Disloyal Opposition

That was it. Straight on to business. No apologies for the early hour, no further pleasantries, no nothing. After the endless parade of smoke blowers he had dealt with over the past year, this Smith was like a breath of fresh air.

"Yes, I sent Mark there," the President replied.

"May I ask why?" Smith said.

Phone pressed tight to his ear, the President sat forward on the bed, resting his elbow on the opposite wrist.

"I know what goes on there, Smith," the President said. "What's more, I understand that it's necessary. I mean, I've gotta assume that four decades' worth of presidents from both parties wouldn't have left you in business if you weren't important to the nation. But the guy who held this office before me said there were only three of you there who know what's really going on. Is that true?"

Up the East Coast, in the privacy of his Folcroft office, Harold Smith's gray face clouded.

"Yes, Mr. President," Smith admitted. With Howard still in the room, he was careful to keep his answers short.

The young man stood before Smith's desk. He seemed determined to mask any nervousness he was feeling.

"Has anyone else ever learned of your group?" the President asked.

Smith already knew where this was heading. With an eye trained on the man before him, he nodded. "From time to time that has happened," he admitted.

"I figured. So what happened to them?"

The CURE director pursed his lips. "I believe you have already deduced the answer to that question, sir," he said.

"Yes, Smith, I have. When I assumed this office two weeks ago, I was briefed by the outgoing President about you. He's the one who chose Mark, not me. The screening process was done months before I even won the election. So in the middle of my inauguration and hundred-day honeymoon period, I had this mess dropped into my lap. I had only two options, since Mark already knew about you by this time. I could either send him to you and have you take care of him like you have the others who've found out about you over the years, or I could send him there as your assistant. I was understandably reluctant to spill an innocent man's blood-as I imagine you would be-and so I went with the second option."

Smith did not deem it the proper time to inform the president that some of those who had learned of CURE and subsequently died at his order had been innocents, as well.

The CURE director pushed up his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"And in so doing you have installed him here as my assistant," Smith said.

"That's right," the president said. "And let's be reasonable here. I don't want to be insulting, but the last President said you weren't a young man."

"That is true, sir," Smith sighed. He refrained from mentioning that this call was making him feel older by the minute.

"And it's true, as well, that there are no contingency plans in case you, um..." His voice trailed off.

"Yes, sir, that is true," Smith offered.

"Well, there you go," the President said. "Problem solved. You teach Mark the ropes there, and so if there ever comes a day we need someone else to take over your group, we don't have to send someone in blind. It's a necessary thing, Smith. In spite of what the last President thought of you, I have to assume that you perform a vital national function. This measure will keep CURE going for years to come."

Smith stopped massaging his nose. When he pulled his hand away, his glasses dropped back into place.

This was new territory for CURE. From the outset there had been only a few rules governing the agency. Though under the auspices of the executive branch, Smith was actually autonomous. He alone decided what crises merited CURE's attention. The President could only suggest assignments. Beyond that, the chief executive had only one other explicit power over the agency. If he so deemed it, the President could order CURE to disband. That was it. And since it was not expressly stated that a given chief executive could not install a second in command at CURE, such an action fell beyond the stated original boundaries of CURE.

Smith looked up at the very young face of the man hovering before his desk. The CURE director suddenly felt very old, very tired.

"Perhaps you are right," Smith sighed.

"It makes perfect sense," the President reasoned. "You've served your country well. With Mark there, this'll give you a chance to pull back a little. Who knows? Maybe you can even retire someday."

Smith's eyes were dull. There was only one way he would ever retire. A coffin-shaped pill in his vest pocket awaited his last day as director of CURE.

"Is that all?" Smith asked.

"No, there is one more thing," the President said. "This phone of yours. Is there any way to move it into my bedroom? It seems odd that you'd have it here in the Lincoln Bedroom. After all, this is really just a guest room. Anyone could find it here."

"I will see what can be done," Smith promised. Without another word, he broke the connection. Smith replaced the red phone in his desk drawer, sliding it shut with a click. He closed the cigar box lid on his gun before easing that drawer shut, as well. Once he was done, he sat up straight, placing hands to his desk, his fingers intertwined.

His eyes were flat as he looked up at Mark Howard.

Given the circumstances, there was only one thing he could say to the eager man with the wide, innocent face.

"Welcome to CURE," Smith said tartly. "I will have Mrs. Mikulka see to finding you an office." He did not offer Howard his hand.

Chapter 17

The girl always asked a lot of questions, especially for a Barkley U graduate student.

As was the norm for most colleges, the bulk of the student population enrolled at the famous California university was just there to kill time before heading out into the real world. Parties, protests and pills dominated life on campus. But Brandy Brand had been the inquisitive type ever since she showed up in Professor Melvin Horowitz's office at the end of the previous semester. She had stayed during the break, when life at the school generally quieted down.

The Barkley physics professor had been worried she might take off to become a cog in the capitalist machine when the new semester began. After all, she never seemed to go to any classes. Then again, that was hardly unusual for the lifer students at Barkley U. To the delight of Dr. Horowitz, however, she'd stuck around when the other students returned.

Behind her horn-rimmed glasses her intelligent eyes seemed to absorb everything. That was another odd thing about her. She actually seemed smart. Not just in the bookish sense, which some of the Barkley professors still had, in spite of years of academic dumbing down. She had the kind of vigorous mind that used to inspire educators to teach back when school was all about books and facts and learning.

Melvin himself felt inspired to teach her a thing or two. Most of the time it was when she was standing on a ladder getting a book from his office shelf and he stole a good glimpse of creamy white inner thigh.

He never quite figured out what she was doing there. But that was no big deal. People came and went as they pleased at Barkley University. He was just glad she had picked his office to roost in, settling in beneath the academic radar as a sort of uncredited teaching assistant.

Many days Melvin Horowitz found himself daydreaming about the girl. In class, at lunch, bouncing through the pitted streets of Barkley in his VW van.

She inspired in him the sort of longing he hadn't felt in thirty years. And the way she smiled and seemed to be fascinated by everything he had to say made him actually think he might have a shot with the beautiful young thing. In spite of being fifty-seven, with a substantial potbelly, bad comb-over, perpetual worn brown cardigan sweater and a weary, foot-dragging walk that he called the academic's shuffle, Melvin had started to convince himself that he might not be as pathetic as he'd always thought he was.

When Melvin bustled into his office this busy day, Brandy Brand was wearing her most distracting outfit yet.

Thin white spaghetti strings held her see-through halter top in place. Beneath it, Melvin could clearly make out the shadow of her black bra. Her black skirt was conservative for her, running down to just below her knee. A slit far up the side revealed a slice of heaven that Melvin had spent many a tortured night dreaming about.

Despite the breathtaking view, Melvin Horowitz couldn't enjoy it. As he held the door open for the man who was entering the office with him, the professor's troubled thoughts were elsewhere. He barely offered the girl a nod.

"Oh, hi, Dr. Horowitz," Brandy said, smiling. She was sitting in a chair beneath the high windows. If Melvin had looked hard enough, he would have seen that the young woman's smile was devoid of any real feeling. She turned her attention to the man who was stepping into the small office behind the lumpy physics professor.

He was tall and pale with black-rimmed eyes and a mouth that looked as if it would shatter his lower face if it attempted anything other than the frown he now wore.

As Melvin's companion turned his suspicious gaze on the young woman, Brandy's flat smile never wavered.

"Who's your friend, Professor?" Brandy asked.

"Him?" Melvin said, distracted. "He's with the, um, city. Where did I leave that notebook?"

Even after years in academia, Dr. Horowitz hadn't succumbed to the slovenly stereotype perpetuated by many of his colleagues. His numerous books and papers were all neatly bound and filed. But for some reason the notebook in question wasn't where he thought he'd left it.

"Notebook?" Brandy asked. Still sitting, she glanced around. She found one sitting on the edge of the photocopier. "Is it a blue one?" she asked, grabbing it.

"Yes," Melvin nodded. "Oh, there it is." He hustled over, taking the book from her outstretched hand. "I could have sworn I left it on my desk."

He waved it to his companion. "This is all I need," he said.

With a passing frown, he hurried back to the door. Melvin was rushing into the hallway when the other man called to him.

"Wait," the stranger ordered.

Professor Horowitz stopped dead in his tracks. When he spun impatiently, his mouth dropped open. The man in his office now held a gun in his hand. To Melvin's shock the barrel was aimed at the lovely young graduate student. The man's face was dead. "Your bag," he ordered Brandy. "Kick it over here." His Russian accent was thick.

Brandy's hands were raised. "Professor?" she asked fearfully. There was confused pleading in her eyes.

"What do you think you're doing?" Horowitz demanded, hustling up to the man.

"Quiet!" the Russian barked. With his free hand he shoved the professor back. The cold barrel of the weapon never wavered. "Do it now," he commanded, "or I will fire."

His back pressed against the wall, Melvin Horowitz watched the drama with utter incomprehension. To make things even more bizarre, Brandy Brand's attitude suddenly seemed to change. It was a strange, subtle metamorphosis. The flirtatious young graduate student seemed to visibly steel. The normal terror and confusion that Brandy had been displaying at the sight of the gun abruptly melted into a look of cold anger.

There was a blue knapsack at her feet. Hands still above her head, she kicked the bag across the floor. It slid to a stop at the man's shoes.

With the gun still trained squarely at her chest, the Russian stooped and unzipped the bag.

Inside, he found exactly what he'd expected. He pulled out a thick sheaf of photocopied papers. Standing, he stuffed the sheets into Melvin's hands. "Do you recognize these?" he asked.

The physics professor glanced at the papers. When he saw his own handwriting, alarm turned to bafflement.

"Yes, they're-" He looked at a few more. They were all in his writing. Many had been copied from the notebook he now clutched in his sweating hand. The notebook he swore he'd left on his desk and that Brandy Brand had conveniently found on the photocopier.

"Oh, my," Melvin said softly.

His flabby face was bewildered when he looked up at the woman sitting in his office. Melvin couldn't believe it. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time.

His fear returned when the man pulled a nickled revolver from the depths of Brandy's bag. The Russian stuck Brandy's gun into his belt.

"Who are you?" Professor Horowitz asked her, shocked.

The young woman screwed her mouth shut. With angry defiance she stared at the office wall.

"I don't have time for this now," the Russian snapped at Horowitz. "You are wanted at the site immediately. Call your campus police. Have them hold this woman until she can be transferred to local authorities."

He turned back to Brandy. For the first time something resembling a smile cracked his frozen features. "Once I have delivered the professor, I will enjoy questioning you personally."

Melvin Horowitz didn't like the sound of any of this.

With fading hope that he would ever succeed with the only romantic prospect to cross his path since his brief dalliance with a nearsighted Chinese exchange student his junior year at MIT, the physics professor hurried obediently to the office phone.

REMO WILLIAMS HAD SEEN a great many things during his time as America's official assassin. So much so that he had long assumed that he was immune to those things that might shock the faint of heart. But as this depressing day rolled on, he found the walls of casual certainty he had constructed for himself rapidly crumbling.

Remo had barely begun to come to terms with Anna's amazing return from the dead before having to cope with the reason she had come back into his life after all these years.

"Are you people nuts?" he demanded of Anna as they drove onto the campus of Barkley University.

"Russians have always been insane," Chiun observed from the back seat. "Ivan the Good was the only sane Russian, and look what it got him. Maligned by white historians with half-truths and baseless innuendos."

"Ivan the Terrible was mad," Anna said, peeved. She was trying to talk to Remo and didn't appreciate the old man's distraction.

"He had a right to be angry," Chiun sniffed. "Perhaps he knew what was in store for his nation. Tzar-hating fomenters running hither and thither, sticking their pointy beards into everyone else's bank accounts. Leave it to the Russians to find the only form of government more foolish than representative democracy. And need I remind you, Remo, that every moment we squander here, someone less deserving is acquiring the deed to the next Castle Sinanju? We should be back in the village of idiots, not this training ground."

"The party's over back there, Chiun," Remo said. "No stand-up comic wants to follow seven dead Russians and a riot. No Buffoon Aid benefit means no houses getting passed out. Not that there were any to begin with."

"This is your fault, woman," the old man accused Anna Chutesov. "You are not returned five minutes and you have already cost me my second beloved home in less than a month. I say we bind her by hand and foot and throw her on the next freighter bound for Istanbul. During Tzar Ivan's time they paid a high price for blond-haired blue-eyed slaves."

"No white slavery," Remo said firmly. "At least not until she's finished laying out this mess."

He turned to Anna, steering her back to the topic at hand. "What the hell is a particle-beam weapon?"

"It follows the same principle as a laser," Anna explained. "The beam produced is a stream of subatomic particles, which, when accelerated, is able to nearly reach the speed of light. It is like an invisible cannon with a destructive force unmatched on Earth."

"Sounds like science fiction to me," Remo grumbled.

"It is science fact," Anna said darkly. "In spite of problems early on in the development. At first the beam was bent and dissipated by Earth's magnetic field or disrupted by air molecules. But this was all eventually overcome. For our current dilemma, the worst breakthrough was miniaturization. The original design had a device two miles long, four miles wide and weighing more than five hundred tons. Thanks to the diligence of the scientific team that developed it, it was shrunk considerably. It could now be hidden in any building, wooded area or even on this campus."

"That's just swell," Remo said sourly. "Just because you people lose one dinky little cold war is no reason to let your whole country go to hell. How'd you let something like that fall into the hands of some whacked-out general?"

The corners of her mouth twisted, as if Feyodov's corruption were somehow a personal affront. "Boris Feyodov is no longer a general," Anna said thinly. "He was disgraced more than a year ago. It was after his dishonorable discharge that he further sullied his uniform by joining the black market."

"Big whoop there," Remo said. "Isn't a Russian in the black market like a Kennedy in a cocktail lounge? The world's in shock when they're not shaking down Shoeshine Boy for booze and quarters."

Anna's tone grew frosty. "I am not in the black market," she said, insulted.

"No, but you are hiding something," Remo replied absently. He drummed his fingers on the door handle.

As she drove, Anna shot him a glance. "What do you mean?" she asked innocently.

Anna did her best to conceal it. In fact, she did a lot better than most. But as Remo had suspected, when she spoke her body stiffened slightly and her voice rose just a hair.

"Definitely hiding something," Remo nodded. "Wouldn't you say so, Little Father?"

"She is a Russian, she is a female and she lied to us for the last ten years by pretending to be dead," Chiun said, his tone flat. "Forgive me, Remo, if I do not express grave disappointment that she would continue to deceive."

Anna's fingers had tensed on the wheel.

"Relax," Remo said. "You're a good liar, Anna, but we're better-" He paused, tipping his head to consider. "We're just better, and let's leave it at that."

In the back Chiun harrumphed quiet approval at his pupil's description. He continued to stare out the window.

Anna was relieved when Remo didn't probe further.

"So what are we doing here?" Remo asked. He looked out at the college students who were walking along the sidewalk.

They were passing by the dorms at the edge of the campus. Vines clung to the big brick buildings. Although nothing in California ever seemed old to him, this place appeared to have some sense of history to it.

"If Feyodov smuggled the device to Barkley, as I suspect he has, he still would not have the technical skills to reassemble and fire it," Anna explained. "He would need individuals possessed with knowledge in physics, engineering and computer sciences."

Remo snorted. "Good luck finding anyone here who can do any of that stuff," he said.

"Why do you say that?" she asked. "This is one of the most famous universities in your country."

"Fame doesn't equal good, Anna," Remo said. "Anyone who's ever seen a Jim Carrey movie knows that. Community colleges laugh at Barkley's curriculum. They're the folks who pioneered challenging courses like Touching Yourself 101, Crapping on Canvas and Why It's Art, and Introduction to Why White People Suck."

Chiun quickly chimed in from the back seat. "If I did not know you were trying to be clever with that last one, I would have the female stop at the office of admissions," the Master of Sinanju said. "It would do you both good to expand your minds."

As she drove, Anna punched an angry fist against the steering wheel. "If those SVR idiots had been able to collect Koskolov quietly instead of shooting him dead, we would already have Feyodov by now instead of having to waste our time searching for him," she muttered.

"Yeah, Russian hit teams just aren't as trustworthy as they used to be," Remo droned. "And maybe this General Fabio doesn't need any outside help. He could have brought the original team over here with him."

Anna shook her head angrily. "Feyodov had the team scientists executed fifteen years ago."

Remo's brow sank. "Why?"

This time Anna felt the tension clutch her body. She shook her head, annoyed at her own lack of total control.

"That is a state secret," she said. "But I can tell you that the weapon was constructed at the Sary Shagan base, which was under Feyodov's command at the time. It was test fired once, and it did work. What's more, a recent audit of equipment found that much has been looted from the base, including the weapon in question. And Feyodov was seen a great deal in the area, as well as near here. Given the fact that there have been three satellites destroyed in the past two days, I have concluded he is using the weapon. Most likely, for a client. As far as the client's purpose, I do not know. Feyodov's motivation is an easier thing to determine. He is largely inspired by greed."

Remo crossed his arms, exhaling angrily. "Anyone else here miss the days when Russian generals were in it for the boots and the chicks and that whole world-domination thing?" he grumbled. "Now they're all having sword fights over who's got the bigger IRA."

Anna's face was grave. "That is not his only motivation, Remo," she said. "But it is the simplest. The rest goes to his psychological makeup, which is too lengthy to get into right now. Suffice to say that Feyodov is a deeply disturbed man. And he has stolen the means to throw mankind back into the technological dark ages."

"Don't you think you're overstating it?" Remo sighed. "Even if you're right, what's a couple of satellites? Just have NASA launch a few more."

"They cost millions, some billions of your dollars," Anna said. "No one could afford to put any more in orbit if they are just going to be destroyed once they get there."

"Still don't see how my life'll change one jot," Remo muttered.

Anna shook her head, amazed. "Do you have any idea how much the human race relies on space-based technology today?"

"Gonna take a wild stab and say too much," Remo said.

"Hear, hear," Chiun echoed.

Anna nodded seriously. "You are correct. Telecommunications, computer networks, national defense, entertainment, scientific research. Even something as simple as weather forecasting could be affected."

"Don't like to talk on the phone, TV sucks since they took Gunsmoke off and since when can the weathermen do anything more than make the sports guy look bright by comparison?"

Anna simply couldn't believe his attitude. She gave up trying to convince him of the seriousness of the situation. "You have changed since last I knew you," she said quietly.

Remo nodded. "Unlike you, I haven't been dead." As soon as he spoke, he reconsidered. "Well, maybe once or twice. But never for ten years at a stretch. Guess I've just learned not to sweat the small stuff so much."

At this Chiun snorted. "Please, Remo," the old man chided. "Unlike your other conquests, this one was never a fool. He has changed," he told Anna. "He has accepted who and what he is. He knows his place in the universe and no longer feels the need to be something that he is not. But in spite of all this, he will always feel the need to redress the wrongs of the world. It is a curse that I fear he will carry to the grave." His voice dropped low and he focused all attention on Remo, concluding darkly, "And he owes it all to his own big, blubbery, careless mouth." Brow dropping low over accusing hazel orbs, he sank back in his seat.

"What is he talking about?" Anna asked.

"Long story," Remo said. "Short version, I pissed off some gods in Africa."

"Ah," Anna said, nodding. She had heard such fanciful tales from the two men before.

As they wended their way through the campus, Remo looked back out the window at the passing students. All at once he sat up straighter in his seat.

