Last Drop

"I'll call the building inspector in the morning," Remo said. "What are the poppies for?"

"Ah, yes. I forget that you are unfamiliar with our operation here. We have so few visitors, I'm afraid."

"A waste of fine hospitality."

Arnold laughed. "I know. We're really shockingly rude, my stepmother and I. I do apologize."

"I'll remember how sorry you are the next time you try to kill me. Now, about the poppies."

Arnold led him into a partitioned area at the rear of the greenhouse. The ghostly ultraviolet light was replaced by large banks of bright fluorescents strung above a series of metal-topped laboratory tables. On the tables were a number of objects, including several plants, some bearing beans, others with bright flowers. They were all slightly different from one another. Arnold picked up one of the blossoms.

"Papaver somniferum," he said. "The opium poppy." He set down the plant and picked up a tube of some sticky black-brown material. It was about the thickness of a stick of pepperoni. "Opium is made from the juice of the immature seed capsules belonging to this plant." When Arnold moved the tube, the sickly sweet odor became stronger.

"Opium, in turn, is refined into morphine, a drug that for years was considered the strongest narcotic available to medicine." He picked up a plastic bag filled with white powder, set it down, and lifted another bag of even more brilliant white.

"But then along came heroin, and even further refinement of the commonplace opium poppy plant. Those who enjoy its soothing effects—"

"Yeah, yeah," Remo said.

"Forgive me if I am oversimplifying, but you have come for information, haven't you?"

"About the coffee. You can dump the lecture on junkies. Thanks to you, there are millions of them in the United States right now."

"And elsewhere soon, I hope," Arnold said laconically. He looked up at Remo. "Surely you didn't think we were going to stop with the North American continent? That was just the test area. The idea is far too brilliant to contain in one country. No, it belongs to the ages, my coffee. Would you like to know how it's made?"

Remo nodded.

Smiling vaguely, Arnold pulled one of the coffee plants under the light on the lab table. Beside it he placed a large square cardboard box, which had rested on a low shelf. He opened the box. Inside was a single dazzling purple blossom. Its fragrance was overpowering, with ten times the intensity of the other flowers in the room.

"Another strain of poppy," Remo said.

"Quite. Papaver somniferum Esmeralda. I've named it for my stepmother. They tend to have the same effect on men."

He lifted the plant from the box. Its gorgeous petals shrank from the light. "Night blooming. Very rare," Arnold whispered.

"You've crossed coffee plants with these poppies," Remo said.

"To put it gracelessly, yes. Naturally, the hybrid only works with a certain strain of Colombian coffee and this particular species of opium poppy, but the cross is possible. See for yourself." He took one of the beans from the coffee plant and crushed it with a mallet. The fragments emitted a bittersweet fragrance.

Remo tasted one of the pieces. "But this is heroin, not opium."

"It is opium," Arnold said. "But of such an intensity that further refinement is unnecessary. Do you now see why the use of this drug will not be limited to your country?"

"It's your country, too," Remo said.

Arnold laughed. "How very provincial of you." He placed the flowering plant back inside its box, then took off the rubber gloves and the lab coat he was wearing. "Would you care to see the plants where they grow? They're exceedingly beautiful."

"Not really. I've seen enough."

"I'm afraid I must insist we go upstairs, all the same." Arnold tapped the crystal on his watch. "You see, it's eight minutes to twelve. It will soon be Esmeralda's birthday. I wish to help her celebrate it."

They walked through the greenhouse and down the corridor, picking their way over the fallen rock and detritus left by the collapse of Arnold's oubliette. At the far end, Arnold pressed a small button, and the tile wall slid away to reveal an open elevator.

"Clever," Remo said. "This connects to the closet upstairs?"

"Very good," Arnold answered with an approving nod. "My stepmother will be so glad to see you again. I'm pleased that you managed to be friends with her. She gets so lonely."

"Wonderful friend," Remo observed. "I suppose she had something to do with my falling into that hole of yours."

"What do you think?"

"I think you're two peas in a pod. Nothing like murder to bring a family together."

The elevator door opened immediately behind the hanging skeleton. "You really do overemphasize that aspect of things. Murder is not our objective in this enterprise. Profit is. If I may say so, I think you have a tendency toward the morbid." He pushed the skeleton aside. "Ah, there's my charming Mater now."

They walked into the living room. Esmeralda was standing in a corner, looking like a trapped animal. Whether she was afraid of Arnold or of himself, Remo didn't know, but it was clear she was afraid.

"Come here, Mater dearest," Arnold said. "Our visitor won't harm you. I was just going to show him the poppy fields."

"You— you told him about the beans?" she asked.

"Why, of course. You did, didn't you?"

"Arnold—"

"It's all right." His voice was soft. "Our secrets are safe with our friend, aren't they?"

Esmeralda looked at him for a long moment, her eyes wide. Then she lowered them and nodded slowly.

She was on the kid's side, all right, Remo thought. All the talk about being terrified of Arnold was just a sham. Good old Esmeralda, the best actress in Colombia.

Arnold broke the silence. "If you'll just follow me, please."

A flight of stairs led them to the roof. It was flat and bare except for the huge opaque dome that Remo had seen from the air.

"What's that?" he asked.

Arnold shook at finger at him. "Now, if I told you everything, we wouldn't have any conversation left for later."

"Oh, yes, we would. We could discuss who your father is, for instance."

Arnold chuckled and put his arm around Esmeralda, who was shivering. "My, my, we have been talkative, haven't we, Mater?"

She didn't answer.

"But to the business at hand," Arnold went on. He flipped a switch on the side of the outer wooden wall of the mansion, and a thousand powerful spotlights blinked on to reveal acres of shimmering, violet-colored flowers in the fields far below the house.

"Magnificent, aren't they? The only ones in existence. Their seeds are filled with the purest natural variety of opium known to man. When these blossoms are crossed with Peruvinian coffee beans, the result is even purer than refined heroin." He inhaled deeply. "And you can drink it for breakfast, too."

Remo waited. The young madman had already told him and shown him far too much to let him live.

"Now that I've seen your flowers, I guess the two of you are going to push me off the roof."

Arnold shook his head. "Certainly not. After all, if you escaped from my oubliette with nothing but the strength in your limbs, you would most decidedly win in any physical struggle with me or my stepmother." He consulted his watch again. "It's nearly midnight. Come back downstairs. We must usher in Esmeralda's birthday with a toast."

With a backward glance at the strange opaque dome on the roof, Remo followed the two of them back into the living room. Arnold passed glasses of brandy around.

"You, Mater, must sit in the place of honor while we toast you." He led her to a small settee facing the curved glass wall overlooking the cliff, and raised his glass.

Esmeralda cast a glance at Remo. "I did not wish to kill you," she said.

Remo shrugged. "Forget it. Happy birthday."

"My sentiments exactly," Arnold said, moving behind her. He raised his glass. "A very happy birthday to you, Mater. A short life and a merry one."

He leaned forward slightly. Remo heard a faint ping, a sickening, familiar sound.

"Move!" he shouted. But it was too late. The drink flew out of Esmeralda's hand as the bottom cushion of the settee sprang out, thrusting her like a rocket toward the sheet glass wall. Her head broke through the glass, and her body followed, flying, out into the empty air. She screamed, a long wail that cascaded downward and died long before the faint thud of her body striking the ground sounded.

Arnold finished his drink calmly. "She never was a part of the plan, not really," he said, his eyes glistening with pleasure as he spoke to Remo. "She was far too stupid. But rich. Her family's fortune has helped both my father and me enormously. Cheerio, Esmeralda." He tossed his glass out the broken window after her, then ran across the room past the archway leading to the closet.

"Oh, no you don't," Remo said, lunging after him.

He heard the click. He knew that something else was coming, a knife, a bullet, maybe, but he had expected it in the corridor ahead, in one of Arnold's peculiar passageways. When the midst shot out of the archway itself, covering Remo with fine droplets, he was more annoyed at himself for not seeing it coming than bothered by any discomfort it caused.

It was, after all, only a fine liquid spray that lightly touched his skin and clothing. It had no odor. It was not a drug of any sort Remo could identify. Yet Arnold stood only a few feet away from him, backing away slowly, and Remo couldn't catch him. With each millisecond he felt himself hardening into stone, unable to move even a muscle of his face.

"A plastic polymer," Arnold explained helpfully. He strolled past Remo, poking him gently on his arm. "Very effective, I'd say. I never tried it before on a human, but it seems to have done the job nicely. You're as immobile as Lot's wife. Excuse me."

He picked up the decanter of brandy, poured himself another glass, and brushed past Remo again into the corridor, where he stood beside the telephone with its red button. He scrutinized the human statue standing beside him.

