctioned, so he did not know that the others were sent to the chamber of commerce building. He is on his way there now."

A spark lit in Zhirinsky's coal-black eyes. "The tables have just turned," he intoned.

He was thinking of that day he had met Lavrenty Skachkov in Gorky Park all those months ago. Zhirinsky had never seen his like-not even among the other Institute men. Whoever these Americans were, they could not be equal to Skachkov.

"The dogs think they have beaten us back this day," Zhirinsky said ominously. "But we will be victorious. In case Skachkov is late arriving, I will fall back for now. Once he is successful in wiping out these capitalist spies, we will hasten back to Russia while the mood of the people is still with me. This revolution will be fought like the first. From house to house and in the streets."

The words were spoken with proud certainty. Grinning like a conqueror, Vladimir Zhirinsky pushed past his aide and marched quickly from the small office.

FLASHES POPPED like minifireworks from the alley floor. As Russian commandos laid down cover fire, nearly two dozen more mounted the fire escape.

Remo and Chiun had exhausted their supply of makeshift darts, eliminating six more Institute soldiers. As bullets whizzed through air, they hunkered down behind the brick upper ledge of the Fairbanks chamber of commerce building.

A bony hand slithered out, clasping on to the uppermost metal rail of the fire escape. Chiun tuned himself to the vibrations of the men climbing the stairs. When the first commando was nearly in striking distance, the Master of Sinanju nodded sharply.

"Now," he hissed.

Remo took the cue. Like a shot he flipped up and over. Shoulders didn't have time to brush the ledge before he was out in open air. He dropped like a stone, his legs curled tightly up to his trunk. Three stories down, his legs unbuckled, absorbing the fall like coiled springs.

He fell so fast the men in the alley hadn't seen him. Goggles aimed skyward, they continued to shoot blindly into the air even as Remo spun to the fire escape.

Remo slapped the metal twice. Flying hands cracked the heavy brackets that fastened the crisscrossing ladder to the rear wall. Three stories up, the Master of Sinanju shattered the upper bolts. Vibrations raced up and down the zigzagging structure, meeting with explosive force dead center.

A sound like that of church bells striking a sour note rang out in the cold night.

The Russians in the alley stopped shooting. On the fire escape the rest of the men froze.

In the ensuing silence, all ears heard the first gentle creak. It was followed by a groan.

And like a great metal dinosaur surrendering its last, the fire escape began to pull slowly away from the wall. By the time bolts started shooting like bullets into the side of the adjacent building, the men were already panicking.

Russians on the ground tried to run. Those high up on the escape scrambled desperately for the top. Men jumped and screamed as, with a shriek of angry frozen metal, the fire escape buckled and dropped. Weighted down with its cargo of twenty-three Russian soldiers, it crashed in a mangled heap on top of eleven more in the alley below.

As clouds of snow rose into the night, seven men who had avoided the crash attempted to flee the alley. Remo fell in among them.

Hands and feet cut through them like a thresher's blade. He finished off any who had survived the crash just as quickly. Leaving the dead behind, Remo raced around the front of the building, ducking through the main entrance.

Two men lurked inside the door. As he flew past, Remo launched an elbow into each skull.

Another group of four commandos stood in the ground-floor hallway, backs braced against the wall, guns at the ready. They peered up into the dark depths of the staircase from which shots could be heard.

Remo flew past the men, a flattened palm snapping out as he passed each in turn. Heads buckled plaster in a cascade of dust as Remo bounded into the stairwell.

On the first flight of stairs he met another six. Screams and severed limbs fell in his wake.

At the roof door he nearly plowed into the Master of Sinanju. The old Asian was springing into the landing.

Chiun's weathered face was tight with concern. "How many?" the old man demanded.

"We got a total of forty-one with the fire escape and in the alley. I got twelve more inside. What about you?"

"Ten came through the roof door."

"No kidding?" Remo said with a deep frown. "Then that's it for the ones here. Anna said the rest were in Russia. So much for the great Master from Sinanju who isn't from Sinanju. He must have been one of these guys." He waved a thick-wristed hand out toward the open roof door.