There was a young boy standing alone on the sidewalk. He couldn't have been more than six. A knot of coarse black hair capped his head. As they approached, his flat Korean face was barely visible in profile.

Remo seemed about to speak when the boy turned. As soon as he saw the boy's full face, the tension drained from Remo's body. Almost at the same time the boy ran over to a young woman. Hand in hand the two walked off across the grass.

Behind the wheel Anna noted Remo's interest in the boy. "What is it?" she asked.

Remo frowned. "Nothing," he grunted, tearing his eyes away from the mother and child. "Lot of Asians at this school." He stared glumly out at the road ahead.

There was an awkward moment of silence during which the Russian agent fidgeted uncomfortably. "I do not see a wedding band," Anna announced all at once, regretting the words as soon as she spoke them. For an instant she turned a bland eye from the road.

"Yeah, and you don't see a feathered boa, either," Remo said. "There's a parking space." Swallowing the embarrassment she felt for her blurted observation, Anna kept her mouth screwed tightly shut as she pulled into the space in the student parking lot.

They left the rental car and followed a winding, tree-lined path into the main quad of Barkley University. Since the first building they came upon was the mathematics center, Anna decided they should start there.

The three of them were climbing the broad front stairs when the main door burst open. A young woman who looked a little too old to be a student was being carted out into the sunlight, flanked on either side by campus police officers. The two men began dragging the girl down the stairs.

"Let me go!" she yelled.

The woman was struggling desperately to pull free. The group was halfway down the stairs when her frantic, darting eyes fell on the three individuals coming up the steps. Shocked hope sprang full on her panicked face.

"Remo!" the girl cried.

Surprised to hear his name, Remo glanced at the student as she passed by. When he got a good look at her face, he blinked. His eyes darted to the Master of Sinanju. Chiun's own brow had knotted in recognition.

"Don't just stand there, get me loose!" Brandy Brand shot back over her shoulder as the campus security guards hauled her down the stairs.

Remo shook his head. "It never rains..." he muttered.

Spinning from Anna and Chiun, he bounded back down to the foot of the stairs.

"Who is she?" Anna asked the Master of Sinanju. She tried to hide her look of thin displeasure as she studied the very, very young woman Remo was running after.

Chiun shrugged indifferently. "Remo has met so many comely, youthful females since he discarded you like a worn-out sandal that it has been difficult for me to keep track," he offered. A single careful eye looked Anna's way.

With an impatient hiss, Anna glanced down the stairs.

When the guards hit the sidewalk, they found Remo barring their path.

"Okay, Barney and Andy," he said. "Your choice. You wanna let her go the easy way or the hard way?"

The campus security guards didn't have guns. One of them drew his billy club. When he tried to hit Remo with it, Remo split the nightstick up the middle and jammed both halves up the man's nostrils.

"They always pick the hard way," Remo said as the two men staggered away.

He turned his full attention to Brandy Brand. "Okay, what are you doing here?" he asked.

But she had already spun away from him. Without so much as a thank-you, she raced back up the stairs. Remo followed her, shrugging confusion to Anna and Chiun as they ascended. With Brandy in the lead, the four of them hurried through the big glass-and-chrome door and into the cool interior of the building.

Inside they raced down the hallway.

"Who is she?" Anna demanded of Remo as they ran.

As soon as Anna spoke, Brandy stopped dead. Her head snapped around, her eyes shocked.

"You're Russian," she accused.

"Yes," Anna admitted. She quickly held up a hand. "I suspect, however, that we are on the same side here. You are a government agent of some sort?"

Brandy shook her head. Before she could issue any denials, Remo jumped in.

"Her name's Buffy something-or-other," he supplied. "She's with the FBI. Or maybe it was the CIA. Anyway, it's one of those dipwaddle agencies that's always poncing around making messes I've got to clean up. She helped me out a couple years back." To Brandy he said, "And, yes, Anna's Russian, but it's like a mole or a wooden leg. For the sake of politeness we try not to mention it. And apparently we're all here to stop what's going on. Whatever the hell that is."

Brandy clenched her jaw tightly as she considered his words. Finally, she shook her head violently. "I don't have time for this," she barked. "I'm FBI, not CIA and it's not Buffy anymore, it's Brandy."

She turned and ran. The others followed.

The door to Professor Horowitz's office was locked. At Brandy's urging, Remo popped it open with the flat of his palm. The four of them slipped inside.

Her knapsack sat on the professor's desk. Brandy went straight for it, tearing it open. As she expected, all of the papers were gone. She dug around at the bottom, tearing up a Velcro strap that looked like part of the seam. Wrapped tightly in a small hand towel was a second revolver. Brandy pulled the weapon out, glancing at Anna.

"Since the Cold War ended, you people have gotten sloppy," she said to Anna.

Brandy pulled out a hip holster. Hooking it on to the belt of her skirt, she slipped the revolver inside. Anna didn't hear her. The Russian agent had stepped over to a cork message board that was fastened to the wall. Thumbtacked in the center was a crude drawing.

"My God, I was right," she whispered. Frowning, Remo looked at the doodle. What appeared to be a long tunnel led to something that looked like an upright mechanical claw gripping a large cylinder. Pencil rays shot into the sky. On the side of an exploding satellite, Dr. Melvin Horowitz had drawn a smiley face.

"Yep," Remo nodded. "Looks like the peaceniks have got themselves a death ray. If I cared, I'd probably be wondering right about now what they plan to do with it."

Anna shot him a baleful glance.

"Tell me again how apathetic you are, Remo, when you have to communicate with two tin cans on a string," she said, turning full attention back to the drawing.

Her voice was hollow.

Chapter 18

The first great technological war in the history of the human race began fourteen months into the twenty-first century. Even though war had been officially declared and embarked upon by one side, the contest had raged for more than two hours without any nationally elected official in the Western world even knowing they were under formal attack. It might have gone unnoticed for days, with America unwittingly bearing the brunt of the punishing and costly first salvo, if not for a lowly White House intern.

Charlie Worrel was sifting through e-mails in the communications office of the old Executive Office Building that fateful morning when war was declared. It was his job to sort the mail into three distinct categories: those requiring form-letter responses, those that might merit personal responses and those notes written by kooks.

There were two ways of submitting e-mail to the White House. The first involved a form that could be filled out online. However, it required the sender to give a name and a street address. The second email address required neither, allowing the sender more anonymity. However, if need be, letters could still be traced.

The note in question came through on the regular president@whitehouse.gov address.

When he clicked on it, Charlie assumed that this was one of those notes that was going to require further attention. The subject line read simply "Declaration of War." The sender was barkleycouncil@barkley.org.

When Charlie began reading the note, he wasn't sure what to make of it. It seemed to be very carefully worded gibberish. There were all sorts of whereases and wherefores and many references to the "pig United States." The mention of satellites was what caught Charlie's eye.

He had seen a small blurb in the paper that very morning about three coincidental satellite accidents. Whoever these particular kooks were, they were claiming credit for the destruction of all three satellites.

Unsure what to do, Charlie turned the note over to the manager of the White House mail section, who in turn passed it along to the woman who ran the President's mail affairs. From there it found its way directly into the hands of the chief of staff, who carried it in to the Oval Office.

The President sat behind his broad desk. Sunlight streamed through the high windows onto the dark carpet.

The rug that had been there when the President assumed office two weeks ago had been removed. The team of restorers who were attempting to clean it were doubtful that the many splotches and stains in the fabric would ever come out.

The President was on the phone.

"You want a good laugh, sir?" the chief of staff whispered. He placed a printout of the note on the desk.

As he talked, the President glanced down at the letter. After reading just a few lines, his face darkened.

"I'll have to get back to you later," the President said quickly. Hanging up the phone, he picked up the note. "When did this come in?" he asked worriedly.

"The time's at the top, sir," the chief of staff said, confused. "It's just a joke. I mean, it has to be." When the President looked up, his face was serious.

"I have to make a call," he said.

Leaving his puzzled chief of staff, America's chief executive hurried up to the family residence. For the second time that morning, the President of the United States picked up the red phone in the Lincoln Bedroom. It was answered on the first ring.

"Yes, sir," the lemony voice of Harold Smith said.

"Smith, I was just given a very strange e-mail," the chief executive said. "Trust me that I ordinarily wouldn't bother you with something so silly, but I just got off with the Senate majority leader, and he said he and the speaker of the house got one, too. They figured it was a joke."

He was going to explain further when Smith interrupted.

"You are talking, Mr. President, about the intention of Barkley, California, to secede from the Union," the CURE director said. There was not a hint of mirth in his voice.

"Oh, you heard," the President frowned. "I guess it's one of those joke e-mails that's making the rounds. It's just that they're saying they're the ones who blew up that French rocket and those two satellites."

Smith's reply and assuredness of tone made the President grip more tightly on the red receiver. "They are claiming credit, Mr. President, because as far as I can determine, they are responsible," the CURE director said somberly. "Not only that, but over the past hour and fifty minutes, they have rendered inoperative an additional nine satellites. They are disabling them at a rate of roughly one every ten minutes."

The President felt his hand tighten on the computer printout. "How?" he demanded. "Who are they?"

"At the moment I am not certain who is responsible," Smith said. "However, according to my operatives, they are using a weapon that is able to concentrate particle streams that they have smuggled into the United States."

"Are you saying that these attacks are originating within our own borders?" the President gasped.

"That is correct," Smith said brusquely. "We can only assume that the first three-spaced apart as they were-constituted a fine-tuning process with the device. However, they appear to have worked out any problems they might have had, for they have stepped up their attacks considerably."

"And declared war on the United States," the President said. He looked at the crumpled printout in his hand. The paper was wet with sweat. "So this nonsense here about Barkley seceding from the Union-that's true?"

"I have accessed the White House e-mail system and read the note in question," Smith said. "Stripping away the extreme language, their desires are clear. As well as what they are willing to do to achieve their ends."

The bed the President was sitting on suddenly seemed as remote and vast as the deepest ocean. He felt as though he were sinking into it, with nothing to grab on to.

"My God," the commander in chief said. "How can this be? A civil war in this day and age. It's absurd."

"It is also happening," Smith said, with infuriating calm. "Someone in Barkley, California, has the means and the desire to carry out their goals. In our favor is the fact that, unlike the Civil War of two centuries ago, this is small and localized. Barkley is seen as a fringe community, well outside the American mainstream. But given the power they wield, they cannot be dismissed. Hopefully, Mr. President, we can avert catastrophe before the situation reaches critical mass. My men are on the ground there and are working on the situation even as we speak, so I would advise you to keep any combat forces out of the area for the time being. An armed invasion might only exacerbate the situation. However, in the event that CURE fails, I advise you to seriously consider what you are willing to do to prevent them from achieving their desired objective."

The President balked. "You mean the United States should declare war on an American city?"

"I remind you, sir, that they have shown no qualms about preemptively attacking us," Smith said seriously. "While unpleasant, this is an alternative you need to consider. And now you know as much as I do. I have only learned some of these details within the last few minutes. Please excuse me, but my enforcement arm is on the other line at the moment."

"Wait," the President called anxiously. He was feeling queasy. The fate of his fledgling administration-of perhaps the entire nation-rested squarely on his shoulders. It was something he thought he had been prepared for. Now he wasn't quite so certain. "If they're knocking out satellites, how will I talk to you if this line goes out?"

"This is a dedicated line," Smith explained. "It relies on ground, not satellite technology. We will be able to communicate throughout this crisis."

And with that, Smith severed the connection. Thoughts spiraling, the President hung up the phone.

He sat for a long moment on the edge of the bed.

He was afraid if he stood, he might keel over onto the floor.

The job he had fought so hard to get now seemed like the most terrible victory he had ever won. Suddenly feeling much older than his years, the President pulled himself leadenly to his feet. With the shuffle of a man twice his age, the leader of the free world headed wearily for the door.

"IT'S ABOUT DAMN TIME," Remo complained when Smith rejoined him on the line. "Did you have to explain to little Timmy exactly where California is on a map?"

Remo was sitting on a windowsill in Professor Horowitz's Barkley University office, the desk phone resting on his knee. Chiun stood beside him, peering out at the campus. Anna and Brandy were searching the desk and file cabinets.

"The President just learned of the situation," Smith explained tersely. "Now, what else have you to report?"

"That's pretty much it," Remo said. "Some shrub-puffers here got hold of the mammy of all bang-bang machines and now they're pointing it at the sky making things go pop."

"You have no idea who's behind it?" Smith asked.

"Just a sec," Remo said. He cupped his hand loosely over the mouthpiece. "We have any clue who's pulling the strings on the magic cannon?" he called over to Anna and Brandy.

"I think it's the Barkley city council," Brandy replied. She and the Russian agent were pawing through piles of paper. Until five minutes ago she'd thought she was working on a simple smuggling case. Thanks to Remo and Anna's quick explanation, she had undergone a rapid conversion to the true urgency of the situation in town. "It could be one or two council members, though. I don't know for sure."

"City council, Smitty," Remo said into the phone. "And if it's true you get the elected officials you deserve, they've probably got Cheech and Chong as lifetime aldermen and smelly-beard Castro moonlighting as mayor."

"The e-mail stating Barkley's intention to secede from the Union was sent from the Barkley council web address. Unless someone else has access to their system, we can assume for now they are involved, at least peripherally. I will research the council," Smith vowed. "Who was that you just spoke to?"

"Remember that FBI agent we ran into back during that whole Ranch Ragnarok mess in Wyoming a couple years back?" Remo asked. "'The one we left at the hospital on the way out of town?"

"Buffy Brand," Smith said. "Yes, I remember."

"It's not Buffy anymore, for some reason," Remo said. "But she's on the case here, too. And you'll never guess who else we bumped into." He was watching Anna as she leafed through a thick file.

At Remo's words, the Russian's head snapped up. She shook her head frantically.

Remo hesitated.

"Who?" Smith asked, after a moment's pause.

Beside Remo, the Master of Sinanju's face fouled. "A cabal of Russian home wreckers, that is who, Emperor Smith," Chiun called. "They scattered the jesters before I was allotted my house. If not for the fact that you have opened the doors of your palace to Remo and myself, I fear your servants would be out in the streets with a box for a roof and a shopping cart to transport our meager belongings. Songs of gratitude we sing to you, Smith the Generous, for your continued kindheartedness and generosity."

Across the room Anna exhaled relief. With an angry look of warning for Remo, she returned to her work.

Remo nodded gratefully. "Nice save," he said to Chiun, careful to keep his voice low.

"Look before you speak," the Master of Sinanju hissed quietly in Korean. "If she did not want Smith to know she lived these many years, what makes you think she would want you to blab it to him now?"

Remo nodded. "Check," he agreed. "Chiun's right, Smitty," he said into the phone. "There was some Russian hit squad at the Buffoon Aid benefit. They had that cabbagey KGB smell all over them."

"SVR," Smith corrected. "That is the group that succeeded the KGB. I assume you eliminated them?"

"Yeah," Remo said. "They were going after another Russian who I guess helped bring that zap gun here. But thanks to that old KGB habit of murdering first and asking questions later, that's another dead end."

"That is unfortunate," Smith said. "It would have helped to have one of them to question. Still, if the SVR was after this other man as you say, then we can eliminate the involvement of the Russian government in all this. They would not be attacking one of their own men."

"No," Remo agreed. "But they're not too keen on their ex-men. There's a guy running around here who supposedly brought that doohickey over from Russia. General Fedora, or something like that."

Remo could hear Smith's chair creak over the phone. The CURE director obviously had found this fact intriguing enough to come to seated attention behind his desk.

"Feyodov?" Smith asked. "Do you mean General Boris Feyodov, formerly of the Sary Shagan Missile Test Center?"

"Yeah, that sounds right," Remo said. "Rumor has it he stole the gun from that Sally Shaghole place."

"Hmm," Smith mused. He began typing at his keyboard. Remo could hear the certain tapping of the older man's fingers at the edge of his high-tech desk.

"That a good hmm or a bad hmm?" Remo asked. "Feyodov was drummed out of the military over a year ago," the CURE director explained as he worked. "If memory serves-" The typing stopped abruptly. "Ah, here it is. Yes, it was he. Feyodov was in command of the Russian forces in the breakaway republic of Chechnya. There were several routs while he was in charge. The most notable was a massacre of Russian troops that garnered international attention. It was thought that heavy bombardment had caused rebels to flee the capital of Grozny. Feyodov led a convoy personally into the city. But the rebels were merely setting a trap. When the Russian forces moved in, the guerrillas closed in behind them, slaughtering the Russians to a man."

At this Smith let out a confused hum.

"Sounds like you just did the math in your head," Remo said. "'To a man' means Fredo shouldn't have gotten out."

"Yes," Smith agreed, puzzled. "But apparently he did. There is no record of how he escaped harm in the translation of the official report that I have accessed. The current Russian president, who was prime minister at the time, relieved Feyodov of his command and stripped him of his rank. Yet it seems as though everything was done very quietly. Still, given the facts of the case, I would imagine the general returned to civilian life in disgrace."

"And bitter to boot, I bet," Remo groused. "Why is it when people get pissed at the world, they always take it out on our part of it?"

"And on poor homeless me," Chiun chimed in dolefully.

"I don't think anyone factored you into the equation, Little Father," Remo said.

Still at the window, hands behind his back, the Master of Sinanju turned a hard eye on his pupil. "That is their mistake," he said. He turned his weathered face back to the Barkley University quad.

"What of the weapon itself, Remo?" Smith ventured. "Do you have any idea where it might be?"

"Hold on," Remo instructed. Off the phone he said to Anna and Brandy, "You find anything over there about where they've got that thing stashed?"

Anna kept her mouth clamped shut, not wanting to risk even a sound that the CURE director might hear.

"It looks like whole departments of the university have been turned over to the project," Brandy supplied. "Seems everyone's jumped on the bandwagon to get it up and running. From what you told me, this thing could be run from anywhere in the world, but there are so many locals on the list I'd bet J. Edgar Hoover's bloomers it's somewhere in town."

"You get that, Smitty?" Remo asked.

"Yes, and I concur," Smith said. "It is of paramount importance that you stop that weapon. The entire future of man's technological mastery of space is at risk as long as it continues to operate. Begin with the council. Excluding General Feyodov and him alone, any Russians you meet are distractions. Eliminate them an-"

The line abruptly went dead. With a frown Remo hung up the receiver.

"What did he say?" Anna asked as he returned the phone to the physics professor's desk.

"The usual," Remo said. "Kill all Russian spies, fate of the world rests in my hands, blah-blah-blah." He raised a seductive eyebrow as he glanced at Brandy. "Am I turning you on?" he asked.

The FBI agent ignored him as she stuffed papers into her knapsack. "I don't think any of this will do us much good now," she said tightly to Anna. "I thought these numbnuts were smuggling bomb supplies, not ray guns. Should've figured Barkley U would be into the more heavy-duty stuff."

"It is not the university staff that is the problem," Anna said. "They are merely lackeys. Although given what I have seen on this campus, I have no idea how you people won the Cold War."

"America doesn't have mental institutions-we have higher education," Remo explained. "Okay, let's go check out the council. Anna, keep your eyes peeled for that general of yours. He should know how to pull the plug on this thing."

"He might have skipped town," Brandy said evenly. "My partner was in Barkley with me. He followed Feyodov to San Francisco this morning, where your general met with someone my partner recognized. Some other Russian."

"Who?" Anna asked with a frown.