"You'll suffocate, you know. But for all that, you'll have to die twice." He sipped at his drink. "Frankly, I'm surprised you're still alive. But then you may not be. The polymer seals the eyes open. The hamsters and monkeys I've experimented with remained quite lifelike long after death. A real boon for taxidermy."

He opened the closet door and removed the skeleton from it. He took it to the far end of the living room and arranged it beside the broken glass wall.

"Curious?" He laughed. "Very well. On the off chance that you're still alive, I'll tell you what I'm doing. The great drawback of being a criminal genius is that one has so little opportunity to talk of one's achievements."

He looked at the skeleton lovingly for a moment, then took a box of matches from one of the mahogany tables and set fire to the draperies.

"This," he said, gesturing to the skeleton, "is myself. The dental work matches mine exactly. When the authorities come to investigate the fire, they will find three bodies: poor Esmeralda, who leaped to her death rather than subject herself to the flames, her grief-stricken stepson, who perished while contemplating the terrible fate of his beloved "Mater," and a stranger, perhaps a visitor to the house, perhaps the arsonist himself."

The flames rose higher. The precious paintings on the walls curled and buckled. Arnold moved away from the heat, past Remo into the corridor.

"No one will notice the flowers. They are an unknown species. They, with the beans, are far enough below to escape damage from the fire. And my underground laboratory, designed against every conceivable natural disaster, will remain hidden. Only Esmeralda's house and its three occupants will vanish from the earth." He smiled. "There's more. I've thought of everything."

His eyes glowed as he told of his plans. "After a decent interval, there will be a buyer for the property. No, not me, but another whom I trust. Someone, if that is possible, nearly as intelligent as myself. This person will rebuild this house. The crops will be harvested as usual, business will continue, and I shall return, nameless and free."

He loosened his tie. "Well, there's no point in telling you any more. I'm sure you've gone to your reward by now, and the heat, I must say, is becoming oppressive."

He lifted the telephone to his ear and pressed the red button twice in succession. "Father, I'm coming," he said, and hung up. Then he walked into the closet where the skeleton had hung. There was a faint whirr, and then silence. Arnold was gone.

Then the closet itself burst into flame. The passageway leading to the laboratory was obliterated.

Remo had stopped breathing long before, and could remain in that state for hours, if necessary. But he did not have hours. There were flames on both sides of him, and even in the desensitized state of his body beneath the rock-hard glue that covered it, he was beginning to feel the searing heat.

He stood, rooted, while an invisible thread inside him coiled and uncoiled in frenzied frustration. Something was calling to him, urging him to action. It was near to pain, the insistent thrumming of the deep string within him.

Chiun. Chiun wanted him, needed him, and there was nothing he could do.

A gust of air whooshed in through the broken glass wall and sent a tongue of flame curling around him. He closed his eyes. The inside of his eyelids felt cool against their dry surface.

The inside of his eyelids, he thought. He had blinked.

And then, throbbing with the heat, one finger moved.

?Chapter Fourteen

The clock on Smith's desk read 12:01. He rubbed his hand over his face. The movement hurt his side. Then he pulled out his chair and painfully began to rise.

"Halt." A small hand, strong as a vise, clasped his arm above the elbow. Chiun did not meet his eyes. Instead, the old Oriental was gazing straight ahead, his breathing even and silent, his posture relaxed, but with an intensity about him that frightened Smith.

"A bargain is a bargain," Smith said.

"He is coming."

The grip on his arm was beginning to hurt, but Smith did not sit down. "We can't wait. There are too many things to... prepare."

He couldn't bring himself to say the word, "destroy," not when those things he would be destroying were the four massive computers that were the working components of his life. For just as Chiun had created Remo, Smith had created the Folcroft computers.

He had first designed them in the days before microcircuitry, when computers filled whole rooms. Little by little, as the technology of the 1960s and 1970s progressed, he refined the machines, replacing what parts he could with miniature components and redesigning the parts that did not exist on other computers— the circuits that could tap instantaneously into any other computer bank in the world, the parts that enabled the Folcroft Four to jam satellite transmissions— with his own hands.

And there were functions of the Four that Smith had added through the years, functions that still required the bulky hardware of the old days, because new hardware for these functions did not exist. The computers' ability to trace worldwide telephone connections, for example, hadn't been added until two years ago, after seventeen years of work, at odd times, in Smith's office. Seventeen years, but it had been worth it. There were other projects that hadn't been. When, after nine years, Smith had finally perfected the computers' capability to reproduce photographs in dot concentrations on plain paper, Xerox came out with a machine for general public use that did the same thing.

For Smith, developing the computers was an ongoing project, like raising a child. Parts of the process were frustrating and unpleasant, but for the most part, because the Folcroft Four were unique children, the business of testing them and creating them anew with each experiment was one that held for Smith the wonder of communication with a higher life form.

Now they stood, awkward and bulky, looking like amusing relics of a primitive technology, giving no outward sign of their extraordinary sophistication, their awesome abilities. There were four more just like them on a Caribbean island. When all eight were gone, their millions of hours of information turned to ash, there would not be another series like them for a hundred years.

"We can't wait," Smith repeated.

The hand grew tighter. It pulled Smith down into his chair. "He is coming," Chiun said.

"You're forcing me."

"I am doing what I must."

His breathing came faster.

His nasal passages were open. He could blink. Experimentally, Remo contracted the muscles of his upper arm. His forearm raised slowly. He worked at his legs. After exerting enough effort, it seemed, to kick in the Great Wall of China, one foot finally lifted. Strings of goo adhered between the sole of his shoe and the floor.

Another wave of flame swept near him. His neck bobbed forward.

It was melting.

Stiffly Remo pushed himself toward the closet, where the fire was streaking out in gusts.

Remo did not like fire but it no longer frightened him. Fears were remnants of another life, before Chiun had taught him to overcome the obstacles of fire and water and shock. He had walked through fire; he had been on fire himself in the past. He knew it held no real danger for him, as long as he kept himself quick and balanced and aware. But still, he had once been afraid, and old fears die hard, and it was difficult for Remo to stand in front of the open closet and let the wild orange flame lick him like a hungry beast.

He desensitized his skin to the heat. His hair was singeing; he could smell it. Pools of the goo, liquifying fast, gathered around his feet as the plastic sloughed off Remo's skin in syrupy sheets.

In the closet, behind the gusts of flame, was an empty elevator shaft. From that shaft now issued a noise above the crackle and rush of the fire, something that sounded like an engine. And it was coming from above. From the roof.

Of course, Remo thought. The elevator went up as well as down. The dome.

Feeling his eyelashes burning off, he stretched out his hand and worked his fingers. They moved.

There was another way to the roof. The stairway would be on fire by now, but he could run it. His legs were free enough.

But inside him! The coil, the thread, wound so tight, vibrating so hard it was going to strangle him.

"Chiun!" he called.

And then he understood.

He picked up the telephone, blistering and soft now, and dialed the international routing to Folcroft.

It was answered on the first ring. "This is not a secure line," he said quickly. "What does Chiun want?"

"For you to escape from there," Chiun's reedy voice piped.

"Thanks for reminding me. That all?"

"Get back here immediately," Smith interrupted.

"And I repeat, this is not a secure line."

"Look, secure or not, this place is on fire. Trace this next call. It's to somewhere in the States, I think, but I don't know where. And make it fast. The circuits are burning." He depressed the cradle, released it, dropped the phone, and pressed the red button twice. Then he ran for the stairwell.

?Chapter Fifteen

The dome was open, its half-sphere tilted back like an oyster. Inside it was what Remo had expected from the sound of its engine: a combat-sized Grauman helicopter.

Remo was running at full speed. The blaze in the stairwell had seared off what remained of the immobilizing plastic that once coated him. He saw Arnold in the pilot's seat, wearing a ludicrously large crash helmet, look down at him with alarm while he worked the controls frantically.

Preparing with a low coil, Remo sprang upward, grasping the runner toward the tail end of the machine with both hands. The helicopter swayed, tilting precariously with the imbalance.

Arnold tried to level the vehicle, but without sufficient speed, all he could manage was to drift at low altitude, weaving like a dying insect with something black and mobile dangling from one side of it.

In the growing distance, yellow flames tongued out of the house. From Remo's vantage point, Esmeralda's mansion was like a shimmering vision, its contours wavy behind the heat, its windows exploding, sending sparkling fragments of glass shooting into the black night like stars.

He managed to get one leg up on the runner, then another. Then, scuttling upside down, he made his way forward toward the cockpit.

The chopper righted itself. With Remo's weight away from the tail, Arnold could maneuver the helicopter with ease.

