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.