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  "This is bad," she said.

  He shrugged. "Three ambassadors of ours have been killed. I am supposed to be next."

  "Who is supposed to kill you?"

  "No one knows. A secret American spy."

  She clinked glasses with him and he drank deeply from his water glass.

  "It is bad," she said.

  "Things have been bad before," he said. He slumped back in the chair and looked around the kitchen. "Things were bad when we bought this house. We did not know if we would live or die. I lost my place in the Politburo in one of the purges. Still you managed to make do."

  "We always did."

  "No," he corrected. "You always did." He reached across the table and touched her hand.

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  "Without a job, you fed us. When I had no money, somehow you furnished this house and made it home for us. When I had no prospects, you made sure that I always wore new clothes and shiny shoes."

  "So what did you expect?" Nina asked with a smile that illuminated her face and showed off her once-upon-a-time beauty. "Some kind of American wife that if you want a piece of bread toasted, you have to go out and buy her two new machines? And a lifetime membership in cooking school?"

  "No. You are not that," the premier said. "You could always make do. You even had meat on the table when no one else had meat. How do you do it?"

  "I'm really the Grand Duchess Anastasia in disguise and I pawned the czar's jewels," she said.

  "You couldn't be Anastasia," he said.

  "Why not?"

  "You're too good a Communist. Besides, you're beautiful and Anastasia looked like the bottom of a boot."

  She was about to answer when the telephone on the wall, next to the oven, rang. The premier reached a lazy hand for it but General Arkov burst into the room and took the telephone himself. He inspected the instrument and held the receiver to his ear for a moment, while the premier saw the look of disgust on Nina's face and tried to stop himself from laughing. Finally, Arkov handed him the telephone.

  "It's Colonel Karbenko," he said. "His call is

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  being scrambled at both ends and transferred here from your office. You can speak freely."

  "Thank you, Arkov," the premier said. "Hello, Vassily, how are you? How are the cattle when you're riding the range?"

  The premier listened for a moment, then said, "Don't tell me you're worried, too, Vassily."

  He held the telephone away from his ear so that Nina could hear the young spy's voice from America.

  "Yes, Comrade. But I think I have a way to insure your safety and..."

  "And?"

  "And if that fails, it will solve our political problem of attacking the Americans."

  "What is it, Vassily? Anything is better than having these KGB men inside my hat." General Arkov winced and the premier smiled. Although Arkov was Karbenko's superior in the KGB, Kar-benko had much greater political support among the country's top leaders, because of his friendship with the premier, and while Arkov could dislike him, he could do very little else.

  "This is the idea, Premier. Do not put the blame for the deaths of these ambassadors on the Americans. Instead, announce that you are coming to America immediately to discuss the killings with the American President. That puts the blame on them without putting the blame on them."

  "And what does that have to do with my safety?" the premier asked.

  "It is simple, sir. You will come alone. It would seem that the CIA assassin, whoever he might be,

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  is someone close to you. So you come alone. The assassin does not accompany you. You can spend time in America while we track down the assassin."

  "And suppose I am . . . what do you cowboys say, rubbed out in America?"

  "That's gangsters, premier, not cowboys. But if you're gunned down, then America clearly bears the responsibility for it and our government will do whatever it has to do. But there is much less chance of that happening here than there. Even in your own house, you might not be safe."

  "I know it," the premier said. "I expect Arkov's men to come in any minute and start chewing on my shoes. Come alone, you said?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What about Arkov?"

  "Alone, Comrade," Karbenko insisted.

  "I think you're right," the premier said. "I think it's a marvelous idea. I will see you very soon."

  He hung up the telephone. "You will be happy to learn, Arkov, that I am going to America to try to flee this assassin."

  "The United States?" Arkov said. "You will be a target there for every lunatic."

  "I will take my chances. I am going to America."

  "I will get ready," Arkov said.

  "No, General. I am going alone."

