"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.
The ice cream man felt a sharp pain on the right side of his chest.
The bullet knocked him sprawling back on the metal stairs. Grabbing at the wound, Zen's fingers came back red. When he looked up, his face was horrified.
"Damn," Feyodov complained. "I am no good without my glasses. Finish him off."
He handed the gun back to Oleg. The Russian marched dutifully over to the staircase and finished the cringing ice cream man with a single shot to the forehead. His order executed, Oleg reholstered his gun.
The younger man's face was flat, as if he had done nothing more than squash an insect. It was the same face he'd worn that day back at Sary Shagan when he had helped execute Viktor Churlinski and the other scientists.
For an instant Boris Feyodov was transported back to that time. It had been the beginning of the end. And today, finally, the curtain would at long last come down.
"Will there be anything else, General?" Oleg asked.
Eyes vacant, Feyodov shook his head. With a crisp nod Oleg disappeared back inside the tunnel. Alone, the former general stared at the distant wall. His thoughts were on Sary Shagan and the dark days since.
Anna Chutesov, the men from Sinanju. Russia, America. A great confluence of people and events and history. All had combined around a single human being. The result of that grand cosmic alignment was a hollow little man who had at one time been a god.
The words he had spoken to Zen were true. It was about revenge. The last years of his life had set the stage for this final act of vengeance. And the moment of reckoning was nearly at hand. When it finally did come, Boris Feyodov wanted to actually see it.
He got up from his seat. Hands clasped thoughtfully behind his back, he went off in search of his glasses.
Chapter 29
They plundered all of the bomb-making materials they needed from the aisles of a local hardware store. When Brandy Brand and the three Barkley city council members exited into the parking lot, their arms were full. They hauled the materials to the open trunk of the rental car.
Remo and Chiun were waiting next to the car. "No sign of them yet?" Brandy asked tensely as she and the others dumped armloads of sloshing bottles, propane tanks and mercury switches onto the spare tire.
Remo shook his head. "Even though this is their town, I wouldn't put it past those ninnies to get lost in their own driveway. But Anna's with them."
Chiun noted his pupil's worried tone. A troubled expression formed in the deep lines of his face. It was as if the past ten years had been erased. His pupil's words and stance made evident his concern for the Russian female.
Remo did not need this complication in his life. Not now, of all times.
As Remo watched the street, Chiun leaned close. "She survived for more than a decade away from your watchful eye," the wizened Korean said, his voice low.
Remo glanced down at his teacher. Chiun's weathered face held a troubled cast.
"Huh?" Remo asked. It took a second for the old man's meaning to sink in. When it did, his expression fouled. "It's not like that," he said.
"Would that I could believe you," Chiun said, shaking his head sadly. "But I know you all too well."
But Remo's tone grew certain. "Not half as well as you think, Little Father," he said firmly. "Yes, I had feelings for Anna at one time and, yes, it threw me for a loop to see her alive after all these years. But that was a long time ago. I'm different now. Plus there's the added fact that I'm more than just a little ticked off at her for that whole fake-death thing. So if you're worried that I'm harboring some hope of linking arms and running off into the sunset with her, don't bother. Whatever I had with her is over. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't be worried about the fact that she's tooling around this asylum in the Scooby van with a pack of Herman's Hermits rejects. They should have been right behind us."
Chiun found great relief in his pupil's assuredness of tone. With a thoughtful frown he nodded agreement.
"Yes," he said, stuffing his hands deep inside his kimono sleeves. "They should have. I for one, however, am not surprised. That woman has always been duplicitous."
Remo looked down at his teacher. "You think it's Anna's fault they got lost?"
"They are onl
y as lost as she wants them to be," the Master of Sinanju replied ominously.
Remo was about to question him more when the trunk of the car abruptly slammed. As the council members climbed into the back seat of the vehicle, Brandy hurried over to Remo.
"We're all set," the FBI agent said, fingering the car keys. "Shouldn't take more than an hour or so to get everything ready. We just need someplace quiet to work."
Remo nodded. "We'll go back to Anna's place," he said. "I'll drive, Bu-" He caught himself before finishing. For what seemed like the hundredth time he had started to call her Buffy. He stuck out his hand. "Gimme the keys."
As the three of them were getting back in the car, Remo's curiosity finally got the better of him. "Why the hell'd you change your name anyway?"
By the look on her face, it was obviously a topic she didn't like to discuss.
"Some stupid TV show," Brandy groused. "They even stuck my old name in the title. I was Buffy all my life, then Hollywood's got to come along with some ridiculous fantasy show for arrested adolescents and make it impossible for me to do my job. When I got sick of the guys at the Bureau making fun of my name, I changed it. I hate that show."
"Really?" Remo said as he turned the key in the ignition. He knew the show she meant. "I kind of like it."
She gave him a withering look.
"What did I tell you?" Brandy muttered unhappily to herself. She crossed her arms. "Arrested adolescents and dirty old men."
The rental car sped quickly out of the parking lot.
ONE CLEAN SHOT. That's all she needed and this madness would finally be over. This among other things consumed Anna Chutesov's thoughts as the Volkswagen van bearing her and the remaining city council members drove through the brightening streets of Barkley.
They had lagged behind Remo's car long enough to lose them. Once the lead car was out of sight, the Russian agent had instructed Gary to take a side street. After that, they steered a beeline for the city hall.
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