Chiun shook his head firmly. "No," he insisted. "There is one more."

"You sure? My count makes it-" He stopped dead.

The two men still stood inside the open door. Chiun's back was to the roof. As Remo spoke, he spotted movement over the old man's shoulder.

A dark figure had just scurried over the ledge. It landed on the roof on two certain feet. Slivered eyes sought out Remo and Chiun.

Lavrenty Skachkov no longer wore the off-white uniform of the other Institute soldiers. He was dressed entirely in black. A stiff wind touched his closecropped white hair.

Chiun sensed the movement behind him. He followed Remo's gaze, turning back to the roof. When he saw Skachkov, his face turned to stone.

"Guess you were right with your adding," Remo said. He started out the door, but a touch to his elbow stopped him.

"Beware the false Master, Remo," Chiun cautioned. "For although the scrolls record Wang's prophecy, they do not foretoken the victor."

Remo glanced out at Lavrenty Skachkov. The young man stood a few feet in from the edge of the roof. Waiting.

He seemed flawlessly balanced, spine in perfect alignment to the rest of his body. The Russian's hands were free at his sides as he watched Remo.

"You've got a lot to learn about pep talks," Remo said.

When Remo turned and walked back out the door, the Master of Sinanju came and stood just outside the door, a pinch of worry on his weathered face.

On cautious, gliding feet Remo crossed over to where Skachkov waited. He stopped six feet shy of the Russian.

For a cold moment, neither man spoke. They seemed to be sizing each other up. As the wind whirled around them, biting at their backs, Remo studied the Russian's lips.

A cold hiss of air escaped as thin white steam into the breeze.

"So what do we do now?" Remo asked when the silence had gone on too long. "Stare at each other until we both turn into ice sculptures?"

Skachkov slowly shook his head. "Those who called me Master are dead," he said in heavily accented English. "To avenge them and truly earn the title, I must defeat you. Both of you," he called over to the Master of Sinanju.

Chiun still stood over near the entrance to the stairwell. His frozen expression did not change.

Before Skachkov, Remo's face was also impassive.

"Gotta get through me first, sweetheart," he said coldly.

Something like the beginning of a superior smile touched the corners of Lavrenty Skachkov's lips. It did not have time to form completely before the Russian lashed out.

In a wink he was up and out, his hand cutting air. All the hours of training, all the pain he had endured, everything he had learned was focused in that single moment of perfection. And to the Russian's delight, his target seemed oblivious to the crushing blow that was steering a deadly course to his wideopen, exposed throat.

Chapter 34

Skachkov's flashing hand got far enough to compress air to a microsliver before Remo's Adam's apple. At the last instant Remo tipped to one side.

The Russian's face grew shocked. Forward momentum unstoppable in the stroke, Skachkov flew forward. Bones cracked and muscles tore. His arm popped audibly from its socket as he landed face first on the roof. Scraping skin from chin and neck, he slid to a painful, protracted stop, finally coming to a rest at the toes of a pair of plain wooden sandals. He spit bloody gravel from his mouth.

"That's it?" Remo complained. "That's Wang's big bad prophecy? You got me all worked up for some huge Godzilla vs. Megalon showdown. I could see him breathing, for crying out loud." Stepping over, he toed Skachkov onto his back.

The Russian groaned in agony.

The force of the unspent blow had cracked loose several ribs. A fracture split his sternum just over his heart.

"Prophecies are not always clear," Chiun said, puzzlement evident in his own voice. He poked Lavrenty in the chest with his toe. The Russian screamed. "Still, most are better than this," he added, stroking his beard.

Remo sighed. "Maybe we shouldn't gripe. For once we got off easy." He turned his attention to Skachkov. "Okay, twinkle toes, Anna told us there were only 144 of you guys here. That right?" To insure a truthful answer, he kicked the Russian in his dislocated shoulder.

"Yes!" Skachkov cried.

