"As always, I am brave in the service of my motherland," Rair Brashnikov said, visions of American blue jeans and VCR's dancing in his head. He was so elated he did something he had never done since he picked his first pocket. He slipped the gold pen into the general's coat pocket.
That way, when Semoyan noticed it missing, even if he suspected Brashnikov, the proof of his innocence would eventually be found.
For Rair Brashnikov was not about to risk losing the opportunity to be set loose in the consumers' paradise of the world for a mere gold pen.
For months, they trained him. He learned that for all its wonders the vibration suit was fraught with hidden perils. One had to be careful how one walked. For the vibrations which allowed a man to pass through six feet of concrete would also cause him to sink into a floor.
The technicians who maintained it, obviously only dimly understood the suit. They explained to him that the thick boot soles contained tiny vibrating elements that caused the bottoms to vibrate in counterpoint to the suit vibration. Only a micron thickness of the bottom vibrated out of synchronization, they theorized. But it was enough to allow for footing and traction. Still, the suit wearer had to be careful, when he passed through an obstacle, that he did it with the toes and soles kept level.
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Rair tried this a few times. It was a difficult skill to learn. If he stepped wrong, his upper body passed through the test walls, but his feet got hung up.
It took thirty days until he mastered the art of walking through a wall. At the same time, he had to deal with the eye's blinking reflex. The face membrane helped, but when a concrete wall came up to the eye, the eye naturally flinched and the body flinched too. Merely shutting the eyes was not enough. For Rair was taught that although he could pass through walls, he could not see through them. He could never be certain what was on the other side. It was imperative that before he dared enter such walls, he stick his face into them like a swimmer sticking his face above water to see what lay on the surface.
It took time, and skill, and it was difficult.
They taught him that he could trot while in the suit, but he could not run. Even with his body as insubstantial as smoke, his micron-thick soles could trip on ground rocks. If he tripped, he was told, he would fall. And if he fell . . .
"What?" Rair had asked anxiously.
The technician shrugged. They did not actually know, but they theorized that a fall would propel the suit through the earth's crust, where a man might, in theory, sink until he emerged on the opposite side of the globe.
"That would not be so terrible," Rair had said, visibly relieved.
True, they told him. But no one could say if, after passing through the earth, the man might not keep going, forever and ever, into deepest space.
"Oh," Rair had said in a sober voice.
There were other problems with the suit. The more he learned, the less he liked the assignment, but because giving up meant facing a firing squad, Rair Brashnikov continued training.
Even after they warned him that he must never, ever, turn off the suit while inside something solid.
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"What would happen then?" he had asked fearfully.
On this the technicians were not in complete agreement.
One thought that Rair would become trapped like a fly in amber.
Another believed that the atomic structure of both substances would become inextricable, so that in his last moments Rair would taste wood or concrete in his mouth, his stomach would feel full of matter. His brain would be riddled with foreign nonorganic substances. His bodily fluids would mingle with the material. It would be a weird, terrible, suffocating death.
Still another theorized that with the vibration suit shut down, the repelling forces that kept the atoms separated would cease, possibly result in a nuclear explosion.
Rair Brashnikov kept the thought of becoming a walking Chernobyl in mind all through the Aeroflot flight from Moscow to Washington, D.C., where he met his case officer, the charge d'affaires of the Soviet embassy, actually a KGB major. The charge d'affaires provided Rair with a secure place to live between pentrations, which ranged from plucking key parts from U.S. missiles so that when they went awry and had to be destroyed, no one dreamed that they had malfunctioned because they had been pilfered, to obtaining mission-critical computer chips from Pentagon super-computers.
Through it all, Rair Brashnikov had been extra, extra careful not to be seen, not to be heard, not to be suspected. American security was so lax it was relatively easy. And Rair Brashnikov had been very, very well-trained. Even in America, the training continued. He was forced to enter mock-ups of cramped missile interiors, positioning himself so that when he deactivated the suit, no toe or finger remained inside anything solid. It was a simple matter, then, to remove whatever he wished, reactivate the suit, and slip away.