"He wasn't sure," Brandy said. "Last I heard from him, he'd left Feyodov to follow the other guy." Her voice grew deadly serious. "They found him severely injured and stuffed inside a maintenance closet at San Francisco airport an hour later. Whoever the sick bastard was, he tore my partner's nose clean off. They couldn't even find it to reattach it."

Remo suddenly found himself trying to remember if Chiun had left his side at any time while they were at the airport that morning. When he turned a worried eye on the Master of Sinanju, Anna seemed to pick up the thread. Confused by their reactions, Brandy glanced at the frail old man.

Standing at the window, the wizened Asian was the very picture of innocence.

"What did he look like?" Chiun asked, his eyes hooded. "After all, I meet so many people."

"Wait," Remo said to Brandy. "When was that meeting?"

"About two hours ago," she said.

"We got in town way before that. You're off the hook, Little Father."

The old man's lips thinned. "Thank you, Remo, for having such confidence in me," he said acidly.

"No offense," Brandy said carefully as she eyed Chiun, "but he doesn't look very dangerous."

"I am not," Chiun sniffed. "I am but a poor homeless old man who has given everything to an adopted foundling who repays the kindness he has been shown with baseless suspicion. While you are thinking of more unsolved mysteries to blame on me, I will be waiting in the car."

As the old man breezed between them, Remo said, "It was just a passing thought. Besides, I never blamed you for the Titanic, the Hindenburg or the Lindbergh kidnapping."

"See?" the Master of Sinanju said knowingly to Brandy. "Where I actually deserve credit, he gives none."

With that he swept from the room.

"Don't listen to him," Remo assured the FBI agent. "Now he's just bragging."

As the trio headed to the door, Anna Chutesov shook her head. "Men," she muttered.

"Tell me about it," Brandy agreed.

"Maybe we better keep the top up for the ride across town," Remo said as he pulled the office door shut. "One stiff breeze and both your Bella Abzug hats could get blown into the Timothy Leary Memorial Pot Plantation."

Chapter 19

General Boris Vanovich Feyodov hated his country with every fiber of his existence. It was a hatred forged from betrayal and humiliation. A personal, visceral loathing that could not help but be stronger than everyday antipathy.

This attitude was newly born. The old Boris Feyodov had loved the old Mother Russia. It was this new bastard incarnation of the nation he loved that Feyodov so reviled.

The son of a field marshal who had fought in the Great Patriotic War, Feyodov had learned early on that rank equaled privilege. For the family of Marshal Gregori Feyodov, there were no food lines, no stores with empty shelves. Their needs were small, of course, as was right for all good Communists, but those needs were always met. There were houses and cars and an old Armenian woman who helped his mother with the cleaning. Once every year there was a summer vacation at a Party dacha on the Black Sea.

By studying his father, young Boris Feyodov had come to understand exactly how the world worked. When Boris came of age, his father had pulled strings, getting his son an early commission in the Red Army. Clever, resourceful and possessed of an innate sense to know whom to stroke and whom to avoid in the Party leadership, Feyodov had quickly climbed the ranks. All who watched his rapid rise to general could not help but be impressed by the way Feyodov played against both the strengths and the weaknesses of the Communist system. The little boy from Smolensk, son of the great Field Marshal Gregori Feyodov, was truly a virtuoso. His instrument? Communism itself.

Feyodov achieved the rank of general in the 1970s, back during the time of SALT and detente. Back then, it was understood that the West was in its death throes. Capitalism was bloodied and reeling, desperate to appease. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was respected and feared. When the great Russian bear arched its mighty back, men from Washington to Peking to all points in between quivered like frightened children. At that time to be a Russian general was to be a god among men.

It was as a god that General Feyodov assumed command of the Sary Shagan Missile Test Center. The collection of hangars and bunkers was his own personal Olympus. He strode through halls and across tarmacs, head held high, never out of full uniform. The soldiers under his command worshiped him, and the civilian workers were terrified of him.

It was at Sary Shagan that Feyodov's true reputation began to grow. Until the time of his appointment there, he had always been his father's son. Certainly he was clever enough, but Party leaders assumed that he had gotten where he had largely because he was son of a field marshal. That was only partly true. Sary Shagan was the turning point of Party sentiment toward the younger Feyodov.

There was never a challenge sent to the base that was not accepted by its commander. Projects sent there were completed on time and under budget. The iron-handed rule of General Boris Feyodov kept order and garnered results.

When in the 1980s the Americans announced their desire for a missile defense program, Boris Feyodov and Sary Shagan were given the task of producing a Soviet version.

Feyodov had driven the team of scientists like dogs. The men worked, slept and ate at the Kazakhstan facility. Only one weekend every four months were they allowed to go to visit their families off base.

The work schedule was brutal, even by Feyodov's normally harsh standards. If questioned, the general would have claimed that he was only doing his duty. But the truth was, he had another motivation. One he dared not speak aloud.

Like a religious visionary, Boris Feyodov had detected something that had gone unnoticed by his countrymen. The son of Field Marshal Gregori Feyodov had seen the end.

The West was no longer timid. Unlike the cowardly days of the sixties and seventies, America had now gone on the offensive. Challenges to Soviet authority that would not have been dared a generation before were becoming common. Afghanistan, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Grenada. For the first time in years, Mother Russia had begun to lose ground. Feyodov was one of the first to smell change in the air. And it terrified him.

General Feyodov understood communism. He knew how to exploit the nuances of that system to his advantage. Without it, Boris Feyodov was hollow. And it was this fear of what might be that motivated him to push his men.

For more than a year he drove the scientists to complete their task, hoping that their work would hold together the splitting seams of socialism.

When the work was done on what was supposed to be the prototype for a line of high-tech Soviet weapons, the order to test had come down from the Kremlin itself.

At the time the head of the USSR had been in office for less than a year. This new general secretary was younger than any who had preceded him. Swiping away the cobwebs of fear, he had been appointed to give a smiling face to Russian communism. This fact alone was offensive to General Feyodov. Who cared if the hated West ever saw you smile?

Still, the order had given Feyodov hope. Especially after he learned what his target would be. The test had gone flawlessly. When the American space shuttle burst apart in the blue sky like a clod of white dirt, the general had allowed himself a moment of hope for his country. His first in several years.

The moment was short-lived.

As soon as the spacecraft was obliterated, Feyodov received the call. He was stunned when he recognized the uncultured voice of the general secretary.

"You are calling with congratulations, comrade General Secretary," Feyodov had said proudly.

"Yes," the general secretary agreed, in a way that made it sound as if the opposite were true. "I did not think you could do it," Russia's premier said.

"We are Russians," General Feyodov had said. "Proud sons of the Revolution."

"Yes, yes," the general secretary said. He actually sounded anxious. "Feyodov, I am beginning to rethink this program. It was instituted before I assumed this office. What we-what you-have done today..." He took a deep breath. "The Americans, Feyodov, will not understand."

Though tempted, Feyodov refrained from instructing the general secretary of the Soviet Union on the indifference he should feel toward the concerns of the Americans.

It was then that the general secretary had issued the most shocking order General Boris Feyodov had ever received. The general was commanded to obliterate every member of the team responsible for creating the particle-beam weapon.

Feyodov wanted to resist, but to refuse a direct order from the premier would be to invite the considerable wrath of a system that the general understood all too well.

In the end he had done his duty. The civilian scientists were killed on the spot. The technicians and military personnel were shot later on. When he was finished, knowledge of what had truly transpired that day was limited only to Boris Feyodov and the highest levels of the Kremlin.

The explosion that should have heralded a great new day for the struggling Soviet Union ended up sounding its death knell. The world began to unravel not long after.

The great technological advance Feyodov had helped usher in was minuscule when weighed against the achievements of the West. The Soviet Union simply could not afford the arms race with America. Funding to the military was cut. This included the Sary Shagan base.

For his obedience and silence, the general secretary eventually transferred General Feyodov to another post.

A new espionage agency was being created. If Russia could not beat its enemies with brute military force, it would do so with cunning. It was to be the most secret agency ever to exist. Formed ostensibly to battle internal problems, it would actually be an international force like none other. More clandestine than the KGB, Cheka or Shield, it would employ only three men: General Feyodov and a pair of very special field operatives.

The general secretary himself had blackmailed the Americans into turning over two of their top agents. When given his appointment to this start-up agency, Feyodov had his doubts that a pair of American agents would willingly work for the sworn enemy of their country. He was told by the premier that they were mercenaries, based in Communist North Korea, and thus were not beholden to any nation. To Feyodov's disgust he learned that the two men who would be his new stealth operatives worked purely for monetary gain.

And so General Boris Feyodov, late of the Sary Shagan Missile Test Center, had come to Kitai Gorod in Moscow to set up his clandestine agency in an ominous concrete building with bricked-up windows and no visible entrance.

And there he waited for the agents that never came.

It turned out that there was some problem with the contract of the two operatives. General Feyodov became head of an agency of which he was the sole member. Not that he had time to nurse this latest humiliation.

Almost before he had time to settle in, he was ordered to vacate his post as director. The Institute, as his agency was called, was being turned over to a special adviser to the head of Russia. A person who had been a field operative and who, because of some terrible secret, could no longer work abroad.

He had met his successor briefly. To make his disgrace complete, Feyodov had been shocked to find that it was a woman. A mere slip of a girl with cold blue eyes, an attitude of snide superiority and a fat briefcase locked with the seal of the Soviet president.

Feyodov left the Institute gladly. Let this woman have her big empty building and whatever secrets she carried with her in her government attache case.

By now he knew that the end was near. For him and for his beloved Russia.

He had become just another general after that. With postings at crumbling bases all over the dying empire. When the Soviet Union finally collapsed, Feyodov had remained in the military, dutifully obeying the commands of his civilian superiors. Eventually, he had gone to Chechnya, accepting a battle command for the first time in his lifelong army career. For Feyodov, this would be the final nail in the coffin of a grand life grown pathetic.

Chechnya had been a trouble spot ever since the death of his beloved Soviet Union. Like many others before it, the predominantly Muslim republic craved independence. Another bleeding scrap of meat to tear off the wheezing, dying body of the shrunken Mother Russia.

Feyodov didn't see the situation as very complicated. The Muslim separatists were infected with the same disease that had plagued what had once been the great Soviet empire. The rebels embodied all the disloyal, anarchic traits that had killed the USSR.

Boris Feyodov took command in Chechnya with one thought on his mind: revenge. These miserable Muslim dogs would pay for all of his own personal defeats and humiliations.

The bombardment against the capital of Grozny was vicious. They bombed from land and air. Day after day of punishing, endless assaults against the city, ordered by Boris Feyodov with the blessing of the Kremlin leadership.

When the bombing stopped and the smoke cleared, Feyodov declared victory. The rebels were defeated. Those left alive had fled the city.

The taste of triumph thick in the air, the general had climbed into the lead truck in the convoy that would reclaim Grozny for Russia. He and his men rode down from the hills, through the pathetic barricades and into the heart of the city. For a few brief moments-as he beheld the buildings, collapsed at his order, and passed by the burning cars and along cratered streets-Boris Feyodov was once more a god.

As apotheoses went, this one was short-lived. The first gunshot came from the darkened doorway of a tumbledown apartment building.

In the lead truck, General Feyodov jumped. He wasn't quite sure what the noise was. After all, he had never heard a bullet fired in battle before. At first he thought it might be a firecracker.

The next shot sounded an instant later, followed by the next and the next until they became a nightmare chorus. His uncertainty sprouting wings of desperate fear, Feyodov dropped down. Bullets whizzed overhead.

Panicked, he jerked his head around.

His driver was dead, slumped over the steering wheel. The men in the back of his truck had already suffered heavy casualties. Bodies were tumbling from the trailing trucks. Terror washed over the Russian troops.

Bullets thudded into metal.

He ordered his men to attack. They were already firing.

He ordered them to protect him at all costs. No one could hear him over the raging gunfire.

He ordered retreat. They were surrounded. Blinded by fear, Feyodov grabbed for the door handle. Twisting it, he fell to the ground. As the men above him fought for their lives, their commander crawled beneath the dark belly of the lead truck. Terrified hands covered ears; elbows and toes dragged him forward.

The truck was at the side of the road. A stairwell led into the shadowy basement of a bombed-out building.

Unnoticed by rebel or soldier, Feyodov toppled down the concrete stairs. Bloodied and dirty, he scurried beneath the collapsed archway and crumbled ceiling.

As the battle raged in the street far above his basement hideaway, General Boris Feyodov fled deeper and deeper into the shadows. He crawled until he could go no farther. As the final shots were fired and the last Russian soldier spilled his blood on the streets of Grozny, the general who had abandoned his troops was far away, cowering in a dank corner of his basement haven, his knees tucked up to his chin, rump settled into a cold, muddy puddle.

He was found eight days later.

The general was malnourished and dehydrated. He had soiled himself, drinking from the same filthy puddle.

As soon as he was pulled from the basement he was shipped back to Moscow. To have the leader of the Russian forces in Chechnya appear weak, gaunt, disheveled and cowardly, would only help to further the rebels' cause.

The war would be fought without him.

It was during the long months of his recuperation that Boris Feyodov the loyal Soviet, Boris Feyodov the aparatchik, Boris Feyodov the Communist Party virtuoso, finally learned the truth about himself. He had found that-no matter what his service rank was-he had never been a soldier.

Feyodov had gotten where he had by manipulating the Communist system. Early on it was his father's intervention. Later it was a flawlessly executed practice of strategically alternating between political backstabbing and bootlicking. He had compelled others to follow his orders at gunpoint so that his star might shine more brightly. At his various cozy appointments, his successes came on the strained backs of others. But he-Boris Vanovich Feyodov-could never claim credit for personally achieving anything in his life.

On the day he was released from the hospital, Feyodov learned that he had been dishonorably discharged from the military the day he had been discovered in the Grozny cellar.

For Boris Feyodov-with his career gone, his country lost and the only world he understood vanished into the mists of history-there was only one way out. In his service trunk he found his father's old World War II revolver, a treasured memento of the only Feyodov who had truly earned his rank.

With a bottle in one hand and the great field marshal's gun in the other, Feyodov staggered out into the cold streets of Moscow. Near a chain-link fence that overlooked the river he took a last bracing swig of vodka. Smashing the bottle to the frozen ground, he slurred a curse at the cold air and stuck the barrel of the gun into his open mouth.

And there he stood. The night wind cutting through his greatcoat. The twinkling lights of the city reflecting on the rolling waves, now a garish siren call to capitalism.

Feyodov struggled with the gun. His teeth and tongue tasted the metal. His finger almost touched the trigger.

But in the end he was too much the coward. Drawing the cold barrel from between his chapped lips, he hurled the gun into the Moscow River. Boots crunching on the broken glass, the general fell sobbing against the fence.

The weeks after that were a blur of hard drink and a hazy gray twilight of pitiful anguish. He barely remembered being approached at a bar by a former subordinate in the Red Army-a colonel who had been stationed at Sary Shagan. The months-long hangover hadn't even lifted before he found himself working for the black market.

So he became a criminal. So what? Wasn't everyone in Russia a pimp or a whore to the West these days? And since it seemed unlikely he would ever work up the nerve to kill himself, he would have to eat. Besides, this new Russia inspired corruption. No, it deserved it.

Many of his new associates were former military men like him, betrayed by the system that had made them all gods.

No one knew of his disgrace. The war in Chechnya was too important for the Kremlin to allow news of its cowardly general to be leaked to the public.

Almost without effort, Feyodov climbed the ranks. He soon learned that capitalism and communism were not so different at their most basic levels. He applied his old tactics to his new life, killing or currying favor until in scarcely more than a year's time he became one of the new power elite in Russia. A crime lord.

Many who marveled at the way he worked the system assumed the old Communist had become a born-again capitalist. But the truth was, Boris Vanovich Feyodov was the hollowest of hollow men, loathing life but frightened of death. He did what he did only because he had no idea what else to do.

When he was approached by the fools of Barkley early on in his new career, he agreed to see them only because of their promise of money.

Zen Bower and Gary Jenfeld had met with Boris Feyodov at the Moscow McDonald's. The men had owned an ice cream shop in the city and out of necessity knew well of the Russian underworld. Their contacts had pointed them to Feyodov.

"We hear you're someone who can get things done," Zen had said craftily at that first meeting almost a year before.

Zen and Gary hunched over their trays of food.

Feeling very much like spies, they glanced at doors and windows.

"What do you want?" Feyodov demanded. He was a busy man now, with no time for nonsense. "We come from a small community in America," Zen whispered. "But please don't hold that against us. The truth is, we've had it with being part of that whole love-it-or-leave-it, apple pie, racist, sexist, homophobic testament to dead-white-maledom. We want out, and we're willing to pay."

"You want out of what? America?" Feyodov scoffed. "I have seen your kind before. You men are fools."

He started to get up. Zen grabbed his wrist. "You don't know what we're willing to do. Or pay. "

There was an intensity in his eyes and voice that Feyodov hadn't seen in years. It was the earnestness of a diehard Communist. Someone willing to do anything for the great People's cause. Feyodov retook his seat.

Zen smiled. "We need nuclear weapons," he hissed.

"Although we're firmly antinuke," Gary interjected.

"That way, pig America would never dream of attacking," Zen said. "We could bury a couple ICBM silos on the Barkley U campus, target L.A. and San Diego. You give us one of the long-range suckers, and we could even threaten the East Coast. That way Washington has to stay off our backs. Without the jackbooted threat of Uncle Sam breathing down our necks, we can finally create Marx's dream of a socialist utopia."

Feyodov looked hard at Zen Bower. "I would not sell you idiots a water pistol, let alone a nuclear weapon."

He stood once more.

Zen was growing desperate. As Feyodov started walking across the dining area of the restaurant, the ice cream man called frantically after the former general.

"Don't you want revenge against the filthy capitalists who destroyed your workers' paradise?" the American shouted.

The words seemed to echo at him from down a long tunnel.

It was a moment like no other Boris Feyodov had ever experienced in his life. It was an epiphany. An instance of pure, crystalline realization.

These men had money and hated America. Feyodov hated both America and Russia. What's more, he had contacts, power and a decade-old secret. And the weapon that went with it.

The outline of a plan came to him in a flash.

On wooden legs, he returned to the table. He accepted their money. Seemed to do everything they asked. He gave them their weapon, the means by which they hoped to secede from the country that had given them everything in abundance. But even as he brought over the particle-beam device piece by piece and set it up in that wealthy California community, the former Red Army general kept secret a scheme of his own. One he hoped he had the nerve to execute.

Boris Feyodov would get his revenge against this Russia that had made him face the mirror and see his true self. He would have vengeance, too, against America for bringing the land of his birth to ruin. He would play both sides against each other in a final showdown. He alone would bring the Cold War roaring back to the boiling point. And in order to do all this, he would manipulate the imbeciles of Barkley just as he had the Communist leaders of old.

And when the bombs started to fall like summer rain, General Boris Vanovich Feyodov might just be sitting there to greet them. A smile of triumph on his tired, sagging face.

Chapter 20

As he stormed through the network of underground tunnels beneath the city of Barkley, Boris Feyodov did not smile.

His boots clattered urgently along the metal plates. All around heavy insulated pipes channeled power to the smuggled particle-beam weapon.

The idiots had been charging and firing nonstop for more than three hours. The constant operation shocked the very ether in the fetid underground rooms. The short hairs on his neck rose and his fillings ached as he charged into the main tunnel. The air was ripe with nervous mingled body odors.