"That's all of them, then, Little Father. Except for the ones Anna said are still in Russia, the armies of death have taken a powder." He motioned to the prone Lavrenty Skachkov. "You want to do the honors?"

"Wait," Chiun said. "There is one more question to ask." He turned his penetrating gaze down to the Russian. "How did you and these others come to possess your limited skills?" he demanded.

Remo assumed he already knew the answer the white-haired commando would give. He was therefore surprised when the man did not instantly blurt out Jeremiah Purcell's name, the only other man on the planet possessed of Sinanju abilities. Remo was even more shocked by the Russian's eventual answer.

Flat on his back, stabs of white-hot agony coursing through his body, the pain on Lavrenty Skachkov's face flickered to a brief moment of confusion. He looked from Chiun to Remo and back again, at last shaking his head.

"You taught me," admitted Mactep Lavrenty Skachkov.

And the puzzlement in his voice was reflected full on the faces of both Masters of Sinanju.

Chapter 35

The limousine bearing Vladimir Zhirinsky zoomed around the corner. Stomping hard on the gas, the ultranationalist's aide steered the big car away from the chamber of commerce and the silence that had followed the raging battle there.

He had memorized their escape route hours ago. With any luck the highway would take them safely out of town.

"When it comes, it will be all the more glorious for the shock it will give them all," Zhirinsky growled in the back seat. Dark eyes watched the scenery flash by. "Perhaps it is even better this way. They believe they have beaten me, but all they have done is force the cobra in a box. When we return to Russia, I will strike out at the hand that dares to cage me. Me, the beating heart of the Soviet Union."

His aide was too busy concentrating on driving to respond. As they sped along, his eyes strayed to the mirror.

"Oh, no," the young man said, his voice thick.

"What is it?" Zhirinsky asked. Following his driver's gaze, he turned in his seat, looking out the back window.

A truck was following them.

Zhirinsky frowned. "Is that Ivan?" he demanded. "Stop the car at once. I will take the cost of that malfunctioning missile out of his worthless hide." His brow lowered as he peered out the window. "Who is that he is with?"

The trailing truck drew close. Despite Zhirinsky's order, his driver did not slow. Eyes still on the mirror, he pressed harder on the accelerator.

"What are they doing?" Zhirinsky growled.

As he spoke, the trailing Land Rover's doors sprang open. The vehicle swerved for a moment as Ivan lunged for the wheel. In the moment he took control, two shapes hopped out either side of the speeding truck.

Zhirinsky was amazed when the men didn't fall and break their necks. Amazement turned to horror when he realized that, not only did they not stumble, the running men were actually gaining on his own car. "How is this possible?" he gasped.

His driver didn't answer. Hands tight on the steering wheel, he checked the speedometer. The limousine was racing just over seventy miles per hour. He stomped harder on the pedal, but it was already down to the floor.

Sickly eyes found the rearview mirror. The men were gone.

Even as his hopeful brain was registering the disappearance of the men, his peripheral vision caught a blur of movement to his right. When he looked over, his stomach clenched in watery fear.

A cruel face was looking at him through the window.

"License and registration!" Remo called through the tinted glass even as he slammed his fist through it.

In the back seat Vladimir Zhirinsky saw a thick-wristed hand reach through the shattering window, grabbing his driver's collar. In a flash his young aide's shoes were disappearing out the opening.

The hand appeared again, jerking the steering wheel sharply. With a smoking shriek of tires, the limo bounced and spun a perfect 180 degrees.

Somehow it didn't flip over. As Zhirinsky was flung around the rear seat, the car flew back in the direction from whence it had come.

Ivan's Land Rover was racing up the road directly at the out-of-control limousine. Horror-struck, Zhirinsky jumped up, scrambling over the rear seat. Belly stuck to the back of the driver's seat, he clamped on to the steering wheel.

"Get out of the way, idiot!" Zhirinsky screamed as he jerked the wheel.

Ivan spun the other way. The Land Rover missed the limo by a hair, slamming into a mound of dirty snow.

The limousine soared past.

