"That is what the CIA believes."
Colonel Rushenko looked to the dead-eyed American with his own eyes going sick. "The fools in the Kremlin have gone mad. There is no reason for this, no logic."
"Tough. We got what we came for."
"And you have served your purpose," added the Master of Sinanju.
"If you kill me, I cannot help you," Rushenko said thickly.
"Who says we need your help, Russian?" said the Master of Sinanju.
"Your interests are my interests. I wish to get to the bottom of this affair, too."
The two US. agents exchanged glances. The old Korean nodded, and the pressure of death left the throat of Colonel Rushenko, who understood that if he was to live, it wouldn't be for long.
For the most deadly killers in all of humanity owned him like a dull puppet of wood and strings.
Chapter 27
The call took ninety minutes using the Moscow phone system.
"It's the Russians," Remo told Harold Smith.
"I have checked with SPACETRACK. The orbits do not coincide with Mir."
"It's not Mir. It's something launched by the Russian shuttle. This is out of Shield."
"Then there is such an organization."
"Yeah. Unofficially. It's some kind of holdover from the Soviet period. The guy who runs it says the Kremlin doesn't even know it exists. Sound familiar, Smitty?"
"Who gave you this information?" Smith pressed.
"The guy who runs it. Say dos vedanya to-what's your name, by the way?"
"Colonel Radomir Eduardovitch Rushenko," said the colonel, between sucks of his wounded thumb.
"Better known as Uncle Vanya. Smitty, this info came by way of the CIA. Our CIA."
"They have a mole in the CIA!" Smith sputtered.
"You act surprised. Lower Slobovia probably has moles in the CIA these days."
Smith cleared his throat. "No intelligence coming out of the CIA is reliable these days," he said dismissively.
"According to the mole, SPACETRACK has a fix on this thing."
"If SPACETRACK has such a fix, why has this not been reported to the White House?" Smith countered.
"Maybe SPACETRACK knows a hot potato when they smell it," Remo suggested.
"Hold the line open."
"Good idea. If we get disconnected, it could be Valentine's Day before we can reestablish contact."
Harold Smith put them on hold, and Remo turned to Colonel Rushenko.
"My boss says hi."
Colonel Rushenko said nothing other than to grit his teeth. Then he remembered the mushy feeling in the seat of his pants.
"I am sitting in caviar," he said.
"Lucky you. Some people only fall into clover."
"I do not mean this metaphorically. I am sitting on my lunch."
"Enjoy it. Lots of Russians are starving these days."
"Yes. Thanks to the corrosive poison of capitalism."
"Your throwback opinion doesn't exactly count."
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," Colonel Rushenko said acidly.
AT FOLCROFT SANITARIUM, Harold Smith called a major at SPACETRACK, representing himself as General Smith with the US. Space Command.
"Yes, General?" said the major at SPACETRACK.
"We have a rumor here that you people have something in inventory whose orbits coincide with the BioBubble and Reliant mishaps."
The man on the other end of the line made a brief choking sound, as if a chicken bone had just been expelled from his throat.
"I have nothing on that in this office, General Smith."
"Connect me with an office that has this information," Smith said tartly, recognizing a bureaucratic shuffle when he heard one. "Just a sec."
The line clicked, buzzed, then went dead. When Smith redialed, it was busy. The busy signal was angry and insistent in its way.
Hanging up, Smith logged on to the SPACETRACK active data base, and got a real-time snapshot of what SPACETRACK had from its many ground-based radar stations. On his desktop monitor, the gigantic image was squeezed down too small to read. Smith blew up the different grids one by one until he found Object 617.
Smith knew little about celestial navigation. He recognized that the object had a polar orbit. This meant it executed a continuous loop from the North Pole to the South Pole and back again every ninety minutes. Since the earth rotated under it, it passed over virtually every spot on earth at one point or another, and if maneuverable, could be made to overfly any point on the globe. Usually this was a certain signature of a spy satellite.
Smith punched up the file on Object 617.
What he saw made him gasp.
It was logged in as having been inserted into orbit a month before, deployed by a Buran shuttle, classified by Space Command as a recon satellite of unknown purpose and marked for periodic observation.
Optical images taken by GEODES-the Ground-based Electro-Optical Deep Space Surveillance element of the Air Force Maui Optical Station-showed a dark ball framed by struts painted a stealth gray.
If this was a spy satellite, it was of a configuration and purpose that baffled Harold Smith. For one thing, there were no observable lens apertures. Logging off, Smith picked up the blue contact phone that connected him to Remo in Moscow.
"Remo, Object 617 exists. It's in the SPACETRACK inventory as a spy satellite. The Russian space shuttle did deploy it. That is confirmed."
"So I guess we need to talk to the Russian shuttle people."
"This will be difficult."
"Oh, I don't know," Remo said airily. "Our good friend Colonel Rushenko here has offered his help."
"Be certain to convert our new friend to a neutral posture at the end of this phase of the mission."
"Already thought of that," said Remo, hanging up.
"Thought of what?" Colonel Rushenko asked.
"Our boss just sent his regards."
"You cannot deceive me. I am to be liquidated because I know of you."
"Hey, you'd do the same for us. In fact, you tried pretty hard."
Rushenko made a fist with his fleshy face. "I have nothing more to say. Other than that, I have not finished my lunch and I am very hungry."
"No time," said Remo, picking him up by the scruff of his thick neck.
"There is candy in my desk."
Shrugging, the American rifled through the contents of the cherry-wood desk until he pulled out a brown wrapper. "This looks familiar," he said.
"It is a candy bar."
Remo showed the wrapper to the Master of Sinanju. Chiun squeezed his eyes at the red letters that spelled "Mapc."
"What's this say?" asked Remo.
"Where did you find this!" Chiun hissed.
"Belongs to Colonel Klink here."
"The word is the same as your 'Mars.'"
"No kidding." Remo looked to Colonel Rushenko. "This is a Russian Mars bar?"
"I normally detest American products, but Russian chocolate has seriously deteriorated since the collapse."
Remo stripped the wrapper, pocketed it as a souvenir and trashed the rest.
"I desired that," Colonel Rushenko protested.
"Might have been poison."
"Who would poison good chocolate?"
"The same manner of cretin who would consume fish while they are but eggs," said the Master of Sinanju in a distasteful tone.
And steely constricting fingers brought unwelcome unconsciousness to Colonel Rushenko's unhappy brain.
Not to mention his growling stomach.
Chapter 28
Bartholomew Meech watched the computer screen in his sprawling lab where monitoring systems pulsed and beeped and the incessant rain made the windows swim, blocking out the oyster gray world beyond them.
He drained a cup of heavily sugared Starbucks black coffee and hoped the screen wouldn't beep. But he knew it would. Then it did, and flashed, "You have mail!"
Meech brought it up.
To: R From: RM@qnm.com Subject: I'm back Just blew back into town. What's the latest?