"All right," he said. "Starting now. Come on."
He rose from the small table where he had been drinking herbal tea and walked to one of the computer consoles that lined the walls of the living quarters.
He flipped on a power switch and then pressed a sequence of numbers that separated the screen into two lengthwise parts.
"Now, on the left," he said. "That's number one." He pressed more numbers and a large "ready" appeared on that half-screen. "Those are the Russian missiles," he said. "I'm already into their network. And number two--"
He busied himself pressing more keys on the console and finally the word "ready" appeared on the right-hand side of the screen also.
"Number two is the United States. Now both sets of missiles are ready to fire."
"How will you fire them?" she said.
"To fire Russia's, I just type onto the keyboard 'One-Fire' and the code number. That's all it takes. For America's, I type 'Two-Fire' and the code. They're already programmed and ready to go."
"How do you know where they'll go?" Marcia asked.
"I didn't have to do anything with that. Russia's are programmed to hit the U.S. America's are set to hit Russia. I just left that alone."
"Too difficult to figure out, I guess?" she said.
"Don't you believe it," he snapped. "Of course I've got it figured out. If I wanted to change anywhere these missiles should be launched, if I wanted them to go hit South Africa for instance, I would just write on the screen 'One,' then insert the latitude and longitude for South Africa, and then write 'fire.' And the missiles would go there instead."
"The same for the American missiles?" she asked.
He nodded. "Just insert the target's longitude and latitude and that'll do it. They self-correct for direction once they've been launched. I already worked out the coordinates."
"You're brilliant, Abner. Just brilliant."
"You're right," Buell said.
"You said you need the code number for firing. What's that?"
"It's in my head somewhere," he said. "I'll remember it when I need it."
"And the coordinates?" Marcia asked.
Buell flapped his arm toward the top of the computer console where piles of papers were stacked precariously. "I've got them written down somewhere. Up there. I told you, we didn't need them."
"No. Of course not," Marcia said. She stood back from Buell and as she did, she knocked over a stack of papers with her elbow.
"Clumsy," Buell muttered.
"I'm sorry." She stooped to gather the papers. When she found one with the names of cities with two simple rows of figures on it, she slipped it inside the sleeve of her blouse, then replaced the stack where it had been.
Buell had not noticed; he was calling up other numbers on the computer screen. Finally, he restored the split screen with the two Ready signals on either side. "Everything's all set for the big bang," he said.
"Good," Marcia said.
"But first we've got our entertainment outside. Let's go up," Buell said.
"I'll be up in a minute," she said. "I just want to put on a little makeup first."
"Suit yourself. Wear something nice when you come up," he said. "Maybe your cavegirl costume."
"I will," Marcia said.
When she heard the upstairs door that led outside click shut, Marcia pulled the list of coordinates from her sleeve and sat at the computer. Working swiftly and efficiently, she reprogrammed all the missiles of the United States to strike, not at Moscow and Russia, but at New York, Washington, Los Angeles, and Chicago. She did not change the trajectories of the Russian missiles. They were still aimed at the United States.
* * *
Harold Smith was ready. Flattened behind a small rock, he waited, his binoculars focused on the plateau above the site where the battle was to take place.
Almost at noon, a solitary figure appeared on the plateau, walked to the edge and seemed, like a military conqueror, to survey all the ground around him. Smith pressed himself close to the ground, then peered up and saw the man was sitting now in a folding lawn chair on the edge of the rock shelf. It was Abner Buell. Smith crawled silently through the grass toward the back of the hill.
When he reached the bottom of the hill, he felt for the Barsgod in his pocket. Its weight gave him a perverse satisfaction. On this day Remo would die, and Chiun would prepare to return to Korea, and Harold Smith would go back to Folcroft Sanitarium, probably never to emerge from it alive, and CURE would probably be finished. But because of the Barsgod, Buell would also die.
And the rest of the world would live.
So be it, Smith thought.
The sun was high and bright when Remo strode out into the open field to meet the diminutive figure dressed in white robes and standing as still as a statue. When he approached, Chiun bowed to him.
Remo did not return the bow. Instead, he stood like a man who had walked a thousand miles with a pack of stones upon his back. His shoulders were stooped and a deep furrow ran between his red-rimmed eyes.
"I didn't think it would ever come to this," Remo said quietly.
Chiun's face was impassive. "And what is 'this'?"
"Don't play word games with me, Little Fa--" Remo stopped himself. His mouth twisted with bitterness. "Little Father," he finished and spat on the ground.
Chiun's eyelids fluttered but he said nothing.
"You've come to kill me," Remo said. There was no accusation in his voice, only the sorrowful sound of resignation.
"I have been so commanded," Chiun said.
"Ah, the contract," Remo said. "That's right. Money for Sinanju. Don't forget the money, Chiun. I hope you got paid in advance. Your ancestors will never forgive you if you get stiffed on this job. The great Sinanju god. Money."
"You are cruel," the old Oriental said softly.
Remo laughed, a harsh sound in the thin noon air. "Right, Chiun. You go on telling yourself that. While you're killing me, just keep thinking how cruel I am."
"I might not be able to kill you," Chiun said.
"Oh, yes, you will. But I'm not going to make it easy for you," Remo said. "I'm not fighting back."
"Like a sheep, you will stand there?" asked Chiun.
"Sheep if you want. But that's the way I want it. You're going to have to kill me where I stand."
"You are permitted to fight," Chiun said.
"And I'm also permitted not to fight. Sorry, Chiun. I'm the one who's dying. I'll pick the way."
"It is not the way of an assassin," Chiun said.
"You're the assassin, remember? Chiun, the great assassin." Remo's eyes welled with tears. "Well, I'm going to give you something to remember me by. A parting gift from your son. When you kill me, Chiun, you won't be any assassin. You'll be a butcher. That's my gift. Take it to the grave with you."
He ripped open the collar of his shirt and lifted his chin, baring his throat. "Go ahead," he said, his moist eyes fixed on the old man. "Do it now and get it over with."
"You could have lain in wait for me here," Chiun said. "You could have killed me when I arrived."
"Well, I didn't," Remo said.
"Why will you not fight me?"
"Because," Remo said.
"A typical stupid answer from a pale piece of pig's ear," Chiun snapped. "What does that mean, that 'because'?"
"Just because," Remo said stubbornly.
"Because you could not stand the thought of perhaps hurting me," the old man said.
"Not that at all," Remo said.
"It is true. You knew my mission. You could have attacked first."
Remo only looked away.
"My son," Chiun said brokenly. "Can you see there is no other way?"
"I love you, Little Father," Remo said.
"Yes," said Chiun. "And that is why you will fight me. We must not disappoint our audience."
He pulled himself up to his full height, then bowed once more to his opponent.