Still balanced precariously over the seat, Zhirinsky saw something had been jammed onto the gas pedal. It looked very much like the short white hair that had capped Lavrenty Skachkov's head. The rest of the Institute commando's body was nowhere to be seen.

As the dull shock of realization sank in, strong hands grabbed him from behind. Sweaty palms slipping from the steering wheel, Zhirinsky dropped roughly back to his seat.

Remo Williams sat calmly beside him. "This the bus to Vladivostok?" he asked coldly.

Zhirinsky fell away from the intruder. "Who are you?" the ultranationalist demanded, his voice flirting with fear.

"I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy." Another voice broke in on the other side. "I am a Korean Doodle Dandier."

When Zhirinsky twisted the other way, he found another man sharing his seat. A mask of wrinkles regarded the Russian with deep distaste.

"This thing considers itself a czar?" Chiun sniffed to Remo. "He is not fit to mend Ivan the Good's lapots."

Zhirinsky was stuck between their verbal PingPong. When he spun to see what the young stranger would say in reply, he found that Remo was now gone. Whirling, he saw the Master of Sinanju was missing, as well.

The rear doors were now open.

All at once, he remembered he was in a runaway car with no driver. Zhirinsky lunged for the steering wheel.

Too late.

The city hall building was flying back toward him. It was too late to turn. Too late to jump. Too late for anything.

By the time the inevitable registered dumbly in the mind of Vladimir Zhirinsky, the limo was already crashing into the line of cars parked in the street before the big building.

The nose snagged and the long car flipped up and over a Ford Explorer, landing in a crumpled heap near the front staircase. Even after the car had slid to a painful, grinding stop, the engine continued to idle softly. One tire spun lazy circles in the chill air.

Inside, Vladimir Zhirinsky blinked away a wash of red.

Something big and soft was all around him. Holding him. Protecting him.

Of course he could not die. The world would not allow it.

Zhirinsky battled back the air bag. On all fours, he crawled through the shattered windshield of the upended limo. He made it out to the sidewalk.

Blood ran from a gash in his forehead. He wiped it from his eyes, smearing it on his thighs. When he looked back up, he saw something even redder than his own blood. It was floating toward him, dancing in the breeze.

For one brief moment Zhirinsky caught the stark gold outlines of the hammer and sickle. And then the brilliant red tightened around his neck.

"America-love it, or leave it the hell alone," a voice whispered very close to his ear.

The old Soviet flag was pulled tight. For a tortured moment the world of Vladimir Zhirinsky grew very red.

And then it grew very, very black indeed.

Chapter 36

Remo called Smith from the Fairbanks city hall. "Report," the CURE director ordered, his voice taut.

"The Russians are going, the Russians are going," Remo announced. "And on a personal note, it's about damn time."

"Explain."

"The short of it is that we pulled the plug on the commandos here and that big bomb was a big dud. I think there might be a few loose fuzz-hats running around up here, but Chiun and I got all the Sinanju ones, so the rest won't be any problem."

"Several have already surrendered to the Army a few miles outside of Fairbanks," Smith told him. "What of Zhirinsky?"

Remo glanced out the window. The body of Vladimir Zhirinsky dangled halfway up the city hall flagpole, its neck firmly entangled in the flag of the Soviet Union. Glassy dead eyes stared out at the night.

Far above Zhirinsky, the American flag flew once more, illuminated by floodlights from the ground. "He's gonna be hanging around up here for a while, Smitty," Remo replied.

Across the room sulked Ivan Kerbabaev. The Russian stood near a tall window, a frown creasing his mass of crusted bandages. Ever since Remo had dug him from his snowbank, he had been complaining about the fact that he wasn't going to be allowed to rip off one of Zhirinsky's ears as promised.

On the phone Smith could tell by Remo's tone that it wasn't necessary to press further about Zhirinsky. "It is safe, then, to send in the Army," the CURE director said. "I will issue the proper commands. You and Chiun may report back to Folcroft."

"No can do, Smitty," Remo said. "We've still got a couple of loose ends we have to tie up."