Zen and Gary were back, standing above one of the monitors. Professor Melvin Horowitz sat at the console, nervously tracking the latest targeted satellite.

Oleg Shevtrinko stood anxiously behind the trio. When he saw the general emerge into the tunnel, relief bloomed wide on Oleg's face. Feyodov didn't even acknowledge him. He brushed past his fellow Russian, marching up to Zen.

"Are you out of your mind?" Feyodov snapped.

The Russian's jowls were pulled back in a furious scowl.

Zen's head snapped around. "It's about time," the Barkley council leader barked. "We're under attack." He turned his full attention back to Professor Horowitz.

"Attack by whom?" Feyodov growled. He didn't wait for a reply. "Stand down!" he commanded the men in the tunnel.

"Belay that order!" Zen countered. He tapped an angry finger on Melvin's monitor.

A satellite spun through computer-generated space, the glowing letters ANW beneath it. A program neatly identified all registered satellites with simple codes.

"Not that one," Zen warned authoritatively. "Leave all the ANW ones alone. Any others are fair game."

Melvin Horowitz knew that ANW stood for AIC News-Wallenberg, the biggest communications conglomerate in the world. It was the company that owned HTB. For some reason unknown to the Barkley professor, Zen seemed particularly interested in preserving only that company's satellites.

Professor Horowitz nodded dull agreement. It was difficult to avoid the AIC News-Wallenberg satellites. For some reason, they had more of them floating around up there than they could ever possibly need. As sweat poured down his forehead, the professor got a lock on an NBC satellite.

"It'll be another minute before we're fully charged," the Barkley University physics professor said.

As the device charged, Zen spun. "We had a riot while you were gone. Bodies piled everywhere. You should have been here. If I wanted a coward in charge, I'd have picked Gary to be Barkley's supreme military commander."

The instant the insulting word was spoken, the former general's eyes saucered. Raging brown pupils swam in a sea of bloodshot white.

When he saw the look that gripped Feyodov's face, Gary Jenfeld gasped. He dropped the cardboard container of Cherry Rubin ice cream he'd been eating.

Suddenly remembering Oleg Shevtrinko's earlier warning, Zen took a half step back. "We had to step up the timetable after the attack against Buffoon Aid," he said, trying to force a rough edge to his voice even as he inched back from Feyodov. "We've officially declared war on the oppressors in Washington. So far they've remained silent, so we're following through on our threat. Operation Clear Heavens has eliminated sixteen satellites."

The general's jaw was clenched so tightly his molars squeaked. His wild eyes darted to Oleg Shevtrinko's hip holster. The automatic pistol was within reach.

By sheer force of will Feyodov overcame his more murderous impulses. Tearing his eyes from Zen, he did some rapid calculations in his head.

Thanks to these imbeciles his own plan might have been put in jeopardy. He had taken too long to get back here from San Francisco. Retaliation from the United States government might already be imminent. But there was still time.

Eyelids drooping over his maniac's eyes, he refocused on the ice cream men.

"What happened?" he asked, forcing calm. "Exactly. "

"One of your men got killed by a bunch of other guys at the benefit," Zen said. "Somehow they got killed, too."

Feyodov gave Oleg an angry questioning glance. "Not by us, General," Oleg said seriously. "They were killed by hand, not by weapons. At least not by any weapons I know of. There was much panic, so the eyewitnesses cannot be trusted completely. They say there were two men in the area at the time. An old Asian and a young white. I cannot see how they were responsible for all six deaths. And the force exerted on some of the bodies was inhuman. One man's head was forced down into his chest." He shuddered at the memory. "I have never seen anything like it, General."

Feyodov's face grew deadly calm. Somehow the lack of any emotion was more frightening than the look of rage that had gripped his flaccid features a moment before. When he spoke, his voice was small.

"I have," Feyodov said quietly. Shoulders deflating, he fell back against the console. Melvin Horowitz had to pull his hand away before it was sat on.

"There was someone else here, too," Zen said. "At the university. Some kind of government agent or something."

Feyodov was hardly listening. "Your government or mine?" he asked absently.

"Neither," Zen said. "She was American. Campus police were supposed to hold her until your men could collect her for questioning, but someone helped her escape. He fits the description of the guy at the Buffoon Aid benefit. The old Asian was there, too. And an unidentified woman."

Feyodov's eyes darted to Zen. "'This woman," he said, his brow furrowing. "Was she blond and attractive, perhaps with a smug, superior attitude?"

"I don't know about any of that," Zen replied. "Is she an enemy of yours? Because if she is, the council will have to reevaluate our relationship. We didn't pay you, General, to drag any of your personal problems into this."

At this Feyodov remained mute. These fools had no idea that all of this had been engineered as a direct result of Boris Feyodov's personal problems.

Before the ice cream man could question the general any further, a phone on the console table buzzed to life. Zen saw that it was the line to the council chambers. He grabbed it, assuming they'd finally heard from Washington.

Zen listened for only a few seconds. As the frightened caller spoke, the ice cream man's face visibly paled.

"I'll be right there," he snapped. Slamming down the phone, he wheeled on Feyodov. "We're under attack again! My God, they're assaulting the city hall building!"

He turned from the general and was off. The metal plates rattled furiously as Zen and Gary ran down the tunnel.

Feyodov's reeling brain had still been trying to absorb all that was going on. But as soon as the two men were gone, he seemed to reach a sudden decision. He shoved Melvin Horowitz aside, diving for the nearby keyboard. With shaking fingers he entered a new code into the system.

The image on the screen shifted from the targeted NBC satellite that Horowitz had been tracking. A new computer-interpreted figure appeared on the monitor.

The object in orbit was far bigger than a satellite. Assembled by pulsing space telemetry and translated to the computer screen, it was a stick-figure cigar shape.

"When that comes in range, fire upon it," Feyodov ordered the Barkley University professor.

The general's worried eyes strayed to the roof of the cavern. Who knew what was going on up there at the moment? He couldn't fail. Not now.

"But I already have a target," Horowitz apologized. "Besides, I don't know if I'm supposed to shoot that." His worried eyes followed the familiar object through the void.

Above the seated man, Feyodov glanced around. Oleg still stood at attention behind him. Reaching over, the general wrenched the gun from Oleg's hip holster, jamming the barrel against Melvin Horowitz's sweaty temple.

The general leaned in so close, Horowitz could see the fine hairs growing from the end of his venous nose.

"You have a new target," Feyodov whispered, his finger twitching over the trigger. "You will fire, or I will."

"Yes, sir!" Dr. Horowitz snapped, lunging for his keyboard. Desperate, stubby fingers mashed the keys.

As the professor frantically went about executing his new orders, Feyodov straightened, slapping the pistol back into Oleg's outstretched palm.

The former general shot a glance down the far, dead end of the tunnel. The particle-beam weapon was barely visible behind a ganglia of connecting power lines. A stab of sunlight washed down from far above.

Soon it would be over. And the hollowness of his life would have meaning.

"I will not fail," he said quietly.

The soft words were a promise to his own cowardly soul.

WHEN ZEN AND Gary burst into the Barkley council chamber, they found the small auditorium empty. Zen didn't know whether or not he should be relieved. He'd expected to find storm troopers from the U.S. government smashing windows and firing tear-gas canisters filled with Agent Orange and Philip Morris tobacco products around the room in an orgy of fascistic meanness.

"Where is everybody?" Zen whispered harshly as they stepped into the silent hall.

Gary was in midshrug when a timid voice chimed in.

"Under here."

Only then did Zen see the row of sandals sticking out from under the council table on the main stage. One of the Barkley residents on the council insisted on wearing nothing but Indian moccasins in order to show his support for the plight of Native American master craftsmen. The hand stitching was usually unraveling before he even took them out of the box and the genuine artificial leather material imported from China reacted poorly with air, water, slight temperature changes and all the other environmental stimuli of Earth's precious ecosystem. Zen saw the council member's distinctive shoes, as well as his nervously wiggling toes, which were sticking out of the holes in the seams.

Allowing a slip of relieved breath to pass his lips, Zen hurried up to the stage.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

"Lookout on the roof said he saw those guys heading this way," a disembodied voice replied. "The youth-impaired, culturally rich Asian-heritage gentleman and the WEM."

WEM was Barkley shorthand for White European Male. Given the frequency of official condemnations against all WEMliness, it was just easier to abbreviate.

"There's nothing to worry about," Zen insisted. "We've got three sets of surplus Soviet-built superdoors, all bolted. This place is a fortress. They are not getting inside."

He had no sooner spoken than there came a distant rumble that seemed to shake the entire hall. It was followed by a terrible, muffled wrenching sound as the front door-which had been liberated from an abandoned Siberian missile silo-was ripped from its hinges.

"Last one under the table's a Republican!" Gary shrieked. He skidded across the floor in a diving leap, slipping under the tablecloth between two sets of sandals.

Gary had barely slithered from sight before a second set of hallway doors yielded with a thundering crash. Whoever the men were, they were two-thirds of the way to the chamber.

"What the hell did we pay for?" Zen breathed, shocked. "He promised me those doors would stop a tank."

Even as Zen spoke, Boris Feyodov ran into the room through the rear entrance. With him was Oleg and a handful of confused Russian black-market soldiers.

"What is happening?" Feyodov asked breathlessly.

"I'll tell you what's happening!" Zen yelled from across the room. The door to the hall suddenly began to groan in pain. Zen's head snapped around. "I want a refund, that's what's happening!"

And as he spoke, the last door to the outside world surrendered to the punishing force that had penetrated the outer defenses to the Barkley seat of power.

The door to the chamber was four-inch-thick steel with a titanium mesh interior and a mortar-proof facade. It split up the middle like a cracked eggshell and plopped to the floor in two fat halves. Dust rose high into the air.

"Lucy, I'm home," said Remo Williams as he stepped over the remnants of the door into the main council chamber. Chiun breezed in beside him.

Behind them came Anna and Brandy. Both women clutched guns in their hands. Cool, alert eyes scanned the room. When Anna saw Feyodov and his retinue of shocked Russian expatriates in the back of the room, her mouth thinned. She was quicker with her gun than they were with theirs.

"Do not move!" Anna commanded the Russians. Hands going for weapons, the men froze. Slowly, the Russians raised their hands into the air.

"You," Feyodov growled. He didn't even seem to notice Remo and Chiun. He glared hatred at Anna Chutesov.

"Great," Remo grumbled. "This another old boyfriend who thought you were dead the last ten years? She's been yanking us all," he promised Feyodov. "So if you're looking for those Barry White albums or Bolshoi Ballet tickets she walked out with, you can just get in line."

Feyodov's anger flashed to puzzlement. He tore his eyes away from Anna.

"Are you saying you thought she was dead?" asked the former general.

"Didn't everybody?" Remo said blandly. "But aren't you the men from Sinanju?"

"We are wasting time," Anna interrupted tensely.

"Time is never wasted that is used to discuss the glory that is Sinanju," Chiun scolded.

Anna's eyes never wavered. "That is General Feyodov," she explained. "The lunatic you are looking for."

The old man arched an eyebrow. "Do not presume to know what I am looking for, woman," he sniffed. "What I look for is respect and gratitude. Never finding either, I would settle for a roof over my head and a son who does not cavort with floozies. Thanks to you, the world continues to mock me on both of these counts, as well." And raising his chin in defiance, he stuffed his hands in his sleeves.

Anna exhaled frustration as she slid between Remo and Chiun. Her arm remained level, the gun aimed at Feyodov.

Behind the Russian agent, Brandy Brand was at first uncertain what to do. But since Anna seemed to have taken the lead from the two men who had somehow managed to bash their way through three seemingly impenetrable sets of doors, the FBI agent followed dutifully behind the Russian. Her gun was aimed at Feyodov and his men, but one eye remained alert to Zen Bower, who stood unmoving and frightened on the stage.

"Where is the weapon?" Anna demanded. Feyodov ignored the question. A glint of cunning had appeared in his dark eyes.

"That is the Master of Sinanju, is it not?" the general asked Anna.

"That is not important!" Anna snapped.

Chiun gasped. "You see, Remo?" he said, his voice straining indignation. "You see how she continues to dismiss your poor aged father as irrelevant? It is happening all over again. Quick! Let us leave the trollop to her nefarious business, lest she convince you to cast me into the dark dungeon of a home for the unwanted elderly." He grabbed Remo's wrist.

Though Chiun pulled, Remo remained in place. "Sorry, but I gotta go with Anna on this one, Little Father," he said. "Looks like Boris Badenov here has turned his boom-ray death device over to the Frostbite Falls granola set." He nodded to Zen.

Chiun's hands fell to his sides. "Of course," he said, his voice flat. "Why would I expect that you would ever take my side against this lying Russian hussy? As my heir and future Reigning Master of Sinanju, you could ask this one how he has come to know of us, perhaps to better help us advertise our services, but no. By all means worry about whatever it is she tells you to worry about. I only ask that once you are through doing her bidding, we may drive past the home she has cost me on our way out of town. I would like to take one longing look through the windows as the indigents and gypsies who are not me root through my cupboards and relieve themselves on my carpets."

Across the room, Feyodov's raised hands lowered an inch. "So you two still do not work for the Institute?"

"Institute?" Remo asked. "What the hell's the-?"

It was as far as he got before the explosion.

The bullet fired by Anna struck Oleg Shevtrinko hard in the shoulder. With a shocked expression, Feyodov's assistant spun halfway around before slamming solidly into the rear wall of the hall. As Oleg sank to the floor, a streak of blood staining the wall, Anna swung the gun back to Feyodov.

"Another word that is not about the Russian property you have stolen and you will be next," she said coldly.

Feyodov's hands shot back up high in the air. Any curiosity the general might have had about Remo and Chiun's current employment abruptly gave way to cowardice.

"It is here," the general volunteered quickly. Anna's face held no emotion. "Take me to it." Feyodov nodded sharply. Arms still high in the air, he began to step over his bleeding compatriot. Anna had taken but a single step to follow when she felt a hand suddenly grip her arm, holding her firmly in place.

Remo. He was fooling around again. He had always constituted an audience of one for his own childish antics. He was still behind her. With the traitorous Russians standing before her, she did not dare turn to look at him.

"Remo, let go," Anna urged.

His hand never wavered. Worse, his thick wrist flexed.

The pain was so sharp, Anna sucked in a gasp of air. She didn't have time to question him before he spoke. When he did, his voice sounded different than she'd ever heard it. Almost ...weak.

"Anna," Remo whispered.

The pain in her arm was white-hot. It was as if a vise had clamped hard, biting into flesh. His grip tightened. So strong was it, she nearly dropped her gun.

"Remo, you are hurting me," Anna said, wincing. "Something...something's not right," Remo gasped.

Up ahead, Feyodov and the others had stopped dead. A spark of hope was growing stronger in the general's eyes.

Since Remo was holding on to her gun arm, Anna was forced to transfer the weapon to her free hand. "Watch them," Anna ordered Brandy.

The FBI agent moved in front of Anna. "Hands up!" Brandy snapped.

Some of the Russians had been wavering. At the command they dutifully lifted their arms higher. Anna turned a wary eye on Remo. When she saw him, her pale skin blanched.

Remo looked as if he'd aged thirty years. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes were cavernous black hollows. It looked as though the life had been sucked out of him. Sapped of vitality, he had to hold on to Anna for support.

Behind Remo, the Master of Sinanju was in far worse shape. He seemed little more than an ambulatory skeleton.

Both men reeled in place.

"What's wrong?" Anna asked sharply.

"We have to go," Remo panted. "Now."

As he spoke, Anna felt a shuddering tickle, like ghostly fingers, across the downy hair at the back of her neck.

The sensation had been apparent for the last minute or so, but it had gotten worse in the past few seconds. It was as if some hidden switch had been flipped. And in the moment when the strange invisible touch reached its zenith, Anna Chutesov saw the impossible happen.

Remo and Chiun shot to attention. Arms snapped out, angled downward, fingers splayed. They stood like that for but an instant. Stiff, helpless and vulnerable.

As quickly as it came, it fled. And as Anna watched in shock, the life seeped visibly from the Master of Sinanju.

Chiun's fluttering eyes rolled back in their sockets. His frail old body went as limp as a wet rag, and he toppled over onto the hard floor.

Remo still stood. He reached a hand once more for Anna. This time he braced it on her shoulder for support.

"Remo, what is it?" Anna asked.

He shook his head. "Help me get Chiun," he gasped.

There was just a moment's hesitation before Anna did as she was told. Crouching, she helped drag the old man into Remo's arms. She had to pull Remo back to his feet.

There was not another word from him. Drawing on his last reserves of strength, Remo stumbled out the door, delicately cradling the lifeless body of his teacher.

Once he was gone, Anna dropped her voice low. "We must go," she whispered urgently to Brandy. "What about them?" Brandy said, nodding across the room.

Feyodov and the Russians were growing emboldened. Hands were lowering cautiously. None had yet moved for a gun.

"There are too many of them," Anna answered. "We do not know how many more there might be. We can't win. Not now."

The FBI agent seemed reluctant to follow the orders of a Russian agent. Yet she had no other backup on the scene and half of her team was apparently down for the count.

Brandy nodded crisply.

Anna didn't find it necessary to say a word to Feyodov. Both of them understood her predicament. Whenever she was confronted with this sort of situation, she always left it up to the men to strut and preen and offer silly threats and warnings. She was content to escape with her life.

It disturbed the head of the Institute when Boris Feyodov found it unnecessary to say anything, as well. There was no bluster from the former general, no booming anger typical for a man. Just a superior smirk as she backed away.

And in that silent smile, Anna Chutesov felt new reason to fear. Guns raised, the two women slipped out the door.

As soon as they were gone, the Russians grabbed for their own weapons. When they ran after the four intruders, they found that Remo and the others had already gotten past the second set of doors. Though damaged, they were still in place. Remo had sealed them from the outside. The Russian soldiers quickly returned to the hall.

Zen was climbing nervously down from the stage. The other council members were coming out from under the table.

"What was that all about?" Zen asked. "Those guys ...what-what happened to those guys?"

In the rear of the hall, Boris Feyodov was glancing at his Swiss watch. As he suspected, Remo and Chiun's strange seizures had coincided precisely with the moment his precious particle-beam device would have been charged enough to fire.

The general looked up with only his eyes, a devilish smile on his fleshy face.

"Our secret weapon apparently boasts an interesting side effect," Boris Feyodov said knowingly. And in his tired, silent heart he found delight in the fact that the end of the world was proving to be even more entertaining than he'd ever dreamed.

Chapter 21

Cosmonaut Sergei Sagdeev's return to space had been a silent defeat.

Russia's space program was not what it had once been. For years it had been a testament to ingenuity, endurance and sheer stubbornness. The man was always less important than the mission. Back in the late 1980s, Sergei had been one of the cosmonauts selected to test the limits of how much time was humanly possible to spend in space.

Sergei had stayed aboard the space station Mir for just over three months. Ninety-eight agonizingly long days.

An eternity away from his native Yaroslavl on the banks of the Volga. Away from his wife, his little daughter.

Away from Earth.

At first back then, the planet had seemed enormous, stretching wide beneath the fifty-two-degree inclination of the cramped station. As his time in space grew however, the planet seemed to shrink. With each passing day it grew smaller and smaller until it was little more than an insignificant speck against the greater backdrop of eternity.

Everyone he knew, everyone he would ever know. All the great figures both present and past had lived and would die on that same insignificant speck. Thanks to his time on Mir, Sergei Sagdeev had returned to Earth with a perspective on Man's place in the cosmos few people could appreciate. Sergei was one of the few human beings on the planet to understand just how tiny and worthless he truly was.

