“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 its 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. “Damn it,” 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?”

  “You want to prove to Russia that this is the Cassandra?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right,” said Chiun. “Up there you will see a crack in the marble at the top of the monument. Go push on it.”

  The cameras whirred as Valashnikov, staggering from the poison of radioactivity flooding his body and his brain, moved forward to the marble monument. His mind seemed to bubble with thoughts of its own. He fought to keep control of the ideas and images that whirled behind his eyes.

  “I Russian spy,” he bawled. “This American capitalist missile.”

  He reached the spot Chiun had pointed out. He stumbled, and fell against it. A section of the marble block moved away, revealing a new section of the marble beneath it.

  Valashnikov saw it as he fell. “No, no,” he whimpered. “No, no.” And then he was still. The cameras whirred and newsmen crowded around his lifeless body, which lay in front of a marble legend that read:

  CASSANDRA 2

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE REPORTERS LOOKED AT each other.

  “What’s Cassandra 2?” Jonathan Bouchek asked Remo.

  “A secret missile designed to blow up the entire world,” Candler answered for him.

  Bouchek turned to him. “Do you know that for a fact?”

  “What else could it be?” said Candler. “What else…”

  He stopped as they heard the first noise. It sounded like a faint wind blowing from the east, and then it increased in intensity and pitch, as if it were growing stronger, coming nearer: It was behind them and they turned.

  And then they saw the source of the noise.

  At the crest of the mesa upon which the Apowa village of Wounded Elk was located, one man became visible. Then another. Then another, then clusters of them. And soon the entire edge of the bluff was filled with men on horseback, shoulder to shoulder. They wore feathers and war paint. They were naked to the waist, and across their backs they had strapped guns and bows. Now they stopped to look down the half-mile toward the church, where the RIP members were drinking peacefully, and then one man in the center, astride a pinto pony, waved his rifle over his head, and with an earth-shattering scream, the Apowa braves came charging down the hillside on their ponies, heading for the church.

  Remo smiled to himself. Brandt was not going to be cheated out of his revenge by any old bent cannon.

  “It’s the Indians attacking,” one reporter cried.

  “Don’t be fooled. It’s probably Green Berets in disguise,” said Candler. “Why would Indians attack the RIP forces who are seeking justice for all red men?”

  “That’s true,” said Jonathan Bouchek. “Let’s go,” he told his cameraman, and they began trotting along the road from the monument to the church. Other reporters broke into a run and followed.

  The Apowa warriors, two hundred strong, were now down off the hill and galloping across the open prairie toward the church, their banshee wails filling the prairie.

  The noise brought the church to life, too. Inside, the RIP members were celebrating the arrival of Perkin Marlowe with a cocktail party at which the most popular drink was Scotch with Scotch on the side. Dennis Petty heard the sound first.

  “Getting so noisy around here, you can’t even have a good party,” he said, tossing an empty bottle at the corner of the altar, where it fell and cracked again a pile of bottles. Then, drink in hand, he strolled to the front of the church. “Perkin, old Kemosabe, make yourself a drink,” he said. He opened the front door of the church and looked out. “Holy shit,” he whistled.

  “What is it?” called Lynn Cosgrove, who sat in a nearby pew taking notes.”

  “It’s Indians,” said Petty. “Hey, it’s Indians,” he yelled to the entire church. Real Indians.”

  “Probably planning to rape all us women,” said Cosgrove.

  “Hey! Shit! They’re coming here,” Petty yelled. “They’re coming here.”

  “What are they yelling?” asked Marlowe, moving toward Petty.

  “They’re yelling, Kill RIP. Kill RIP. Shit. Sheeeit! I’m getting out of here.”

  “They’re government lackies,” said Cosgrove without turning.

  “Right,” said Perkin Marlowe.

  “Government lackies, my ass. They’re Indians. Real Indians. I ain’t screwing around with no real Indians,” Petty said.

  By now all forty RIP members had moved to Petty’s side.

  “Shit is right,” said one of them. “They look mean. I’m getting out of here.”

  “Let’s go,” said Petty. “Before one of us gets hurt.”

  They started down the steps of the church and broke into a run toward the line of federal marshals.

  As they ran, Petty ripped off his dirty T-shirt and waved it over his head. “Sanctuary!” he screamed. “We surrender. Sanctuary.”

  The other RIP members followed his lead, ripping off their shirts, waving them over their heads.

  “Help! Protect us! Sanctuary!” Beer bottles and whiskey flasks dropped from their pockets as they ran.

  The reporters made the mistake of trying to head them off and were trampled.