Smith grew puzzled. "I thought you said everything in Alaska was secure."

"In Alaska," Remo agreed. Voice trailing off, he dropped the receiver back into its cradle.

A CONTINENT AWAY Harold W. Smith frowned at the dead air issuing from his phone.

Across the desk from the CURE director, Mark Howard sat on his usual hard-backed chair. His jacket was draped over the back of the battered couch near the door.

"Is something else wrong?" Mark asked when he saw the look on his employer's face.

Smith was still holding the blue contact phone. He looked up at Howard. "No," he said tightly.

As the CURE director replaced the phone, Mark stood.

"So they came through?"

"Yes. Apparently, Zlurinsky's bomb did not work. They have eliminated the special troops. The crisis is over."

"You didn't tell him about the satellite," Mark said.

It was Smith who had learned of Zhirinsky's plan to broadcast a call to arms to the Russian people. He had used CURE's resources to deny Zhirinsky access to the satellite.

"It wasn't necessary," Smith said absently. "Our work here is to identify crises and, when necessary, to support the efforts of our field operatives. They do not need to know all the details."

Booting up his computer, Smith began ordering the troops from Fort Wainwright to return to Fairbanks. Mark went to retrieve his jacket. As he was pulling it on, he glanced back at Smith.

Ghostly shadows thrown up from his hidden monitor gave the old man the appearance of an ambulatory cadaver.

"Are you-" Mark hesitated. "Are you going to tell them about me?" he asked all at once.

Smith peered up over his glasses. The gray line of his brow was shadowed in black. "I told you," the CURE director said. "They do not need to know every detail."

He turned his attention back to his computer. Across the room Mark gave a tired smile.

With a nod of silent relief, Mark Howard slipped from the office, leaving the gray-shrouded man to his life's work.

Chapter 37

Remo and Chiun spoke little on their flight from the United States. At Moscow's Sheremetevo II Airport, they parted company. The Master of Sinanju took one taxi while Remo climbed into another with Ivan Kerbabaev.

"Kitai Gorod," Ivan instructed through his gnarled knot of loosening bandages.

Crowds of people wandered Moscow's streets. From what Remo could see, no one looked very happy.

The two cabs rode together for a short time. Near the Kremlin, Chiun's veered away. Remo and Ivan continued deeper into the city.

They followed a tangle of crisscrossing streets and narrow lanes. More feckless crowds clogged the roadway.

Whenever the cab stopped, Ivan acted as interpreter. Remo quickly learned the Russian for "I don't know" was Ya ne znayu. It took some time, but they at last found someone who was able to direct them where they wanted to go.

An hour after leaving the airport, the cab pulled to a stop in front of a pair of somber gates. Looming above was a menacing building with bricked-up windows.

Remo stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The Institute building was of typical Soviet design. Big, blockish and ugly.

After taking only a few steps, Remo paused. Doubling back, he leaned in the cab.

"Beat it," he said to Ivan Kerbabaev.

Much of the masking tape sprang free. "Truly?" Ivan asked, pushing the bandages back in place.

"Don't tempt me," Remo warned. "And leave the cab."

Ivan hastily instructed the driver to remain at the curb. He quickly climbed out of the small car. Holding a hand to his flapping bandages, he ran down the cold Moscow street. He was gone from sight even before Remo had slipped through the heavy Institute gates.

ANNA HEARD the muffled gunfire through the thick walls.

There were only twelve of them here. They were the latest trainees to come to the Institute. Now they would be the last. She had left them out beyond. Left them to their inevitable fate. The same fate that would be hers.

It wouldn't be long now.

When the gunfire stopped, her fingers clenched reflexively around the object in her hand.

She didn't hear the footsteps as they came up the hall. Not that she expected to. She only knew he had found her when the iron door began to groan inward.

The door surrendered in a crunch of metal and exploding concrete. Buckling, it crashed into the office. Remo found Anna Chutesov sitting alone behind her desk. Across the room a television flickered. As he stepped inside, he noted the image on the TV screen.

