In the end, it was her long period of relative inactivity that decided Kinga. She pulled over onto the shoulder of the road and sat quietly as the highway patrol car pulled behind her, its roof lights making a discordant multihued web of color in the humid air.
When the highway patrolman came striding up in his gray-and-black whipcord uniform, his straw Stetson cocked at a rakish angle, Kinga smiled with quiet pleasure. He was very big for an American. His life would require at least three bullets.
From the drink receptacle between the front seats, Kinga extracted her choice of weapon. A matte-finish Ruger. It was a very satisfying firearm with which to kill enemies.
A touch of the dash button brought the window humming down, and Kinga turned her head so the patrolman could see her flawless womanly face.
"I am sorry to bother you, Officer. Was I exceeding the speed limit?"
Whether the patrolman was disarmed by her polite manner or her refined if unplaceable accent did not matter. He thumbed his Stetson back off his head and drawled, "I'm afraid so, ma'am."
He was very solicitous and polite. So Kinga did him the courtesy of shooting him directly in the face so that he would experience no pain or discomfort in the brief, helpless interval before he struck the macadam in death.
She left him jittering in his insensate death throes, pulling away reluctantly because these wet affairs were always so stimulating. Especially after going so long without them.
Reaching her apartment without further incident, Kinga locked up her vehicle and entered her apartment quietly, so as not to disturb the neighbors who never showed her reciprocal courtesy. But this was America, after all.
The Compaq was running as always. She took the red leather chair and logged on to the net, typing in Cyrillic with professional precision.
To: UncleVanya@shield.su.min From: AuntTamara@aol.com Subject: Findings Preliminary investigation fails to disclose cause of accident in question. National media reporting sighting of three glowing letters in sky prior to event. Media speculating letters of cosmic origin. Clearly they are not, unless extraordinary coincidence at work. Letters are; " MNP."
Further, have made contact with investigators from NTSB, who are not what they pretend to be. One is elderly Asian gentleman with North Korean accent. The other is American companion. Does this suggest anything to you?
Kinga pressed the Send key and waited. Knowing the Russian telephone system, it could be a minute or three days before a response came back. She decided to wait until drowsiness overcame her alertness. It was an exceedingly sultry night, and sleeping would be difficult at best.
Twenty minutes passed before she decided to call it a night. If a reply came, the machine would emit an electronic call that invariably pulled Kinga out of the deepest sleep.
Deep in the night, the chime sounded and Kinga flung off her red satin bedcover before her eyes quite opened. She dropped into the chair, squinting to read the green letters in the humid darkness. As a gesture to modesty, she left the room light off.
The Cyrillic message popped up at the touch of a key.
To: AuntTamara@aol.com From: UncleVanya@shield.su.min Subject: Report Mir story incredible. We have queried Glavkosmos contacts.
Your North Korean possible Master of Sinanju, now known to be in employ of Washington through unknown agency. Request courtesy liquidation. Good luck.
Kinga Zongar smiled in the greenish phosphor glow. It would be the greatest of pleasures to undertake a sanctioned wet affair of such magnitude here in the United States.
Reaching out to erase the message, Kinga hesitated only briefly. The brief interval proved to be unfortunate.
A hand, cool as steel and equally hard, arrested her wrist.
Trained for dangerous contingencies, she stifled a sharp intake of breath and said in a moderate voice, "I am unarmed, as well as nude."
"I noticed," said a friendly, familiar male voice. "Move your head so we can read."
"You! My goodness, Remo. I did not hear you enter."
"But we heard you enter," said the squeaky voice of the elderly Korean, Chiun.
"You have been in my apartment all this time?"
"We almost waved when the highway patrolman pulled you over. But we were in a rush," said Remo in an insolent voice.
"You are staring at my bosom," Kinga said thinly.
"Can't help it. It's in the light."
"I must protest this intrusion on my privacy."
Remo pointed at the screen. "Check this out, Chiun."
"It is in Russian."
"I figured that much out. What's it say?"
"She has been instructed to liquidate me," the Master of Sinanju said thinly. He did not sound so very angry as annoyed in a minor way. This fell strangely on Kinga's ears.
"What about me?" asked Remo in a tone also not angry, but casual in its interest.
"You are not mentioned, lesser one."
Kinga said nothing. Her eyes were on the screen, and her heart was beginning to pound. Another moment, and she would have erased the incriminating message for all time. Now the Cyrillic letters glared greenly at her like burning crystals.
"I would not have harmed you, Remo," she said quietly.
"Why not?"
"I admire you."
"You have a pretty cool way of showing it."
"I am very shy with men."
"Is this why your walls are covered with salacious portraits of women?" Chiun asked, gesturing broadly in the eerie green glow. His face resembled a shriveled lime with thin eyes.
Kinga said, "I fail to grasp your meaning."
The light went on; illuminating the walls. Here and there were hung lithographs and reproductions of studies and paintings. The subjects were all of a single theme. The female form.
"Looks like you have a one-track mind," said Remo, looking around admiringly.
"You are speaking nonsense. These are reproductions of works of fine art. Have you no culture?"
"I don't see any equal opportunity for men."
"A nude man is a vulgar sight. A woman's unclothed form is pleasing to both sexes," Kinga said.
"I kinda like what I see," Remo admitted.
"You are very uncouth, barging into my flat and-"
"Tough. You're pretty rude yourself, coming to this country to spy."
"I am not spy."
"You are not Hungarian, either."
"I will speak the truth. I am half-Hungarian. My paternal parent was Russian. I am ashamed of this because there was a rape involved in my conception. It is very painful to admit this, but it is nonetheless true."
"Let's skip the personal history," said Remo, cutting in. "Who do you work for?"
"I am free-lance. The highest bidders command my allegiance. No other."
"Liar," said Chiun.
"I speak the truth. And now that you have read my instructions, I would like to erase them, please. They are no longer of consequence now that you have seen them."
This time it was the elderly Korean who arrested her reaching hands. But his touch was not steel, but acid. Needles dipped in acid. Injecting Kinga with a deadly venom that burned along the nerves until her lush body lay on the floor quivering.
"Who do you work for, Russian?" the Korean voice demanded through the mounting pain.
"I cannot tell," Kinga gasped through clenching teeth. She tongued a cyanide pill out of a hollow wisdom tooth. The maneuver was surreptitious in the extreme. But it didn't go unnoticed.
The pain redoubled, and her tongue shot out. The pill fell to the rug, and a sandal crushed it utterly, then returned to exerting pressure on her head.
Kinga could hold it back no longer. "FSK! FSK! I am FSK! My control is Stankevitch, FSK!"
Remo turned to the Master of Sinanju. "What's the FSK?"
"I do not know," said Chiun. "But I do know that I am done with this would-be slayer of me."
"She couldn't kill you if she had a neutron bomb tucked in her bra."