Brain Storm

20

Holz pulled into the PlattDeutsche America parking lot beside the battered interface van. It was the executive lot, and most of the other spots were empty this late in the day. He got out of the cab and went over to the other truck. He eyed the damage to the rear door critically.

As if on cue, Remo and Chiun came around the rear of the van, guided by the interface signal. Their faces were bland reflections of one another.

"Did you do that?" Holz demanded of Remo.

Remo did not respond.

"Your silence is getting very old, very quickly,"

Holz said impatiently. "This equipment cost a fortune. I hope for your sake it is not damaged." He rattled the handle but found the door was sealed shut.

"Splendid. I'm going to have to send this out for repairs," he said with a resigned sigh.

The three of them left the truck and took the rear stairwell up to the lab.

When they entered Newton's lab, the first thing Holz noticed was the man on the ceiling. He was crawling like a spider, as if his palms and toes were glue. He slipped across to the wall and climbed rapidly down to the laboratory floor.

Von Breslau stood at the computer terminal near Newton, making little scratch marks in a yellow legal pad. Holz's assistant stood behind the two men. His arms were folded across his chest. His face held the same unreadable expression as always.

"That was incredible!" the man who had just scaled the wall enthused. Holz knew him. His name was David Leib and he was a manager in the sales department. "Did you see that?" Leib asked excitedly. He looked up at the ceiling and then down at the palms of his hands. It was as if he were seeing them for the first time in his life.

Von Breslau fixed his rheumy eyes on Holz. "We have had great success thus far, Lothar," the old man said. He made another mark on his paper.

"I can see that," Holz said, nodding to the incredulous sales manager. "How many test subjects have you used so far?"

"Eight so far, I believe. Eight?" Newton glanced at von Breslau for confirmation.

The old man consulted the yellow legal pad, then nodded.

"Yes, eight," Newton said.

"Have there been any ill effects?"

"None so far," Newton confirmed. Hesitant at first, he had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the experiments.

"There appear to be no side effects on our subjects," von Breslau said. He was unhappy to have someone answer for him. His lips puckered unpleasantly as he glanced at Curt Newton.

"Then it is obvious to me. Fischer moved too quickly with the first test subject."

"I think that is pretty clear, Lothar. But remember, that's not the only thing to consider. The nervous systems are different. We are still only downloading very basic material. It would take some time for the new systems to adapt. Basically what we have is a new program overriding an old one."

"But it is possible?"

"Hey, they're living proof," Newton said, waving his hand toward Remo and Chiun. "I patched them back into the internal system once you were back on the grounds, by the way."

Holz sloughed the words off as if they were irrelevant. He was watching the sales manager, who had taken to the wall once again. The man climbed ef-fortlessly up and then back down again. The PlattDeutsche vice president's eyes held an envious gleam.

"I think we can bring these tests into a new realm," Holz announced boldly.

"That would be acceptable," von Breslau agreed.

His tired eyes strayed to the EKG monitor.

"Hold on, here." Curt Newton jumped in. "I think we should do some more tests. We have no idea what sort of long-term neural side effects there could be to the process."

"That is the problem with scientists, my dear Curt.

You people want to test and test and test, while the rest of us are looking for solutions today. And we have one, in your brilliant research. We also have our next volunteer." Holz snapped his fingers. Obediently his assistant stepped away from the two doctors. He hopped up onto the hospital gurney.

"You will step up the process."

"Agreed," von Breslau declared.

"Are you sure?" Newton said. "I mean—" he pitched his voice low so that the sales manager could not hear "—does your assistant realize there are risks?" he asked. He nodded to the blond-haired man.

"He was bred for risk, Doctor. By me." With a minimum of fuss, the old man proceeded to connect the electrodes from Newton's equipment. He worked with the confidence of a man who had been with the Dynamic Interface System program for months.

When finished, he stepped over to the computer and proceeded to study the commands Newton gave to the machine. He had done this for the bulk of the day. For his part, the young man sat on the bench, silent. His eyes were blue stone.

It was all so surreal to Curt Newton. Holz. The infamous Dr. Erich von Breslau. Now this young man's ready acceptance of the danger posed by the Dynamic Interface System.

Newton had become used to the blond man's silent, subservient attitude over the years. He had been with Holz since Newton first arrived at PlattDeutsche. But Newton was amazed that his pliancy extended to acting as a human guinea pig simply because his employer wished him to do so.

