Meech composed his reply with caffeine-shaky fingers.
To: RM@qnm.com From: R Subject: . . . . I killed a man. The NASA crawler driver.
The reply hit the screen a moment later:
Not your problem. You're only a cog in the corporate machine. Go to confession on your own time. On company time, you do what the firm requires. What's Pagan saying now?
Meech replied:
He's talking up asteroids again. And ozone holes. But it's not what Pagan is saying. It's what the press is saying. They're blaming Russia now. We've ignited a global incident.
The response:
Great! We need to throw up more smoke, keep the Russians from figuring things out and throw the blame back on the Martians. Hit Baikonur. Hit it hard.
Bartholomew Meech shook and shook as he read the green glowing words. Then he composed his reply: "What about Russian casualties?"
He knew what the reply would be before it appeared: "They're only vodka-swilling peasants. This is our jobs. Go to it."
Bartholomew Meech came out of his chair heavily and prepared to fulfill his responsibilities to his employer. His glasses were as steamy as the windows that looked out over a fog in which a gigantic, saucer-shaped object ringed with illuminated windows seemed to float disembodied in a gray drizzle like the advance guard from another world.
Chapter 29
For the head of Russia's most secret counterintelligence agency, Colonel Radomir Rushenko was very open.
"I myself did not prefer to call my modest ministry Shield," he was saying.
"We do not care," said Chiun as the Yak-90 airliner droned over Soviet central Asia en route to Kazakhstan.
"I wished to call it Rodina, which means 'Motherland.'"
Remo yawned elaborately.
"But there was already a television program by that name. I did not wish confusion. Nor did I like the program. In fact, I do not much like Russian programming these days."
"Let me guess," said Remo. "Too many American imports?"
"Yes. How did you know that?"
"It's the same thing the French and Canadians keep complaining about."
"They are quite correct in their complaints."
"Didn't stop you from ripping off 'The Man from U.N.C.L.E.,'" Remo contended.
"It was a very clever cover."
"Chiun caught on right off."
"Did you?" Rushenko asked Remo pointedly.
Remo changed the subject. "What's the real purpose of Shield?" he asked.
"As I have said, to preserve the union."
Remo blinked. "Union? What union?"
"The Soviet Union. What other union is of historical consequence?"
"We have a union in America, too, you know."
"Then you sympathize with the aims of Shield."
"Not really."
"But now we are on the same team. Like Solo and Kuryakin, da?"
"We are on the same team, nyet," said Remo.
"Which organization do you belong to?" asked Rushenko.
"Who says we belong to anyone?" Remo retorted.
"It is obvious you are not CIA."
"Why is it obvious?"
This time Colonel Rushenko smiled elaborately. "Because if the CIA employed the House of Sinanju, FSK would know this. And what FSK knows, Shield knows, too."
"Who put those moles in the CIA?"
"I refuse to say categorically. But I will admit to having moles in the FSK."
Remo reached forward and took Colonel Rushenko by the back of his thick, black-stubbled neck.
"Let's try answering this question again, shall we?" he prompted.
"Yes, of course."
"Name names."
"I do not know these names."
Remo made a buzzer sound. "Wrong answer. Prepare to be defenestrated at thirty thousand feet."
And Remo jammed the Russian's face against a window so he could get a clear view of every foot of the deadly drop.
"I know code names," Rushenko sputtered. "For these moles were KGB moles we acquired. It was decided not to pry into personalities. Just accept intelligence reports."
"How do you know they weren't CIA double agents? Or FSK turncoats feeding you false information?"
"All information coming from the CIA is assumed to be false or unreliable," said Colonel Rushenko.
"Why's that?"
"They persist in using psychics."
"So why gather it?"
"It is useful to know what the CIA thinks it knows. As useful as knowing what it correctly knows."
"You know, I'm glad I'm just an assassin. This spy stuff sounds confusing."
"It is a man's game," Colonel Rushenko said with dignified satisfaction.
"It is foolishness," Chiun broke in. "Information does not matter. Only who rules, who lives and who dies."
Rushenko nodded heavily. "That, too, is important. But who rules in the modern world often depends upon intelligence."
"There has never been an intelligent Russian ruler," Chiun said pointedly as he watched the wing for signs of structural flaw. "Otherwise, Russia would never have fallen into such ruinous chaos time and time again."
"This democratic experiment will end soon. There will be a new regime. Just like the good old days."
"A czar will emerge if a strong man with Romanov blood can be located," Chiun countered.
"We are not speaking the same language," Colonel Rushenko said, deciding that it would be impossible to pry secrets from these two.
The copilot came back to announce that they were nearing their destination. "Leninsk is but twenty minutes away," he said in English because Remo had insisted all conversation take place in English so there would be no misunderstanding.
It had been like this since they had taken Colonel Rushenko to the Sheremetevo II Airport, woke him up and told him to use whatever pull he had to get them to Baikonur Cosmodrome.
Colonel Rushenko was so pleased to find himself still among the living that he complied by whistling up a Yak-90 by telephone. This was the third leg of their trek, and at every refueling stop the Shield colonel seemed to have ready agents willing to do his bidding.
They tightened their seat belts, which were simple hemp ropes.
Once again Colonel Rushenko apologized for this embarrassment but such was the state of post-Soviet Russia, or as he called it, "this regrettable interlude."
Below, the snow-dusted steppes of central Asia rose up to meet them and Colonel Rushenko once again waxed expansive. "I will give you a good example of disinformation. The copilot has told you we are approaching Leninsk."
"Yeah?" said Remo.
"But Leninsk is three hundred kilometers from Baikonur."
A slim nail touched Colonel Rushenko's carotid artery.
"Choose your next words with care," Chiun warned.
The colonel instantly broke out in a cold sweat. He found his voice after two swallows. "You misunderstand. This is no trap. I am merely making a point."
"Make it," suggested Remo.
"When Gagarin became the first man in space, TASS informed the world of the proud fact that he was launched from Baikonur Cosmodrome. This is what credulous Western media picked up. Ever since, the West has referred to the launch point as Baikonur Cosmodrome, but it is not in Baikonur at all, but near Leninsk, another place entirely."
"So?"
"This was never corrected. Which proves the West are a pack of fools."
"Spoken like a man clinging to a broken fantasy," said Remo.
"The Soviet Union will rise again."
"Not if a good czar rises first," said Chiun.
The Yak dropped lower, its engines straining. Remo took a second glance at the slipknot snugged against his midriff. In the flat distance, the most prominent landmark of Baikonur Cosmodrome showed-a gantry complex of squat, girdered towers. Support buildings ranging from broad hangars to white monoliths of blank sheet metal were arrayed around the gantry area. There were two runways-one very long and the other seemingly endless.
"Do you know that I am a Kazakh?" Rushenko asked Chiun as the noisy engine straining made the cabin rattle alarmingly.