When he finally made it back home after his long ordeal, Sergei vowed never to return to space. His future work with the space program would be done only with solid ground beneath his feet. He had no desire to remind himself just how inconsequential he was.

It was a promise he could not keep.

The Russian space program had been flailing for a number of years. There was serious talk of scrapping it altogether. With no other training in a disaster of an economy, Sergei had begun to worry about his future job prospects. Things had looked bleak for some time when a private Netherlands-based corporation stepped in to help finance some of Russia's space program. In exchange for funding, they wanted the right to use the dilapidated old Mir station for commercial ventures. And they needed experienced cosmonauts to help them get their plans off the ground.

And so, in spite of the promise he'd made to himself, Sergei Sagdeev had, at the ripe old age of forty-seven, returned reluctantly to the endless black void of space.

This time he would be on Mir for only three weeks. Some minor work needed to be done on the dust collectors, and a few of the old data systems were getting an upgrade. A MirCorp rocket was on its way with fresh parts and supplies. It would be docking in minutes.

Alone in the crew habitat at the far end of the orbiting station as he watched the slivery needle that was the approaching rocket, Sergei pressed his hand against the cool insulated window. As he sat so far above the blue-green speck that was Earth, his heart was sick with longing.

He knew the actual distance from Mir to his small home. 360 kilometers. More than 220 miles.

The window fogged a silhouette of his hand. Windows. The more primitive Salyut series of stations had none. Here they were supposed to be an improvement. Sergei would have preferred no windows at all.

Through the thick pane he continued to watch the approaching Dutch rocket. His heart was heavy.

In Mir's tiny dining quarters, Sergei listened to his commander's gruff voice over the station speakers.

"Dyevit. Vohsim. Syem. Shest..."

The speaker system was old and muffled.

As the small manned rocket closed to dock, the Russian voice continued to count down.

Sergei watched the rocket float to a crawl. Unfiltered sunlight sparkled off the gleaming white surface.

He hardly heard the command for the rocket to use the docking port at station control.

A single tear rolled down the cheek of the lonely, insignificant cosmonaut.

It was the sight of the rocket that did it. It came from there. From home.

He would be going back soon. And this time nothing would compel him to return to this cold, eternal hell.

Through a window in the nose cone of the approaching rocket he saw one of the two-man team. The cosmonaut's white gloves were moving across the control panel.

Sniffling, Sergei hardly had time to focus on the shifting gloves when the rocket vanished from sight. It was impossible. One instant it was there; the next it was gone.

In the tiny galley the disappearance of the rocket had barely registered as an anomalous flash on the optic nerve of the seated Russian before it reappeared.

It was huge and white and blotted out the planet below. It flew sideways, faster than any propulsion system yet devised could have delivered it. And, faster than the mind of Sergei Sagdeev could reconcile what had happened, the runaway rocket collided with Mir.

Inside the fragile shell, Sergei hit the floor of the dining area in a shower of food trays and equipment. With a groan a stress-fracture cracked up the hull, splitting wide the side of the buckling station.

On his back, Sergei finally saw the face of the gloved cosmonaut who had been working the rocket's controls.

The man's eyes were wide and glassy. The rocket had been thrust forward at such a great velocity that his skull had cracked open against the headrest of his seat. Flecks of blown-out red spotted the interior of his helmet visor.

Sergei saw all this in an instant. And in the same instant he knew that the only way he could see the man so clearly was because the rocket had pierced the delicate shell of the orbiting station.

In it came, huge and heavy. Splitting the station and blasting anything that wasn't strapped down out into the cold void of space. One of those things was cosmonaut Sergei Sagdeev.

Mir creaked and vibrated and burst into two fat, jagged halves. The sections spiraled away, propelled by the same invisible force that had overwhelmed the supplies rocket.

Silent screams issued from the pressurized command module.

And through all the panic and destruction that started in space but would end on the Earth below, a lone cosmonaut floated off into peaceful, eternal repose.

An insignificant speck in an endless black sea.

Chapter 22

With sirens blaring and lights flashing, the motorcade sped through the frozen streets of Moscow toward the Kremlin.

Traffic pulled quickly to the side of the street, allowing the police cars to pass. In the midst of the official automobiles was one unmarked car. In the back seat of the black bulletproof sedan, Director Pavel Zatsyrko of the SVR clutched a manila envelope tightly in one hand.

A hasty call over the radio while they were still a mile away opened the old Spassky Gate. The SVR director did not have time to wait in line to be cleared through the gates.

Barely slowing, the motorcade raced inside the Kremlin. His car hadn't even come to a complete stop before Zatsyrko jumped from the back. Envelope in hand, he raced up the steps to the Grand Kremlin Palace. His shoes clicked urgently on the polished floor as he ran to the gilded door of the special conference room. He found the president of Russia waiting for him at a large table inside.

The president was a slight, balding man with clear eyes and a frowning face. He did not rise when the perspiring SVR head entered the room. At five feet four inches, Russia's leader was self-conscious about his height. To mask his diminutive stature, he stood only when absolutely necessary.

The men had been associates years ago. They had worked together back in the days of the KGB. Both men had been stationed in East Germany during those terrible days just before the Berlin Wall trembled and fell.

"What is so urgent that we could not speak on the phone?" the president asked his old comrade. Russia's leader wore a grim expression. He had only just learned of the destruction of Mir.

So far there was no explanation among the world's scientific community for all that had been happening in space. Some were saying that a cloud of stellar dust particles had intersected with Earth, wreaking havoc on all orbiting devices. Others blamed increased solar activity. In spite of Anna Chutesov's opinion on the subject, the president of Russia still hoped that one of these theories was true.

Pavel Zatsyrko slapped the envelope down in front of the seated president.

"This was just received at my office," the SVR man said breathlessly. "I dared not show it to anyone else."

The envelope was light. When the president tore it open, he found just a single sheet of white paper. As soon as he pulled it out he saw that it was a printed copy of an e-mail.

When he read who had sent the note, the color drained from the president's face. The line just below today's date read borisfeyodov@barkley.org. His worried eyes darted across the lines of text.

Greetings, Little One:

By now you are aware that your space station has been destroyed. The weapon used to accomplish this is yours, but it is currently deployed on the West Coast of the United States. Since your precious Institute director is otherwise occupied at the moment and cannot do your thinking for you, I volunteer my services to help you sort through the predicament this presents to you.

Since it is no longer in your country, the Americans can conceivably be blamed for what has happened to Mir. Retaliation in this case could be justified. Of course, since it is a rogue group and not the American government itself in possession of the weapon, such an attack would be seen by Washington as unprovoked. They in turn will retaliate. To further complicate your dilemma, I have already sent word to the American president that it is a Russian weapon on his soil that is responsible for the random destruction of the past few days. I have also mentioned that the secret test conducted fifteen years ago from Sary Shagan was done with this very weapon by order of the then-general secretary. Given this information, he might well attack you first. After all, the Americans prize their toys. And this event, while many years old, could be construed as an act of war. Of course, passions have cooled on both sides, so the urge to retaliate might not be with the Americans as it would have been immediately following the event. Given this fact, time could work in your favor. That is, assuming you make your decision quickly.

That is my analysis of the situation. I am terribly sorry that I cannot help you reach a decision. Perhaps we can use this as a test, to see if you are big enough for the challenges of grown men.

I am curious to see if the embers still burn on either side as once they did.

Yours,

Boris Feyodov

When he was finished reading, the president crumpled the paper into a tight ball. Before the conference table, Pavel Zatsyrko studied the Russian leader's face. It was clear to Pavel that this had not been a wasted trip.

"I was not sure if it was as urgent as it sounds," the SVR head said. "Given his criminal ties, as well as his history, Feyodov's name was automatically flagged by our e-mail system. However, I do not know what this Institute is."

The SVR head was fishing for information.

The president didn't answer. He was staring blankly at the distant wall, his small hand still clutched tightly to the wadded scrap of paper.

"I do not know if it is connected," Zatsyrko ventured after a moment of awkward silence, "but one of my squads has gone missing. They were inactive now, but had been deployed on American soil at one time. According to my information, they left the country early yesterday with the highest security clearance. It superseded even my own."

The president finally looked up. His pale eyes held not a glint of emotion.

"Go," he ordered, his voice thick.

Pavel Zatsyrko hesitated. "What of Feyodov? These claims he has made are obviously outrageous, but surely you want me to send a team to retrieve him."

His subordinate's persistence raised a flash of the Russian leader's famous temper.

"Listen carefully, for this is an order that you will not disobey," the Russian president said coldly. "You will send no one after General Feyodov, is that clear?"

Coming to attention, Pavel Zatsyrko nodded sharply. No more words were necessary. Feeling the penetrating gaze of the president, the SVR head let the matter drop. The director turned and hurried from the conference room.

After Zatsyrko was gone, the president of Russia put the tight knot of computer paper on the table, smoothing it flat with the side of his hand. He scanned Feyodov's words again.

The former general was not a madman; that was certain. His analysis of the situation was essentially correct. No, Boris Feyodov was just a man. According to a months-old report from Anna Chutesov, Feyodov was driven by the hatred of his own frailties. The Institute director had concluded that his self-loathing ran so deep there were no limits to what he would do to end his personal purgatory. And now it seemed she had been correct. As usual.

For almost two decades, in times of crisis Russia's leaders, both Communist and democratically elected alike, had relied on the intellect and resourcefulness of Anna Chutesov. He prayed that he would not be the last.

The president put his face in his hands. One way or another this situation would be resolved. With any luck it would not involve ICBMs dropping from the sky.

Chapter 23

Mark Howard had no problem finding an office in Folcroft's administrative wing. Virtually every room on the second-floor hall other than Smith's was empty. Only a half dozen were connected with the sanitarium's routine business. For security's sake, Mark was put far away from those offices connected to the Folcroft Sanitarium cover.

The room Smith's secretary had found for him was so small he had to back tight against the lone window to allow the two struggling orderlies to carry in his new desk.

Of course in this case "new" was relative. While it was new to him, the desk was as old as the hills. Before being ordered up to this room, it had been collecting dust somewhere in a far corner of Folcroft's basement.

"Where do you want it?" one of the men asked. Although it was clear to Mark the orderly wasn't joking, he might as well have been. There was really no choice. The room was so narrow the desk could only fit lengthwise. If he wanted it to face the other way, they would have had to take it back out into the hallway to turn it.

"Right here is fine," Mark said.

The two men placed the desk on the vinyl tile floor.

A quilted tarpaulin snugly enclosed the desk. Hand swipes were visible where the movers had brushed much of the dust away downstairs. Once they set their cargo down, the orderlies unsnapped the tarp and pulled it free.

A plastic sheet held to the desktop by packing string crinkled as the tarp was removed. Tape had specifically not been used to secure the plastic, lest upon removal it damage the oak veneer. After the string was cut, the plastic was rolled tightly, then folded inside the tarp. Holding the bundle of plastic and dust, the two orderlies left the room.

Mark quickly shut and locked the door.

In spite of the careful packaging, there was still grime on the worn oaken desk. He'd clean it later. He picked up an old wooden chair from the corner, feeling a twinge of pain beneath his wrist cast as he did so. He was forced to jimmy the chair in between desk and wall.

From the footwell Mark hefted the desk on one shoulder, ever mindful of his aching wrist. With searching fingers he found the terminal wire that ran up the hollow interior of the right leg. It had been folded up on itself and fastened in place with gummy yellow tape.

Mark pulled the wire free, plugging it into the phone jack in the wall behind the desk. Settling into his chair, he found a concealed stud under the desk's lip. When he depressed it a computer screen that had been hidden beneath the surface of the desk rose into view, keyboard unfolding.

The old desk had once belonged to Dr. Smith. The CURE director had kept it for reasons known only to himself. Mark suspected that it was for emergency backup if his current desk computer ever failed him. He hadn't known Smith for a full day yet and already he knew the gray old man had not a sentimental bone in his body.

Before abandoning the desk to its lonely basement corner, Smith had removed all incriminating data from the system. Except for its most basic programming, the hard drive had been wiped clean immediately after Smith had switched over to his current desk six years ago. Not that it mattered. As soon as he'd plugged into the wall receptacle, the desktop computer seemed to take on a life of its own.

The screen lit up in user-friendly blue and the phrase "Download in progress. Please wait..." appeared in white letters in the upper left-hand corner.

Smith had instructed CURE's basement mainframes to automatically install everything Mark would need on his office computer. It took twenty minutes. Much shorter than should have been necessary, but an agonizingly long time for the young man seated behind the desk.

Once the download was complete, the screen blinked from blue to white. A window automatically popped up on the monitor. Contained within the box was a short paragraph.

At first Mark assumed he had been sent orders from Dr. Smith. But when he started to read the words Mark Howard felt a chill grip his spine. "We, the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect Union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility..."

The preamble to the Constitution. Just a few short lines, reprinted in its entirely. Mark carefully read the familiar words. And for the first time in his life they became more than just words on a page.

After reading the preamble, Howard quietly closed out the window. Jaw firmly set, he began sifting through the news digests automatically collected by the CURE mainframes.

He was stunned when he saw the top story. He had been so busy he hadn't heard the news until now.

By now the destruction of the Russian space station Mir was half an hour old. Mark quickly scanned the story.

Apparently, a Russian-manned Dutch rocket had lost control in space, slamming into Mir. Split in two, half the station was missing after the accident. The other section had spiraled into a higher planetary orbit.

A link at the bottom of the story connected to a related article. Mark's eye had not even scanned the entire story before his questing fingers accessed the link. He blinked in surprise as the computer switched to the next page.

This was just part of an ability he possessed that Mark had never fully understood. His fingers sometimes seemed to know more than his mind and helped steer him in the right direction. It was as if some unconscious part of his brain was always three steps ahead of his conscious self. He called this intuitive sense the Feeling, although he kept both ability and name to himself. An abnormal sixth sense wasn't an easy thing to explain to friends and family.

The second story was a wire report that had been updated eight times over the past twenty-four hours. In addition to Mir, there was another great ongoing catastrophe in space. Two dozen satellites had been rendered inoperable in the past day. The current speculation blamed a hail of meteors so small they were barely larger than dust fragments.

Mark had heard about the satellites. However, he had no idea that the number damaged had gotten so high.

At the bottom of the article, Zipp Codwin, the director of NASA, was quoted as saying, "We would already have the means to combat this terrible problem of killer stellar dust agents if only we had the funding to do so. According to NASA's own Director for the Eradication of Cosmic Dust and Interplanetary Space Soot, lack of proper funding has made us ripe for this kind of extra-earthly Mars dirt attack."

Howard frowned. Such talk was typical for NASA these days. Every problem existed due to lack of funding.

He closed out the story. When he leaned back in his chair his head bumped the wall. He automatically grabbed at his head, whacking his cast against the wall.

"Perfect," he groaned.

More carefully he pressed his head against the wall. He rested there for a moment, the elbow of his cast arm braced gingerly against his good wrist.

The Feeling was telling him there was more to what was going on in space than an errant cloud of dust. Something far bigger was at work.

After a moment's consideration he shut down his computer. As the monitor was slipping back into its hidden recess, he was squirming out from behind the desk.

Mark stepped into the hallway. When he entered Smith's office suite a few moments later, the Folcroft director's secretary looked up from her work. "Oh, hello," she said uncertainly.

Mrs. Mikulka still seemed unsure what to make of this young man who in less than twenty-four hours had somehow gone from being a simple medical-supplies salesman to associate director of Folcroft Sanitarium.

"I need to see Dr. Smith," Howard said.

"Of course," Mrs. Mikulka nodded.

She started to buzz him inside, but then hesitated. So many young men these days were so impolite. Keenan, her eldest son, had been like that. But here was a man unlike the rest of his generation. He had been so nice the previous day after waiting for hours. She had been thinking that this was part of some plan and that Dr. Smith had been testing him somehow. Whatever the case, right then and there Eileen Mikulka decided that she would do her level best to make this young man feel welcome at Folcroft. As Mark passed her desk, she offered a knowing, motherly smile.

"He can be a bit intimidating," she confided in a whisper. "Very much a creature of habit. But don't let that bother you, just as long as you don't vary from the routine he establishes for you, you'll do fine here."

Advice delivered, she pressed the intercom buzzer.

When Mark entered the inner office, Smith was just picking up the ringing White House phone. As the intercom buzzed and the door popped open, Smith froze. The old man's gaunt face was perturbed as he looked up at the intruder.

Seeing it was Howard, he frowned.

Smith's first impulse had always been to hide anything related to CURE from all prying eyes. It was axiomatic that this would include phone conversations with the President of the United States. It would take some time for him to get used to the fact that he was now going to have to include someone else in matters regarding the secret agency.

"Please take a seat," Smith instructed. With an arthritic hand he gestured to the chair in front of his desk.

As Mark sat, Smith answered the red phone. "Yes, Mr. President," the CURE director said tersely.

"We just got another e-mail, Smith," the President's worried voice announced. "This one's from some Russian by the name of Feyodov. My people here say he was a general in Chechnya a while back."

"That is correct, although he is no longer connected to the military," Smith said. "He is currently involved in his country's black market. As far as we have been able to ascertain, it is he who is responsible for smuggling the particle-beam weapon to California."

"Sounds like he's not content with using satellites for target practice," the President said grimly. "Looks like now he's got his heart set on World War III."

Smith's chair squeaked softly. "Please explain," the CURE director said, his voice perfectly level. Even as he was asking the President to elaborate, Smith's nimble fingers attacked his keyboard in order to access the White House e-mail system.

In programming the CURE mainframes to sort through any e-mail related to Barkley, California, or its council, Smith had neglected to list Boris Feyodov's name, assuming the Russian was merely a behind-the-scenes employee.

"It sounds like this Feyodov character has staged a coup from those secession kooks," the President said. "He says that he's got control of the weapon now, and that he's going to keep using it no matter what we do. And that's not all. He also claims the Russians tested the thing once years ago."

Smith's hands stopped dead over his glowing keyboard. As he read the note he'd just accessed, his own shocked face was reflected in the desk's gleaming black surface.

"My God," Smith croaked.

Sitting in his hard-backed chair, Mark Howard's face darkened at Smith's tone. The old man's skin abruptly went from sickly gray to deathly white.

"I take it you've just seen the letter," the President said dryly.

Smith was trying to absorb what he'd just read. Already the gears of his mind were turning at rapid speed.

"Feyodov is claiming that the Russians destroyed the space shuttle Challenger," Smith stated. Across the desk, Mark Howard's eyes grew wide. He shot to his feet and hurried around the desk. Looking over Smith's shoulder at the buried monitor, he scanned the note. Although the CURE director was uncomfortable with Howard's presence, he was too shocked to shoo the young man away.

"It sounds crazy, I know," the President admitted.

"No," Smith said, thinking rapidly. "No, it doesn't." The initial surprise was wearing off. "There were rumors of Russian involvement even at the time. Most thinking people dismissed the notion as ludicrous. But given what we now know, it is not so great a logical leap to take."

Howard had just finished reading Feyodov's letter. Knuckles leaning on the edge of Smith's desk, he glanced down at the seated CURE director. His youthful face was grim.

With a single troubled glance at Mark Howard, Smith leaned back in his chair.

