Warren Murphy: Last War Dance

"What the hell?" said someone.

"I'll be a son of a bitch," said Brandt.

The cannon stood there as it had before, but now its barrel, instead of pointing ceilingward in phallic pride, drooped impotently toward the floor of the store, like a shriveled stalk of celery.

Remo was already outside, trotting toward the road, to get back to his other main problem—Valashnikov.

But he was not fast enough. The enraged Brandt had gone to the window to look outside, and in the early morning light, he saw Remo trotting away.

"Damn it," he said. "Dirty, double-dealing, double-crosser." He slammed his right fist into his left palm. "If you think we're done, funny name, you've got another thing coming."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

General Van Riker had been successful. This, Valashnikov realized when the telephone rang in his room at the motel. On the phone was the Russian ambassador's chief aide for cultural affairs—which meant the top Red spy in America.

"Comrade Valashnikov, you are to leave immediately," he said without preamble.

"Leave? But why?"

"Why? Why? Is there a change in the policy that you ask me why?"

"But I've found what I came to find. It's here. It's here. After ten years I've found it," said Valashnikov.

"Yes. You may have. You may also have caused an international incident. You may endanger détente, and without détente, without friendship, without mutual understanding, how can we ever make the surprise attack? Valashnikov, you are a fool, and you are to leave immediately."

Valashnikov breathed deeply. He was just too close to success to lose gracefully. "Would you mind telling me what I am supposed to have done?"

"Gladly," said the chief aide for cultural affairs. "First, your assault on that little girl, that little Indian child—has exposed you to criminal charges and our nation to embarrassment."

"But…"

"Do not 'but' me. If you were just a pervert, that would be bad enough. But you are a fool. To think that you have offered Russian arms to the Indians at Wounded Elk! You have tampered with an internal American problem. You have involved us in an affairs we should not be involved in."

"But, I never…"

"Do not deny it, Valashnikov. I have heard it myself, with my own ears, just moments ago. You are just lucky the mayor of Wounded Elk is a reasonable man. Mayor Van Riker will not press charges."

"Van Riker? He's a…"

"He is an elected official, Valashnikov. An elected official. And would an American mayor lie? You will leave immediately. You will return to Vladivostok and wait there until you hear from us."

The phone clicked sharply in Valashnikov's ear.

Imbeciles! Stupid, foolish imbeciles! They had been duped by Van Riker. Somehow he had gotten information on Valashnikov, and he had used that information to give the ring of truth to the rest of the story he had told the Russian Embassy. And the embassy had believed it.

Stupid. Well, they could be as stupid as they wished, but Valashnikov would not help them in their stupidity. For ten years he had been right and he had been punished for his beliefs and for KGB stupidity. And now that he was on the verge of success, of redemption, he would not be cheated out of it by a spy in Washington who believed a ridiculous, incredible story.

In Moscow they must learn that Valashnikov had been right. There was nothing else left in life for him. His life had been struggles and losses, but he had to balance the books this time. He had to prove he was right.

Leave now? Go back to Vladivostok and his clerk's job? No! Even if he had wished to, he knew he would never have reached Vladivostok. Anyone believed to be fool enough to tamper with American politics would be exiled—or shot.

Valashnikov put his pistol into a dresser drawer, donned his jacket, and walked out of his room. He would find a way to show Russia he was right.

When Remo came back along the road from the Apowa village, he was not stopped by the federal marshals, who all seemed to be congregated around the large tent that was being used as press headquarters.

Remo strolled over in that direction and saw that the TV lights were on, cameras were humming, and the pen-and-pencil reporters were hastily scribbling notes. The center of all the attention was a face Remo recognized immediately. It had graced the covers of news magazines. It had been magnified forty times and seen on motion picture screens around the world. It was Perkin Marlowe. The actor wore blue jeans and a T-shirt, and his thinning, longish light brown hair was caught in a small pony tail.

"Genocidal America," he said softly, his lips hardly moving.

"What'd he say?" one of the reporters yelled. "What'd he say?"

"Homicidal America," said another reporter.

"Thanks," said the first, happy he hadn't missed anything.

Perkin Marlowe went on, answering questions in a voice so dull and diffused that it was difficult to understand. But the thrust was that America was an evil country and Americans were evil, dull, stupid people who did not have the good sense to support this obviously worthwhile cause of the honest, free, nature-loving red man.

That the same evil, dull, stupid American people had made Perkin Marlowe rich by attending his films he did not deem worthy of mention, and if any of the reporters thought of it, they did not mention it either, lest they seem to their peers to be establishment stooges.

"I am on my way to the RIP encampment," Marlowe said. "There I will make my stand alongside my Indian brothers though we may fall under the onslaught of the government troops."

"What troops?" called out Remo before slipping to a different spot in the crowd.

Marlowe looked confused. "Everybody knows there are troops hidden all around here."

"That's right," squeaked Jerry Candler. "I had it in the Globe. Be quiet there in back."

Marlowe continued, "Yes, we may fall under the onslaught, but we will fight bravely."

"Forget the fight," Remo called. "Did you remember to bring more booze?" The last truckload's all gone."

Again he moved before anyone could spot him. Marlowe looked around, trying to find the speaker. Finally he said, "Gentlemen, I think that's all. If I never see any of you again, keep up the good work. Fight the good fight."

He turned quickly and as Candler led the audience in applause, walked rapidly from the press tent and across the grass prairie toward the church.

The newsmen followed him, lugging their equipment. The marshals moved along with the crowd, across the field toward the church.

And unseen on the main road, headed from the motel to the monument was Valashnikov.

Remo, who did not see him, went back to the motel. He found Chiun in lotus position on the floor, looking through the large front window.

Chiun quickly rose to his feet. "You have been gone so long. Did you like him? Isn't he nice?"

"How much did he offer you?"

"Well, it wasn't just me," Chiun said. "He would want you, too. And he would pay you something, also."

"How nice," said Remo. "Chiun, I'm surprised at you."

"I tried, Remo. I told him to be sure to pay you a lot; otherwise your feelings would be hurt."

"Not that, Chiun. Trusting the Russians. You know how you don't trust the Chinese? The Russians are worse."

"I have never heard that of them," said Chiun.

"No? Did you talk to him about television?"

Chiun raised an eyebrow. "Television? Why should I talk to him about television? I am not an anchor person. What is an anchor person, anyway?"

"An anchor person is a person who sinks a news show with heavy attempts at humor," said Remo. "What I'm talking about is your daytime dramas. What are you going to watch instead of 'As the Planet Revolves'?"

"Why instead of?" asked Chiun.