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It was a happy property of the suit that whatever Brashnikov held in his hands when the suit activated, vibrated in sympathy so that it could be carried through solids as well.
Rair Brashnikov trained very hard. He did not desire to go up in a small mushroom cloud. Nor did he wish to be captured when the battery pack ran down, as it did when he was being pursued from LCF-Fox by the American with unusually thick wrists and the absurdly garbed Oriental.
The pair had been incredibly fleet of foot. And strong. They had chopped down a thick tree while he hid within. Rair had no idea who they were. He had been fascinated by them-until the rheostat warning light went on, indicating that he had only the sixty-minute reserve-energy supply left.
Rair had counted himself fortunate that he had so many trees to hide in. He had finally given them the slip, and made it back to his hotel, where he immediately reported his encounter with U.S. military personnel to the charge d'affaires.
Rair had been certain that the trio had been left far behind. That had been a fatal mistake, he now realized.
As the dark tunnel walls zoomed past him, Brashnikov tried to remember his last moment of life. He had dialed the Soviet embassy. The switchboard had answered, and Rair had asked to speak with the charge d'affaires, giving his code name, Lyovkiy Dukh-Nimble Ghost.
While he waited to be connected, the hotel-room door crashed in. Rair did not turn to see what had happened. That was not important. Turning on the suit was by then a reflex in any dangerous situation.
He remembered reaching for the belt rheostat. At the same time, the charge d'affaire's voice came over the line, saying, "Hello?" That was the last thing Rair heard. The room went white like a star going nova, and now he was hurling through this endless tunnel at the speed of light.
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The explanation was obvious. The suit must have gone nuclear. There was no other possible answer.
It had been the thing that Rair Brashnikov had most feared. Yet now that it had happened, he felt a curious lack of concern. It had been quick and painless. How much more could one expect from death?
And so Rair Brashnikov, only a little sad, rushed through the snaking tube, searching for the light his grandfather had spoken of so long ago, in another time and place.
It was a strange thing. In his ears, he could still hear the charge d'affaires' angry voice. It kept repeating, "Hello? Hello? Are you there, Brashnikov? Answer me!"
And behind it, there were other voices. A multitude of them. Laughing and whispering. Shouting and sobbing. Rair thought they were the voices of the dead. If he listened hard enough, could he pick out his grandfather's voice too? he wondered.
But when he tried, he discovered a strange thing.
All the voices spoke English. American English.
How curious, Brashnikov thought. Were there no Soviets in the afterlife?
Then he heard the charge d'affaires' voice again, angry and anxious, calling his name over and over again. It was most passing strange.
11
"It's okay, I'll get it," Remo Williams called out in response to the familiar knock.
He leapt to the back door, swiping at the smoke that had seeped into the kitchen despite the insulation of two closed doors.
"Hi, Smitty," Remo said. "Back for more rice?" Then he stopped. "You look different. Did you break down and get a face lift?"
"Nonsense," Smith snapped, closing the door behind him like a nervous milkman on a dawn assignation.
"No, really," Remo returned, following him to the kitchen table. "There's something different about you. New haircut?"
"I have been using the same barber for nearly thirty years."
"And you probably tip him the same way you did in 1962."
"I consider my loyal patronage to be tip enough." Smith looked around, noticing the haze.
"Has someone been smoking?" he asked.
"Sort of. This is Chiun's latest kick."
Smith looked at Remo with disbelief. "I cannot imagine Chiun smoking."
"I'll explain later. I'm still trying to put my finger on what's different about you today. A new tie?" Remo asked. "No, that's a Dartmouth tie. And your suit the same. Gray as a mouse."
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Smith took a seat at the table and laid a small brown carrying case on it.
Noticing this, Remo snapped his fingers.
