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  "But there was a road right to the monument?"

  "Right. And it was not even paved until a book made the site famous," said Valashnikov. "Until the road was paved, it was just good enough for military trucks to bring in missile components."

  Diplomatic Liaison shook his head. "It is not that I am trying desperately to protect the détente. Détente with America is just another step in our foreign policy. It doesn't mean a change in anything. It is a tool to be discarded when no longer useful. What I am afraid of is reckless endangerment of this tool of détente because you saw a picture on a television screen."

  "And had it made into a still, in which I have positively identified a nuclear engineer by the name of Douglas Van Riker, lieutenant general. United States Air Force—"

  "Whom you have for years assumed was a cleaning man who went to the monument every month, a cleaning man who was positively identified by our own KGB as a cleaning man."

  Valashnikov clapped his hands loudly and beamed. "Which, comrade, has thrown me off for years. For years. I had assumed that the monument could not be the Cassandra. And why? Because of a report by the KGB. Now this is not a criticism. The KGB was right… in overall policy. I had devoted a career to finding that missile-bomb, and I had failed. After seeing failure after failure on my part, the KGB was most correct in moving its better agents to more crucial areas."

  Valashnikov caught a nod from the KGB liaison. It meant that having been vindicated, his organization would allow itself to admit a minor slip, especially if it were part of an overall correct attitude.

  "So," said Valashnikov, "a less competent agent was assigned. An agent who listed the cleaning man as tan. Now when the report came back, also to a minor department, tan was read as brown, which was translated to Negro, which was translated right back to cleaning man. At that time there were no Negro nuclear physicists or nuclear engineers. But let us, comrades, translate tan back to tan, and we will find that there is a nuclear engineer who lives in the Bahamas and has a very nice tan. His name is Van Riker, our own General Van Riker, who was seen at Wounded Elk, albeit partially blocked out by the kimono of someone in his car." Valashnikov looked around the table.

  "I congratulate you," said Diplomatic Liaison. "But for one thing, you have made a good case. If that monument were the Cassandra, would the American government not move in to protect it against the demonstrators, lest the very center of the country blow up? If we had a Cassandra, it would be protected by division upon division upon division. Now would you have us believe a ring of United States marshals are sitting placidly by while a bunch of renegades dance over their special doomsday device? Be realistic. Be realistic, comrade."

  "You forget, comrade," said Valashnikov, "that Cassandra's best defense has always been the fact that we did not know where it is."

  "And we did not know where it is," said Diplomatic Liaison, "because it never existed. Yes, it is my conclusion that it never existed. I too am aware of how strong America was vis-à-vis Russia in the early 1960s. Wouldn't it have been clever of them to waste our resources looking for a nonexistent bomb?"

  "Cassandra," said Valashnikov, "was the name of a prophetess of doom in Western literature. No one listened to her. She had the power to see the future, but her curse was that no one would listen. Perhaps the American vehicle of death was aptly named, after all. Perhaps just for a moment such as this, so we would listen before making a miscalculation."

  There was quiet in the room. Then Diplomatic Liaison spoke. "You have not addressed yourself to the question of why there is no protection of Cassandra right now. No country would leave something that dangerous unprotected. At the mercies of a band of lunatics."

  Valashnikov saw the KGB liaison nod assent. The admiral of the fleet nodded assent. The general of the missile forces nodded assent. All the important heads were nodding, and Valashnikov was lost. Then the chief of KGB snapped his fingers twice.

  "Flash that photograph of Van Riker again," he said. An assistant immediately darkened a screen area and put in the proper slide.

  "That design on the kimono at the car door… I've seen it before. Recently, in the last year," said KGB. "Where have I seen it?"

  "It is a Korean rendering of a Chinese ideograph, sir," said an aide.

  "But what? Where have I seen it? It came across my desk, and if it came across my desk, it had to be important."

  "The ideograph means 'absolute' or 'master,'" said the aide. "The letter had something to do with Sinanju, an employment query. Assassins, sir, a rather ancient house of them."