  Arkov opened his mouth to argue. The premier's brows dropped, and his expression frosted over, and the KGB chief stopped.

  The premier waited until he left the kitchen,

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  the strut gone from his walk, his shoulders slumping.

  Then he asked Nina, "Well, what do you think?"

  "I think you're making a mistake," she said.

  "You too? You don't want me to go?"

  "No. I think America is the safest place for you."

  "Then what's the mistake?"

  "You said you were going alone," Nina said. "That's the mistake. I'm going with you."

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  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Remo and Chiun waited in an office just outside Smith's office and Ruby Gonzalez watched them as if she expected them to try to steal her jar of rubber cement.

  "She makes you feel wanted, doesn't she?" Remo asked.

  "It will be a happy day in my life," said Chiun, "when you two present me with a child. Then I will no longer have to associate with either of you."

  "Hah!" Ruby said.

  "Fat chance," Remo said.

  "And then I will bring him up correctly as befits a new Master of Sinanju," said Chiun, ignoring them. "I have gone as far as I can with you."

  "Never gonna happen," Ruby said.

  "Only because I don't want it to happen," Remo said. "If I wanted it to happen, it'd happen. You can count on that." He glared at Ruby.

  "You talk a lot of mess," Ruby said.

  "Yeah?" said Remo. "I want you to know that I've got twenty-seven separate steps that I follow to bring a woman to ecstasy. They never fail."

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  "You couldn't remember twenty-seven steps," Ruby said.

  "Don't say anything now you're going to regret later," Remo said.

  "I will pay one thousand gold pieces for a healthy male child," Chiun announced.

  "Each?" asked Ruby.

  "Each what?" said Chiun.

  "One thousand to me and one thousand to him?"

  "No. One thousand total," Chiun said. "Do you think I'm made of gold pieces ?"

  "Not enough," Ruby said. "Five hundred ain't enough to pay me for my sacrifice."

  "No, hah?" said Remo. "Sacrifice, hah? All right. You can have my five hundred gold pieces."

  "Then we have a deal," Chiun said.

  "I'll think about it," said Ruby.

  "I won't," said Remo. "I will not sell my body for mere gold."

  "Be quiet, white thing," Chiun said. "This does not concern you."

  "What kind of gold pieces?" Ruby suddenly asked, her voice coldly suspicious.

  "Nice little ones," Chiun said.

  "I want Krugerrands," Ruby said.

  "Have you no shame?" said Remo. "Supporting the racist regime of South Africa?"

  "Listen, honey, when you talking currency, South Africa be good," Ruby said. "That Kruger-rand, that's better than dollars."

  The buzzer rang on Ruby's desk. She answered it, then nodded to Remo and Chiun.

  "Doctor Smith wants you now."

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  "He can wait," Chiun said. "This is important."

  "He's trying to stop World War III, Chiun," said Remo. "That's important, too."

 
; Chiun dismissed World War III with a wave of his hand. "One thousand Krugerrands to you," he told Ruby. "And you give me his healthy male child."

  "Chiun, dammit. That's like a hundred and sixty thousand dollars," Remo said.

  "A hundred and seventy-one this morning," Ruby said.

  Remo glared at her. "You can buy the whole spawn of some cities for that," he said.

  "I know what I want," Chiun said. "We have an agreement?" he pressed at Ruby.

  "I got to think about it," she said. "I ain't givin' it up cheap."

  Inside his office, Smith was drumming the fingers of both hands on top of his desk. He told Remo and Chiun, "I have spoken to Colonel Kar-benko. The Russian premier is arriving this afternoon at Dulles Airport in Washington. Fourfifteen."

  "Good," said Chiun. "We will make his death a lesson for all those everywhere who would dare to trifle with this glorious country of the Constitution, Emperor."

  Smith shook his head. "No, no, no, no."

  He looked at Remo for help. Remo looked out the window.

  "I want you both to make sure nothing happens to him while he's here," Smith said. "Until this missing assassin can be turned up."