"Given the current state of the Russian economy, it would be impossible for them to develop such a device now," Smith continued. "Since we know one exists, we must conclude that it was built prior to the collapse of the Iron Curtain. As he mentioned in his letter, Feyodov was in command of the base where such a weapon would have logically been developed. This latter fact has been independently confirmed by my people. At the time in question the Soviet Union was on the verge of military, social and economic collapse. Having built such a device they might have-in a desperate hour-decided to test it on a high-profile enemy target. They would not have differentiated between civilian or military."

"But he's claiming the former president of Russia authorized this," America's chief executive insisted.

"There were still gulags in 1986, Mr. President," Smith said somberly. "If Feyodov acted without authority in this matter, he would have been punished. Instead he retained his commission in the army well into the following decade. If his claim is true, we can assume that he received approval for this at the highest level of their government."

The President's voice grew soft. "I wish he had acted on his own," he said. "The Russians would have dealt with him back then instead of dumping this problem on us." He sighed. "He's claiming he sent an e-mail about this to the Russian president, too. He's trying to stir the pot, Smith."

"That is likely the case," Smith agreed. "If there is such a letter, I will obtain a translation of it. Perhaps he never sent one, and this is all part of some elaborate bluff."

"He sounds pretty serious to me," the President said. "He says he just told the Russian president to nuke California to destroy all evidence of the weapon."

"Be warned that if this is the course of action they decide to take, it would almost certainly not just be limited to California, sir," Smith said, with a clinical detachment that made it sound as if he were discussing the following day's weather forecast. "If the Russians were to launch a first strike against us, I suspect it would be an all-out assault. Given those circumstances, we would have to respond in kind."

The President was quiet for a long moment. When he finally broke the silence, his voice was soft. "Can this really be happening?" he said, more to himself than to Smith.

"It is," Smith said crisply. "For now we must do all we can to prevent the worst from coming to pass."

There was a deep sigh from the other end of the line.

"Guess the honeymoon is over," the President said. "I'd better send the Army in to Barkley."

"I would ask you once more to refrain from doing so," Smith said. "My men are in Barkley. Given the havoc being wrought on the global satellite network, I have not been in contact with them for several hours, but I am confident in their ability to handle this situation."

The President didn't seem convinced. "What about the Russian end? Maybe I should call their president."

"Unwise at the present time," Smith said. "As recently as last year they were threatening a nuclear strike. You no doubt recall the rather cryptic warning from their foreign minister when your predecessor declared a revived interest in creating a ballistic missile defense system for the United States. Rather than confess, the Russian president would certainly deny any involvement with the weapon. And cornered, guilty men have a tendency to lash out. For him to do so could have devastating global implications. At so delicate a time silence might be our greatest ally."

The President considered for a long time. "Still seems like we should do something," he said at last. Smith's spine stiffened. "We are," he said in a certain tone. "Our best is on the ground. Now if you will excuse me, Mr. President, I have work to do." The President's response was subdued. "Good luck, Smith," America's chief executive said. "To all of us."

The President's final words ringing in his ears, Smith gently replaced the red receiver.

"I guess I no longer need to tell you I think there's something bigger than a dust shower trashing all these satellites," Mark Howard said quietly as the CURE director closed his lower desk drawer.

Smith nodded. "That is the explanation that has garnered the most attention. With any luck the general public will never find out the truth."

"And sending the Army in might let The New York Times know something's up in Barkley," Howard said simply. Still standing beside Smith's chair, he was rereading the e-mail Boris Feyodov had sent to the White House.

Smith was surprised by the young man's deduction. It was one he had not mentioned to the President.

The greatest challenge for the CURE director had always been keeping a lid on various crises. Complete ignorance of events was always preferable, but sometimes problems were so big they could not be contained. And to have every dire predicament to face the nation suddenly and mysteriously solve itself would point to something unknown operating behind the scenes. Therefore, for those events that could not be concealed from the public, cover explanations like the one now being posited for the damage in space had always been acceptable to and, at times, encouraged by the CURE director.

Beside Smith, Howard was just finishing Feyodov's note.

"Sounds like this guy is the real deal, Dr. Smith," Howard concluded bleakly. "You said he and the particle weapon are in Barkley, California, right?"

Smith fidgeted uncomfortably. "Yes," he said. "At least there is no record of him leaving the country. Of course, he could have used an alias and had someone else send his messages from the Barkley address at a preordained time."

Howard straightened. "If he's sticking around town, he's running a big risk telling the Russians all this. He must know they'll be itching to erase their involvement. If he's still there I'd say the guy's got a death wish."

"I concur," Smith said. "Now, please excuse me. Given the circumstances I have much to do."

"I know it's my first day and all, but I am supposed to be your assistant," Mark pointed out. "Isn't there anything I can help with?"

Smith hesitated.

The CURE director was still reluctant to let Howard in on all the details of the organization. As it was, he had given his new assistant access to only a fraction of the CURE database. In spite of the events taking place in California, Smith had spent a chunk of the morning doing a hurried background check on the young man. So far, Howard seemed to be an acceptable candidate for CURE. Still, presidential appointment or not, it was far too soon to open the organization wide to an outsider. Harold Smith always erred on the side of caution.

"It isn't wise at the moment to involve you deeply," Smith said carefully. "I would prefer a calmer atmosphere to get you acclimated to your duties here. For now I will handle this situation as I have in the past."

"It's your call," Howard nodded. "Still, since you haven't given me any responsibilities yet, I'll keep an eye open from my office. Maybe I'll catch something you miss."

Mark was heading across the room when he suddenly paused. Taking a deep breath, he turned. "You said to the President that you've got some field operatives on the scene," he exhaled. "I should tell you that I think I met them already."

Across the room, Smith had been leaning back over his computer. Glancing up, he raised a dubious eyebrow. "That is unlikely," he assured the young man.

"It was a couple of weeks ago during that Raffair business," Howard pressed. "I was still with the CIA. I bumped into them in Miami. That's where I got this." He raised his arm. The cast jutted from his sleeve, wrapping around his hand between thumb and forefinger. "An old Asian and a young Caucasian, maybe a few years older than me."

Smith was stunned by Howard's words. The young man had indeed encountered Remo and Chiun.

The CURE director's uneasiness with the topic was evident. With everything else that was going on, he had not given much thought to how he would introduce this young man to Remo and Chiun. Like most things involving the two Sinanju Masters, he doubted it would go easily.

"You will meet them soon enough," the older man said, clearing his throat.

"I figured," Howard said knowingly. "All you've got are those two guys. You couldn't have squads of men roaming the country without someone finding out. Especially men like them. Oh, and for the sake of full disclosure, I should mention that we sort of met once, too, Dr. Smith. A while back you called Langley looking for an analyst to check some satellite data for you. You needed to find a missing boat in the Atlantic. I was the guy you spoke to."

It finally hit Smith. He thought he had recognized Howard's name when he read Mrs. Mikulka's Postit note the previous day. He had dismissed it as a common-sounding name. Now he realized he had indeed heard it before. He was surprised it had not occurred to him during the background search he had conducted earlier in the day.

Smith's eyes were flat behind his clear glasses. "Did the President suggest it might be me, or did you surmise this on your own?" he asked evenly.

"I figured it out myself," Howard said.

"You did not share this information with anyone?"

Howard gave a lopsided smile. "No way," he promised, shaking his head. "I'm not like this Feyodov. I don't have a death wish, Dr. Smith. I just thought you should know."

Smith pursed his gray lips. "Your candor is appreciated," he said. "That will be all."

Nodding, Howard turned once more. His hand had closed around the doorknob when he glanced back one last time.

Smith was hunched over his computer. The glowing screen was reflected in his owlish glasses. "One more thing," the new assistant CURE director said. For the first time there was hesitation in his youthful voice. "I think there's something else at play here. It's somehow connected to this whole satellite thing. It's not really big. Something small, behind the scenes. But it's the catalyst that set all the rest of this in motion."

Smith's gray face betrayed minor intrigue. "What makes you say that?" he asked, his tone curious.

Mark bit the inside of his cheek. "I don't know," he said, shrugging. "Just a feeling, I guess." Before he could be pressed further on his hunch, the young man slipped quickly from the Spartan office. The door closed behind him with a soft click.

Chapter 24

It was sleep without dreams. A great, oppressive blanket of black numbness the likes of which he had not experienced since before his earliest Sinanju training. When the darkness finally fled for Remo Williams, it was replaced by a blob of amorphous white and a nerve-numbing weariness that leached deep into bone. An eternity passed as the clot of shapeless white resolved into a more familiar environment.

He was in a room. By the looks of it, it was some sort of flophouse. A grimy lava lamp sat on a warped bureau. Behind it, a faded Jerry Garcia poster concealed tears in the fuzzy striped wallpaper.

Remo was in a bed.

No. As his senses returned, he realized it was lower than a bed. It couldn't have been more than just a mattress on the floor. A foul mustiness created by thirty years of human odors flooded up from the squeaky springs.

At first he had no idea how he had come to be there. It struck him all at once.

Something had happened back at the Barkley city hall. Something he had never encountered before. It was as if the air itself had drained the life from him. From him and-

His heart stopped.

He couldn't raise his head to look around the room.

"Chiun," Remo croaked. Though he tried to call out, his voice was barely a whisper.

When last he saw him the old Korean appeared to be dead. At least Remo had never seen him so drained of life.

Once the enervating sensation struck, Remo's own system had gone so haywire he couldn't sense any life signs from his teacher. He had drawn on reserves he did not have just to get them both to safety. After he had barred the door to prevent the Russians from following, he had collapsed.

There was no memory after that. No knowledge of how he had gotten from there to here. No way of knowing if his adopted father was...

"Chiun," he called again, his voice louder this time.

A concerned face appeared above him, blocking out the cracked, water-damaged plaster ceiling. For an instant he thought he was dreaming. Then he remembered that Anna Chutesov had come back from the dead.

The Russian agent gazed down on him as she had in days long forgotten, a vision of beauty from another time.

"How's Chiun?" Remo croaked weakly. He braced himself for the worst.

When the reply he dreaded came, he felt the world drop out from beneath him.

"He's gone," Anna replied simply.

The words were like a dagger in his heart. Blood pounded through his veins, ringing in his ears. Remo closed his eyes, too exhausted for tears. His worst fear of the past few months had come to pass.

On the trip to Africa during which he had inadvertently taunted the gods into leveling a lifetime curse of Master's disease, Remo had been visited by the spirit of Chiun's son.

The little Korean boy with the sad eyes had prophesied a future of hardship for Remo. Ever since that time, Remo had harbored the secret fear that the Master of Sinanju himself would be part of the suffering he was destined to endure.

Lying in that squalid room, he had never felt so alone.

The loss of his home was nothing to him now. Everything else in life was dross. The one thing that mattered to him more than anything else in the world was gone.

"I have to see him," Remo said.

There was strength now in his hollow voice. Already he was wondering in which of his fourteen steamer trunks the Master of Sinanju kept his funeral robes.

Anna was sitting on a stool next to the mattress. She seemed unmoved by his loss.

"In a little while," she said as she squeezed out a damp facecloth into a cracked antique chamber pot on the floor. "You have been unconscious for hours. You need rest."

When she leaned over to wipe his brow, Remo grabbed her wrist, holding tight.

"I need to see him now," he insisted.

"You cannot," she said. "He and the FBI woman went out for food. They won't be back for a while yet."

A weight lifted from Remo's chest.

"He's alive?" he asked, scarcely daring to speak the words aloud.

Her response sent his soul soaring. "Of course," Anna said. When she realized what he had assumed, a spark of weary mirth came to her eyes. "I know he is like a father to you, Remo, but let us be realistic. If he ever did die, where would he go? Heaven does not want him and hell would not take him. May I have my arm back now?"

His heart singing with joy, Remo released her wrist. When he closed his tired eyes this time, they burned with invisible tears.

"Don't be too sure Chiun won't be the big man on campus of the afterlife," he muttered, trying to hide his great relief from Anna. "Most of the Masters of Sinanju I've met have been even bigger pains in the ass than he is."

There was a sudden trip in her voice. "There are other Masters of Sinanju?" she asked. "It was my understanding that the two of you were the only living practitioners of your martial art." The words sounded almost too casual.

Curious, Remo opened his red eyes.

Her face was etched in stone. Sitting on her stool, holding her soggy facecloth, she seemed utterly indifferent to his interest. There was no visible reason to think she was making anything more than idle conversation.

"Long story," He sighed. "We're the only two alive. Well, the only two alive if you don't count the psycho-coma one who wants to kill us. Which I didn't for a long time until two days ago." His head sank back tiredly into the grimy mattress. "Ever wish you could take a vacation from living such an interesting life?"

"My life has not met your definition of interesting for many years," Anna replied. "My last active field mission was the one we shared. If not for the recklessness and avarice of the fool Feyodov, I would have happily lived out the rest of my life in anonymity."

"Yeah, renegade Russian generals with stolen doomsday devices do have a tendency to piss out the candles on the birthday cake." Remo struggled to his elbows. "How was Chiun when he left?"

"As usual he was concerned about you," Anna replied. "But physically he seemed fine."

"Really?" Remo said. His face clouded. He felt as if he'd been through the wringer. And Chiun was over one hundred years old. "I'm never gonna live this down," he sighed.

Anna understood his meaning.

"If you are worried that you should be more resilient, you need not be," she said. "You forced yourself to fight the neural disruption while Chiun did not. In fact, I doubt he could have at his age. He succumbed quickly and his body shut down, thus sparing him the effects of prolonged exposure."

"Okay, I actually got the end of that," Remo said. "But what was that neural diddle-daddle you parked out front?"

"Your special training has rewritten your entire nervous system to a heightened degree," Anna explained. "You see, feel and hear better than the average human. For lack of a better explanation, your senses are tuned to the harmonics of your surroundings, absorbing the vibrations of your whole environment."

"If this is going somewhere that's gonna make my head hurt more, I'm lying down," Remo exhaled. He pulled his elbows away, dropping flat on his back.

"It might," Anna said somberly. Her face was grave. "The weapon gathers protons from its surroundings during its charging phase. When it is fired, the protons are expelled in a particle beam, the energy from which disrupts the environment within a limited radius. Normal people within this field feel it as no more than a dissipating electrical charge. Apparently you and Chiun are affected more greatly. And since it is being used continuously now, the air around it would be polluted to someone with your skills."

"Makes storming the Bastille kind of hairy for us."

"I would say next to impossible," Anna suggested. "After you collapsed it was all we could do to get the two of you to my car. Fortunately, Feyodov has limited forces in this town. We were able to get you to safety in this boardinghouse. However, they are doubtless looking for us. It is just a matter of time before we are found."

"Not a problem," Remo said. He pushed up to a sitting position. His strength was flooding back. "We're outta here."

Anna seemed surprised. "You are not leaving?"

"You bet, baby," Remo said, swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. "It's time to call in the marines. Or the Air Force. That portable-beam whatsit must be near the city hall somewhere. I'll get on the horn to Smitty and have him send a couple of bombers to boil their bong water."

"The phones do not work," Anna argued. "Your communications network is failing." She jabbed a thumb to the corner where an old black-and-white Magnavox TV sat on an overturned wicker basket. "I saw on the television that the remaining satellites have been overwhelmed by the demand. It could take you hours to get through, if ever. The damage they will cause between now and then is incalculable."

Remo sighed deeply. "Swell," he groused. "Wait a minute. The phone's out but the TV's working?"

"Just a few channels," Anna explained. "I was watching the network that was running the stupid comedian fund-raiser."

"Home Ticket Booth is still on?" Remo frowned.

Anna shook her head. "That does not matter," she dismissed. "What matters is that they have been covering the events taking place in space."

"What do you mean?" Remo interrupted. "Covering as in 'covering the news' covering?"

"Yes," Anna said impatiently. "Is that not what they do?"

"No, actually," Remo answered. "They pretty much just do movies. One good one on Saturday night, and then six days and twenty-two hours of Earnest Licks a Lamppost broken up by a half hour Making of Earnest Licks a Lamppost documentary midweek."

"Well, they are doing news now and it is not good," Anna said. "Feyodov has let his idiot employers destroy the Mir space station." Her expression was deadly serious.

Remo's brow furrowed. "So what?" he said. "Didn't you people abandon that floating Tinker Toy?"

"Only for a time," Anna said grimly. "It is back in service now. Or rather was. There were six cosmonauts on or near Mir at the time of the attack. Two that were on a capsule scheduled to dock with the station are presumed dead, as is one who was in the crew quarters. The other three are trapped in the command module. It is unlikely that a rescue effort can be mounted by my country in time to save them."

Remo tapped a thoughtful finger on the threadbare edge of the mattress. "Don't wanna seem like the coldhearted bastard that I am, but whoop-de-do. You're the clowns who gave General Feel-you-up a fistful of rubles and a pat on the fanny before setting him loose on the white elephant table at the Cold War carnival."

Anna's eyes pleaded understanding. "Don't you see, Remo?" she asked. "This attack has come from America. My government knows that. It does not matter who is in control of the weapon or whether Washington even knows of its existence. Up until now the random attacks have largely been against American technology, since America dominates space. If my nation begins to suffer losses as yours already has, it will not long tolerate them."

"Hold the phone. Are you actually saying those borscht-slurpers in Moscow would nuke us because they let one of their own jerkwad generals swipe the only hunk of hardware they ever built that works?"

Still sitting on her stool, Anna placed her hands firmly on her knees.

"These are the same men in charge who for seventy years claimed the fruits of the Revolution were always around the next corner, this while people were starving in the streets and slave laborers were being forced to erect fences to keep the entire population from fleeing. You tell me, Remo, what they will do."

Remo's face sagged and his shoulders slumped. "This is all your fault, you know," he muttered. "If you just had the decency to stay dead like a normal person, none of this would be happening."

He had no way of knowing how true his words were. Eyes downcast, he studied the floor.

As he stared at the space between his loafers, Anna reached out absently, brushing a short lock of dark hair off his forehead. It was a casual movement, more an impulse stirred by memory than a conscious thing. The instant she realized what she was doing she pulled her hand away.

"I'm-" she started to say. Her jaw clenched. "You do not need this anymore." Flustered, she picked up the old porcelain bowl, taking it over to the bureau.

Remo watched her for an uncomfortable moment. Although just shy of her fortieth birthday, she looked much the same as she had when he'd known her. Her hair was a little shorter, and there was a faint crinkling at the edges of her eyes. But her beauty was timeless.

"I'm not wearing a ring because I never got married," he announced all at once. His tone was soft. Anna had wrung out the facecloth and was hanging it over the lava lamp to dry.

"Really?" she said, feigning bland disinterest. "I had assumed there was some Sinanju rule forbidding you from wearing jewelry."

"Actually, there is," Remo admitted. "Throws off the body's natural balance. Master Lom learned that the hard way when he accidentally strangled himself with his own necklace during an exhibition in front of Nebuchadrezzar." Still sitting at the edge of the mattress, he shrugged. "Anyway, I figured you should know about that whole marriage thing."

She had her back to him. When he finished speaking, he saw her shoulders sink. "There is something you should know, as well," she said quietly. She did not turn.

Her deeply serious tone instantly sent up a red flag.

He suddenly had a mental image of a little runny-nosed version of himself tearing around some Russian playground bending the monkey bars in his bare hands and pulling all the girls' pigtails.

"I didn't knock you up, did I?" he asked worriedly.

"No," Anna said somberly.

"Whew," Remo exhaled. "Dodged a bullet there."