The picture quality wasn't great, but it was good enough. He watched the videotaped image of himself and the Master of Sinanju walking through a crowded concourse.

Anna watched him watch the TV. "You do not seem surprised," she said without inflection.

He pulled his eyes from the screen. "Your boy Skitch Henderkov, or whatever the hell his name was, told us. By the way, you didn't have to be so worried about him. He was about as tough as college-football math class."

Anna's smile was weak. "I'm glad," she said. "His abilities far surpassed the others. I did not want you and Chiun put at risk because of me." She raised her chin to the TV. "You remember when this was?"

Remo glanced at the television. On it, the Master of Sinanju seemed to suddenly vanish. The Remo on the screen followed suit. When the camera caught up to him, he was talking to a man in a bear suit. Armed men stood all around. And as the tape rolled, the men abruptly began dying.

"Last time we met," Remo said, turning from the TV. "Just before you faked your death at that amusement park."

"Yes. After I fled, I happened upon the park security shed. Your enemy had made extensive video surveillance tapes of you. I took them back to Russia with me."

"Why, Anna?" Remo asked. There seemed something almost close to pleading in his dark eyes. They both understood the predicament this presented for Remo. As Apprentice Reigning Master of Sinanju and future head of the village, he was duty bound to seek vengeance against any who would steal from the House.

She shook her head. Short blond hair did a lazy twist around her long neck.

"I honestly do not know," she admitted. "That life was over for me. Maybe I took them as a memento, maybe to find a weakness in your techniques. I was not thinking clearly at the time. By the time I returned to Moscow, I had made up my mind to destroy them. But then some fool KGB functionary at the airport chose that trip to search my luggage. The tapes found their way to the president of Russia. It was after his attempt to blackmail your President into making you come to work for Russia. Even though you had made him forget the events of that incident, the Mactep program was still active. When the tapes were discovered, General Feyodov was relieved of his position here, and I was installed in his place."

"To train an army in Sinanju," Remo said.

Her shame was evident. "I did not wish to do so," she stated. "But it was made clear to me that someone would have this posting. If it was not me, it would have been Feyodov. And I do not know if he or any other man would have been able to keep the Mactep troops from ever being used. I kept them under lock and key for more than ten years. If not for that idiot Skachkov and the lunatic Zhirinsky, the men would have remained warehoused here forever."

"I don't get it," Remo said. "These tapes aren't anything. You can't even see the stuff that matters. How'd you use them to teach these guys anything?"

"We made copies from tape to film," Anna explained. "The films were enhanced by computer and the speed of your actions was cut down considerably. The men were hooked into a system that monitored their movements. They were then instructed to mirror you in every detail, with punishments given if they failed. As the men progressed in training, the speed of the films was increased."

Remo nodded. "That's why they did that wrist thing Chiun says I do," he said. "They were copying everything they saw." His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "And this sounds like something I saw on TV once. They were getting baseball players to adjust their swings by hooking them up to computers to correct their stances."

"It has been used with great success in sports," she agreed. "The technique used here was essentially the same."

Sighing, Remo looked around the small office. "I guess you thought of everything," he said. "This is some setup. Although I noticed on the way in here that you cut corners on furniture. The place seemed pretty empty."

"I had it emptied out after the men escaped," Anna said. "The barracks and the training facilities have been dismantled. The technicians used to operate the equipment were rotated in and out frequently and never knew what exactly was going on here. All computer data on you and Chiun has been purged. My government has no record of your existence other than the knowledge possessed by the past three presidents of the federation. I destroyed the films made from the tapes. All that remains are the originals." She nodded to the open safe in the corner of the room. Inside, a dozen plastic tape cases were lined up on a shelf. "Looks like you've erased all traces," Remo said.

"All but one," she admitted quietly.

Slender fingers tightened once more around the object on her desk.

Remo had noted the gun lying under her hand as soon as he'd entered the office. He had assumed she planned to use it against him. But when she lifted it from the desk blotter, Anna didn't aim the gun at him. Jaw firmly set, she brought the barrel to her own temple.

