“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.