Remo raised an arm to reach the door, when suddenly the helicopter flew into a deep dive. He had to retreat to his crouched position on the runner.

They were descending fast. Ahead loomed a broad, black shape, only distinguishable from the rest of the night-darkened ground by its dense color. The helicopter approached it, picking up speed as it did.

Remo hung on. He knew what the black shape was now. He was too close to miss it. It was an expanse of trees, the same copse where he had left the pilot Thompson to die. The trees were directly below him now, so close that their tops scraped Remo's back.

At the end of the grove, the chopper gained elevation, turned around, and headed for it again.

The kid's trying to scrape me off. Like mud from a boot. A sharp branch skimmed deep over Remo's back, ripping his shirt and gouging a deep groove into his flesh that made him suck in his breath.

In the next instant, a loud report sounded and a sharp crack whistled past Remo's ear. He looked up. Arnold had a pistol in his hand.

As he watched, Arnold squeezed off three more shots. There was limited space to move on the runner of the helicopter, but Remo managed to dodge each of the bullets as they came. The fifth shot grazed his forehead. It was a flesh wound, and a minor one at that, but he was bleeding like a pig. The blood streaming into his eyes blinded him for a moment with a thick curtain of red.

In that moment, Arnold fired for the sixth time. The bullet took Remo in the side of the hand. He yelped. Involuntarily the hand sprang away, but the other held fast. He blinked away the blood from his eyes. Above him, Arnold was smiling.

"You little bastard," Remo muttered.

He gathered his strength. Breathe. Breathe, the way Chiun taught you. In and out, steady. Control the shock in your body, and your body will heal itself. Just hang on.

The trees appeared again, their branches cutting deep. Remo concentrated on breathing. He breathed, and the pain subsided, and soon the trees were far below him again and the helicopter was circling for another round.

"Okay," Remo said aloud. "You want to play games? You just got yourself a playmate, sonny."

Arnold had the helicopter and the hardware, and that was good. Because as far as Remo was concerned, anyone inside a machine was at a disadvantage to a free man working under his own power. Machines didn't have will. Without will, a thing only operated until something went wrong. Without will, the smallest setback could stop the works.

Men weren't like that. They slogged on with wooden legs and broken hearts and cancerous bellies and eyes that didn't see anymore. They kept going without any reason in the world except that they wanted to find out what was coming next.

Remo was a man. No pimple factory with a gun and a helicopter was going to stop him.

Slowly, hand over hand, his legs sliding, he made his way back toward the rear of the runner. When he'd gone as far as he could, he swung his legs and hooked them over the tail. Then he followed with the rest of his weight, taking care to stay on one side of the tail to keep it out of balance, and bounced.

The chopper swerved. Arnold, close to the trees, tried to gain altitude, but Remo had changed his tactics. He was jumping from one side of the tail section to the other, landing in crazy angles that made the rudder veer wildly.

The helicopter dipped. From time to time Remo caught a glimpse of Arnold's frantic face. He was trying to watch Remo, the controls, and the view in front of him at the same time. His shoulders worked. He was obviously reloading his gun.

When he'd finished, he aimed out the cockpit window, but it was easy for Remo to lose the bullet from his position on the tail. He jumped to the other side, sending the helicopter into a sharp curve. The bullet hit the rudder.

The chopper dived. The engine sputtered. A stall. Inside the cockpit, Arnold hammered at the controls, but the trees kept coming closer, closer. If it crashed headfirst, the engine would catch fire, Remo knew, and with it would go his only chance to get out of Peruvina before daybreak.

He waited. Then, just before the moment of impact, Remo leapt into the air, turned a fast double somersault to gain the weight and momentum he needed, and landed square on the tail's center.

The helicopter landed flat in the trees, without an explosion.

Arnold's arm extended out from the window, the gun in his hand firing in every direction.

"Forget it, kid," Remo said, snatching the weapon away from him through the open window.

Arnold stared at him. Remo was standing erect, balanced on the tops of the trees. Although he had used enough weight to move a helicopter, Remo now seemed to be weightless. Not a branch cracked beneath his feet. Not a leaf moved.

"She was right," Arnold murmured from inside the cockpit. "You are something special."

"She's dead," Remo said. "Now get out of there."

"You're together, aren't you?" Arnold whispered dazedly. "You and the man named Smith."

Remo felt the blood drain from his face. "What do you know about Smith?"

"She was right. There is some kind of secret government organization. Smith runs it, and an old Oriental's got something to do with it, too." He spoke as if to himself, smiling strangely. "I really didn't believe her at first. It all sounded so bizarre. But she was right. I should have known. She's always right."

"Get out of there," Remo said hoarsely.

"Oh, I know you've got to kill me now. But you won't." Slowly he reached into his pocket. Out came an ordinary penknife.

"What, no lasers, no jet-propelled gadgets?" Remo said.

Arnold sat still in the pilot's seat, shifting the knife from one hand to the other. His cocky confidence, his urban veneer, had vanished. In his oversized helmet and glasses, Arnold looked more like a kid than ever. A rotten kid, Remo reminded himself.

"She said you'd make me talk if you caught me," Arnold said in a small voice.

"That's right," Remo affirmed. "Now just come out of there. I'll see that you make it to the ground in one piece."

But Arnold only stared, his eyes fixed and blank. "She said..." He trailed off. Then, with a broad, quick motion, he thrust the knife to his left side, plunged it into his own neck, and drew it across his throat.

Aghast, Remo ripped open the door. Blood was gushing out of Arnold's neck in bubbling red fountains. The cut had been so deep that the inner workings of his throat were exposed. Arnold's eyes rolled back.

The helicopter broke a branch and settled more deeply in the trees. Arnold's body, its head dangling behind it, swung around and toppled out the door. It bounced and tumbled through the trees like a rag doll, catching on broken pieces of wood, painting the leaves it touched with a coating of bright red, its bones cracking loudly in the stillness.

His clothing stuck on a long, sharp branch. Arnold's body hung suspended like a carcass in a slaughterhouse, his head attached only by bloody strings. Finally, the head alone reached the ground, its glazed eyes staring sightlessly upward.

?Chapter Sixteen

Smith watched the blank video printout screen as the computers whirred, sorting out information, seeking to locate one telephone out of millions.

The connection had been fast and short. After Remo's message, there was a strange, loud noise on the Peruvina end. Smith worked with a speed he didn't know he possessed to program the Folcroft computers to the correct mode for intercepting the transmission.

"This had better work," he muttered. The call from Remo had further jeopardized CURE's vulnerability, if that was possible at this point. If whoever had stolen Smith's attaché case were listening in at the time of the transmission, that person now knew that Remo and Smith were still alive. He would also know that CURE was capable of tracing international calls on command.

The call was picked up on the first ring by a growly, sleepy male voice.

"What now?" it said.

The connection was crackling. Remo had said that the circuits were burning, whatever that meant. It was clear to Smith, listening in on the intercepting phone, that the Peruvina end was shorting out fast.

"What's the matter? There's nothing but noise on this line."

"Er..." Smith tried to stall for time, in case the poor connection delayed the intercept function on the computers. "This is a lineman," he improvised, holding a handkerchief over the mouthpiece so that his words, coming from within the United States, would not sound unnaturally clear in the connection from Peruvina. "Several of the telephones in your area have been malfunctioning, and—"

The connection was broken in a sea of static.

"The wires in Peruvina must have burned through," Smith said to Chiun while he busied himself at the computer controls. "There's been some kind of fire in Peruvina. I hope the computers were able to trace the call. Otherwise, I'll have no choice..."

He didn't finish the sentence.

They waited. The computers sorted and sifted, clicked and hummed. At last three lines of green lettering appeared on the screen.

DONNELLY, HUGO

322 W. LINDEN DRIVE

WASH., D.C. (RES.)

Smith blinked as the words appeared, unable for a moment to believe the information. Then his forehead smoothed, and he exhaled in relief.

"How stupid of me," he said, keying in his next question. There had to be more than one Hugo Donnelly in Washington. He had simply assumed, foolishly, from the name that the man connected with the heroin-laced coffee from Peruvina was the same man who held an official position with the government of the United States.

"EXPAND HUGO DONNELLY," he asked the computers. They answered instantly:

DONNELLY, HUGO, B. 1927, PORTLAND, ORE.

MARRIED, ARLENE NASH PALMER

(DECEASED)

1931–1957... ESMERALDA VALASQUEZ

DONNELLY, B. 1950, CURRENT RESIDENCE

PERUVINA, COLOMBIA... CHILDREN, 1

(MALE)

ARNOLD LANCE DONNELLY, B. 1961...