Behind Newton, von Breslau cleared his throat impatiently. He was surprising for a man of his advanced years. He had asked Newton pointed questions concerning the operation of the Dynamic Interface System all afternoon, and the scientist was amazed at the old man's ability to grasp the minutiae of the complex operating system. He remained, however, ill-tempered and impatient.

Taking a deep breath, Curt Newton initiated the procedure that would download the Sinanju information into his latest test subject.

It was after dark. The waning sunlight had ceased shining through the spaces around the damaged door nearly an hour before.

He used the tiny penlight on his key chain to check the time.

His Timex read 9:18 p.m. It was nearly time.

Harold W. Smith had sat patiently in the back of the interface van for most of the day. Of course, there was no guarantee that anyone would return for the vehicle. It was logical to assume, though, that if Remo and Chiun had failed, Holz would come back to reclaim his expensive equipment. He would know full well that there was nothing to prevent Smith from giving the PlattDeutsche vice president whatever he wanted.

Smith had opted not to struggle when Holz returned. Using a strategy that dated back to the Trojan War, Smith had stowed away in the rear of the van, waiting. He knew the back door was solid, though it didn't appear to be. Remo had seen to that.

Smith had blocked the door from the cab, hoping that whoever collected the vehicle would assume that it had been damaged in the fight.

Smith's assumption had been a good one. He heard the cab door open at about one-thirty.

There was one tense moment when the handle rattled. Smith held his breath, hoping his barricade would hold. It had. An hour and a half later he was driven safely through the gates of PlattDeutsche America. And he had waited in anxious silence the rest of the afternoon.

He heard Holz arrive about an hour before dusk.

From the way he spoke, Smith knew Remo must be with him. But Holz never even checked the cab door.

He had left the truck and gone inside the nearest building. After he had disappeared, more silence.

That had been several hours before.

Nine twenty-two. Almost time.

The feeble light from his key chain fell upon the glassy-eyed face of one of the men sent to Folcroft the previous night. The man was dead, as were the others in the back of the truck. Smith had been unable to dispose of them in broad daylight at Folcroft and so had sat in the seat next to the corpses for the past nine hours.

Nine twenty-three.

Smith clicked off the light and replaced his key chain in his pocket. A few rays of yellow, washed-out light spilled into the back of the truck around the spaces in the rear door. Feeling around in the semi-darkness, Smith found the flat metal bar he had propped up against the cab door. It was jammed solidly beneath the door handle, its far end butted up against one of the computer tables.

With the heel of his right hand, he knocked the bar loose. It held for a moment, as if it could not be budged. With a second shove, it popped free. He caught it in his left hand and set it quietly to the floor.

Hoping the door didn't squeak on its hinges, Smith pulled it open. He checked his watch again. 9:25.

Five minutes more.

He opened the cab door a crack and glanced around the immediate area. The lot was devoid of cars save for a few stragglers.

Hoping that he had not waited too long, Smith climbed down into the empty parking lot.

"We're going too fast." Newton said suddenly.

"His vital signs are perfect," von Breslau countered.

"We didn't download at this rate with any of the others."

"He is different. They were tainted specimens. His physiology is as flawless as is scientifically possible."

Lothar Holz watched the entire procedure delight-edly. "The information? He's absorbing it?" He nodded toward the blond man who sat rigidly on the gurney.

"It looks that way," Newton admitted.

"It does not look' any way, Doctor. It is," said the Nazi doctor. His usually dour expression had given way to one of rare satisfaction.

Newton could only grudgingly agree.

A minute later, von Breslau had the scientist shut down the interface. The flood of information ceased.

Holz's assistant showed no reaction.

Muttering happily to himself, von Breslau bustled over to the table and began examining the young man.

Holz turned to Remo and Chiun. "It seems the vaunted men of Sinanju are no longer unique." He indicated his assistant. "In an hour, he has captured your essence. So much for all your years of training, hmm?"

"Release me, thief, and I will test the effectiveness of your device on that one," Chiun said coldly. Von Breslau looked up as Chiun spoke. Sneering at the Master of Sinanju, he continued to administer his tests to the blond-haired man.

Holz smiled broadly. "Aren't you a little concerned?"

Chiun's eyes were as level as a hawk's. And promised far more peril.

"Your servant does not merit Sinanju. Therefore he possesses it not. What you have given him is but a pale reflection of the original glorious light That light resides in me and my son."

"Are you willing to stake your life on it?"

4 if »t

1 am.

