Blue Smoke and Mirrors td-78 Read online

  "Really?" Chiun said, examining the case. "How do you know this?"

  "This is a standard diplomatic case, nicknamed 'Jaws' because of its capaciousness."

  "That means it is large," Chiun said for Remo's benefit.

  "Thanks," Remo said dryly. "I caught the drift all by myself."

  "Lucky you."

  Smith cleared his throat. "Airport security people do not X-ray or inspect these cases when embassy officials carry them. I am certain that the charge d'affaires will be carrying sensitive military parts in his case."

  "He will not live to enjoy his ill-gotten gains," Chiun promised vehemently.

  "No, that's exactly what we do not want," Smith said hastily. "You must not harm him. The diplomatic repercussions could be grave."

  "Then let me suggest a tiny blow," Chiun said in a conspiratorial tone. "Harmless as a fly's bite at first, but three weeks later the victim drops dead from kidney failure. This service was very much in demand during Roman times."

  "Please," Smith pleaded. "This must not get back to us in any way."

  "It will not," Chiun said firmly. "I assure you."

  "No," Smith said just as firmly. "I want to switch cases. That's all. Do it so he doesn't suspect the exchange has taken place. Can you accomplish this?"

  "We will be as the drifting smoke in our stealth," Chiun promised. "The drifting blue smoke."

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  Remo opened the case. "It's empty," he said. "Won't he notice the switch?"

  "Fill it with junk," Smith suggested.

  Remo shut the case. "I don't do junk collecting," he said. "It's not in my job description."

  "Do not fret, Emperor Smith," Chiun said. "I have just the thing."

  "You do?" Smith said.

  "He does," Remo said. "Fourteen steamer trunks full."

  "I see," Smith said as he rose from his chair. "Here is a photograph of your target. His name is Yuli Batenin."

  "Rice paper?" Remo asked, looking at the face.

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "Who, me?"

  Smith paused at the open back door. "By the way, did you dispose of those files?"

  "Of course," Remo lied, suddenly remembering the files tucked into his back pocket.

  "Good. And I suggest you clear this house of smoke before someone calls the fire department."

  "Fear not, Emperor," Chiun called loudly. "We will serve your needs with skill and daring, for we honor your wisdom and your graciousness."

  His patrician face embarrassed, Smith hastily closed the door after him.

  "Why do you always raise your voice when he's got the door open?" Remo asked. "You know how he is about security."

  Chiun shrugged, pulling the case off the table. "Perhaps it will encourage him to visit less often." He disappeared into another room.

  A few minutes later, the racket coming from the attic was too much for Remo to ignore and he went up the folding stairs.

  He found the Master of Sinanju dumping the contents of one of his steamer trunks into the diplomatic

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  valise. Remo noticed that the items included videotapes and phonograph albums.

  Remo plucked up one of the latter as Chiun began stuffing posters in between the heavier objects as packing.

  "Barbra Streisand's Greatest Hits?" Remo asked, pointing to the smiling face on the album cover.

  "When one has a retentive mind, one need listen to a song but once and it will stay in the heart forever," Chiun said distantly.

  "That's not what I meant. I thought you still harbored a crush on her-although I'll admit it's been a long time since you've mentioned it."

  "She has spurned me for too long."

  "The love letters still coming back unopened, eh?"

  Chiun shrugged his frail shoulders. "It is not that so much. I assume that selfish sycophants around her are responsible for that. But I lost respect for Barbra after she took up with that mere boy."

  "And who might that be?" Remo asked, handing the album to Chiun. The Master of Sinanju snapped it in two without hesitating and stuffed it into the case. A framed portrait of Streisand followed it in, its glass front cracked.

  "I do not recall his name. John Donson, or something. He is the one on that absurd flamingo show. Florida Lice, I think it is called."

  "Florida . . .? Oh, that. Yeah. I can see how you'd be upset, getting shut out by a twerp like that. I mean, the guy must be ... what, forty, fifty years younger than you?"

  "She could have had perfection," Chiun growled. "Instead she settled for one who shows so little respect for himself that he wears no socks and shaves only once a week."

