"That is not the point," said Chiun, bringing a black sandal down on Kinga Zongar's disheveled head. The heel touched the side of her head, paused, then dipped a quarter inch.
Kinga Zongar's head burst like an erupting melon.
"Chiun! For crying out loud, that was my date."
"You have terrible taste in women," sniffed Chiun, scuffing his sole clean against the carpet.
"She was going to be the first date I've had in I don't know how many years. I didn't even get to first base."
"Nor would you have. She does not love men, only women."
Looking around the room again, Remo said, "I guess you're right. But I gotta admit it was nice having a conversation with a woman who didn't lust after me."
"There are other lesbians, if that is your desire," said Chiun.
"Not funny," said Remo, picking up the telephone and calling Harold Smith by the simple expedient of depressing the 1 button until an automatic relay embedded in the telephone system routed the call to Folcroft Sanitarium via Dixville Notch, New Hampshire.
"Remo?" Smith asked.
"Who else?"
"I have run up against a blank wall."
"On the Russian angle?"
"No, on Kinga Zongar. According to my research, she does not exist prior to 1988."
"Well, she's not going to get past 1996 either."
Smith's voice grew sharp. "What do you mean?"
"Chiun just wasted her."
"With cause?"
"We tracked her back to her apartment, where she got a computer message from someone writing what Chiun says is Russian."
"It is Russian, as was the woman," Chiun piped up.
"Whoever gives Kinga her orders, they ordered her to hit Chiun. They figured out who he was."
"It is obvious who I am, even to Russians," said Chiun.
Turning the phone away from the Master of Sinanju, Remo told Smith, "I'd read you the message on the screen, but it's full of backward N's and R's and upside-down letters I don't recognize."
"Where are you?"
"Kinga's apartment. I think it's going to be available by the first of the year if you're interested," Remo added dryly.
"One moment. I am tracing your call."
Remo hesitated. While he did, he said to Chiun, "Why don't you throw a blanket over her? She's naked."
"She is your date. You cover her nakedness," Chiun sniffed as he read the screen.
Smith came back and said, "I have accessed the computer."
"How'd you do that?"
"The supporting telephone line is listed in Kinga Zongar's name, as is the line you are calling from."
"Oh," said Remo. "Pretty slick."
The line hummed for a moment. Then Smith said, "I am attempting to retrace the e-mail to its sender."
"How can you do that?"
"The e-mail address at the top."
Remo looked. "Which one is that?"
"Top line."
"I see a W, a backward N and a T. "
"It is pronounced like a certain foul English word."
"Which one?" asked Remo.
Smith said, "The W is the Cyrillic Sh. The backward N is pronounced like a double e but transliterates as i, while the T equals our T. "
"I'm a little slow today, Smitty. Care to spell it out for me?"
"Never mind," put in Smith. "The word means 'shield,' and I am coming up with an e-mail account in Moscow."
"She said she was with the FSK, whatever that is."
"The Russian Federal Security Service. It used to be the KGB. But the e-mail account is not coming from the former KGB headquarters in the former Dzerzhinsky Square."
"Probably a blind."
"Unfortunately I cannot get a definite address."
"So we're at a dead end?"
"No. I have it narrowed down to four blocks on Gorky Street. I think it would be useful for you and Chiun to go there and discover what you can."
"Not much of a lead," said Remo.
"According to the e-mail from Moscow, her superiors are attempting to learn what they can about this from Glavkosmos, the Russian space agency. If you find nothing in Moscow, that will be your second stop."
"Sounds pretty thin."
"Nevertheless, it is a direction, and we desperately need a direction right now. Especially with Dr. Pagan giving hourly public theories."
"What's he saying now?"
"Currently he is vacillating between an asteroid strike and a floating hole in the ozone layer."
"No asteroid could have done what Chiun and I saw."
"The American public will have to be educated to understand that. In the meantime, panic is growing and we are making no progress."
"Okay. Next stop Moscow," said Remo, looking to Chiun for his reaction.
That was when he noticed the red smudge on Kinga's index fingernail.
"Hold the phone, Smith."
Remo called out. "Check this out. She was wearing some kind of fake nails."
"Do not remind me of my shame," sniffed Chiun.
"This isn't about you." Kneeling, Remo lifted the cooling hand. It was the color of porcelain. Under the exposed natural fingernail were three letters seemingly tattooed to the cuticle: "WNT."
"Looks like the Russian word for 'shield,'" said Remo.
"Yes, it is the Russian word for 'shield,'" said Chiun.
Returning to the phone, Remo said, "She's got 'shield' tattooed under her fingernail. Smitty, what do you make of that?"
"A recognition sign."
"Her code name maybe?"
"That, or the name of the organization for which she works. Let me consult my data base."
The speed with which Smith came back on the line surprised Remo.
"I have something." Smith's voice was troubled. "Do you recall the event at the Rumpp Tower a few years ago where you and Chiun encountered Russian agents?"
"Yeah. It was the last time we fought that crazy Russian klepto who could walk through walls."
"During that assignment, a Russian thug you captured blurted out the Russian word for 'shield' when asked his affiliation."
"I execute my assignments, I don't commit them to memory," Remo growled. "Remo, it might be useful to throw the word 'shield' around in Moscow."
"Gotta have the Russian pronunciation."
"Sheet."
"What's the matter?" asked Remo. "Got a paper cut?"
The momentary pause on the line made Remo think Harold Smith was fuming in silence. When he spoke again his tone was distasteful.
"Report as needed."
The line went dead.
On the way out, Remo tossed the red satin bed cover over Kinga's lush lines, telling her, "That's the biz, sweetheart."
Chapter 23
It was a long flight to Moscow from Orlando, Florida. The reservation clerk said, "It's a ten-hour trip. You'll have to fly to Berlin, then catch Aeroflot's Budapest flight to Bucharest and Moscow."
"Sounds like it involves a lot of stewardesses," Remo said unhappily.
"I'm sure they'll treat you right," the clerk said with a wink.
"Let me think about it"
"The next available flight leaves in fifty minutes."
"I'll get back to you on that."
Remo found the Master of Sinanju guarding the luggage carousel from thieves. He was doing a good job of it. Nobody was stealing any luggage. Nobody was getting their luggage back, either. The carousel kept going around and around as an angry mob pressed closer and closer like Transylvanian villagers confronting Frankenstein's dying monster.
"What are you doing?" Remo asked Chiun.
"I am protecting valuable property from thieves," said Chiun, swiping the air before him like an angry cougar. The ring of people flinched as one.
"They look like passengers to me."
"Let them prove it. I have seen on television how luggage is stolen daily by thieves pretending to be tourists."
"We don't have any luggage with us," Remo reminded.
"If we strike terror into would-be thieves now, the next time we bring luggage, my trunks will be safe."