Remo stared.
"Yes, those were the good days. Not like now. When was the last time we awoke in our beds to fight for our lives?"
"Here, never. No one knows we live here."
"This has changed. I have provided our address, as well."
"Oh, man," groaned Remo, taking his head in his hands. "I should have never left the reservation."
Chapter Seventeen
When the first intelligence reports crossed the desk of the duty officer of the Central Intelligence Agency, Ray Foxworthy's first impulse was to burn them.
If he didn't burn them, he would have to get on the NOIWON line and do confidence polling of the other U.S. intelligence agencies. NOIWON stood for National Operations and Intelligence Watch Officer Network. The duty officers of the main U.S. Intelligence agencies were obliged to place a conference call to exchange views whenever overnight developments warranted it.
But if Foxworthy did trigger a NOIWON and one of the other Intelligence agencies had developed superior intelligence, they would be the ones to take it to the Pentagon. And get the credit.
In these days of shrinking budgets, everyone wanted credit, but no one wanted to take unsubstantiated intelligence to the Pentagon. Not the NSA, which a year ago had reported a coup in North Korea only to have it evaporate into a false alarm. Not CIA, which was on notice to get its act together. Not the Defense Intelligence Agency or the National Reconnaisance Office. Not anyone.
The stakes were huge. To be Johnny-come-lately made your agency look bad. To promulgate bad intelligence, however, was worse.
There was no winning in the post-Cold War intelligence game.
CIA duty officer Ray Foxworthy picked up the phone and dialed an in-house extension. "Roger, this Intel report that just crossed my desk. Uh, how solid is it?"
"It wouldn't have crossed your desk if it's not confirmed," a laconic voice replied.
"That's not what I asked. Are you willing to back it up?"
"I'll get back to you on that." And the other party promptly hung up.
So did CIA duty officer Foxworthy, muttering, "Damn, damn, damn. Why do the hot potatoes always fall on my watch?"
He read the report again. It was short, concise and very, very clear.
CIA ground assets in Kuwait were reporting troop movement on the Iraq-Kuwait border.
"That damn Hussein. Why doesn't he rent a clue?"
Chewing his lower lip, Foxworthy glanced at the text as if trying to intimidate it by mental telepathy.
Then he noticed something odd. He picked up the phone again. "Roger, sorry to bother you."
"I'm still in the process of getting back to you, Ray."
"I know. Just clarify—"
"A clarification will be included in the return call, I promise you."
"Just listen a goddamn minute. This report. It says our assets in Kuwait report movement."
"If that's what it says, that's what it says."
"Our Kuwaiti assets are under strict orders to stay clear of the DMZ, aren't they?"
"Yeah."
"So if Iraqi troops were on the border, they couldn't see them."
"That's right," Roger said guardedly.
"How could these be Iraqi troop movements if that was the case?"
"I'll get back to you on that," said Roger, then hung up.
Ray Foxworthy was still purpling the air with a colorful string of curses when the NOIWON line rang. He grabbed it, heart pounding.
"CIA. Foxworthy."
"NSA. Woolhandler."
"What've you got, Woolhandler?"
The NSA man dropped his voice. "Tell me what CIA's got, and I'll tell you what NSA has."
"What makes you think we have anything?"
"Just checking. Have you?"
"Maybe."
"Does it possibly concern Russia?"
"No," Foxworthy admitted.
"Hmm. Maybe I'd better get back to you later."
"Look, we can't play games. This is national security. Let's just lay our cards down."
"You first."
Foxworthy made a face, then plunged in. "Reports out of Kuwait suggest border massing."
"Impossible. Our satellites show no Iraqi troop movements. The Republican Guard's safely holed up in Basra."
"That's a relief," said Foxworthy, crumpling up his notice and tossing it onto the trash. "What have you gat?"
"There's secret-weapon talk out of Moscow."
"Again?"
"Again."
"Not the—what was it called?"
"The elipticon."
"Yeah. Ever figure out what that was?" Foxworthy asked.
"High confidence is it's an explosive mixture of Russian hot air and vodka."
Foxworthy grunted a laugh. "That's our take, too. So what is it this time?"
"The duma is awash with rumors that Zhirinovsky has gone abroad to cut a deal for a secret terror weapon."
"Where'd he go?"
"I was hoping you could tell me."
"Give me a sec." Putting the NSA on hold, Foxworthy called downstairs. "Roger. It's me again. Get me the whereabouts of Vladimir Zhirinovsky."
"The Russian ultranationalist?"
"If there's another Vladimir Zhirinovsky, give me his whereabouts, too," he said dryly.
A moment later the word came back.
"Subject left Moscow approximately twenty-eight hours ago. Flew to Budapest, changed planes for Zurich and is currently assumed to be in Switzerland."
"Assumed?"
"We have no record of further movements by subject."
"That doesn't mean anything and you know it."
"It's all I have."
"Thanks," Foxworthy said, his voice dripping bitterness. He stabbed the outside-line button. "Wool-handler. We can confirm Zhirinovsky departed Moscow yesterday. We tracked him to Zurich, after which he disappears."
"Hmm."
"You think he's trying to become a one-man nuclear power?"
"I don't think anything. I operate on hard intelligence these days."
Foxworthy sighed painfully. "Yeah, so do we. Man, I hanker for the days when you could tote up points for passing on every stray rumor, and if it fell apart, you were just seen as doing your job."
"Same here. Well, I guess we sit back and await developments. Keep me informed on this Iraqi thing."
"And you keep me up on Russia."
"Done."
Hanging up, Ray Foxworthy allowed himself to hum. If Russia continued destabilizing at this rate, maybe the good old days weren't far off after all.
It was a happy thought.
Chapter Eighteen
Remo woke with the dawn. As soon as his brain clicked into wakefulness, he tasted corn on his tongue. He realized he had been eating corn in a dream. He didn't remember the dream, but he could still taste the sweet flavor of corn.
Going to his private bathroom, he cleared his mouth with a half glass of cold tap water.
"Blah," he said, spitting out the trace metals his sensitive tongue had sponged up from the city water.
When he straightened up, his mouth felt as if it had been brushed with copper, zinc and fluoride, but he no longer tasted corn. And if he didn't taste it, Remo hoped he wouldn't crave it.
The Master of Sinanju was waiting patiently for him in the downstairs master kitchen. Every unit in the building had its own kitchen, but most were unused. They had converted a downstairs apartment into a gigantic kitchen with a restaurant-size stove, a Western-style oak table that seated twelve and a low lacquered taboret for intimate Eastern-style dining.
The floor was warm against Remo's bare feet. Chiun had insisted on installing Korean-style ondol floors, which covered heated water pipes that created a perfect indoor climate.
Now Chiun was insisting on breakfast. "I will have ginseng tea and steamed jasmine rice," he said loftily from the taboret, where he sat in his golden morning kimono.
"You know I'm not good at steaming rice."
"You will learn. I cannot abide boiled rice. You are forever boiling the goodness from rice, leaving only its soft, impure heart."