EMPLOYED, U.S. GOVERNMENT, ASST. TO

UNDERSEC. OF INTERIOR...

Smith felt himself trembling. He remembered a name that Remo had given him, the name of the man who had given the Peruvinian coffee beans to the Miami warehouse.

"CONNECTION, DONNELLY, HUGO, WITH

BROWN, GEORGE, SAXONBURG, INDIANA,

OR NORTH AMERICAN COFFEE COMPANY."

DOES NOT COMPUTE.

?Chapter Seventeen

Remo lowered himself out of the trees gingerly, taking care not to use his injured hand except to extricate-Arnold's headless corpse from the tangle of branches that suspended it.

Well, it was all over now. He should at least have gotten to know the name of his father. But maybe Smith had taken care of that end. He'd find out when he got back. Still, he hated to close a case without being sure. The last thing Remo would have suspected Arnold of doing was committing suicide.

Wrapping his hand with a strip of cloth torn from Arnold's shirt, he dragged the two parts of the body further into the trees. The kid had looked so scared at the end. Kept mentioning the woman, as if he were afraid that Esmeralda would somehow rise from the dead. There must have been more of an attachment between Arnold and his stepmother than either of them let on. He'd never know now.

He looked around. The setting was familiar. If he could find Thompson, the pilot of the plane, he'd bury the two bodies together. Not much tribute to Thompson, being laid to rest next to a headless maniac, but the dead didn't care.

The pilot's body, still mottled with the blood-soaked leaves Remo had staunched his wounds with, sat propped against a tree. Poor devil, Remo thought. He must have regained consciousness before he died. At least he had had his hour.

He picked up the body gently. It was still warm. And the eyes were closed. Remo checked his pulse. Dead men didn't close their own eyes.

"Thompson?" he asked tentatively. He couldn't be alive, not after all this time.

The eyelids fluttered open. "You look as bad as I feel," the pilot said, pausing for breath after each word.

"You're some kind of ox," Remo said, smiling. "Is there pain?"

The pilot managed a low laugh that made him cough up blood.

"I can stop that," Remo said. He set the man down and pinched a cluster of nerves on the man's spine.

Thompson almost gasped with relief. "I can't feel a thing," he said, astonished. "I'm good as new."

"Not really." The man's face was a sickly white. He'd lost too much blood. The wound in his back was deep. Punctured lung, probably. "Pain tells you that things aren't right with your body. I've only taken away the pain. Things still aren't right."

"That's good enough for me," Thompson said, rising and spitting a blob of red onto the grass.

"We've got a helicopter," Remo said. "Think you can show me how to fly it? Maybe I could get us to a hospital."

Thompson scanned the area. "What helicopter?"

Remo pointed up to the trees.

"How in hell—"

"I'll get you up there."

In the chopper, Thompson looked over the controls. "I'm not checked out on this type," he said with a grimace. "I think I might be able to fly it myself, but I don't know enough to talk you through it. Besides, that hand of yours is in rotten shape."

"Hell," Remo said. "You can't—"

"Get in. I won't let us crash." He started the engine. "Where are you going?"

"Bogota," Remo said. "To a hospital."

"For you?"

"I'm okay," Remo said. "You're not."

Thompson smiled as they lifted off. "You're some kind of Fed, right?"

Remo winced. "Don't ask so many questions."

"You're a Fed, all right. You on a job?" No answer. "I want to know where you're going, so I can take you there, that's all."

"We're going to a hospital, I told you. I can't get where I'm going fast enough in this thing, anyway."

"You got connections?"

"What do you mean?"

"There's a new Air Force base on Malagua Island, off the coast of Puerto Rico. They've got F-16s there, and God knows how many experimentals, all supersonic. If you've got the connections."

"How far?"

"I can make it."

Remo thought. "Do they have a hospital?"

Thompson laughed. "For a base full of test pilots? Are you kidding?" He looked at Remo, waiting.

"Yeah, I've got the connections."

Thompson whistled. "A big Fed," he said. "But then you did tear off the DC-3's door with your bare hands. Not to mention crushing Belloc's gun into a lead golf ball and jumping out of the plane without a parachute. I didn't think you worked as a clerk in the New Rochelle courthouse."

Remo felt a wave of panic rising in him. Not him, he said inwardly. After all the crumbums I've spared, don't let Thompson be the one I have to kill. Not the only decent man in this whole foul, dirty can of worms. "They won't believe you," he said quietly.

The pilot smiled. "Yeah, I know. I'm not planning to talk."

Some time passed. "Why'd you get into this lousy business, anyway?" Remo asked.

"You here to save my soul or something?"

"No. Just curious."

"Ah," Thompson said. "Curious." He was quiet for a long time. "I guess it was the flying," he said at last. "For a while, after I got fired from the airline, I had this crazy idea that I'd borrow some money and buy myself a used bird. Rent it out for charters in the Caribbean, that sort of thing.

"What happened?"

"No guts. My wife left. The drinking," he explained. "They'll do that once they find out you've pissed your pants in the arms of a fifty-year old hooker." He laughed, then his smile disappeared. "Took the kids with her. The house got sold. Lost my car. But I wouldn't stop drinking, no sir. Bills everywhere, no job-think I gave a shit? Stuck on the ground like some kind of slug, crawling on my belly for a drink. God. Sometimes I'd look up at the sky, and I'd want so bad..." His voice trailed off.

"Bad enough to quit drinking," Remo said.

"Enough to do anything," Thompson reflected quietly. "Just to fly again... Oh, balls." He smiled, embarrassed. "What a pile of sentimental horseshit. I did it for the money."

"I don't think it was the money," Remo said.

"Well, you're wrong. The law's going to see that I never fly again after this stint, and I don't really give a good goddamn, because I'm no better than Belloc when it comes right down to it, otherwise I wouldn't be here, would I? Now, do you want to go to Malagua or don't you?"

"I think you just wanted to fly again."

"Christ," Thompson said. "You're an even bigger horseshitter than I am. We're going to Malagua."

They radioed an emergency before they landed, and a stretcher, along with a greeting party of interrogators, was waiting for the chopper from Colombia.

Thompson cast a glance at Remo as they descended. "Hey, quit worrying. The plane crashed, we both survived it, and then I passed out. When I came to, you were there with the chopper. That's all I know. Can you cover your end?"

Remo nodded distractedly. He wasn't worried about covering his end. "Those guys down there are going to want you to talk. About what you were doing in Colombia."

"Don't be sappy," Thompson said. "What happens, happens."

"You'll go to jail."

"So what." He landed the helicopter. "Hey, do that thing with my back again, will you? The pain's getting bad."

Remo touched the pilot's spine.

They got out. "This man's been hurt, and I need to make a phone call," Remo said by way of greeting.

Fifteen minutes later, Thompson was being prepared for surgery. Tubes of whole blood were being pumped into his drained body. Remo made his way past a battery of protesting nurses to Thompson's bed. "You'll be all right now," he said.

"That noise outside. It's an F-16. That for you?"

Remo nodded.

"Big Fed," Thompson said, smiling.

Remo turned to go. "Hey," Thompson called. "Thanks. Thanks for coming back for me."

Remo didn't respond. If it hadn't been for Thompson's body between the flying piece of metal and himself, Remo would probably be dead somewhere in Colombia by now. If it hadn't been for Thompson's insistence on flying to an Air Force base instead of a quiet little hospital in Bogota, Remo would be trying to figure out a way to get out of South America instead of taking off in a supersonic plane. And now Thompson was going under the knife, and after that, Thompson was going to go to jail for something he didn't even know anything about. And Thompson was thanking him.

That was fate, Remo thought, not without some bitterness. The way the world went. That was the biz. And Thompson understood that, because he was one of those creatures who kept on going while fate was throwing sucker punches to his insides. He was a man.

"I'll remember you," Remo said.

?Chapter Eighteen

Smith stood by the large tinted one-way windows of Folcroft Sanitarium that looked out over the beach of Long Island Sound. He was alone. He had never been so alone.

The first streaks of dawn were just beginning to lighten the sky, causing the ocean waves below to sparkle pink and purple. The pain in Smith's side still throbbed, but only dimly now. Chiun's ministrations had been better than any doctor's. The old man had even offered to remove the pain entirely, but Smith hadn't permitted that. He didn't hold with any system of medicine in which there was no pain. There was something vaguely immoral in the concept. Besides, the pain helped him think.

Back to the beginning.

Coffee. Someone had put heroin into every brand of coffee used in the United States. From what Remo had gathered, that someone wasn't a regular drug dealer.

The closest they had come was a name on a business card: George Brown of Saxonburg, Indiana. George Brown, who had virtually given the drugged coffee beans to every warehouse in the country, according to Smith's investigations.