  "And what was the disposition of that request to work for us?"

  "There wasn't exactly any disposition, sir. It was a long, rambling letter about the lack of appreciation in a young country for assassins and how the House of Sinanju was looking for a new employer once it could successfully retrieve its investment from the pale ingrates."

  "Investment? What investment?" asked the chief of the KGB.

  "Well, sir, we couldn't quite make it out." He paused. The letter seemed not really the sort of thing one brought before the military leaders of a nation. It was better suited for a weepy romance novel. "Sir, the investment was in the training of a white man, to whom the master gave the best years of his life. It goes on at length, sir, about various forms of ingratitude. It seems, sir, highly self-pitying."

  "So how does a crackpot letter wind up on my desk?"

  "Sir, Sinanju is not what we classify as crackpot. The house of assassins once worked for the Romanovs, and the letter specifically referred to Ivan the Great. We found references to Sinanju in the czar's archives. It seems he was fond of them and they of him. In any case, sir, when the revolution came, we dispensed with what had been a yearly retainer."

  "Why?"

  "Idealism. This house has been associated with every reactionary regime since the Ming Dynasty."

  "Would you call this Sinanju thing effective protection? I mean, one man?"

  "That's just why it was on your desk, sir. Yes, sir. In some cases, far superior to a division. Sinanju was the original creator of hand fighting. It is called the sun source of the martial arts."

  "That man in the kimono looks old."

  "According to the archives, the master of Sinanju who served Czar Ivan was ninety when he slaughtered a Cossack troop for the entertainment of the czar."

  There was a hushed clearing of throats in the room. Then Diplomatic Liaison spoke: "Well, Valashnikov, congratulations on finding your Cassandra. You must confirm it, of course."

  "Yes," said KGB. "You are also authorized to hire that Sinanju person. We are at your full disposal."

  "You know, if we can definitely pinpoint the Cassandra—without any doubt—there are limitless nuclear variations we can employ," said the commander of Russian missile forces. And in that room they knew what no one else knew at the time: that the balance of nuclear power in the world might just have been unalterably changed because an aide recognized a Korean symbol.

  But what they did not know was that while the master of Sinanju liked their police state tactics and thought very highly of their very quick judicial system, to him there was not much difference between the tanned, white-haired nuisance with the Geiger counter and the others who called themselves Communists. They were all white to him. He even had some difficulty in telling them apart.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  "How many must we be forced to kill in the liberation of our land?" asked Burning Star as she and Remo sped through the night toward the Apowa village of Wounded Elk. "How many must die in our search for the buffalo before the great eagle nests in the cliffs of his father's home?"

  "You mean at the Apowa supermarket?" asked Remo. Up ahead he saw the cluster of lights, a flashing neon arrow, and a huge neon sign that read, "Big A Plaza—Open Late."

  "At the new buffalo hunting grounds, yes. Will we slay tens or hundreds or tens of hundreds to liberate our sacred buffalo and return his skin to the lodge where men can look upon themselves as men an
d not as helpless children driven by the white man's alcohol to debase themselves and their sacred heritage."

  "We're going to pay for the food it that's what you're asking."

  "But it is our food. Our buffalo. While I condemn the killing itself, I can understand why we must do this. To bring attention to the injustices done our people."

  "I've got a pocketful of money," said Remo. "And I'd just as soon pay for the goods. Besides, do you want to load the truck?"

  Burning Star shook her head, her bright red curls flashing from side to Side. "As our ancestors were robbed of their land, so shall we rob these oppressors of their stolen buffalo."

  "Hey, Cosgrove," said Remo, pulling into the lot, "these stores are all owned by full-blooded Apowas."

  "They are Sacajaweas."

  "Sacks of what?"

  "Sacajawea. She was the traitor who guided Lewis and Clark across our land."

  "So that makes it all right for someone named Cosgrove to steal from Apowas?"