  "I got news for you, Little Father. Miami Vice is off the air, and I think Barbra Streisand dumped him long ago."

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  "It is? She did?" Chiun looked up, his facial hair quivering with hope.

  "Of course, that's just a rumor," Remo admitted. "It may not be true."

  Chiun hesitated. Then he shredded the unauthorized Barbra Streisand life story-both the hardcover and paperback editions-into confetti and used them for packing as well.

  "It no longer matters," the Master of Sinanju said resignedly. "That she kissed such a one as that is enough of an insult to my feelings."

  "She actually kissed him, huh?"

  "I know it is shocking, but I have it on excellent authority. Now I can never forgive, nor will I forget this humiliation."

  Chiun slammed the case closed. Then, hands tucked into his sleeves, he marched, chin lifted high and only slightly quivering, to the ladder steps. He floated down them with stolid dignity. Only Remo recognized the square set of his thin shoulders as indicating a breaking heart.

  "What about this case?" Remo called after him. "You gonna just leave it here?"

  "No," Chiun returned dully. "You may carry it."

  "Why not?" Remo muttered, hefting the case. "I've been carrying your spear for years." It was surprisingly heavy. He hoped it weighed as much as a case full of stolen military equipment.

  Outside, Remo placed the case in the trunk of his blue Buick. It felt strange to think of a car as his. He used to rent cars exclusively for security reasons, often leaving them in remote locations so that the rental bills would go through the roof. But now that he had a permanent home, Remo figured security wouldn't suffer from owning a permanent car too-although he missed Smith's howls of protest when the rental bills came in.

  Chiun was already in the passenger seat when Remo

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  got behind the wheel. The Master of Sinanju stared ahead woodenly.

  "When we get back," he said in a low, bitter voice, "remind me to speak to Smith about John Donson."

  Remo started the engine. "What about him?"

  "I have heard rumors that he has a criminal past."

  "I think you're confusing the TV role with the actor."

  "We shall see. But perhaps Smith's computer things will turn up something, and I can persuade him to allow me to punish Donson for his vicious infractions committed against the glorious American Constitution. In God We Trust."

  Remo grunted. "I'm glad you're taking this so well."

  "Masters of Sinanju learn how to bear up under disappointment," Chiun sniffed, rearranging his kimono skirts primly. "Besides, there is always Cheeta Ching, the beautiful Korean anchorperson."

  "Isn't she married now?"

  Chiun's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "I have written to her about her husband. He has been laying hands on other women, the pervert."

  "How do you know that?" Remo asked as he backed out of the driveway.

  "He is a gynecologist," Chiun hissed. "He admits this."

  "No!" Remo said in a mock-serious voice.

  Chiun nodded seriously. "They are worse than kleptomaniacs. Believe me, Remo. Cheeta will be eternally grateful for the information I have provided her."

  "If it works out, can I be your best man?"

  "No. When a Master of Sinanju marries, there is only one
best man in attendance. And that is the bridegroom."

  "Oh," Remo said in a small voice.

  Chiun reached out to touch Remo on the arm.

  "Oh, do not fret, my son. I have not forgotten you. You may be second-best man at my wedding. Or third. Possibly fourth. But no lower than fourth. Un-

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  less, of course, you disgrace me in some horrible way. Then I might demote you to fifth-best-man position. But that is the absolutely lowest, unless-"

  "I get the picture," Remo snapped, pressing the accelerator harder. He promised himself that he would grab the window seat on the flight down, and to hell with Chiun's protests about having to have a clear view of the wings in case they started to fall off.

  12

  Major Yuli Batenin hummed "Moscow Nights" contentedly. He looked forward to going home after so long.

  Most would consider the Washington-embassy post the plum assignment in the Soviet diplomatic corps. Or in the KGB, for that matter, for Yuli Batenin was first and foremost KGB station chief in Washington. He was attached to the Soviet embassy as charge d'affaires.