The Folcroft computers had ascertained that there were four George Browns in the five-square-mile around Saxonburg, Indiana. The FBI claimed that none of them had been out of town in the past six months. That meant that the George Brown, the one who didn't compute in the Folcroft information banks, was an alias. Back to square one. Unless George Brown was Hugo Donnelly, government employee.

But Remo would have to find that out. Before it was too late. Or was it already too late?

And then the murders. Fourteen that Smith knew of for certain, and probably a fifteenth. Remo had mentioned the name "Pappy" in his last phone call before leaving the country, and a Paul "Pappy" Eisenstein, a known drug dealer, had cropped up on the homicide lists that same day. Fifteen victims, all of them in contact with Remo.

Somebody knew about Remo.

And somebody knew about Smith, knew enough to shoot him at point-blank range and take his attaché case, which contained enough incriminating evidence to destroy the Constitution of the United States forever.

He had been waiting ever since Remo had called from Malagua. It was a strange phone call, to say the least. For one thing, Remo had spoken entirely in code.

It was as if he knew that CURE was on the verge of destruction. Smith had desperately wanted to know the extent of Remo's information in the matter, but he had to keep the call as short as possible. The fewer the words, the more difficulty the thieves would have in decoding the transmission.

Remo told, in the language the Folcroft computers had devised, about Arnold and the woman. He gave his location and requested transport to Rye.

"Done," Smith responded in the same language. "But don't come here. Get to the lobby of the Excelsior Hotel in Washington. Chiun will meet you there with further instructions."

The connection was terminated. It had taken less than one minute. Then he walked to a pay phone, made several calls, arranged for the F-16 to take Remo to Washington with no questions asked, and returned to the office.

Chiun was still waiting silently in the corner he had appropriated. Smith wrote a long message on a piece of paper and folded it.

"There's a private plane waiting for you at the local airport," he said.

Chiun beamed. "For me? Alone? I may sit wherever I wish?"

"Anywhere," Smith said. "You'll be met at the end of your journey by a driver who will escort you to a hotel. Wait in the lobby for Remo, and give him this." He handed him the message. "No one else may see this," he warned.

"You shall be obeyed," Chiun said solemnly, bowing low. "Your humble servant does not forget the kindness of his illustrious Emperor. In the twilight of my years—"

"Er... that's fine, Chiun," Smith said distractedly. Chiun slipped the note into his sleeve and left, exhibiting all the dignity of his station.

Smith walked over to the window. The waiting had begun.

That had been hours ago. Dawn coming, and the attaché case was still missing. CURE was still operating, exposing the country to irreparable damage with each passing minute. Had he been right in not destroying the organization at midnight? Remo had provided some information, but not enough. Had Smith risked the future of America just to save his own skin? He didn't know. He went over the questions again and again. He just didn't know. There was so much to think about, and he was so tired of thinking.

George Brown. Hugo Donnelly. Saxonburg, Indiana. Does not compute. Does not compute.

It was 6:14.

"Tomorrow will be too late," he remembered saying. The waves outside his window were dappled with morning light. It was tomorrow.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

A gray-gloved hand ...

Suddenly he started to attention, so fast that he choked and coughed. Holding his side, he made his way back to the computer console, keyed in "SAXONBURG, INDIANA," and followed a new line of questioning.

By 7:02 he knew the answer.

He took his extra suit from the closet in his office, got dressed slowly and painfully, and called a taxi.

Before he left, he set the self-destruct mechanism on the Folcroft computers to go off automatically at noon. He arranged it so that the destruction of CURE could only be aborted by his own voice print, issuing directly from the telephone inside his attaché case.

Because if he was right, he would be in possession of the case by noon.

And if he was wrong, noon would be well past his appointed hour to die.

?Chapter Nineteen

Chiun's gold brocade robe looked even more splendid than usual, surrounded as it was by the threadbare furniture of the Excelsior Hotel lobby.

"Hi, Little Father," Remo said.

"Look at you," Chiun whispered, casting embarrassed looks all around. "A disgrace. Your shirt is torn. There is blood all over your face, dried like paint. I have arrived here in a private airplane. Do you know what it will do to my image to be seen associating with such a person as you? And what is that rag on your hand?"

"A bandage. I was shot."

"You, too? Has no one in this oafish country a decent sense of balance?"

"Smith?" Remo said, his voice rising. "You were supposed to watch him. How bad was it?"

"I do not have to explain myself to you," Chiun snapped. "The Emperor is well, and most grateful to me. He knows how to show gratitude, which is more than I can say for some persons who cannot even arrive in time for dinner."

"I can't believe it. I asked you to do one thing....And here I am shot, for God's sake," he sputtered. "Well, we can argue later. Give me Smitty's message."

"You have no manners at all." Chiun's eyes glared as he shot the piece of paper into Remo's hand. "This I do for the Emperor alone, because I have promised him," he decreed. "Not for ill-mannered beings who do not know how to ask for a thing politely."

Remo read the note, frowning.

"What does it say?"

"He wants me to get a suit," Remo said.

"A man of excellent discernment," Chiun said, fingering the torn back of Remo's T-shirt.

"And then he wants me to withdraw a hundred thousand dollars from the bank across the street."

"In gold?" Chiun asked excitedly.

Remo shook his head.

"Then it does not count."

Donnelly's secretary, busily filing her nails, rose like a zephyr from behind a two-foot-high stack of papers.

"We have an appointment," Remo said.

The girl's face looked blank for a moment while her nail file slowed in concentration. "Oh, yeah," she said, a smile dawning. "I knew I remembered somebody calling. I even wrote it down. You're..." She rummaged through the papers on the desk, creating a small blizzard.

"I am Chiun," Chiun said, bowing politely.

"Chiun is one of the biggest businessmen in Korea," Remo explained. "He's here to see Mr. Donnelly about some exporting business."

"Yeah," the secretary said enthusiastically. "It's all coming back to me now. And you're his assistant, right?"

"Jackpot," Remo said. "I'm Remo. Remo—"

"Wang," Chiun finished.

Remo looked at him. "An appropriately common name," Chiun explained.

"Remo Wang," the secretary said. "Pleased to meetcha, Mr. Wang. I'm Darcy Devoe. It used to be Smith, but I changed it. I always say—"

"Is Mr. Donnelly in?" Chiun interrupted.

"Sure. I told him about you when you called. He can't wait to see you. His office is..." She turned in a slow circle, scanning the walls with bewildered eyes before they came to rest on the only inner door in the office. "Through there!" she said, pointing triumphantly.

"Thanks," Remo said. "That's got to be the ditziest broad in Washington," he added in Korean as they knocked on Donnelly's door.

Chiun shrugged. "She is white."

Donnelly was a broad man with heavy features and expansive gestures. "Mr. Williams?" he asked, smiling at Remo.

"Wang," Remo said.

"Wang? Oh, I beg your pardon. My secretary must have got the name wrong. She's a little disorganized at times."

"She is to be excused," Chiun said graciously. "She is—"

"And this is Chiun," Remo said loudly.

"Ah, yes." Donnelly managed an awkward bow in what he evidently believed to be an Oriental manner. "Mr. Chiun of..." He quickly pulled a note card out of his jacket. "Sinanju. Did I pronounce that right, Mr. Chiun?"

"Perfectly," Chiun said. "And 'Chiun' will suffice. As I am the Master of Sinanju, who rides in airplanes with no other passengers, no other title is necessary."

"The Master of... I see," Donnelly said. "Well, sit down, sit down. I'll get us all a drink."

Chiun folded his hands inside his sleeves. "That will not be necessary. And I prefer to stand. My associate will explain the purpose of our visit."

"Yes, of course," Donnelly said. "Are you looking for some American goods to import into Sinanju? I don't believe we've dealt with your— um— province before."

"You know what we want," Remo said. "Coffee."

"Coffee?" The look on Donnelly's face was expectant.

Remo lifted the suitcase in his hands and opened it. Inside, it was stacked with hundred-dollar bills. "A hundred thousand dollars."

"Oh, that coffee."

"We've heard that it makes people happy," Remo said.

"Very happy," Donnelly agreed.

"Well, a little happiness is just what the Master of Sinanju is looking for. He's having a morale problem with his people. You see, they've been starving and slaving for three hundred years, and their productivity is beginning to lag."

"Tut, tut," Donnelly said.

"Besides, the Master thinks he can turn a nice profit off the dirtbags."

"It'll happen every time," Donnelly said, smiling. "With this good American coffee—"

"Unh-unh. Not American. The coffee from Peruvina. That's what we've come for."