He was across the room in a heartbeat. She was starting to pull the trigger even as he ripped the gun from her hand.

"Are you nuts!" he snapped angrily.

Her calm blue eyes never wavered. "It is the only way," she insisted calmly. "I am to blame for these events. And Sinanju precepts certainly must demand -retribution. I know you too well, Remo. Were you to do this thing, you would be haunted by it. We both know that there is only one way out for me, and it would be unfair to have you do the deed."

Despite the forced strength in her voice, hot tears burned the corners of her eyes.

Beside the desk, Remo clenched the gun. He didn't even look at her. He was staring at the wall, lost in thought.

At her desk Anna sniffled.

"It is ironic, Remo," she said softly. "Years ago you refused Smith's order to kill me in the name of America's security. Now when you finally come to carry out his order, you do it for the security of Sinanju."

Remo scowled at her. "No one's killing anyone, okay?" he snapped. He had reached a decision. Anna shook her head. "There is no other way, Remo," she insisted logically.

Remo reached for her. With the edge of his thumb he brushed away a single tear.

"That's the problem with people in your business, Anna," he replied. His voice was soft in a way she had not heard in years. "All logic, no imagination."

The thrill of his touch and the warmth in his tone lasted only as long as it took Remo to stab his finger into a knot of nerves at her jawline just behind her ear. But for Anna Chutesov, it was enough to feed an eternity of longing for something neither of them could ever have.

And then the lights went out, and she collapsed into the arms of the only man she'd ever loved.

Chapter 38

The president of the Commonwealth of Independent States felt the wet spot on his pillow when he rolled over in his sleep. When he opened his tired eyes, he found that he was face-to-face with one of his Institute bodyguards.

Although the man's head shared the Russian president's pillow, the rest of his body was nowhere to be seen.

Screaming, the president threw himself out of bed. The jostled head of the Institute man rolled out behind him, thudding to the bare wood floor.

"Murderers!" the Russian president yelled. "Pavel, I need help! Anyone!"

"You are beyond help," said a squeaky singsong voice.

Still seated on the floor, the president wheeled around.

A tiny figure in a brocade kimono stood near the door of the small Kremlin apartment.

"Russia has been beyond help ever since it abandoned its czar and entrusted its future to a gaggle of troublemakers with pitchforks," the old Korean concluded.

The two previous presidents of Russia stood with Chiun, one on either side. The more recent one seemed oblivious to what was going on. Dazed from drink, he stood reeling in his nightshirt. The other former president no longer wore his hat. For the first time, the present president of Russia saw the hateful expression that had been tattooed over the bald man's birthmark and around his head.

In the Master of Sinanju's slender fingers were five lumpy bundles.

Somehow in death the eyes of his Institute protectors seemed to stare disapprovingly at the president of Russia. Their condemnation was reflected in the hazel eyes of the wizened Asian.

Chiun dropped the heads.

"How fitting that you should hide here," the Master of Sinanju sniffed as he looked unhappily around the drab room. "The cheapskate who once lived here tried to hire my father. It does not look like they have painted it since then."

"These are Lenin's quarters," the president insisted, still trying to come to grips with what was happening.

"That was his name," Chiun nodded. "Another Russian who didn't want to pay the House."

The old man took a step toward the president. Pushing up, the president fell back from the terrible apparition. His hand dropped into the blood puddle on his pillow.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice quavering.

Chiun's eyes became penetrating hazel lasers.

"I am going to make you an offer you cannot refuse," the Master of Sinanju said coldly.

Chapter 39

Remo caught up to Chiun at the boarding gate of the Moscow airport.

"If this is the last time I have to smell Russia for ten years, I'll die a happy man," Remo said, falling in beside the wizened Asian. "So how'd it go with their president?"

"He has listened to reason," Chiun said simply.

"How costly is reason, dead-body-wise these days?"