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  "AH right," Remo said.

  "Of course, mighty Emperor," said Chiun. "Your friends are our friends."

  "Karbenko is meeting him at the airport," Smith said.

  "He knows we're coming?" asked Remo.

  "Not exactly."

  "How not exactly?" Remo said.

  "He wouldn't hear of having any American personnel involved. He wants to do it on his own."

  "Very wise," Chiun said.

  "He runs a risk of losing the man," Smith said. "But it's a matter of pride with him."

  "Very foolish," Chiun said.

  "We'll keep him alive," Remo said. "That's it?"

  Smith looked at him for a moment, then turned slowly in his chair to look out the one-way windows toward Long Island Sound. "That's it. For now."

  Remo had heard those "for nows" before. He stared at Smith's back. The CURE director continued, looking out the window.

  Outside Folcroft, Chiun said to Remo, "I do not understand this. Russia is your country's enemy, correct?"

  "Yes."

  "Then why are we saving the head of all the Russias? Why do we not kill him and install our own man on their throne?"

  "Chiun," Remo said decisively. "Who knows?"

  Admiral Wingate Stantington was walking around the perimeter of his office. The clicking

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  sound of the pedometer on his hip gave him a sense of satisfaction. It was the first time he had felt reasonably good since he had been taken out of his office in a Hefty bag.

  Not that he had forgotten that. He never would. And he would get even, he vowed. With the dark-eyed American. With the old Oriental. That black woman who set it all up. His own secretary who allowed it to happen.

  He would fix them all. In due time.

  It probably had been easier in the old days. He could have just unleashed a CIA hit team, given them their targets and told them to do it. And afterwards, they would be whisked out of the country, set to work in a foreign mission somewhere, and that would be that.

  It was different now. Try to find somebody who'd do a little dirty work without worrying all the time about being arrested and indicted. Try to find one who could do it without writing a book about it later on.

  When it came time to write his book, he'd let them know what he thought. All of them.

  When his private telephone line rang, it was the President telling him that the premier of Russia was arriving that afternoon.

  "He can't," Stantington said.

  "Why not, Cap?" the President asked.

  "We haven't had a chance to put together any kind of security arrangements," Stantington said.

  "That's not your concern. I'm just alerting you so you know what's happening in case you hear anything later."

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  Stantington depressed the button on his telephone tape recorder.

  "Officially, Mister President, I have to advise you that I am against this entire idea. I think it is needlessly risky, fraught with peril, and ill-advised."

  "I have received and noted your opinion," the President said with chill in his voice as he hung up.

  All right, Stantington thought. He was on record. When things went wrong, as they were bound to later, he could tell any Congressional committee with a clear mind and heart that he had advised the President against this course of action. And he had it on tape. He'd be damned if he'd be arrested and indicted for somebody else's mistake.

  Stantington sat heavily behind his desk and sighed. But was that enough? Was it enough that he had protected his ass ?

  He thought about that for no more than thirty seconds and reached his decision.

  Yes, it was. There was nothing more important than surviving. The man who had the job before him could languish in a prison chowline. The President could bumble and blunder about. But Admiral Wingate Stantington was going to be as clean as a hound's tooth, and perhaps someday, when they were looking around for viable, clean candidates for offices like President, Wingate Stantington would stand out like a silver dollar atop a pile of pennies.

  He leaned back in the chair as he had an idea. He might be able to help that process along-par-

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  ticularly if he was the man who prevented World War III and saved the Russian premier's life in the bargain.

  The killings of the three ambassadors had been done by people close to the targets. Now it was Vassily Karbenko's idea to bring the premier to America and Karbenko, it was well known, was like a son to the premier.

  Karbenko might fool some others, but could there be any doubt that he was bringing the premier to America so that he would be within the range of Karbenko's own guns ?

  Stantington was sure of it. Karbenko was the assassin and the President was playing into Karbenko's hands by allowing the Russian premier's visit.