The smile vanished from Donnelly's face. "How do you know about Peruvina?" he asked cautiously.

"I've spent the evening with your son, Arnold."

Donnelly brightened again. "Oh, you know Arnold. Well, that puts a whole new light on things. Are you friends?"

"Oh, I could hardly bring myself to leave the plantation," Remo said.

"He's got a good head on his shoulders," Arnold's father said proudly.

"Um... he did, yes."

"As a matter of fact, he's coming here. Got a call this morning. To tell the truth, that's why I'm in the office so early," he added with a chuckle. "Usually I don't get in at the crack of dawn, but this way we can spend the day together, my son and I. Did you meet my wife, Esmeralda?"

"Yes," Remo said. "But she had to leave unexpectedly. She was flying."

Donnelly nodded. "I see. Well. To the business at hand. I suppose Arnold told you about our plans?"

"Some," Remo said. "He said you were planning to expand into world markets with your coffee. What Chiun would like to know is, how can you get the coffee to us all the way out in Sinanju, when it's been banned right here in the United States?"

Donnelly guffawed and slapped Remo on the back. "But that's the beauty of it! Let me explain." He removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, indicating in his bureaucrat's way that he was really getting down to work.

"You see, the American market was only a test to see if the general population of a country would drink the coffee. There are far too many regulations here to allow anything as appealing as our Peruvinian coffee to continue being sold indefinitely. But in more enlightened nations such as yours, Chiun, we don't have to bother with a lot of unnecessary restrictions. The coffee was meant for export in the first place."

"Through this office," Remo said.

Donnelly nodded. "Exactly. I am the Assistant to the Undersecretary of the Interior in charge of Regulations Concerning Importation of Agricultural Products. There won't be any red tape getting the coffee to you in Sinanju. Or anyplace else."

"But what about the Secretary of the Interior?"

Donnelly sighed patiently. "Mr. Wang, you've got to understand Washington politics. The Secretary of the Interior is a busy man. He's got whole coastlines to destroy. His time is taken up with selling wilderness areas to commercial concerns. It's not easy to obliterate the entire ecological balance of the Western Hemisphere. The Secretary's got his hands full."

"I see," Remo said. "And the Undersecretary?"

"The Undersecretary is busy doing what the Secretary would be doing if he didn't have all that noncommercial land and clean water to contend with. He's got to go to the luncheons, talk to the ladies' dubs, party at the White House.... The Undersecretary's job is never done."

"Sounds like a heavy load," Remo agreed.

"And for less than ninety thousand a year, too. But then, we are public servants. Sacrifices have to be made when you're serving your country."

"I guess so."

Donnelly grunted in satisfaction. "So you see, I have a relatively free hand in the business of exporting American goods."

"Like wheat to Russia?" Remo said.

"Oh, Darcy takes care of most of those details."

Remo recalled the stack of moldering papers on Darcy's desk and the girl's vacant expression. "Her?" he asked, pointing toward the doorway leading to Darcy's office.

"Somebody has to do those things," Donnelly said briskly.

"And what do you do?" Chiun asked.

Donnelly straightened out importantly. "Why, any good executive's main priority is to think. Keep his mind limber for big decisions. Get enough rest, eat right, that sort of thing."

"I see," Chiun said.

"And visiting coffee warehouses?" Remo said quietly.

Donnelly looked up, surprised. "My, you and Arnold did get chummy, didn't you?"

"We're talking about a lot of money, Mr. Donnelly. Or should I say Mr. Brown?"

Donnelly guffawed. "Say, you're a sharp one."

"So you are George Brown?"

"Nobody's George Brown. That's just a name sheI mean I made up. Printed up some cards. We had to get the coffee into the warehouses somehow. Darned good idea, I think. Set the business off to a good start."

"Is it your business?" Remo asked. "Your private business?"

"Well," he faltered. "I do have partners. My son, for one. He developed the coffee, you see, but he's usually in Peruvina, and... another partner—"

"Your wife's dead, Mr. Donnelly," Remo said.

Donnelly hesitated for a moment. "Dead? Are you sure?"

Remo nodded.

Slowly, Donnelly reached for the intercom on his desk. "Darcy, Esmeralda's dead," he said.

There was a short pause at the other end. "Do you want me to fix you up with somebody for the weekend?" Darcy's voice said at last.

"No, just check out the will." He released the connection. "Terrible," he said to Remo. "Poor woman."

"Arnold killed her. I saw him."

"She was lovely," Donnelly said.

"So now you only have one partner," Remo said.

"What? Yes, I suppose so. Just Arnold and me."

"He mentioned something about Indiana."

Donnelly waved it away. "Oh, that's nothing. A two-acre tract of land with a shack on it in some hick town. On paper, the coffee comes from there. That way, I can slide the whole thing through as an American export."

"Very clever," Remo said.

"Too clever," Chiun mumbled.

The intercom buzzed. "Your wife has left the Peruvian estate to you and your son, sir," Darcy said.

"Thank you." A deep flush of satisfaction rose in Donnelly's cheeks as he tried vainly to suppress a smile. "Just terrible about Esmeralda," he said.

"And Peruvina. It's burned to the ground by now."

Donnelly's face drained instantly of color.

"Arnold did that, too. Some kid you raised."

With a trembling finger, Donnelly reached for the intercom again. "Darcy. Darcy," he called. "I need you."

"Just a sec. I got a hangnail."

"Peruvina's gone?" he whispered. "That was going to be where I retired after this coffee business got started. Now it's gone...."

"So's Arnold," Remo said. "He killed himself."

"Darcy!" Donnelly roared.

There was no answer.

"You killed him! You must have."

"Nope. Cross my heart," Remo said. "He tried to kill me often enough, though. And speaking of killing, I suppose you're the one who's been murdering everyone I've talked to."

"What's that you're saying? You're the killer, not me."

"Let's say George Brown was the killer," Remo said, rising. He walked slowly toward Donnelly. Donnelly backed away. "And that scheme to blow up the plane that you cooked up with your dear departed wife backfired, too."

"What plane?"

"Oh, cute. Arnold called you from Peruvina. He knew exactly what was going on."

"You're not making any sense. Darcy! Miss Devoe, get the police, for God's sake," he yelled.

The door opened. Darcy tossed a Browning .38 to him. "Your gun, sir," she said.

Donnelly backed up to the wall, the revolver trembling in his hand. "Clear out," he shouted, his voice quavering. "Clear out, or I swear I'll shoot you."

Remo stepped forward. Donnelly fired.

The bullet passed through the exact location where Remo had been standing when he fired, but Remo was no longer there. Remo was next to Donnelly, and the revolver was turning into gravel in Remo's bandaged hand while in his other palm, Donnelly's skull was turning into something resembling oatmeal.

"Dar—"

"Gotta go, boss. Coffee break," Darcy said as she flounced away.

Remo and Chiun stared for some moments at Donnelly's body. "It's funny," Remo said. "I didn't mind that time. Killing him, I mean. I didn't mind at all."

"I did," Chiun said.

"Huh?"

"Your elbow was bent, as usual," Chiun said resignedly.

"Well, I guess that's all of them. Esmeralda, Arnold, Donnelly. We'd better look for Smith's case." Remo began methodically to take apart the bookcases and file cabinets.

"It will not be here," Chiun said.

"Why not?"

Chiun said nothing. Together they searched both the inner and outer offices down to the bare walls. There was no trace of Smith's case.

"My son," Chiun said. "Upon receiving word from the Emperor, I will be forced to kill you, as part of my contract with him. The case is not here. Now, you tell me. To save us all. Why is it not here?"

Remo was silent for a long time. "Something wasn't right," he said.

"What?"

"Donnelly didn't want to shoot me. He was afraid. Afraid to fire the gun. Whoever killed those people and sabotaged the plane I was in wasn't afraid to kill."

"What else?"

"He wasn't smart enough. Thinking up the George Brown business, routing the shipments through Indiana... He just didn't seem to have the intellect to come up with ideas like those. He didn't even run his own office...."

The words caught in his throat.

?Chapter Twenty

Smith let himself easily into the house on the outskirts of Saxonburg, Indiana. It was a tumbledown place consisting of one vacant room. Never more than a shanty in its finest hour, the house showed signs of vandalism, from the crushed beer cans on the floor to the childish graffiti on the walls. A threadbare carpet, stinking of urine, covered the creaking floorboards.

This had to be the place, Smith thought. The Folcroft computers didn't make mistakes.

Unless he had been completely wrong. If he had been, then the killer was still an unknown, the attaché case was gone forever, and CURE had come to its inevitable end.