  But as the white embassy compound receded in the narrow rear window of the ambassador's Lincoln Continental, Yuli Batenin did not look back. Washington was fine. America was fascinating, but this particular assignment had gone on too long. When he reached Moscow and handed over the latest plunder from U.S. installations, Batenin would request a new posting. Three years was enough.

  Of course his KGB superiors would ask him why.

  And Major Batenin would tell them. He was certain they would understand.

  It was not America, he would say in the dusha-dushe-heart-to-heart-talk he envisioned. It was not the embassy. It was not even the devious Captain Rair Brashnikov. Exactly. Batenin could handle the diminutive thief. True, it was annoying to have to search Brashnikov's room when he was away in order to

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  recover personal effects belonging to the embassy staff, but it was a small price to pay for the great technological gains that were being realized through Operation Nimble Spirit. Batenin understood that. Certain sacrifices were necessary.

  It was not that he would have to report that after nearly three years of unsuspected operations, their agent had been seen. He had not been captured. He had not been identified. No one even knew he was a Russian, so far as Batenin knew. True, for the first time, stolen U.S. property had not been delivered to the embassy on schedule. No doubt those items were now in the hands of puzzled American CIA agents.

  That was acceptable. Major Batenin felt certain that one blemish in what was otherwise the most flawless long-term KGB operation ever conducted in the western hemisphere would be overlooked.

  But, Batenin intended to say, there were some things that were too much to bear.

  It was simply, Yuli Batenin considered as he watched the immaculate shrubbery of Washington streak by the tinted car window, the Jaws travel case handcuffed to his left wrist, that things had gotten just too strange.

  His superiors would naturally have an answer to that. Of course it is strange, they might say. You have charge of an agent who walks through walls and cannot be touched by human hands.

  Batenin would reply that he had gotten used to that. It had become almost normal.

  What was not normal was nearly succumbing to a heart attack from simply answering the telephone. That was not normal. It was too much. He would not want to go through it again. In fact, he had developed nightmares as a result. Now when the phone rang, Major Yuli Batenin would jump like a startled cat.

  For Major Batenin, generally regarded as one of the KGB's best station chiefs, had developed a severe telephone phobia.

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  It had happened two days ago, and Yuli still shivered at the memory.

  A phone call had come in through the embassy switchboard. Major Batenin was in his office at the time, inventorying the latest military acquisitions, and eagerly anticipating the next group, which were being collected at a North Dakota missile grid. He remembered reaching for the intercom to ask who was calling. It was a simple thing, something he had done many times before.

  "Ivan Grozny," he was told.

  It was Brashnikov's alias. Batenin recalled saying, "I will take it," and switching off the intercom. He pushed the line-four button on his telephone-even the number four haunted him now-and picked up the receiver.

  A simple act, this picking up of a telephone receiver. Major Batenin had picked up possibly a hundred thousand telephone receivers in his long career. He had no reason to suspect that this was anything other than a routine contact call.

  He had placed the receiver to his ear. The sound of static was very loud. It was odd. Usually U.S. telephone lines were quite clear. This one crackled and whooshed. Mostly it whooshed.

  "Hello?" he had asked.

  The whooshing grew. Soon it was a roar.

  "Hello?" Batenin had repeated. He heard voices. A mixture of voices in the receiver. None of them belonged to Rair Brashnikov. "Hello, Brashnikov? Are you there?" Batenin blurted out, annoyed. What foolish games was that thief up to now?

  Only growing static answered him.

  "Brashnikov! Speak! Answer me."

  It was only because the roar of static grew unendurable that Yuli Batenin knew something was terribly wrong. He yanked the receiver from his ear. It was a fortu-

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  nate thing that he did so, for who knew what might have happened had he not?

  It all happened in an instant of time, but it would remain seared in Yuli Batenin's memory forever.

  He had just jerked the receiver away when there came a sharp spitting sound from the earpiece, followed by a flash of supernatural brightness.

  "Chart vozmi!" Yuli swore, inadvertently dropping the phone. He clutched at his eyes. The light had blinded him. He stumbled against his chair, cracking one knee.