"That's it!" he said. "That's not your usual briefcase. I knew you look different."
Smith looked at Remo as if uncertain if he was being kidded.
"Please sit down, Remo," he said quietly. Remo sat. He looked at the case. It was smaller than a suitcase, but larger than a valise. It was nearly a box. Remo wondered what was in it.
"Any leads on our missing spook?" Remo asked.
"None. I ran computer checks on all commerical and charter flights out of North Dakota. I don't believe our man was on any of them. And the name he was registered under-Ivan Grozny-is fictitious. It means 'Ivan the Terrible.' We will have to pick up his trail when we can. Right now I have a more pressing task for you and Chiun."
"Did I hear my name spoken?" a squeaky voice said suddenly.
The Master of Sinanju suddenly stood in the now-open door. He wore a plain kimono. It was as white as a snowdrift, and it made the aged ivory texture of his wrinkled skin look actually brown.
Bluish smoke rolled around him like a fogbank.
"I was just starting to explain your next assignments," Smith said, his gray eyes alert to the excessive amount of smoke. He felt it tickle his throat and he coughed into his fist uncomfortably.
"Then I should be present to see that Remo does not misinterpret your precise instructions," Chiun remarked.
"I was just about to tell Remo that my computers have so far had no luck in tracing the creature you both encountered."
"What about his secret?" Chiun asked eagerly.
"It represents a technology beyond current knowl-
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edge," Smith admitted. "Although it is possible to assume the Russian-for surely the evidence points to a Soviet agent-wore an electronic suit that somehow enables him to pass through solids."
Chiun's face lost its hopeful expression. "Oh," he said. "I was hoping you, as a white familiar with machine techniques, could help me with my experiment."
"What experiment is that?" asked Smith.
"You'll be sorry you asked," Remo warned.
Chiun made low, furtive shooing motions at Remo.
"I have been attempting to duplicate this power, which no Master of Sinanju has ever possessed," Chiun said loftily.
"Really? I would like to see this."
Chiun stepped aside and bowed. "Enter."
Remo followed Smith into Chiun's personal room. The walls were covered with mirrors. They hung on the walls and leaned precariously against closet doors. Mirror tiles were neatly arranged on the floor and others were attached to the ceiling. In the center of the room stood a tall brass censer. Something smoldered in the center, emitting billows of bluish smoke.
As Smith reached for a handkerchief to cover his stinging nostrils, Chiun pulled a red silk pouch from his sleeve and sprinkled a powder into the censer. A brief flame flared up and the smoke intensified.
"Observe," Chiun said.
He then walked to a wall and with arms outstretched attempted to pass through a leaning mirror. His long fingernails tapped the reflective surface. He pushed. The pane shattered, shards falling at Chiun's sandaled feet.
"You see?" Chiun said in an exasperated voice. "It does not work. Could you tell me what is wrong, the mirror or the smoke?"
"Excuse me?" Smith said as Remo hid a widening grin behind his hand.
"Is this the correct kind of mirror?" Chiun went on.
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"Or is it that the smoke is not properly colored? I am inclined to think that the smoke is not blue enough, but Remo refuses to advise me."
Remo caught Smith's helpless sidelong glance.
"Blue smoke and mirrors," Remo whispered. "Chiun overheard Robin suggest it as a possible explanation. He's trying to crack the method."
"Uh, excuse me, Master of Sinanju," Smith ventured. "But the phrase 'blue smoke and mirrors' is just an expression. It's meaningless."
"That is what Remo told me, but I heard two different persons profess that the thief used blue smoke and mirrors to accomplish his nefarious deeds. I saw no evidence of this myself, but whites are so devious" -Chiun looked at Remo with special pointedness- "that I cannot be certain."
"I assure you, Master of Sinanju," Smith said, backing away from the smoke, his eyes tearing, "that the device used was electronic."
"Ah, electronic," Chiun murmured. "I understand now. But tell me, which was electronic-the smoke or the mirrors?"