Holz's confident smile broadened. "A fine attempt, Master of Sinanju," he said. "But only a fool would release you. And I, if you had not noticed, am not a fool."

"You're doing a damned good impersonation,"

Remo offered tightly.

Holz looked at Remo. "I would not be so confident if I were either of you," he said, raising an admonishing finger. He whispered something to Curt Newton. The scientist nodded and punched a few brief instructions into his computer.

Chiun immediately sprang to life. The old man's back arched, and he flung himself toward the center of the room. He landed flat on the soles of both sandals.

Holz put on his best Western accent. "Dance, pardner," he drawled. He bowed to Newton and the scientist reluctantly began entering commands.

Chiun's pipe-stem legs began stomping the floor of the lab. He twisted his reed-thin arms wildly around, his kimono sleeves flapping like wind socks in a gale. It was like a strange, computer-generated form of the Twist.

Newton chuckled in spite of himself as he watched the sharp contortions of the desperately gyrating old man. Holz clapped his hands and tapped his foot, keeping time with a noiseless band.

Remo watched the entire proceedings stoically, but inside him a hot, roiling pool of anger began to swell.

His eyes burned with tears of impotent rage. He knew it was wrong. He knew that Chiun would have told him that it was unprofessional for an assassin to feel such visceral fury. But as he watched the man he had come to love as a father humiliated for sport, he couldn't stop the emotion.

He hated Lothar Holz. And in that moment more than any other since these days of torment had begun, he vowed that he would destroy Holz.

All at once, Chiun stopped his strange cavorting.

His twisting arms fell to his sides, and he began to wobble slowly in place. For a moment, Remo thought it was part of their sick show. But all at once, Chiun's legs seemed to roll up inside the skirt of his kimono. Like an aluminum lawn chair, the Master of Sinanju folded in half and fell to the cold laboratory floor. He didn't move again.

Holz stopped clapping. He screwed his face up, angry to have his fun interrupted.

"Why did you stop?" he demanded of Newton.

The scientist was tapping rapidly at his computer keyboard. "I didn't," he said nervously.

Holz looked beyond the Master of Sinanju. He was shocked to find that Remo had dropped to the floor, as well.

"What's going on?" Holz demanded, wheeling.

Newton seemed hopelessly confused. "I have no idea," he replied desperately. "They're both off-line."

Holz eyed Remo and Chiun. The color drained from his face. "So you can't control them?" he hissed.

Newton ignored him. He banged furiously away at the keyboard. "Satellite's gone, too," he announced anxiously.

Chiun lay motionless on the floor. He would not be an immediate problem. But as Holz watched in growing horror, he saw Remo's legs begin to kick feebly. A second later, the young Sinanju Master lifted himself to his elbows.

"Get them back up!" Holz screamed.

"The interface signal is jammed!" Newton cried.

"Reestablish it!"

"I can't!"

Across the room, Remo was pulling himself to his feet. His shoulders and arms twitched spastically as the residual effects of his prolonged exposure to the interface signal began to slowly wear off. He got as far as his knees. But like a toddler taking its first uncertain steps, he fell roughly backward. He immediately began trying again.

Holz's eyes were wild. "What's wrong with the satellite!" he screamed.

"I don't know!"

There was only one option. The men from Sinanju were loose. The life of Lothar Holz was at risk.

It was time to flee. Holz spun to the door. He was shocked by what greeted him.

"No one move." The words came from the laboratory entrance. It was a voice Lothar Holz recognized. He blinked away his disbelief.

Harold W. Smith was framed in the doorway. In his hand was a heavy automatic pistol. He held the gun levelly, near his hip. Smith had positioned himself so that from where he stood he could take out any of the men in the lab.

"Remo?" Smith called evenly. He didn't take his eyes off Holz.

"I'm okay, Smitty," Remo said, voice uncertain.

Chiun's tiny inert form lay nearby.

"The Master of Sinanju?" Smith asked tightly.

"Checking."

Remo couldn't stand. He had been exposed to the radio signal far too long. As quickly as possible—

though his every nerve ending protested the punish-ment—he crawled on hands and knees over to Chiun's prone form. The Master of Sinanju still hadn't moved.

"How—?" Holz didn't have time to get his question out. All at once the building began to shake.

It was like an earthquake.

The computers and mainframe rattled visibly.

Clipboards, coffee cups, pens and floppy disks trem-bled, then tumbled from their perches on tables and computer terminals. A stack of papers fell from a desk near the door and fluttered like autumn leaves to the floor.