  "If we burn babies, have they not burned our babies? If we burn them alive in their white-man's houses, have they not burned us in our tents? We are standing against oppression and…"

  As they drove into the Big A parking lot, Lynn Cosgrove was suddenly silent. She had not seen Remo's hand move, but she felt a sudden stinging in her throat and realized that no words would come out.

  Remo found the manager of the store and negotiated a purchase of frozen foods and instant dinners.

  "I don't think there's anyone at the church who could baste a turkey," said Remo to the manager, who, like all supermarket managers, was harried to the point of exhaustion at the end of the day and managed with great effort to cover it all with a bright smile. But when Remo said "the church," the smile vanished from the reddish tan face and the dark eyes set in the high Indian cheekbones no longer welcomed Remo.

  "This is for the thugs who took over our church?"

  "They gotta eat, too."

  "Have you been there?"

  "Well, yes," said Remo.

  "Did they really spread excrement on our church?"

  "Well, they'll be pushed out soon."

  "You're damned right, they're going to be pushed out soon," said the store manager, tears welling up in his dark eyes.

  "What do you mean by that?" asked Remo.

  "None of your business. You wanted food. You got food."

  "I want to know what you meant by that. I mean, people could get hurt. Killed. A lot of people."

  "Then a lot of people will get killed."

  "The federal marshals will move them out," Remo said.

  "No doubt, some day. A .155 millimeter howitzer will move 'em out a lot faster, I'll tell you that. Without any real Indians having to get killed, either. And without even having to say howdy to a fed."

  Remo thought of a .155 millimeter cannon shell smashing into the monument. He thought of the Cassandra going up. All five nuclear devices going up. Montana going up. Large sections of Canada going up without anyone missing them. Wyoming and Colorado and Michigan and Kansas and Illinois and Indiana and Ohio and all points east and west—one big nuclear flame.

  "You got a great idea there, buddy," Remo said, "but you don't want to go firing away willy-nilly at your own church."

  "We can rebuild it. We built it with our own hands the first time to commemorate what the monument now commemorates. We thought that if the government could build a monument there, we could build one, too. The church is our monument. You know, if the New York Globe columnist didn't insist on talking to those thieves and crooks from Chicago, he'd find out what a real Indian feels. Not some schoolroom, alley-ghetto philosophy."

  "You won't have to rebuild the church. How would you like to get a clean shot at Dennis Petty? With your bare hands?"

  When Remo said "bare hands," he saw a joyous lust in the store manager's eyes.

  "Will you have that daffy bitch who started this nonsense with that book? Will you have her for us? That burning planet?"

  "Burning Star? Cosgrove. Lynn Cosgrove?"

  "Yes," said the store manager.

  "If you don't blow up your own church."

  "You've got an hour. Make it an hour and a half," said the store manager. "Could you make it five minutes?"

  "Wait. I need time," Remo said.

  "It ain't your church they're shitting in," said the store manager. "What the hell do you whites know about what's sacred and what isn't? You come into our lands and desecrate them. You leave us the scrapings, and when we make out on those, you come into the places we built and crap all over them."

  "Not me," said Remo. "The Revolutionary Indian Party."

  "Yeah. Indian. Hah! This is Apowa country. Would a Frenchman let a German come in and tear down Notre Dame just because the German's white, too? Why the hell should we Apowa put up with this crap from those fucking half-breeds who want to paint their faces and go shooting up our cows?"

  "No reason," said Remo. "I'll have them for you in a day. Now where's the Howitzer?"

  "None of your business, white man. But I promise you this. I'll be reasonable. You get me those bums, those desecrators, and I'll give you one day. Sunrise, day after tomorrow. More than a day because this is an Indian's gift to you."

  "The day after tomorrow. Right. Who should I look for? I mean I can't just ask for the Indian giver."

  "Do you want my real name or the legal one?"

  "Whatever people know you by."

  "My legal name is Wayne Ramage Henderson Hubbard Mason Woodleaf Kelley Brandt."