But he couldn't be wrong. There was too much coincidence for him to be wrong. The coffee plantation in Colombia, its direct link to Donnelly, the house in Saxonburg— it all added up under his premise. Even the computers had given him a 91 percent probability. No, he couldn't be wrong. The case was here, somewhere.

There was nothing to search. No furniture, no books, no shelves. The closets had no hidden exits. Even the walls, once covered with cheap flowered paper, now all but stripped bare down to cracking plaster, contained no hollow spots, no secret recesses. He even went over them with a miniature electronic sweep. No bugs, no electronic devices of any kind had been installed. The place was as insecure as a public street.

He reached high with the sweep to get a reading in the upper corners. It was a one-story building with no attic that he could see from the outside, but you could never tell. Nothing.

His side aching from the strain of lifting his arm, he made his way around the room once more. Halfway along the third wall, he tripped over a dusty wine bottle and fell sprawling to his belly.

The jolt of pain was tremendous. Vomit rose in his throat. Smith lay there for several minutes, panting, breathing the acrid stench of the carpet, before trying to work his way back to his feet as the room slowly came back into focus.

The sweep was lying in the middle of the carpet. He crawled to it. As he approached, he heard something. The faint click-click of the sweep.

The floor, he thought, unaware now of the burst stitches in his side. He scrambled to the edge of the room and began to roll back the stinking rug, debris and all. Sweat poured off his forehead and splattered onto the ancient floorboards in fat drops. The blood from his wound had soaked through his bandages and was straining his white shirt a bright red.

He scarcely noticed. For dead in the center of the bare floor was the hole he had expected, a neat square trapdoor with a padlock fitted into a small recess.

Taking from his jacket a small leather case filled with fine tools, he picked the lock. The tools were meant for dismembering a computer, but they worked just as well for burglary. Smith had picked enough locks in his career to be able to take one apart with a tiepin, but the tools made it easier. The hasp opened in a matter of minutes.

It should have occurred to him, he thought later, that anyone hiding electronic equipment in a place as vulnerable as the shack in Saxonburg would have placed other precautions besides an ordinary padlock over the point of entry, but he was too overcome with his small triumph of finding the trapdoor, too eager, too racked by the pain from his injury to think about it. Or to take notice of the scratching, scuffling sound beneath the trap as he opened it and a thousand fat black rats poured over him in a screaming wave.

He cried out low, recoiling from the creatures as they rushed out of the hole and seemed to fill the room. For a moment, his mind went blank in senseless terror. Then, shaking like a palsy victim, he brought himself under control.

Nothing. It's nothing, he told himself. A trick to scare off curious children.

A damn good trick.

Slowly he made his way to the front door and opened it. The rats scurried outside. Breathing deeply to calm himself, Smith went back to the trap and lowered himself inside. Another level lay three feet below the first. Smith crouched on his hands and knees in the darkness, feeling his way along the platform with the electronic sweep.

About four feet to the right of the trap, the sweep went crazy. Smith's right hand found a sharp edge in the wood. A hole. A plain hole.

Be careful. He pulled his hand back quickly. Don't get caught again.

He removed his tie with its metal clip. Dangling it from his fingers, he approached the hole again and let the end drop through the opening. There was a sharp crack as the platform was suddenly bathed in brilliant, erratic white light shooting in zigzags across the opening.

Electricity. Enough to kill a horse, from the display of light emanating from the small hole.

He felt better. A flood of rats was and always would be an alien terror to Smith, but defusing an electric security shield was familiar ground. He searched for the switch in the darkness, made suddenly darker by the brief onslaught of bright light.

To the left of the hole he felt a raised metal disc with a jagged line running through the center. A keyhole.

Just right, he thought. I would have used a key switch myself. Removing a long instrument of flexible steel from his tool packet, he worked on the keyhole. Despite the desperateness of the situation, he was beginning to feel something like admiration for the killer. The security measures were good. Simple but efficient. And hidden, the way all security ought to be. They were the work of a fine, clear mind that paid attention to detail.

The whole scheme, from the distribution of the coffee to the theft of Smith's case, had been a beautifully orchestrated piece of work, the product of a mind that missed nothing, that could organize disparate elements into a workable whole.

A mind, in fact, quite like his own.

The instrument turned in the keyhole. Smith dropped his tie down the hole again. There was no reaction. He lowered himself into the opening, catching his foot on the step of a ladder, and let himself down.

There was a naked electric lightbulb at the base of the ladder, activated by a string. Simple, no frills, Smith thought. A good, clean mind. On a table against the wall sat a small computer. A home model, augmented with special one-of-a-kind hardware. Attached to it by a series of wires was the telephone from Smith's attaché case. Beneath the table was the case itself.

He disconnected the wires, dialed the special routing code that led directly into Folcroft information banks, and said, "Abort self-destruct."

A small wave of relief washed over him. Not much, certainly not what he'd expected. His eyes kept wandering over to the small computer.

He knew there would be a computer. Unless the theft of his attaché case had been simply a random crime, it was certain that the thief knew computers. But this, he thought, touching a slender hollow tube protruding from the computer's open back. The tube was welded to a five-inch disc covered with frames of microcircuitry. It was almost identical to the hardware he himself had constructed in order to develop the Folcroft Four's capability to tap other computer information banks through the direction of shortwave signals.

"Remarkable," he said. He realized that the telephone was still in his hand. "Repeat. Abort self-destruct," he said, his hands straying back to the tabletop computer.

On the other end of the line, the Folcroft computers whirred, clicked, and then died down. At the end, a Morse code transmission reading, VOICE PRINT ACCEPTED, SELF-DESTRUCT MECHANISM DE-ACTIVATED clattered out, and then the connection was broken.

He set down the phone and gave his full attention to the computer. He knew he would have to dismantle it and leave immediately, even though the beauty of the thing piqued his curiosity almost to the point of physical longing. He turned on the console. Experimentally his hand passed over three tiny glass cylinders. Who used glass anymore? he wondered excitedly. Only someone who knew hardware well enough to create whole new circuits.

"Stop it," he said aloud. He opened his leather case and selected his tools for dismembering the machine.

"2, 16, 28, 59," he keyed, in at random. "FIND SEQUENCE."

The little machine spewed out numbers until it organized a mathematical sequence in twenty-digit figures. Inserting a flat tool into a recognizable circuit, he watched the numbers disappear from the screen as he erased the sequence-finding function.

He poised the instrument over the remaining exposed circuitry and keyed in the computer's biographical file mode. He typed the first name that came to mind.

"DONNELLY, HUGO."

The machine responded:

DONNELLY, HUGO

322 W. LINDEN DRIVE

WASH., D.C. (RES.)

B. 1927, PORTLAND, ORE.

MARRIED, ARLENE NASH PALMER

(DECEASED)

1931-1957... ESMERALDA VALASQUEZ

DONNELLY, B. 1950...

He stared at the information. It was presented in exactly the same way the Folcroft computers would have given it. But that wasn't possible. He had programmed the Folcroft biographical banks himself. Of course, it may just be coincidence, he thought.

"SMITH, HAROLD W.," he typed. No information banks in the world except for those at Folcroft contained any precise information about himself, and even the Folcroft computers didn't release Smith's information without a special code.

SMITH, HAROLD W, B. 1925

RES. 426 WESTACRE LANE, RYE, NY...

MARRIED, IRMA WINWOOD SMITH, B.

1927...

CHILDREN: 1 (F)F BETH JO ANN, B. 1955...

OCC: DIR, FOLCROFT SANITARIUM, RYE,

NY...

OCC: DIR., CURE (REF: CURE, SPECIAL

CODE 4201–26, OPERATIONAL MODE 58–

MMC)...

The instrument fell out of his hand.

"Surprised, Dr. Smith?" a voice said softly from the ladder behind him. He whirled around.

The first thing he saw was a pair of gray kidskin gloves.

He had been right. Exactly right. From her coat, Darcy Devoe extracted a .38 Browning revolver.

?Chapter Twenty-One

"You flatter me," Darcy said.

"How did you gain access to my information banks?"

She smiled. A real smile, devoid of the dazzling imbecility of Hugo Donnelly's secretary. She seemed like a different woman now, her head poised elegantly, the hands still, her eyes steady with cold intelligence. "It wasn't easy," she said. "Although once I'd constructed the hardware, the routing signals were relatively uncomplicated."

Smith nodded vaguely. "You monitored the calls to my office yourself."

"From Washington. I wanted to know who your successor would be, so I hooked your telephone up to my computer and arranged it so that any call coming into Folcroft— and consequently to the phone in your attaché case— would ring both in my office and at my home. I must say, it was a surprise to find you were still alive. But we'll take care of that soon enough."

"I— I've been followed," Smith said, stalling.

