When he saw some of his men already standing in the hall, Zhilnikov frowned. There were more Mayanans in suits in the dank corridor. They were turning keys in locks, releasing the rest of the Russian submarine crew.
"What is meaning of this?" Zhilnikov asked.
"It's judgment day," the Mayanan replied. "And you fellows have bought yourselves a front-row seat."
Puzzled, Zhilnikov looked to his men.
The Mayanans had drawn handguns. They were waving the weapons at the sailors, herding them together and steering them toward an open rear door. The door didn't lead to the main street. Zhilnikov saw an alley wall. The men began shuffling out into the late-afternoon sun.
"I am confused," Gennady Zhilnikov said, hesitantly trailing his men. "Are we going before judge now?"
At this, the Mayanans shared a wicked smile. "You're going before the ultimate judge," one promised. "And woe to you sinners, his wrath shall be great."
With a rough shove between the shoulder blades, the Mayanans propelled Captain Gennady Zhilnikov out the prison door and into the lengthening afternoon shadows.
Chapter 27
By the time Remo and Chiun finished supper, dusk was sweeping away the last of lingering daylight. He'd asked for recommendations from the hotel staff. Their restaurant was near the dock where the Novgorod had been brought. Remo parked his rented car near a seaside bar that had been built on a pier above the gently lapping waters of a deep inlet. The windows of the bar had been recently boarded up. A closed sign hung on the door.
The inlet was home to a large marina that was virtually abandoned. There were no people to be seen. Unused pleasure boats lined both shores. The houses on the far side were walled and gated. Remo saw for-sale signs on many of them.
It was no wonder. Junk from the scows that had sunk in the Caribbean had washed in to shore. Garbage from around the world clogged the beaches. Chunks of Styrofoam, plastic bottles and other trash floated atop the sparkling water.
"Tough luck for anyone who bought retirement property down here," Remo commented as he and Chiun strolled the sidewalk along the shore. "Although, actually the climate's pretty good. If the land's selling for cheap enough, maybe we should relocate the entire population of Sinanju here. It's a lot warmer, and the shit smell isn't half as bad."
He glanced at his teacher for the reaction his Sinanju-bashing usually provoked.
Padding along beside him, Chiun wore a concerned frown. Through the afternoon and into early evening, the old man's expression hadn't changed. It had started when he answered the cell phone Remo had found in the hotel hallway.
"I have a dream," Remo announced all at once.
"If I give you a dollar, will you promise to keep it to yourself?" the old man asked blandly.
Remo was undeterred. "I have a dream," he repeated, "that one day you'll let me in on everything. I have a dream that you won't just make me memorize every Master of Sinanju without telling me their legends, just so you can dish the stories out on a need-to-know basis. I have a dream you'll let me in on what kind of contract you cut with Smith. I have a dream you'll let me know exactly what you're planning for your retirement, so I don't wake up one morning to find you've gone back to Korea forever. But mostly I have a dream that now that I'm Reigning Master of Sinanju, you'll finally let me in on all those tiny little everyday secrets you've insisted on keeping from me for the past thirty years."
Chiun nodded thoughtfully as Remo spoke, giving weighty consideration to his pupil's words. When Remo was finished, the former Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju raised his wattled neck from his kimono collar. He turned as if to address an equal, not a student. And he did say, in low and serious tones, "Keep dreaming, round eyes."
"Why am I not surprised?" Remo said with a shrug.
"As long as we are on the subject of desires, I would live in an ideal world where I would have trained a pupil who trusted his Master enough to mind his own business."
"In an ideal world Julio Iglesias would have been born sterile. We play the hand we're dealt."
As they closed in on their car, Remo noted something in the air that was more than just the omnipresent odor of garbage. Soft pressure waves were directed at the two men.
"For cripes' sake, not again," he complained. Up ahead, Remo caught sight of a man in a suit lurking behind a bunch of shrubs. He recognized him as one of the gunmen who had attacked them outside their hotel room. He spied the other man behind some drying fishing nets.
"What did you say those guys you killed yesterday were-religious fanatics?" he asked Chiun. "What did you mean?"
"They mentioned something about suffering the wrath of their deity. In truth I did not listen to all they said. The selling moments were over and my show had begun again. Besides, I would give audience to a Calcutta leper before I would an American who knocks on my door to discuss religion."
"American? What makes you think that?"
"The rudeness? The smell? The big mouths? Stop me when you hear something you do not already know."
Remo was only half listening. Through narrowed eyes, he noted that another figure had joined the party.
Up ahead, a man was snooping around Remo's car.
As he lurked, Vlad Korkusku scowled at the world as only ex-KGB agents could. When he spied Remo and Chiun coming toward him, the scowl flashed to dread.
"Hello, American friend who frightens me," said Vlad Korkusku, slapping on an insincere smile. "I'm not your friend. And if you're the one trying to kill us, you're going to get the Chernobyl of wedgies."
"Kill you? No, no. Am not killing you," Vlad Korkusku insisted. "Hotel worker said I could find you here. I have come with message from Agent Bulganin. She is in needing of your assistance."
"Soon as I get a thanks for the first twenty times I helped her in the last two days, I'll consider it. Until then, Mother Russia can take a flying leap."
The SVR agent was standing in his way. Remo picked up the big man with the ease of a grandmother rearranging the wicker furniture. He set Korkusku to one side.
"Is important," Korkusku pleaded. "I was away from embassy for a time. Only just found message she left. She did not give full details for sake of security. Just said that there was great danger and to find you if I could, and to reassemble my squad if I could not. She took only one SVR agent with her to presidential palace. I have to be coming to Novgorod to round up rest."
"Yeah?" Remo scowled. He turned to his teacher. "Say, Chiun, maybe they don't care about us at all. Maybe they followed this schmuck."
"They are not watching him-they are watching us," the old Korean pointed out.
Korkusku was confused. "Who is watching who?"
"The killers who have us surrounded," Remo said, peeved. "Do you mind?"
Startled, Vlad Korkusku reached under his jacket. He found an empty holster. He looked pleadingly at Remo.
"No, I am not telling you where I hid your guns," Remo said impatiently. "If you've got the urge to kill and maim, use a Russian cookbook. Besides, they don't want you. Now beat it. I've had it with cleaning up bodies."
Korkusku didn't seem to know what to do. With great reluctance-and all the while studying the growing shadows-he left Remo and Chiun to get in their car.
The SVR man got no more than a few feet when there came a sharp pop. His black shoes skidded on pavement. There was a gasp that seemed strangled in his throat.
Korkusku spun back to Remo and Chiun, a look of panicked bafflement on his sagging face. One hand was clutched to his chest. Blood gurgled between his fingers.
"Crap," Remo said. "Never a minute's peace." This time when the men opened fire on him, Remo didn't head in the opposite direction. With an angry frown he headed straight for the gunman in the bushes.