  "Get me the files on Colonel Karbenko," Stantington barked into his telephone.

  As he waited, he thought about it, and the more he thought, the more sure he was. It was Karbenko. Of course. He felt good about the decision. He felt like a real spy. The buzzer rang. "Yes?" he said.

  "Sorry, sir, there are no files on Colonel Karbenko."

  "No files? Why not?"

  "They were probably stolen yesterday afternoon."

  "Yesterday? What was yesterday?" "Don't you remember, sir? You proclaimed it Meet-Your-CIA Day. An open house. We had thousands of people here. Somebody must have taken the files."

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  Stantington slammed the telephone back on its base. It didn't matter. He was still going to save the Russian premier.

  Dulles International Airport was cleverly located so far out of Washington, D.C., that most people couldn't afford the taxi ride to the city and had to take a bus. The smart ones packed a lunch.

  The Russian premier and his wife, Nina, arrived quietly in a leased British plane that had picked them up at an airfield in Yugoslavia where they had transferred from a Russian Aeroflot plane.

  Colonel Karbenko had made the arrangements. He had to choose among British, French, Italian, and American planes for the last leg of the journey. He had rejected the Italian plane because it might get lost, the French because he knew what French airport mechanics were like, once having lived in Paris. Left to choose between a British aircraft and an American, he picked the British, because, like the Americans, they were competent, and unlike the Americans, the pilot would not immediately sit down to write a book entitled, Mystery Passenger: A Journey Into Tomorrow.

  Karbenko had an unobtrusive green Chevrolet Caprice parked next to the plane. He went into the plane's passenger compartment, and a moment later, came down the steps followed by the premier and Nina.

  The premier was wearing dark sunglasses with a straw hat pulled down over his face. His wife had on a red wig and blue
tinted glasses. She wore a two-piece brown suit, so formless that it

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  looked as if it had originally been fitted to a refrigerator.

  "We speak the English," the premier said. "That way, nobody know we not Americans."

  Karbenko led them across the tarmac of the runway toward his car. He glanced up and noticed Remo and Chiun standing there.

  "Good work," said Remo.

  "How'd you get here?" Karbenko asked.

  "Hail, mighty premier of all the Russias," said Chiun.

  "Who is this ?" asked the premier.

  "I don't exactly know," Karbenko said.

  "I am not an administrative assistant," Chiun said. "Hail again."

  "Thank you," the premier said. "It is a great pleasure to be here among my American friends."

  "I am not an American," Chiun said.

  "But I am," Remo said.

  "Forget him," Chiun said to the premier.

  "What are you doing here?" Karbenko repeated.

  "Just making sure," Remo said, "that everything goes right."

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  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Two cars followed them as they drove away from the British jetliner. There were four men in each of the cars, and when Vassily Karbenko saw them, he grunted softly and tromped down on the gas pedal of the Chevrolet Caprice.

  The car was speeding down an unused runway at the airport, toward an emergency exit onto the highway that surrounded the field. As Karbenko's car sped up, the two other cars separated and increased their speed also, moving up on either side of the premier's car.

  The premier seemed oblivious to the chase. His neck was craned and he was looking out across the broad network of runways and hangers at the scores of commercial jetliners. His wife, though, saw the two following cars. She looked toward Karbenko.

  "Are they your men, Vassily?" she asked.

  "No."

  The two cars had pulled up even with Karbenko now. The occupants looked like Americans, Remo thought. The cars started to pull ahead.

  "They're going to nose in and nip you between them," Remo said.

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  "I know," said Karbenko.

  The car on the right had its driver's window open.

  Remo rolled down his window.

  "Vassily," he said. "You stomp on that gas pedal and swerve in close to this car."

  "What for?"

  "Just do it," Remo said. "When I tell you." Remo raised himself up in the seat, and put his left .hand on the door of his car. The car was about two feet in front of them.