At this stage in his life, Remo had already had more than his fill of those sorts of surprises. "Remo, what I am about to tell you directly violates a standing order from the highest levels of the Kremlin. I am risking my life by divulging this information, but it is necessary for you to know so that you understand the urgency of the situation here. Before it was brought here, the weapon Feyodov stole was test fired. It was only one time and it was many years ago." She finally turned to face him, "My government is responsible for the destruction of the space shuttle Challenger."

It was like admitting a personal disgrace. Yet through her shame, Anna's eyes never left Remo's. By this point Remo thought he was beyond shock. He was wrong. Her words brought him to his feet. Any residual lethargy he was feeling evaporated like morning mist.

"Who did it?" he asked coldly.

"Feyodov had charge of the weapon," Anna said. "The order to fire came to him directly from the Kremlin. It was a stupid, stupid thing to do. Stupid men fearful of the future, lashing out in some insane attempt to prove their virility."

"Dammit, Anna, everything about guys isn't measured from the lap," Remo snapped. He was thinking rapidly. "Who was in charge over there back then? Was it the guy with the caterpillar eyebrows and the Edward G. Robinson bottom lip?" He shook his head unhappily. "Can't kill him, he's dead," he complained to himself.

"No," Anna said. "And that does not matter."

"Not to you, maybe," Remo said. He snapped his fingers. "I know who it was. It was that chrome dome with the Rorschach forehead."

"Remo, please," Anna pleaded. "I only told you this so you would understand how desperate this situation was before the attack on Mir. It has only gotten worse now. We must figure out a way to end this to the satisfaction of my government before the idiots in charge decide to resort to yet another insane face-saving measure."

"Right now, sweetheart, I'm not that all-fired worried about what satisfies your government," Remo snarled. "I've gotta find Chiun."

He flung open the door and marched into the hallway.

For a moment it was up to Anna Chutesov to worry about her government and the foolish decisions it made. Including the one, as yet unspoken, that she had hoped for ten years Remo would never learn of.

Cursing silently the testosterone-fueled madness that always seemed on the verge of destroying the human race, the head of Russia's top-secret Institute hurried out the door.

Chapter 25

Theodore Schwartz of AIC News-Wallenberg marched briskly off the elevator and onto the thirtieth floor of the AIC News-Wallenberg Building in midtown Manhattan.

The towering glass building was home to what was inarguably the greatest telecommunications empire of the twenty-first century. And as CEO of ANW, Ted Schwartz was master of his domain. As he strode like a modern-day Midas down the gleaming executive hallway with its high-tech black surfaces and space-age silver accents, all eyes were glued to his powerful frame. Every face he encountered, he owned.

As usual, the staff cut him a wide swath. Grown men and women panicked and ran into offices to avoid him.

Their reactions usually brought him a silent thrill. The king who inspired fear in his subjects.

This day, however, was different.

Though as usual he was the eye of a gossipy hurricane, with tongues wagging and eyes flashing nervously in his direction, Ted paid no mind to the attention he attracted. He had more weighty issues to deal with than the endless nattering of his company's many proles.

In his corner office suite he passed through the outer room of secretaries without slowing.

Unlike most mornings, the many phones were silent. Bike messengers and FedEx men had apparently been delivering urgent letters since daybreak. The secretaries were tearing like mad through stacks of sealed shipping envelopes.

Notes from his rivals in the television and information business. Pleading for his assistance. They were turning on their TVs and finding dead air where their own networks should be. When they switched through the channels, the only thing they found were the News-Wallenberg networks.

His rivals wanted to know how he'd survived so long into the devastating storm that had crippled their industry. But without phones, they couldn't very well call. Hence the letters pleading to be let in on Ted Schwartz's secret.

Though it was exactly as he'd planned, at the moment he didn't have time for the sniveling pleas of his peers.

Ted's private secretary tried to stop him as he strode into her anteroom and swept over to his office door.

"Good morning, Mr. Schwartz," the shapely young woman announced nervously. "Scott Crouse already called twice today. He wants you to call him. He says it's urgent."

Ted Schwartz felt a blush of anger touch his cheeks.

That idiot Scott Crouse had been abusing special phone privileges like a madman, calling Schwartz's office a dozen times the day before.

Crouse had been chairman and CEO of America Internet Connection, the largest Internet service provider in the world. AIC had recently merged with the massive News-Wallenberg conglomerate. With the merger AIC gained access to the vast array of media outlets controlled by News-Wallenberg, which included hugely popular magazines, cable television networks, the Wallenberg Boys movie company and Wallenberg Music. But as a result of their recent business alliance, Crouse had been forced to take a back seat to Ted Schwartz. In spite of several months of abuse by the CEO, intended to either bring him in line or force him to quit, the young man had still not figured out the merger had reduced him to little more than a glorified mail clerk.

"I'm busy," Ted announced angrily. "And tell him if he uses anything other than the normal phone system once more, I'll tie a T-1 line so tight around his neck they'll be scraping eye juice off the screen of his Power Mac."

Flinging open his office door, the CEO slammed it shut in the face of his startled secretary.

He didn't need to talk to Crouse to know why the young man was calling. Ted Schwartz already knew. Thanks to the disruptions in the satellite network, AIC customers all around the country were having an impossible time dialing online. It was a minor, anticipated glitch in an otherwise perfect plan. Besides, Ted thought to himself, AIC subscribers were used to getting busy signals.

Though the morning sun was crawling up between Manhattan's skyscrapers, the big office was bathed in gloom. The blinds were drawn tightly over mirrored windows.

Behind his broad desk, Schwartz scooped up the phone. The familiar buzz of a dial tone hummed in his ear. Unlike most of the phones in America this day, Ted Schwartz's worked. If it hadn't, Ted would have been pissed.

This was one of the most private lines in existence. At the moment only a handful of News-Wallenberg's top men had access to the top-secret satellite through which it passed. The satellite itself was installed with scrambling technology so sophisticated no intelligence service-either foreign or domestic-had any hope whatsoever of decrypting it.

Scott Crouse was wasting time on that selfsame satellite to whine about the phone-line disruptions that were preventing his teenaged AIC customers in flyover country from getting online to download their daily dose of Internet porn.

"You're not long for News-Wallenberg, Scotty boy," Ted muttered to himself as he stabbed out an eleven-digit number.

He had the number memorized. No way he was going to put this one on the speed dial.

It took seven rings for someone to answer. When a lazy voice finally said hello, Ted Schwartz was drumming his fingers furiously on the buffed glass top of his desk.

"Get him on the phone now," Ted ordered hotly. It took less than a minute for a new voice to arrive on the line.

"Yes, sir," Zen Bower said, panting. He had obviously run all the way to the phone.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Schwartz demanded.

"What do you mean?" Zen asked vaguely.

"Don't think you can pull that hippie-flashback-blackout bullshit with me," Ted snapped angrily. "You know goddamn well what the hell I mean. I gave you SPACECOM charts to follow. Dammit, there are only seven hundred satellites up there. You knock out some LEOs and a GPS to make it look good, then move on to the geostationaries. Bing, bang, boom, we're in business. Now tell me, moron, where in there did I tell you you could blow up the goddamn Russian space station?"

Zen took a deep breath. "See, there's a funny thing about that," he began timidly. "You know that Russian general I hired? Well, as you know, I fronted for you just like you asked. I took the money you gave me and turned it over to him. No problem with that. He got the weapon here and got it assembled and everything. It was all going along just like we planned. But-"

Zen paused, fearful to go on.

"First off," Ted Schwartz interrupted, "we did not plan. I planned. You were just some cockamamy Commie-loving retired ice cream pitchman when I found you. You were on the skids after your company had been bought out. You were blabbing like a baby to a reporter in one of my L.A. stations about how you wanted to break Barkley away from the United States and how you knew about some killer secret Russian weapon but that your black-market pal was asking way too much for it. I happened to be at the studio that day. You were delusional, but I decided your delusions were useful to me. I found you. I used you. Like everyone else in my life, you are nothing but a stupid, worthless employee. I own you. You pay the Russian with my money. I own him. Now, what's my Russian doing, and why'd he blow up his own goddamn space station?"

"Um, that's the thing," Zen said. "I really don't know. He just sort of went nuts and took over the particle gun. I think he might have issues, you know?"

In the artificial darkness of his high-rise office, the CEO of News-Wallenberg placed his hand flat on his desk. The glass surface was cold to the touch.

"Here is what's going to happen," Ted Schwartz said, his voice far colder than the tempered glass beneath his palm. "You are going to salvage this situation. You are going to pull the plug on that Russian, and you're going to go back to the original plan. I have billions invested in this. If you fail, so help me I will strap you to the front of that gun that I bought with my money, and I will personally pull the cord that'll blast your ass from here to Pluto."

Zen's gulp of fear was audible over the crystal clear line. "I understand, sir," the ice cream man said.

"Good," Ted said. Pulling his free hand into a fist, he shook his head. "Maybe the Russians won't give a damn," he grumbled to himself. "That station was in worse shape than their economy. Besides, no one's on to this yet. Thanks to some gentle massaging by me behind the scenes on CNC and HTB, the media's gobbling up the idea that this is some naturally occurring phenomenon. Course, if the shit hits the fan, we might have to go with the cover plan."

"Cover plan?" Zen queried.

Ted seemed annoyed to hear a voice coming from the other end of the line. This plan had been so top secret for so long he had gotten used to talking only to himself about it.

"Yes, moron," Ted snarled thinly. "The one where you announce to the world you've got a weapon of mass destruction that you've been using and will continue to use until the U.S. allows you to secede from the Union. You and the rest of that council of yours get a lot of press coverage, the likes of which you radical types just love. You take the fall for everything that's happened, become folk heroes, get Bob Dylan to write a song about you and Ed Asner and Danny Glover to protest for your release from prison. Then, when the dust settles in a couple of months, I use the best team of lawyers thirty billion dollars of annual corporate profit can buy to get you all set free." He clamped the mouthpiece to his chest. "Fat chance," he muttered.

When Ted brought the earpiece back to his ear, all he could hear was the sound of Zen Bower's nervous breathing.

"That was the cover plan?" the ice cream man said anxiously. "You sure that wasn't the actual plan?"

Ted Schwartz's face grew as rigid as a death mask.

"What did you do?" the News-Wallenberg chief executive officer demanded in a voice like cracking ice.

Zen swallowed again. "I, um...well ...that is, I might have already sent a teensy little note to the President demanding that Barkley be allowed to secede from the Union."

"You what!" Ted bellowed.

He could almost see Zen's wincing face.

"It's okay," the ice cream man said quickly. "He never got back to me. Probably too busy approving new killer strains of CIA-produced anthrax to release on inner-city slums or loosening the emission standards for SWs. Who knows? Maybe they don't check their e-mail at the White House."

"Of course they check it," Ted Schwartz snapped.

His mind was reeling.

There wasn't any buzz at all about the Barkley threat. With the ongoing crisis he had practically cornered the market on news, and he hadn't heard squat. Either Zen was right and the electronic note had gotten lost somehow, or the government already had something planned.

Billions of dollars. His entire kingdom on the line. Eyes wild, the ruler of the mighty AIC News-Wallenberg telecommunications empire gripped the phone.

"You fix this thing," he said to Zen, his voice a primal growl of low menace. "You fix it now or so help me..."

He let the threat hang in the air. Teeth grinding, Ted Schwartz slammed down the phone.

Chapter 26

Anna's rental car was pulling up to the curb as Remo stepped off the porch of the seedy Barkley boardinghouse. The Master of Sinanju and FBI Agent Brandy Brand were just getting out when another vehicle pulled up behind them.

The battered VW van looked as if it had spent the sixties carting Vietcong through a Hanoi minefield. When the side panel doors creaked open, Remo's hard expression grew darker.

A cloud of smoke rose into the gray morning air. In its wake a dozen people climbed out onto the sidewalk.

The men and women looked like tattered heroes from idyllic days, long gone, of the People's Park Barkley riots, when Tom Hayden and his Barkley Liberation Program had tried to enlist guerrilla soldiers as an army that could offer armed resistance against the local police.

They were tired, tie-dyed and bell-bottomed as they clustered together near their open van door. Brandy steered away from Remo and Anna, hurrying over to the new arrivals.

With a frown of deep annoyance, the Master of Sinanju stepped away from them, moving to intercept Remo.

"What the hell?" Remo asked as he watched Brandy join the crowd of aging hippies.

Anna had hurried down the stairs behind Remo. As she caught up to him, her pale face reflected deep suspicion.

"Those are members of this city's ruling council," Anna Chutesov observed, her tone wary. Remo studied the crowd on the sidewalk. The only time he'd seen them, they were nothing but a row of dirty feet sticking out from under a tablecloth. "I'll take your word on that," he said dryly. "We better see what they're doing here."

"Do not waste your breath," Chiun griped as he padded up to them. "These rag wearers are here only to prevent an old man from getting simple sustenance. When they approached us in the restaurant parking lot the female-who-acts-like-a-man thought important some nonsense they were babbling. While I was left to starve, she led them back here."

A warning signal went up in Remo's head. Thinking his senses weren't yet properly attuned to sense a trap, he quickly scanned the shadowy boardinghouse bushes in search of any skulking Russian black marketers. He found none.

Having just been through the same draining experience as his pupil, the Master of Sinanju understood Remo's instinct to second-guess his own senses.

"You are fine," Chiun waved. "If you must know, in addition to forcing an elderly homeless man to waste away to skin and bone, these dirty people said something about seeking an alliance with us. However, if you wish to hear the details you will have to ask them yourselves, for I could not hear their words over the grumbling of my poor empty belly."

Remo looked over at the small group with greater interest. "Don't know about you," he said to Anna, "but it's got me curious."

Taking the lead, he preceded Anna and Chiun to the sidewalk. When he stopped beside Brandy, the FBI agent's youthful face was flushed with excitement.

"They say they want to help us," Brandy said to Remo.

Remo cast a skeptical eye at the crowd. "And we're now going to start trusting the senior-citizen contingent of the Black Panthers because... ?" he asked leadingly.

Gary Jenfeld led the pack of city council members. He had been pleading with Brandy Brand, but with Remo's arrival he turned his hopeful gaze to him. A container of runny Rad Vlad Lenin Caramel Blast ice cream was clutched in his hands.

"You've got to help us stop our Soviet general," Gary begged. "He's costing us a fortune."

Never had Remo's skepticism been vanquished so easily.

That Gary was worried about his bank account was all it took for Remo to instantly believe the sincerity of the retired ice cream manufacturer. Much more than a romantic's love of jackbooted totalitarianism and a burning hatred of all things American, naked greed was the thing that most inspired all unrepentant sixties radicals.

Convinced now of the Barkley city council's sincerity, Remo folded his arms across his chest. With hooded eyes he stared down at Gary Jenfeld.

"Okay," Remo demanded. "Exactly what the hell is going on around here?"

IT WAS 7:30 a.m. on the East Coast, and Mark Howard was taking the long way down to the Folcroft cafeteria.

Over the past day he had been stealing spare moments here and there to wander the halls of the sprawling building. He wanted to acquaint himself with the sanitarium. Pushing open the fire doors, he entered the third floor of the public wing where Folcroft's regular patients were housed.

His new laminated lapel pass identified him as associate director of Folcroft. Apparently, word of old Dr. Smith's new assistant had filtered down to the regular duty staff. Although Mark drew a few furtive glances as he strolled the halls, no one approached him.

Mark was struck yet again by what a tight ship Dr. Smith ran here at Folcroft. Somehow the staff seemed to be unaffected by the disease of laziness that had been spreading for years through the managed-care industry. The floors were scrubbed, the patients seemed well cared for and the staff went about their duties quietly and efficiently.

Mark was heading for the distant stairwell, ready for his usual breakfast of corn flakes and orange juice, when a muted sound caught his attention. It came from an open door to his right. Something made him stop and look.

An old woman in a paisley housecoat was propped up in a hospital bed. She was oblivious to Mark's presence. Her rheumy gaze was directed at a television set that was hooked to an angled shelf high in the corner of the room.

When Mark saw what she was watching, a deep notch formed above the bridge of his nose.

It was one of the regular network morning shows. A weatherman had just wrapped up his forecast, and the two hosts were talking about an upcoming celebrity interview.

As the cohosts jabbered, Mark Howard slowly shook his head. This was not right.

This particular network had been off the air in this part of the country since yesterday. The satellite system it used to broadcast its signal to the East Coast was down.

Since the previous evening, the only regular channels on at all were the Cable News Channel and Home Ticket Booth, both of which were owned by the massive telecommunications conglomerate AIC News-Wallenberg. So dire was the situation that HTB had suspended its regular programming of movies in favor of straight news. Somber-voiced anchors on loan from HTB's sister channel, CNC, had been warning the nation about the seriousness of the satellite outages.

But suddenly here was a normal morning show, with the people on it behaving as if there were nothing wrong.

Something big and shadowy flitted unbeckoned across the back of Mark Howard's mind.

"Excuse me, sir."

He hadn't heard the nurse approach. She was pushing a wheeled serving cart filled with breakfast trays. She wanted to enter the room, but he blocked her way. Mark took a numb step back into the hallway, allowing her to pass.

Another TV played across the hall. The volume was turned down too low for him to hear, but it looked like some kind of nature show. A grizzled fisherman in a red slicker was hauling a bass into a boat.

And as he watched the flickering image of the white-bearded man, the shadow in his mind cleared. In that moment something clicked for Mark Howard.

His breakfast forgotten, he turned and hurried back in the direction from which he'd come. When he burst through the doors into the administrative wing a few moments later, he was already at a sprint. Racing into his office, he quickly locked the door behind him. Hands shaking with excitement, he booted up his computer.

His fingers flew across his clattering keyboard. The Feeling was his guide as he instinctively searched through CURE's massive database. Within minutes he had all the information he needed.

Mark looked around for a way to print out the data.

Of course, there was none. The desk had no hidden printer, and Mark hadn't hooked up a remote one.

Pasting and clipping like mad, he assembled the data into one big text file, sending it as an interoffice e-mail through CURE's closed system. He had no sooner depressed the Send key before he was shutting off his computer and scurrying out from behind his desk.

When he hurried into the office of Smith's secretary, Eileen Mikulka wasn't at her post. Not bothering to knock, he barged into the Folcroft director's office.

As usual Smith was sitting behind his desk. His morning plate of toast was empty and pushed to one side. Half a cup of coffee sat cooling at his elbow.

Even before Mark had pushed inside, the CURE director had been watching the door expectantly. "It's Ted Schwartz," Mark blurted.

Smith pursed his lips unhappily. "Please close the door, Mr. Howard," he said tightly.

So excited was he, Mark had completely forgotten. "Oh," he said, nodding. He clicked the door shut, spinning back to the CURE director. "You got my e-mail?" he asked.

"Yes," Smith said, with a nod to his buried monitor.

"There's a lot there to get through, I know," Howard said. "I didn't have time to condense it. You can check it all out later." His wide face was flushed with triumph. "You know that thing I told you about before, the thing I said was the catalyst to everything that's been happening? It's Ted Schwartz, the CEO of AIC News-Wallenberg."

A flicker of something that might have been curiosity touched the gray depths of Smith's unblinking eyes.

"Why do you believe he is involved?" the old man asked.

"Something on TV tipped me," Mark said. "Actually, the fact that there was anything on TV other than the two News-Wallenberg networks. I knew CNC and HTB were still on, but I figured that was just luck of the draw. Their satellite just happened to not get hit. But then I saw some of the other networks were back on and, well, something just clicked. I did some checking, and I was right."