And Remo burst out into such laughter that Smith never got a chance to answer. Chiun flew out of the room, slamming the door behind him so hard that the sound of breaking glass was a crescendo as he unleashed a torrent of invective in both Korean and English. Smith couldn't follow the Korean portion- and the English was delivered at such speed that he had trouble catching all of that too-but he was certain that Chiun called Remo "a pale piece of pig's ear" at least six times.
When Chiun finally subsided, he joined Remo and Smith at the kitchen table. His face was stormy and Remo had to hold up Chiun's end of the conversation as well as his own.
"This much we know," Smith was saying. "This agent worked out of the Soviet embassy in Washing-
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ton, D.C. I have been tapping CIA intercepts of telephone and telex traffic between the embassy and Moscow. Much of it is in open code-mundane words used to substitute for critical terms-but I believe I have the general idea. It seems that the charge d'affaires there is about to return to Moscow with unspecified stolen U.S. technology."
"But we recovered the stuff the guy lifted in North Dakota," Remo insisted.
"Yes, but that apparently represents only the most recent looting. I have been running checks on other military installations for phenomena such as occurred at LCF-Fox. Missing food and personal items. Things of that sort.'
"Yeah?"
Smith sighed. "Either U.S. military personnel are all stealing one another blind, or this pattern of activity has been going on for a long time."
"How long?"
"Two or three years."
"Years!" Remo exploded. "He's been ripping us off for years and nobody's even noticed?"
"I am afraid so. You must understand that we inventory so many parts with redundant backups and all, that missing components are often dismissed as bookkeeping errors. It's easier to call it that than to disrupt the status quo with a full-fledged investigation."
"Well, hip-hip-hooray for the U.S. serviceman, protector of his precious behind."
"But personal thefts are reported," Smith went on. "I have accumulated a list of missing blue jeans, personal computers, VCR's, and Walkmen."
"I think it's Walkmans," Remo said sourly.
"Whatever. These are exactly the kinds of items that are in demand on the Russian black market."
"Now, why would a Soviet agent risk his mission to lift stuff like that on the side?" Remo wondered. "When
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we caught up with him he was carrying steaks. That was all. Just steaks."
"Because he is stupid, like all Russians," Chiun interjected suddenly.
"It's because he's a kleptomaniac," Smith added.
"Kleptomaniac?" Remo asked. Chiun leaned closer, interest on his wise face.
"I presented my findings, disguised, of course, to Folcroft's head psychiatrist," Smith explained. "It's his reasoned belief that we are dealing with a classic compulsive kleptomaniac."
"I understand a maniac," Chiun said, glancing at Remo. "I live with one. But what is a klepto? Is it like a poltergeist?"
"A kleptomaniac is a person who has a compulsive mania to steal," Smith explained. "He cannot help himself. He will steal anything that catches his fancy, regardless of its value or the risk involved."
"You know, Chiun," Remo put in pointedly, "like certain persons who lift all the toothpicks and mints at restaurant cash registers."
"They are there for the benefit of customers," Chiun snapped back. "And I do not take them all. I leave some."
"Three or four out of fifty toothpicks is not some. It's a token gesture to your conscience. And you don't even eat candy."
"I give the mints to children," Chiun replied huffily. "Would you deny an old man the simple pleasure of sharing with children?"
"You charge them a nickel a pop."
"Only the ones who look as if they can afford to pay. The ragamuffins get them without cost."
"Could you two please stop this?" Smith said testily. "Time is of the essence."
"Yes, of course. The mission. Please forgive Remo's carping, Emperor. I do not know where he gets these ugly habits from."
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Remo rolled his eyes ceilingward. He drummed his fingers on the kitchen table impatiently.
"As I was saying," Smith continued, "the charge d'affaires is about to fly to Moscow. He's leaving from Dulles on an Aeroflot flight. And he will be carrying a case identical to this one."
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