  "Govno!" he howled, falling to the rug. Taking his hairy hand from his eyes, he blinked furiously. He could not see the room. All was white.

  "Help me," he cried helplessly. "I am blinded! Help me!"

  Yuli Batenin heard the door open and his secretary call his name. Then, inexplicably, she screamed. The door slammed shut. He could hear her high heels clop away clumsily.

  "Where are you going?" he cried. "I need help. I cannot see. Help me. Anyone. I am blind," Major Batenin cried. His face settled to the rug, which smelled of old shampoo, and he began sobbing.

  The next several minutes were a maelstrom of white noise. He heard voices, cries. And then strong hands took him by the arms and lifted him to his feet.

  By this time, the white brightness that his eyes perceived when the lids were closed had faded to a shim-mery gray. He feared that it would go black next.

  "Batenin," the Soviet ambassador was shouting. "How do we get him down? Tell us!"

  "Blind. I am blind," Yuli repeated dazedly. "Help me. I want to go home. Take me back to Moscow."

  "Open your eyes," he was told sternly.

  "Blind!" Batenin sobbed.

  "Open them!" Then he felt a hard smack against his cheek. Startled, his eyes flew open.

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  "Blind!" he repeated. But when he blinked, he could see again. "See! I can see. I am not blind!" he shouted happily.

  "Get hold of yourself, Major. We need your knowledge. He is your man. How do we get him down?"

  "Who? How?" Batenin asked shakily as he steadied himself against his desk.

  He became aware of others in the room. They were standing in one corner of his office, broomsticks and desk blotters in their hands. They were swatting the air, as if at a pesky fly.

  But it was not a fly that excited the embassy staff, Yuli saw to his horror.

  For floating silently above the ducking and weaving heads of the embassy staff was a faintly luminous apparition.

  "Brashnikov!" Batenin cried hoarsely.

  "We cannot make contact with him, Batenin," the ambassador bit out. "And h
e is floating toward the wall. What can we do?"

  Yuli Batenin pushed the ambassador aside as he stepped under the floating figure, his left knee wobbly with pain.

  "Give me that," he ordered his secretary, relieving her of a broomstick.

  He flipped the broomstick around until he had the straw end up in the air. He poked it at Brashnikov's eerily silent form.

  The straw disappeared into Brashnikov's chest, as if swallowed by a cloud of milk.

  "Is it ghost?" his secretary asked, horror in her voice.

  Batenin withdrew the broom. Brashnikov's blisterlike face was distended like a clam's stomach. It neither contracted nor expanded. Brashnikov was not breathing. His arms and legs were splayed like a dead swimmer's. He floated on his stomach, just under the ceiling.

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  As Batenin watched, Brashnikov seemed to be drifting toward one wall. It was an outer wall.

  "We must stop him!" Batenin suddenly cried. "If he floats away, it will be as if we raised flag over official Washington proclaiming Soviet responsibility for their technological losses."

  "How?" the ambassador demanded. "We have tried everything."

  "Have you tried blowing at him?"

  "What?"

  "He is floating like balloon. Let us all get under him and blow mightily."

  It took a moment for the thought to register, but finally the ambassador shrugged as if to say: What have we to lose?

  The embassy staff stooped down under Brashnikov's silent, hovering body, their backs to the outer wall.

  "Everyone," Batenin ordered, "take deep breath. Ready? Now . . . exhale!"

  They all blew hot streams of air at the body. But there was no perceptible reaction.

  "Again!" Batenin called.

  They tried again. They huffed and they puffed, until their faces grew purple and some of them became dizzy from oxygen deprivation.

  They ended up sprawled on the rug, out of breath. Batenin looked up dazedly. If anything, Brashnikov had inched closer to the outer wall. In another few minutes his left hand would drift into the wall itself.

  "He is dead?" the ambassador wheezed.

  "Da," Batenin gasped. "He breathes not."

  "Then there is nothing we can do to stop him?"

  "Nyet. Perhaps he will float out to sea."

  "Moscow will not be happy that we have lost the suit."