Smith leaned back in his chair. "Right about what?"

"About Schwartz," Mark said, "His company operates about one-seventh of the total number of satellites in orbit. Now guess how many of the entire News-Wallenberg conglomerate's satellites have gotten blown out of the sky?"

"I do not like to guess, Mr. Howard," the CURE director replied. "But I know that the answer is one."

"That's right," Mark said. "And that was just one of AIC's. I suspect that was just to make it all look good. And that's for Internet use, not broadcast. Besides, the rest of their network's already taking up the slack. Which brings me to the major point. The huge number of satellites they have. There's no logical reason why they should have as many as they do. The company's gone space-happy lately. They've put up over a hundred satellites in the past year. They were launching them like crazy from everyone who would take them. China, Russia, South America. And see, the thing is, with the GEOs they've put on these suckers, they only need two or three to blanket the whole country."

A thought suddenly occurred to Howard. "I'm sorry," he said shaking his head apologetically. "GEO stands for Geosynchronous Equatorial Orbit. They're locked in place in a distant orbit above the same spot. Since they're so far away from the planet, they can cover a greater area."

"I am familiar with the term," Smith said slowly. His earlier curiosity was giving way to mild intrigue.

"Well, then you understand that there's no way any outfit needs that many GEOs-even one as big as News-Wallenberg," Mark insisted. "So until two days ago they basically had a hundred satellites parked up there with nothing to do. Then they somehow get incredibly lucky when practically everyone else's systems suddenly come crashing down at the same time. Blammo, they're in business. Ted Schwartz is already starting to cut deals with his competitors to carry their signals for them. Probably for a lot of dough, maybe in exchange for stock to grow his own company. The exact details'll be worked out later, I'm sure."

Smith sat forward once more, folding his hands on the edge of his desk. "This sounds highly speculative," the CURE director said. "All of this could still be coincidental."

"Prepare for the biggest coincidence of all, then," Mark Howard said levelly. "The entire council of Barkley owns stock in News-Wallenberg."

"It is a large conglomerate," Smith said reasonably. "This could just be another coincidence." Mark noted that there was little strength to the old man's arguing. It seemed more that he was playing devil's advocate than anything else. Howard frowned.

"In that case, here's the final coincidence," Mark said. "Ted Schwartz funneled money to Barkley so that they could get that Russian particle-stream weapon smuggled over here. It started a year ago, just when they began launching all those satellites. All kinds of transfers from a private offshore account of Schwartz's were directed to Zen Bower. The particular bank and corporate manipulations are incredibly convoluted, but I'm sure that given a little time I can unknot them. Schwartz is your guy, Dr. Smith. I'm sure of it."

Smith considered the young man's words for a long time. As he did so, he seemed to be nodding almost in satisfaction. At long last he took a deep breath.

"You are correct," the CURE director said simply.

Mark blinked. "You believe me?" he asked. He was surprised. He didn't think it would be so easy. His enthusiasm rapidly returned. "Great," he said. "He lives out on Long Island. When your two field operatives get back from California, you can send them there."

"That will not be necessary," Smith said. "Theodore Schwartz was arrested by federal marshals in his Manhattan office approximately ten minutes ago."

Howard's face fell. Before he could ask his unspoken question, Smith broke in.

"I came to the same conclusion as you several hours ago," the older man explained. "Once I had assembled the facts, I turned them over to the proper authorities. They will handle Mr. Schwartz from here."

Mark's confusion was evident. "But what about those two guys of yours? I figured you'd be using them."

Smith's face grew serious.

"I am glad things have worked out as they have in this instance," the CURE director said somberly. "For it has given you an early opportunity to see what your job here will truly entail. CURE has a single mission, Mr. Howard. We exist as a final measure to stop those who would attempt to subvert the law for their own ends. But there is one goal we always try hardest to attain, and that is to aid the law, not replace the criminal justice system. For all the criminal activity that the mainframes sift through on a single day there are only a handful of occasions yearly that require special attention. Unless it constitutes a unique threat, we do not commit our agents to the field. And an attempt by a company-no matter how large-to corner a particular market does not warrant the risk of committing CURE's manpower." Howard absorbed the words, nodding slow understanding. "But they're already working on this," he said.

Smith took on the posture of a fussy schoolmarm. "Which is why this is a good learning experience," he said. "Schwartz may have started this, but the events he was catalyst to have spiraled out of control. The situation in Barkley is dangerous and does threaten national security."

Mark bit the inside of his cheek. "It makes sense to limit their exposure," he said slowly.

"The more they are used, the greater the risk to exposure," Smith said. "Therefore, they are used sparingly. As for the rest that goes on here, some would consider mundane the work that is done by CURE on a day-to-day basis."

Mark offered a thin smile. "You don't?"

Smith's back stiffened. "I do not," he said. "Our work is challenging, rewarding and vital."

Even after all these years there was a flame of passion in the old man's words. Ignited by honor and duty, it burned with a patriotic sense to do what was necessary regardless of all the personal tolls it had taken.

"I understand," Mark said softly. He began edging for the door. "Sorry I barged in here like that. I didn't know you'd already be on to all this. I figured you'd want the information as soon as possible."

Smith nodded sharply. "Your enthusiasm is commendable, Mark," he said. "However, please be more attentive to security protocols in the future. Always be certain that my door is fully closed before discussing CURE matters."

At the door Mark gave a little apologetic shrug before slipping out of the room.

Once the young man was gone, Smith leaned back in his chair once more. With a thoughtful expression he swiveled around. The morning light of winter glinted off the frothy surface of Long Island Sound. He watched the whitecapped black waves crash against the ice-rimmed shore.

He would never express the sentiment aloud, but Smith was impressed. He had severely limited Mark Howard's access to the basement mainframes, denying the young man entry into CURE's most sensitive computer data. Yet even without complete access, his new assistant had come to the same conclusion Smith had. As much as his abilities could be judged by this ease, the man's instincts were sound.

Smith allowed his thoughts to drift from Howard. Although the CURE director's work in the current matter was done, there was still a dire crisis on the West Coast.

It had been hours since he'd last heard from Remo. Fortunately, Boris Feyodov had gone quiet, as well. Through the previous night and into the new day there hadn't been a single e-mail note from the former general to either the Russian or American president. At first Smith thought this was the result of the malfunctioning phone system, but the satellite attacks had abruptly ceased. All had gone silent after the destruction of the Mir station.

He would have assumed success on the part of CURE's enforcement arm, but the silence had lingered for more than twelve hours and Remo had yet to contact Smith.

No, Feyodov was waiting. For what, Smith had no idea.

With tired eyes Smith watched the waves roll in across the Sound.

With any luck the resolution would come quickly and Smith could turn his thoughts to the future. Assuming, that is, the events played out in the world's favor and there was a future to be had.

Chapter 27

By the time Gary Jenfeld finished explaining what was driving events in Barkley, Remo Williams was shaking his head in disbelief.

"You mean to tell me we're on a rocket ride to Armageddon because some billionaire bumwad wanted to corner the market on space trinkets?" he demanded.

They were all still standing out on the sidewalk in front of the boardinghouse. A weak smear of pink and orange stained the farthest edge of the bleary California sky. To the north, the great statue of Huitzilopochtli turned from midnight black to shadowy gray. Somewhere beneath, hidden by trees, was the city hall.

Gary cringed at Remo's accusatory tone. "You need money to save the ozone and protect the rain forest," he argued weakly. "And presidential legal-defense funds don't pay for themselves, you know. But none of that matters now. Our general's gone all Jack D. Ripper on us. He isn't following the rules anymore. You've got to do something."

"What I ought to do is get on the first stage out of Dodge and let you mopes figure out how to convince the incoming wave of Russian nukes not to blow you sky high," Remo said sourly. "Here's a thought. Get a ladder and try doodling peace symbols on all the nose cones."

"We cannot leave," Anna said firmly.

Remo shot her a withering look. "Said the chick who left without a trace for ten years," he said sarcastically.

"I agree with the old woman," the Master of Sinanju said, nodding to Anna. "Smith would not want us to leave."

"If this is some fresh way of angling for a new house..." Remo warned, raising an accusing finger. But the look on his teacher's face told him otherwise. Remo dropped his hand. "Fine. We'll stay. But if we both wind up getting incinerated, don't come bitching to me."

"I don't think the Russians will attack us," Gary said.

Remo's eyes were flat. "Don't you people ever get tired of saying that?" he asked, annoyed. "Back in the sixties, when the Russians weren't invading someone they were waving their big Commie willies at everybody under the sun. They did it all on your watch, and all any of you did was slap on blinders and mulch your dorm-room pot plants while whistling 'Eve of Destruction.'"

"You don't understand," Gary said, shaking his head urgently. "Feyodov stopped shooting the gun yesterday. Right after the two of you broke into city hall." He nodded from Remo to Chiun. "I'm not sure, but I think if the Russians were gonna attack because of what happened to their space station, they would have done it by now."

Remo allowed the words to sink in. He hated to admit it, but Gary was making sense. He glanced at Anna.

"He is right," she said simply. "My president sees himself as a man of action. If his impulse was to attack, he would not wait twelve hours to do so."

"Maybe the machine broke down," Brandy Brand suggested.

Gary shook his head firmly. "No," he said. "He charged it up one last time, but he's been sitting on it ever since. It's like he's waiting for something."

Remo and Chiun exchanged tight glances. It was Remo who gave voice to their shared unspoken thought.

"Us?" he asked.

The old Korean nodded. "He knew of Sinanju," Chiun agreed with a puzzled frown.

"And he saw what happened to us when he fired that thing," Remo said with a scowl. "Who the hell is this guy, and what's his beef with us? We can't get within a country mile of him, and he knows it."

Gary Jenfeld looked anxiously at the rest of the Barkley city council. Fear filled their grubby faces. "You have to figure out something," Gary said desperately to Remo. "I mean, Feyodov's gone psycho. It's like he's got a death wish or something."

"He has," Anna Chutesov said. "But he is too cowardly to do the deed himself. He has seized this opportunity in order to get someone else to do it for him."

"That's one problem I'll gladly help him with," Remo said. "But first Chiun and I have to figure out a way to snip the wires on that thing without frying our circuitry."

He turned to Gary. "Where exactly is it hidden?" For an instant Gary's troubled eyes flicked over his shoulder.

An ominous black figure loomed far in the distance.

In the greasy gray sky of predawn, Remo saw the top of the far-off Huitzilopochtli statue in Barkley's town square peeking over the tops of the nearby trees and houses.

Remo wheeled back on the Barkley council. "You hid it inside Mr. Slate?" he complained.

"It worked, didn't it?" Gary said anxiously. Remo frowned. The truth was, it had. As a community Barkley had been so famously screwed up for so many years, he'd automatically dismissed a huge, four-story statue as just another part of the lunatic landscape.

Remo turned to Chiun. "How do we play this?" he asked.

"It is difficult," the old man said, thoughtfully stroking his thread of beard. He was studying the frozen face of Huitzilopochtli. The statue's black eyes stared coldly at the breaking dawn. "Does the power emanate from the stone god's eyes?" the old man asked Gary Jenfeld.

"You mean the particle stream?" the ice cream man asked. "The statue's hollow, and the top of the head is wide open. The mirrors that focus the stream are just below eye level."

"We could use explosives to destroy it," Anna offered.

Chiun's face fouled at the suggestion.

Gary shook his head. "It might look like a statue on the outside, but the thing's built like a missile silo. You couldn't drive a tank through the side of it. I don't think a bomb would make much of a difference."

"What if we got a helicopter?" Brandy suggested to Remo and Anna. "If the head's open like he says, we could fly over and drop a bomb inside."

Remo shot the FBI agent a skeptical look. "They're shooting down satellites that are a million miles away and you want to try hovering over ground zero?"

"Oh," Brandy said, dejected. "Hadn't thought of that."

"But the hollow-head thing could work for us," Remo said thoughtfully. "Chiun and I can't get close, but we can sure as hell lob something inside from a distance."

Brandy cast a dubious eye at the statue. "You must have one hell of a pitching arm," she said.

Remo ignored the FBI agent. "Anyone here know how to make a bomb?" he asked.

The entire Barkley city council with the exclusion of Gary Jenfeld raised their hands.

"Why did I even ask?" Remo grumbled. "Okay, put what's left of your brain cells together and come up with something that'll go boom. Preferably not in your hands."

"That'll be hard to do," Gary whined. "We banned explosives in town a few years back, along with all guns. And now the Russians are the only ones who have any weapons at all." He put on a pouty face. "They were supposed to protect us and now they've made us prisoners."

"And that's never happened before," Remo said dryly.

"We can come up with something," Brandy promised. "We'll have to swing by the hardware store. Let's go."

When the crowd turned to the curb, Remo took note of the ratty old van the city council had arrived in.

"Someone probably should go on the magic bus with the Doodletown Pipers," he said.

"Do not look at me," Chiun sniffed.

"I will go with them," Anna said.

Brandy took the wheel of Anna's rental car. Chiun and Remo slid into the seat beside her. Three members of the Barkley city council got into the back. Anna climbed into the van with the remaining council members. As the other car drew away from the curb, Gary Jenfeld was pulling his ample belly in behind the van's steering wheel.

The ice cream man was turning the key in the ignition when he felt something hard press against his neck. When he turned to see what it was, his face locked in paralyzed fear.

Anna Chutesov was sitting in the seat beside him.

To Gary's shock the Russian agent had drawn her automatic. The open mouth of the barrel tickled the graying whiskers that sprouted just below his ear.

Neither hand nor eyes wavered as she pressed the gun barrel harder into flesh.

"Now, idiot, take me to Boris Feyodov," she commanded.

And her steady voice was as cold as the Siberian Arctic.

Chapter 28

All through the night, he waited. When day finally broke, he watched the light from the rising sun crawl down the hollow interior of the Huitzilopochtli statue.

When the fools from Barkley had first approached him a year ago, Boris Feyodov had given them the structural requirements that would be necessary for the device he had sold them. They had been as excited as all bomb-wielding anarchists on the day they presented him with the plans to the complex they intended to build.

A network of tunnels beneath the city hall and under the main town square would be built for the guts of the weapon. If anyone became curious, the construction would be explained away as structural maintenance on the old town hall building.

Looking at the blueprints, Feyodov saw no designs for the silo that would house the hardware and mirrors that focused the particle stream.

"These plans are incomplete," the general had said to Zen Bower, the de facto head of the Barkley city council.

"You didn't look at the page underneath," Zen replied with a wicked grin.

When Feyodov lifted the thick top paper, he found another blueprint. Schematics for the proposed Huitzilopochtli statue were drawn out in full. There was even a cross section of the statue in which tiny men had been sketched hard at work on the four levels of catwalks.

"You are joking," Feyodov said. But when he pulled his gaze away from the architect's rendition of the South American god, he found a look of sincere determination on the ice cream man's face.

And so the statue had been built. Four stories tall and smack-dab in the middle of town. And to Boris Feyodov's amazement, no one had batted an eye. The city of Barkley was truly an enigma, even by American standards. The former Russian general who had learned to play the capitalist system as well as he had ever played the Communist one had months ago given up any hope of understanding the collective mind of this hamlet of demented radicals.

Not that any of that mattered anymore. His thoughts this morning were less on the past than they were on the future. What was left of it.

Feyodov sat at the end of the main tunnel. The rough interior of Huitzilopochtli stretched high above, capped by a halo of perfect blue. All around was the constant, hair-tickling hum of energy stored in special capacitors.

If his life ended this day, it would end with the sweet perfection of exquisite irony.

It had become known through the night that there were men still alive on Mir. The three surviving cosmonauts were huddled in the cramped Kvant science module.

In the old days they would have been abandoned. The station was the only thing important, and that was in ruins. Half of Mir had been propelled on the particle stream that had ripped it in two. Out of control, it was spiraling through empty space. The other half was still in Earth orbit but was completely unsalvageable.

The old Soviet Union would have taken the loss and moved on to the more important matter of retaliation against whoever was responsible for the destruction of state property. But so far Moscow was silent. Even though they knew full well who the culprit was, there had been no response to the e-mail Feyodov had sent to the president.

The former general was not a fool. He realized now the president was more patient than he'd thought. He was waiting Feyodov out. To see what he would do next.

But though the president had shown restraint thus far, it would not last forever. When the time came, it would be a simple enough matter to goad the little man in the Kremlin into a response. All would happen in its time. For the time being Boris Feyodov had opted for patience, as well. And his temperance had been rewarded in a way he had never imagined.

A plan to rescue the stranded cosmonauts was already under way. Of course the Russian government could never hope to launch such an operation without months of endless debate and planning. With their remaining systems failing, the men in space would be lucky to survive a few more days.

No, it was not the Russians, but the Americans who would be going into space to save Mir's crew. A space shuttle launch had already been planned for the next week. Given the circumstances, the timetable had been moved up.

When the image of the patiently waiting shuttle sitting on its launch pad in Florida was first shown on the news, Boris Feyodov could scarcely believe his eyes.

The old Communist general usually didn't believe in such things, but in this instance Boris Feyodov knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was the hand of Fate at work.

The particle gun would be fired one more time. And this sorry chapter in Boris Feyodov's life would come full circle.

Sitting in his chair inside Huitzilopochtli, Feyodov was wistfully studying the California sky when he heard the clatter of a lone pair of boots on the planking that led from the city hall. The footfalls stopped beside him.

"Still no sign of them, General."

Feyodov rolled his head lazily to the speaker. Oleg Shevtrinko's shoulder had been bandaged, and his arm was in a sling.

Feyodov had given his black market subordinates permission to leave hours ago. Loyal soldiers since the old Soviet days, they had to a man opted to stay.

Their courage gave him strength. From the start he was not certain if he would have the nerve to see this through to the end. Until the last he had planned for an alternative future. One in which he'd live the life of a fat, rich whore. The lure of comfortable retirement and his vast Swiss bank accounts had remained a temptation even as far as the previous day. But no more.

"They will come, Oleg," Feyodov promised. "It is the way the game is played."

"Game?" a mocking voice snorted from the silo floor.

Zen Bower had been despondent since Feyodov seized control of the weapon the previous afternoon. His depression had worsened after he had gotten off the phone a few moments before. Apparently, his benefactor in this scheme had been arrested.

"This was never a game," Zen lamented. "It was about power and money and making people do what's right because I told them it was right."

Feyodov had largely ignored such outbursts from the ice cream man. This time, he rolled an eye toward Zen.

The head of the Barkley council sat on the bottom metal stair that led up to the first catwalk. Hunching forward, his face was pressed firmly in his hands.

"It has never been that," the former general said with calm certainty. "Whether you knew it or not-from that very first meeting we had in Moscow-this has always been about revenge. And I have had my fill of you."

It was the coldness with which he said those last words that got to Zen. The council leader cautiously lifted his face from his palms.

Feyodov had borrowed Oleg's gun. He held it lightly in his outstretched hand. The barrel was aimed at Zen Bower.

The ice cream man's mouth dropped open in shock.

Defenseless at the hands of Barkley's supreme military commander, Zen suddenly had a deep and powerful appreciation of the true meaning of the constitutional right to keep and bear arms. For the first time in his life he was ready to march in lockstep with George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, John Adams and every other one of those powderedwig-wearing, slave-owning, land-baron, dead white European males. Unfortunately, he had not the means to act on his newfound star-spangled patriotism. Before Zen could utter a single, flag-waving jingoistic word, Boris Feyodov pulled the trigger.