"The last six Sinanju thieves are no more," Chiun replied. "There were also a few Kremlin guards along the way. Not very many-I know you and Smith do not like that. Oh, and one of their presidents. Retribution demanded it."

"Current one or stain-head?"

"Neither. It was the rum-soaked one in between." Remo tipped his head, considering.

"That's probably okay," he said. "Smitty wouldn't want us to ice the one they've got now, and I invested too much time in tattooing chrome dome's head."

Chiun fussed with the hem of his sleeve. "Not that I will receive any credit," he sniffed. "Knowing the Russians, they will say he died of a cold or heart failure. I suppose I will have to take comfort in the tribute they agreed to pay for their stolen lessons."

Remo was hardly listening. "What are they paying you in, rubles or turnips? 'Cause if it was up to me, I'd take the turnips."

The old Korean noted his pupil's distracted tone. He raised a thin eyebrow as he looked up at Remo. "What about the woman?" he asked. There was a hint of paternal concern in his hazel eyes.

Even though Remo knew the question would come, he still dreaded having to answer.

"I didn't kill her, Little Father," he admitted. "By the sounds of it, Anna was bamboozled into all this by the pinheads who run this dump of a country. And, I don't know, this could have been partly my fault for the way I left it with her at the end years ago. So I just gave her the Sinanju amnesia thing. I ditched the bodies of the guys I killed at the place she works, and I trashed the tapes of us and threw them in the river. When she wakes up, she goes back to being an adviser to the president with no memory of us. And who knows, maybe someday she'll come in handy for us in a pinch.

"And before you carp at me for defying a billion years of Sinanju tradition, don't forget I'm gonna be Master someday, and I've got this big prophesied future as the herald of some new golden age for the House, so maybe this is part of it. Maybe I'm supposed to be the guy who starts a kinder, gentler House of Sinanju. So there, that's it. You can start yelling at me now."

Chiun remained silent, allowing Remo to blurt out everything he needed to say. When his pupil finally stopped talking, the old man frowned skeptically.

"A kinder, gentler Sinanju?" he asked blandly.

"Yeah," Remo replied. "Well, maybe not. Guess we'll just have to wait and see."

"I pray I have passed into the Void long before I have to witness such a time," Chiun said. Hands sought opposing wrists within his kimono sleeves.

Remo was glad when he didn't press the point further. He stuffed his hands deep in his pockets. The line began moving toward the gate.

"None of this is easy like it used to be, Little Father," he said. "Everything's complicated these days."

"Your life is changing," Chiun said. "Perhaps what you need now is an island of stability in the storm of your life." His hands reappeared from his sleeves. The old man began reading one of his real-estate pamphlets.

Remo shook his head firmly. "No house in Maine," he insisted.

Chiun shrugged. "In that case you figure out where to put the treasure I extorted from these godless, thieving Russians. We are running out of room back home."

Nose deep in his brochure, he passed through the gate.

Standing in line behind the old Korean, Remo didn't know whether he should laugh or cry.

Epilogue

She was called Sonmi.

No one in the village knew much about her. She was from one of the older families. But since none had moved into the village in many generations, they were all members of the older families by now.

Her mother had died giving birth to her more than seventy years ago. Her father had died only recently. Some said the old man was a powerful shaman. All in the village stayed away from him and his daughter. When he died, only Sonmi wept.

On this day, as the cold sun peeked above the eastern horizon, old Sonmi picked her careful way down the rocky shore. A small fishing boat of fine Egyptian cedar was tied to a wood post. Sonmi unhooked the rope and climbed aboard.

It took a long time to row. Her withered arms were sore by the time she made it far enough out into the bay.

From a pouch on the belt of her coarse dress she produced some blessed herbs. She scattered them upon the black water, reciting the mystical chants passed down to her from her father and his father before him.

Once she was done, she stood at the edge of the wobbling boat and jumped overboard. The cold waters of the West Korean Bay accepted her body with barely a splash.

Beyond the empty boat, across the bay and up the rocky shore, the village of Sinanju where the dead woman Sonmi had lived all her life, stirred awake.