He had memorized their escape route hours ago. With any luck the highway would take them safely out of town.
"When it comes, it will be all the more glorious for the shock it will give them all," Zhirinsky growled in the back seat. Dark eyes watched the scenery flash by. "Perhaps it is even better this way. They believe they have beaten me, but all they have done is force the cobra in a box. When we return to Russia, I will strike out at the hand that dares to cage me. Me, the beating heart of the Soviet Union."
His aide was too busy concentrating on driving to respond. As they sped along, his eyes strayed to the mirror.
"Oh, no," the young man said, his voice thick.
"What is it?" Zhirinsky asked. Following his driver's gaze, he turned in his seat, looking out the back window.
A truck was following them.
Zhirinsky frowned. "Is that Ivan?" he demanded. "Stop the car at once. I will take the cost of that malfunctioning missile out of his worthless hide." His brow lowered as he peered out the window. "Who is that he is with?"
The trailing truck drew close. Despite Zhirinsky's order, his driver did not slow. Eyes still on the mirror, he pressed harder on the accelerator.
"What are they doing?" Zhirinsky growled.
As he spoke, the trailing Land Rover's doors sprang open. The vehicle swerved for a moment as Ivan lunged for the wheel. In the moment he took control, two shapes hopped out either side of the speeding truck.
Zhirinsky was amazed when the men didn't fall and break their necks. Amazement turned to horror when he realized that, not only did they not stumble, the running men were actually gaining on his own car. "How is this possible?" he gasped.
His driver didn't answer. Hands tight on the steering wheel, he checked the speedometer. The limousine was racing just over seventy miles per hour. He stomped harder on the pedal, but it was already down to the floor.
Sickly eyes found the rearview mirror. The men were gone.
Even as his hopeful brain was registering the disappearance of the men, his peripheral vision caught a blur of movement to his right. When he looked over, his stomach clenched in watery fear.
A cruel face was looking at him through the window.
"License and registration!" Remo called through the tinted glass even as he slammed his fist through it.
In the back seat Vladimir Zhirinsky saw a thick-wristed hand reach through the shattering window, grabbing his driver's collar. In a flash his young aide's shoes were disappearing out the opening.
The hand appeared again, jerking the steering wheel sharply. With a smoking shriek of tires, the limo bounced and spun a perfect 180 degrees.
Somehow it didn't flip over. As Zhirinsky was flung around the rear seat, the car flew back in the direction from whence it had come.
Ivan's Land Rover was racing up the road directly at the out-of-control limousine. Horror-struck, Zhirinsky jumped up, scrambling over the rear seat. Belly stuck to the back of the driver's seat, he clamped on to the steering wheel.
"Get out of the way, idiot!" Zhirinsky screamed as he jerked the wheel.
Ivan spun the other way. The Land Rover missed the limo by a hair, slamming into a mound of dirty snow.
The limousine soared past.
Still balanced precariously over the seat, Zhirinsky saw something had been jammed onto the gas pedal. It looked very much like the short white hair that had capped Lavrenty Skachkov's head. The rest of the Institute commando's body was nowhere to be seen.
As the dull shock of realization sank in, strong hands grabbed him from behind. Sweaty palms slipping from the steering wheel, Zhirinsky dropped roughly back to his seat.
Remo Williams sat calmly beside him. "This the bus to Vladivostok?" he asked coldly.
Zhirinsky fell away from the intruder. "Who are you?" the ultranationalist demanded, his voice flirting with fear.
"I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy." Another voice broke in on the other side. "I am a Korean Doodle Dandier."
When Zhirinsky twisted the other way, he found another man sharing his seat. A mask of wrinkles regarded the Russian with deep distaste.
"This thing considers itself a czar?" Chiun sniffed to Remo. "He is not fit to mend Ivan the Good's lapots."
Zhirinsky was stuck between their verbal PingPong. When he spun to see what the young stranger would say in reply, he found that Remo was now gone. Whirling, he saw the Master of Sinanju was missing, as well.
The rear doors were now open.
All at once, he remembered he was in a runaway car with no driver. Zhirinsky lunged for the steering wheel.
Too late.
The city hall building was flying back toward him. It was too late to turn. Too late to jump. Too late for anything.
By the time the inevitable registered dumbly in the mind of Vladimir Zhirinsky, the limo was already crashing into the line of cars parked in the street before the big building.
The nose snagged and the long car flipped up and over a Ford Explorer, landing in a crumpled heap near the front staircase. Even after the car had slid to a painful, grinding stop, the engine continued to idle softly. One tire spun lazy circles in the chill air.
Inside, Vladimir Zhirinsky blinked away a wash of red.
Something big and soft was all around him. Holding him. Protecting him.
Of course he could not die. The world would not allow it.
Zhirinsky battled back the air bag. On all fours, he crawled through the shattered windshield of the upended limo. He made it out to the sidewalk.
Blood ran from a gash in his forehead. He wiped it from his eyes, smearing it on his thighs. When he looked back up, he saw something even redder than his own blood. It was floating toward him, dancing in the breeze.
For one brief moment Zhirinsky caught the stark gold outlines of the hammer and sickle. And then the brilliant red tightened around his neck.
"America-love it, or leave it the hell alone," a voice whispered very close to his ear.
The old Soviet flag was pulled tight. For a tortured moment the world of Vladimir Zhirinsky grew very red.
And then it grew very, very black indeed.
Chapter 36
Remo called Smith from the Fairbanks city hall. "Report," the CURE director ordered, his voice taut.
"The Russians are going, the Russians are going," Remo announced. "And on a personal note, it's about damn time."
"Explain."
"The short of it is that we pulled the plug on the commandos here and that big bomb was a big dud. I think there might be a few loose fuzz-hats running around up here, but Chiun and I got all the Sinanju ones, so the rest won't be any problem."
"Several have already surrendered to the Army a few miles outside of Fairbanks," Smith told him. "What of Zhirinsky?"
Remo glanced out the window. The body of Vladimir Zhirinsky dangled halfway up the city hall flagpole, its neck firmly entangled in the flag of the Soviet Union. Glassy dead eyes stared out at the night.
Far above Zhirinsky, the American flag flew once more, illuminated by floodlights from the ground. "He's gonna be hanging around up here for a while, Smitty," Remo replied.
Across the room sulked Ivan Kerbabaev. The Russian stood near a tall window, a frown creasing his mass of crusted bandages. Ever since Remo had dug him from his snowbank, he had been complaining about the fact that he wasn't going to be allowed to rip off one of Zhirinsky's ears as promised.
On the phone Smith could tell by Remo's tone that it wasn't necessary to press further about Zhirinsky. "It is safe, then, to send in the Army," the CURE director said. "I will issue the proper commands. You and Chiun may report back to Folcroft."
"No can do, Smitty," Remo said. "We've still got a couple of loose ends we have to tie up."
Smith grew puzzled. "I thought you said everything in Alaska was secure."
"In Alaska," Remo agreed. Voice trailing off, he dropped the receiver back into its cradle.