  “Get out of my way, you nitwit bastards,” shouted Petty, slamming a straight arm into Jerry Candler and stepping on Jonathan Bouchek.

  Finally convinced and bringing up the rear of the RIP stampede, but gaining ground every minute, was Perkin Marlowe. He was whimpering,“I just wanted to help. I just wanted to help. Don’t let me get hurt.”

  In an instant the RIP members were past the press. Candler lifted himself up on one elbow and looked at the fleeing figures. He turned to Bouchek, who lay on his back in the dust. “Can’t blame him for panicking. I mean, after all, he’s under terrible pressures, with those disguised soldiers after him, trying to kill him.”

  Candler looked up and saw a man on a pinto pony standing over him. The man was red-skinned and wore a headdress of feathers. He held a rifle loosely in his right hand.

  “Who are you?” the man asked.

  Candler scrambled to his feet. “I’m glad you asked. I’m Jerry Candler of the New York Globe and I know what you think your game is, but you’re not going to get away with it, terrifying those poor Indians like that.”

  “You mean all those Indians from Chicago’s South Side?” asked Brandt, looking down from his pony.

  “The world will hear about this atrocity,” said Candler.

  “Were you born a fool, or did you study it in school?” asked Brandt. He looked up and saw the RIP members had crossed the line of federal marshals and were surrendering as fast as the marshals could get to them. Then he turned to the rest of his war party. “Come, men. Lets go and clean the garbage out of our church.”

  They turned their ponies and trotted away. Candler began walking toward the marshals, already composing the lead for his Sunday column: “Vietnam. Attica. San Francisco. And now Wounded Elk joins the long list of American atrocities.”

  · · ·

  Remo had watched the charge and the near battle from a seat atop the marble monument. He felt satisfied at its outcome and turned to get Chiun’s reaction. But Chiun was deep in discussion with Van Riker. “There,” Chiun was saying. There is the weapon you would have invented, had you any brains.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Van Riker. “You’ve just let the world know that this is Cassandra.”

  Chiun shook his head. “This is Cassandra 2. It says so on the plaque I made. That means there is a Cassandra 1, and no enemy will be able to find it, and it will not hurt anyone, either.”

  Van Riker looked confused. “The Russians?”

  “The Russians will be more sure that Cassandra 1 exists because they have seen parts from Cassandra 2. I have made for you the perfect weapon. Harmless but effective. The only kind white men should be allowed to play with.”

  Van Riker’s tanned face opened into a slow smile. “You know, you’re right.” He looked toward the marble slab, where the dead Valashnikov lay, and shook his head. “I feel sorry for him in a way. All those years he spent finding this missile, and then, when he does, he loses anyway.”

  “Pffffui,” said Chiun. “Death is too good for him. There is no man lower than a man who lies to an assassin about his wages.”

  Together, the three men walked back to the motel, where Van Riker immediately got busy. He called Washington, and ordered nuclear crews in to dismantle Cassandra 2. He did it on an open line and talked to every clerk who answered the telephone, just to make sure his orders were not only intercepted but given the widest possible public distribution.

  Van Riker smiled. He could talk about Cassandra 2 all he wanted now. He had the perfect weapon—Cassandra 1.

  Remo sat in the next room with Chiun. It was still too early for the day’s soap operas, so they watched the news. It was filled with shots of Valashnikov and Cassandra 2 and the Apowa attack on the church and the RIP members being routed.

  Jonathan Bouchek shoved a camera and a microphone in the face of Lynn Cosgrove. “Burning Star…” he began.

  “My name is Cosgrove,” she said. “Lynn Cosgrove.”

  “But I thought your Indian name was…”

  “That was a past chapter in my history. The Indian struggles have come and gone. Today there is a new and greater struggle confronting all Americans. The struggle for sexual liberation. I have here the outline of my new book.” She waved a notebook at him. “It will point the way to honest healthy sexual relationships among all people. Prudery must die.” She reached her free hand up to the neck of her buckskin dress and ripped it open, baring her breasts for cameras. “What’s wrong with screwing?” she yelled. “Sex, now and forever.”

  Behind her, a voice yelled, “Sacajawea. Sacajawea.”

  It was Dennis Petty.

  Lynn Cosgrove wheeled and yelled back, “Fraud bastard. Fake, phony, chicken shit fraud bastard.”

  As Bouchek’s crew kept filming, Petty grabbed his crotch with his right hand and thrust it forward toward Cosgrove. “That’s for you.”

  Watching his live air presentation degenerate into an X-rated display of obscene gestures, Bouchek sank slowly to the ground. Before cutting away, the last shot the camera got was of Bouchek crying, his makeup washing down his cheeks.

 

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