Warren Murphy: Last War Dance

"Because Russia doesn't have 'As the Planet Revolves,' " said Remo.

"You lie," said Chiun, his face whitening as the blood drained.

"No, Little Father, it is true. Russia does not have the soaps."

"He told me they did."

"He lied."

"Are you sure? Are you not just being patriotic because you do not want to work for Mother Russia?"

"Ask him again."

"I will."

Chiun led the way out of the room. They marched to Valashnikov's room, and Chiun pounded on the door. When there was no answer, he put his right hand on the doorknob and removed it. Slowly the door swung open. Chiun peered inside.

"He is not here."

"Good thing for him," said Remo, looking at the doorknob still in Chiun's hand.

"We will find him. There are only two places to be. Around here, you are either in your room or out of your room. That's all."

As they walked down the concrete ribbon in front of the rooms, General Van Riker stepped from his room, a satisfied smile on his face.

"Have you seen him?" asked Chiun.

"Seen whom?"

"The rascal Russian with the foolish name," said Chiun.

"Valashnikov," said Remo.

"No," said Van Riker. "He may be on his way back to Russia by now."

"We will see," said Chiun and turned, leading the way from the motel toward the monument.

The press was disappointed. Perkin Marlowe had simply vanished into the Episcopal church, and Dennis Petty had denied the reporters admittance.

"When we want you, we'll rattle your chain," he said.

"But we're covering the story for the whole world," protested Jonathan Bouchek.

"Shove the whole world," said Petty, slamming the church door in their faces.

The reporters just looked at each other.

"He must have terrible pressures on him," said Jerry Candler.

"Yes," agreed another reporter. "Still, he didn't have to be rude."

"Noooo," said Candler, "but he's been dealing with the government for so long, I guess it's hard to act any other way."

There were nods of agreement, and the press, having convinced itself that Petty's arrogance was somehow Washington's fault, turned and strolled away from the church toward the monument.

Valashnikov was already there. So this was it. The Cassandra. The evil machine that had cost him his career, his future, his happiness. What else could it cost him?

He looked at the bronze plaque over the center of the raised marble slab. It was ingenious, he thought. Van Riker had designed it well.

Slowly Valashnikov walked around the monument. In the bushes toward the back he spotted a shiny object. He dropped to his knees and brought out a piece of metal, the part Van Riker had removed to disarm the missile,

Valashnikov held it in his hands, looking at it carefully, his body already absorbing its deadly radiation. But he was happy that he recognized it as the bridging unit needed to fire the Cassandra.

Without it, he realized, Cassandra could not work. It could not move. If hit, it might explode, but it would explode in America, not in Russia. America was vulnerable, after all. He must get the message back to Moscow. He must let them know!

Up ahead he saw the press approaching. He waved to them. He did not see the group approaching from behind—Remo, Chiun, and Van Riker.

"There he is. There is the devil," said Chiun. "You are not lying to me, Remo?" he asked.

"No, Little Father. Would I lie?"

"Hmmmmm."

Valashnikov lifted his hulk up onto the monument. He held the missing part of the Cassandra over his head, waving it at the reporters.

"Over here!" he yelled. "Over here!"

The reporters stopped and stared at the strange fat man dancing on the monument. He kept waving to them with the missile part.

"Come quick!" he called. "Evidence of American warmongering."

"We'd better hurry," said Candler. "He may have something."

"Start shooting," said Jonathan Bouchek to his cameraman, and as the reporters moved toward Valashnikov, cameras began to whir and tape recorders to hum.

Valashnikov looked at his hands and saw the flesh reddening. No matter. He would do his job for Mother Russia. He danced up and down on the monument, waving to the press. "Hurry! Quick!" he shouted.

"What's he doing?" Remo asked.

Van Riker was looking. "Damnit," he said, "he's got the missile part. He knows Cassandra's disarmed."

"So what?" asked Remo.

"So, Russia will know, too. Any technician who sees that part in Valashnikov's hands will know that missile won't fly. The doomsday defense is done. America's vulnerable."

Chiun ignored the conversation. Resolutely he marched to the marble base of the monument. Up above his head Valashnikov was still jumping up and down and yelling.

"Hey, you!" called Chiun.

Valashnikov looked down.

"Tell me the truth. Do you have 'As the Planet Revolves' on your television?"

"No," said Valashnikov.

"You lied to me."

"It was necessary for the good of the state."

"It's not nice to fool the master of Sinanju."

Meanwhile Remo had moved around in front of the monument and was holding off the press, which had approached to within thirty feet of the marble slab.

"Sorry, fellas, you can't come any closer."

"Why not?"

"Radioactivity," Remo said.

"I knew it, I knew it!" exclaimed Candler. "The government's planning to use nuclear weapons on the Indian liberators."

"Right," said Remo. "And after that we're going to firebomb jaywalkers."

The cameras kept grinding at Valashnikov as he roared, "I am Russian spy. This is missile to blow up world. It works no longer. It broken. This part make it work no more."

He waved the part over his head like a lasso, then jumped to the ground, dropping the shiny metal onto the dirt. He looked down at his hands. The flesh was blistering, burning before his eyes, the fluid under it boiling.

He looked up at General Van Riker, who was staring sadly at him. "I have won, General," Valashnikov said triumphantly.

Van Riker did not answer.

"They will see film in Russia and know that Cassandra no longer works."

He wheeled as Chiun grabbed his shoulder.

"Why did you lie to me?" Chiun demanded.

"I had to. I am sorry, old man. But not too sorry. I have won. I have won." His face beamed with happiness. "Russia knows where Cassandra is. I have won."

"We will see," hissed Chiun.

He darted under the tarpaulin that still lay in front of the marble monument. The canvas began to rise and fall as Chiun moved under it. It looked as if children were playing under a blanket.

"We want to talk to that Russian spy," said Bouchek to Remo.

"You can't," said Remo, being careful to keep his face twisted in a grimace that made him unrecognizable. "He's an escaped lunatic. He might be dangerous."

"What is all this radioactivity crap?" asked another reporter.

"Top secret. I can't tell you," said Remo.

Behind him he heard the slap of hands, sharp clicking sounds that he realized came from Chiun's fingernails.

He glanced over his shoulder occasionally and finally saw Chiun came back out from under the tarpaulin. Chiun pulled the heavy canvas away from the black marble slab, which seemed undamaged except for a small, thin crack in a section along the top.

Van Riker was talking to Valashnikov. "You have won, you know."

"Thank you, General," said the Russian. His heart was racing now, and the fire in his hands was building to incredible agony. "How long do I live?"

"You held that activator for how long?"

"Ten minutes."

Van Riker just shook his head. "Sorry."

"I must be sure my victory is complete." Valashnikov turned toward the newsmen, but between him and them was Chiun.

"If you want a complete victory, I have one for you," said Chiun.

"Yes?"