  "Let's try your real name."

  "Promise you won't laugh?"

  "I got through your legal name with a straight face, didn't I?"

  "It's He Who Walks like Cougar at Night."

  "You got a serial number people know you by?" asked Remo.

  "What's your name, big shot?" asked Brandt defensively.

  "Remo."

  He Who Walks like Cougar at Night called people over to hear the funny name, and after they all had a good laugh, they loaded the network truck with frozen dinners and shrimp bottled in their own cocktail sauce and Captain Crunch sugar-coated cereal, and seven cases of Twinkies.

  "Good. Our buffalo," said Burning Star when she regained her voice and saw the goods being loaded on the network truck. Remo hit her again where he'd hit her before, and Burning Star was quiet.

  He drove to the marshal's lines outside the Wounded Elk church, but then could not find his stolen marshal's badge.

  He flashed a piece of cellophane at one of the marshals. "United States Federal Justice Department," he said with authority.

  "That's a damned Twinkie wrapper," said the young federal marshal with the dark blue baseball cap and carbine. The cap had the American eagle on it.

  "Not every plan is flawless," said Remo, and he snatched the carbine by its barrel, gave the kid a healthy zonk on the side of the head, and drove on toward the monument and church. Just in time, because Lynn Cosgrove's voice was returning and she was beginning the chant of the brave hunter returning with buffalo for the tribe.

  The Master of Sinanju made his way into Wounded Elk in a different manner. When the night was at its darkest, he donned his black night kimono and signaled Van Riker that they must go.

  The peculiar white man wore a suit that reflected light, one of the chemical fabrics so common in the West. He carried that funny broom which was supposed to tell if the potential disaster he had created was going to come true. How strange, these Westerners, creating weapons that are bigger dangers to themselves than to their enemies, thought Chiun. But he remained quiet because if fools wished to destroy themselves, even he and all his ancestors could not protect them from themselves.

  "You must change that suit," said Chiun.

  "No can do, Papasan," said General Van Riker. "This suit protects me against radioactivity."

  "How can a dead man be protected?" asked Chiun.

  "Look, Papasan, I have great respect for your traditions and all that,
but I don't have time for riddles. Let's go."

  With a courteous nod, Chiun followed the white man out into the night, past the cars and down the road. When they came to a gushing muddy sewer by the side of the road, Chiun assisted Van Riker's balance by tumbling him down into the ditch. Then he was upon the larger man with his feet, rolling him in the dirty water like a log.

  Spitting blackness out of his mouth, Van Riker gagged out, "What did you do that for? What did you do that for? First you tell me we have to walk and then you shove me in a ditch."

  "Do you want to live?"

  "Damned right, but not in a ditch."

  "Ah well," sighed Chiun. He would have to make it simple for the great American scientist general. Chiun tried to think of some parable that would make it clearer. Something simple. Something that a child would understand.

  Van Riker scrambled out of the sewer ditch, spitting and heaving.

  "Once upon a time," said Chiun, "there was a delicate lotus whose beauty was known far and wide."

  "Don't give me that Papasan routine. Why did you kick me in the ditch?"

  Ah well, the courteous man tries many roads to understanding, thought Chiun. So he explained in a different way.

  "If we were to drive to the church and monument, we would be stopped because all cars are stopped."

  Van Riker nodded.

  "You see the floating morning cannot sustain that which…"

  "No, no, I got you the first time. Why the ditch?"

  "Your suit acts like a beacon in the night."

  "Why didn't you just tell me to change suits instead of kicking me into the ditch?"

  "I did."

  "But you didn't tell me why."

  "One is not always sure a thimble will hold a lake. Better that you know what, then later perhaps you can deal with why."

  "All right, all right, all right."

  They walked along the road, and when they were three hundred yards from the marshals' lights, Chiun signaled his charge down into the ditch at the left and then up the other side. They walked through crunching gravel for a while, and then Chiun signaled for Van Riker to halt.