Holz was first to see it. Out the high window of the lab, the low black figure seemed to drag through the air. It was so close, he could make it out in spite of the lights of the lab.

It was an odd shape. Silhouetted against the pale blue night sky he spied something that looked like a giant Frisbee balanced atop the back of the massive aircraft

"A signal jammer!" Newton shouted over the roar of the plane.

The E-3A Sentry banked north and circled out of sight. But a low, angry rumble could be heard in the distance as the plane circled back around. As it flew, it continued blanketing the area with its broadcast-damping signal.

Remo had to drag himself across the floor to Chiun. His eyes were hot with nervous tears as he rolled the Master of Sinanju over onto his back.

Chiun was as still as death. Remo watched impotently. The lips didn't move, nor did the eyes flutter behind their papery lids.

Then all at once, Chiun's narrow chest expanded and deflated. He was breathing. Chiun was still alive.

Remo released his own breath. He had not even realized he was holding it. Above him, the others were talking. Until now, he had shut out their voices.

"I should have killed you immediately," Holz said to Smith.

"A tactical error," Smith agreed, "but not uncommon. Someone else made the same mistake years ago. On the island of Usedom."

A ripple of confusion. "You were on Usedom?"

Remo noticed that the tone of Holz's voice had changed.

Smith's voice became brusque. "It's over, Holz,"

Remo heard Smith say.

Remo didn't even care. Chiun was all right.

"All three of you, move out where I can see you,"

Smith ordered.

Somehow the thought registered in Remo's mind.

Three?

"Smitty, there's—"

He looked up in time to see Holz's assistant attack.

Smith couldn't react. There was no time. The man sprang from out of the shadows beside the door like a panther. His hand flew down toward Smith's arm.

It cracked audibly against the barrel of the gun.

A single shot exploded in the room. Curt Newton was caught square in the chest. He toppled backward off his stool, crashing with a fatal thud to the laboratory floor.

Smith's gun rattled off into a corner.

Lothar Holz's response was immediate. "Kill him," he growled.

Smith stood his ground, awaiting the inevitable end. On the floor, Remo was helpless. He still couldn't move adequately, certainly not quickly enough to help Smith. Desperately Remo searched the area for something, anything he could use against Holz and his accomplices.

The blond man drew back his arm, Angers splayed, in an all too familiar Sinanju move. It was basic but effective. Arms lashed forward in a killer lunge...but they weren't fast enough.

A single projectile rocketed up from the floor of the lab.

The pen tore through the man's shoulder. His mouth opened in pain, but no sound came out. Where there should have been a scream, there was only gasping silence. Smith dropped down and rolled away from the younger man.

Holz wheeled in the direction from which the pen had come. Remo was already crawling across the floor to where one of the other pens had fallen during the Sentry's first pass.

Holz was lost. Frantic. He barked a command in German to his assistant before racing into the hall.

The young man, still bleeding from the shoulder, hustled von Breslau from the lab. Another pen flew after them but, like the first, it missed its mark. It embedded itself up to the PlattDeutsche logo in the door frame.

Smith ran to retrieve his gun. Finding it under a small metal bookcase, he ran out into the hallway, after the fleeing trio.

Several seconds later, Remo heard a single muffled shot accompanied by the squealing of tires. Another noise—this time a distant crash—followed the gunfire. The roar of a truck engine faded into the night.

A minute later Smith returned, panting and shaking his head.

"They got away in the van," he said breathlessly.

"Forget them. Help me with Chiun."

Smith nodded crisply. By now some mobility had returned to Remo's legs. Though he hobbled as Smith puffed, they managed to get the Master of Sinanju up onto the hospital gurney.

As Remo ministered to Chiun, Smith crouched to check on Newton.

The scientist was wheezing irregularly. A frothy foam of pink encircled his mouth. The wound in his chest had stained the front of his dress shirt a deep crimson.

He was speaking softly, almost moaning. His words were unintelligible as he gasped to get them out. He said the same two syllables over and over.

Smith got down on one knee and tipped his head to Newton's mouth.

Half a minute later, Curt Newton gulped one last, pained lungful of air and then expired. Leaving him, Smith returned to Remo's side.

Remo was massaging the Master of Sinanju's wrists. Chiun's eyes had begun to flutter languidly.

The younger Sinanju Master's thin lips were drawn tight.

"What was he saying?" Remo asked, nodding back to Newton.

Smith frowned unhappily. "It sounded like 'Nobel,'" he replied.