Darcy laughed. "That's a pitiful attempt. I don't imagine you're much good at lying."

"I'm not as good as you are."

"I might as well tell you right now, Dr. Smith, that there is no way you're going to escape from here, with or without your extraordinary little helpers. I've installed certain failsafe measures to ensure that. Speaking of your friends, I believe they've recently disposed of Mr. Donnelly."

"That was just what you wanted, I suppose," Smith said. "First Esmeralda, then Arnold, now Donnelly. The last obstacle's out of the way, as far as you're concerned."

She raised an eyebrow. "That's a good deduction. I like the way you think." She looked at him thoughtfully. "Yes, I do. I feel I've come to know you through your computers. You have a clean mind. A useful mind. I haven't underestimated it. From the minute you gave me that phony card in Donnelly's office, I guessed you knew much more than you appeared to. You hide your abilities well."

"The same could be said about you."

Darcy laughed. "Are you referring to my office persona? I thought I performed that role rather well."

Smith cleared his throat. "Er... your computer. It's very good."

"Thank you. I take that as a great compliment. But what you're really getting at is, how did I construct it? You've looked into my background, of course."

"Yes," Smith said. "That's what puzzles me. I know that you grew up here, in this town. In this house. You have no education to speak of. If you don't mind my asking..."

He blushed. It was all very strange. Here he was, held at gunpoint by an obvious menace to everything he held dear, and yet he felt like a schoolboy asking a girl to dance.

She watched him. Her eyes twinkled. "No, I don't mind," she said. "I taught myself. I read everything I could about everything. I sat up till dawn every night for twelve years to learn how to think. When I was twenty-six years old, I went to work for a computer manufacturing company, on the assembly line. That's where I learned how these machines worked. I stole some parts, studied them at home, and brought them back before they were missed. It was a passion with me.... Do you find that impossible to believe about a woman?"

"No," Smith said simply. "Only... you could have put your gifts to better use."

"I've found a way to make all the money I'll ever need," Darcy said. "That's the best use I can think of."

"That's not true—"

"Don't lecture me, Smith. You didn't have to grow up in a hole like this. You didn't have to drop out of school in the eighth grade to clean houses so that your old lady could keep herself in smack."

"Johnny Arcadi used to operate in this area a long time ago. You knew him, I gather?"

"I knew him, all right," she said, her eyes narrowing. "If it weren't for Arcadi, I might have had a pair of shoes that weren't already worn out by the time I got them. I might have eaten a hot meal when I was a kid. I might not have had to find my mother dead at the age of thirty-five. Oh, Arcadi and I go back a long way. A long way." The hatred fairly oozed out of her. "Nothing pleased me more than to shoot that fat bastard between the eyes."

"But not until you'd learned what you needed to know about the black-market drug business from him," Smith said.

"Why not? For all I'd learned in the factory, I couldn't get a decent job. Think anyone wants to hire a computer designer with an eighth grade education? The only way I knew how to make money was Johnny Arcadi's way. And he taught me a lot, believe me. Johnny even introduced me to Arnold, you know."

"I guessed as much. You undoubtedly stole Arnold's ideas, too."

"Don't make me laugh," Darcy said. "Arnold didn't have any ideas. He was nothing but a brainy, spoiled kid who was looking for adventure. After he invented the heroin-laced coffee, he tramped around Miami for three months searching for a drug dealer to distribute his beans. He found Johnny."

"Did Arcadi agree to deal?"

Darcy made a face. "Arcadi had the imagination of a frog. He thought the kid was crazy. Wouldn't even look at the coffee beans. Besides, he thought nothing would ever replace injectable heroin, the ass. But I knew Arnold had something. We became... very close. He got me the job with his father, who was an even bigger fool than he was. But useful. Once I learned how Donnelly's office operated, I knew the plan for exporting Arnold's coffee would work. It was easy to get Donnelly to go along. He did all the legwork. With me to run the office in Washington, he was free to travel."

She wiped some dust off the computer console with her free hand. "Good old 'George Brown.' Donnelly set up all our American customers. They're not going to stop drinking the coffee now, you know, just because it's illegal. An addict is an addict."

"You've created millions of them."

"Quite," she said. "The black market in this country alone will bring in staggering profits. And once I'm in Donnelly's job, the Peruvinian coffee will be distributed worldwide. Since it looks just like regular coffee beans, I can ship it in broad daylight. Think of it— the biggest-selling illegal drug on earth, and I'll own every bit of it."

"How are you going to get Donnelly's job?" Smith asked. "You're only his secretary."

Her face was innocent. "Why, through CURE, of course," she said.

"You're going to blackmail the government."

"And they'll accept, too. Because I'm not asking for much. No huge sums of money, no nuclear bombs. All I want in exchange for my silence about CURE is a job. Donnelly's job. Oh, I can pull it off. All very fluffy and earnest. And I'll only need the job long enough to establish my contacts in foreign countries. The CIA won't have enough time to have me killed."

She smiled. "I have to thank you for that. If you hadn't come into the office when you did. I'd have been forced to keep Arnold and Donnelly alive and share the wealth. I must say your timing has been perfect. Don't move." She pressed the barrel of the revolver into Smith's temple.

Smith froze.

"There's a car outside. Tell your friends to come down here." She jammed the weapon closer against his flesh.

"No," he said quietly.

"Remo. Chiun," she called. "You have five seconds to come down here, or the gallant Dr. Smith gets a bullet through his head."

Silently Remo and Chiun descended the ladder.

"Kill her," Smith said. "Let her shoot. Then kill her. That's an order."

"It is one we cannot obey," Chiun said, and folded his arms in his sleeves.

"How touchingly loyal," Darcy said. "How did you find me?"

"There was only one black Cadillac Seville pulling out of the parking lot," Remo said. "I figured it was you in the car that led me to Pappy Eisenstein. We trailed you to the airport. It was easy to track you down on this end by your description."

"I remembered you," Chiun said. "When you were leaving the office. I remembered that Mr. Arcadi was in his car when I intercepted him. You were with him."

"Ah, yes indeed," Darcy said. "Your employer and I were just discussing Mr. Arcadi. You see, I didn't stop seeing Johnny when I met Arnold. I went back to kill him. His usefulness was over, you see. But our Oriental friend here snatched Arcadi out of my arms, and led me directly to Remo. That was the beginning of how I learned about you and CURE." She sighed. "Really, Smith. You should have stayed out of this. I only wanted to put Arcadi out of his misery."

"And Hassam," Remo said. "And everyone in his house. And Pappy. And the guys in the warehouse. And the men in the plane. There must have been a lot of misery going around."

"Oh, my," she said, smiling. "Never have so many given so much. And all for li'l ole Darcy Devoe. But I couldn't very well have kept them alive, could I?"

"What about me?" Remo asked. "Why didn't you get rid of me in the first place?"

"How could I? I saw you fight. I knew what you could do. I was hoping the explosion in the plane would have done the trick, but even that didn't work. In the end, though, I was glad. You killed Donnelly for me."

"You can't keep killing everyone who knows about you," Smith said. "Pretty soon you'll have to kill off the whole world."

"Oh, I don't think so. I'll have a nice little life in Peruvina. Build a new house, travel..."

"How is Peruvina yours?" Remo asked. "Maybe you were Arnold's partner, but—"

"She was Arnold's wife," Smith said. "Her real name is Linda Smith. According to my information, Arnold Donnelly married a Linda Smith five months ago. Esmeralda's property went to Donnelly and his son upon her death. When they died, it all became the estate of Linda Smith."

"And no one knows who Linda Smith is," Remo said. "Very convenient."

"Poor Arnold," Darcy sighed. "He was such a nice little husband, too. He even agreed to kill himself rather than face the police or jail. I said I'd do the same. He believed we'd be in paradise together now."

"With no confessions to the law," Remo said.

Darcy shook her head. "Arnold was a real twerp. But useful."

"Does everything and everyone in your life have to be useful?" Smith asked.

She looked blank. "Well, certainly," she said. "What a ridiculous question, especially from you. Don't pretend not to understand me, Dr. Smith. Because I understand you. We're two of a kind. Thorough, cautious, secretive. I do believe, Harold, that if I didn't have to kill you, I would have fallen in love with you. You really shouldn't have interfered. We could have been happy together."

With the revolver still trained on Smith, she picked up the attaché case and placed the portable telephone inside it. "And now, gentlemen, I have to be going."

She pressed a combination of keys on the computer. The machine emitted a low hum that grew louder. Behind her, on the wall opposite the ladder entrance, a narrow steel panel slid open.

"The magic of science," she said, backing through it. When she had gone, the panel slid shut again. After a few seconds a deep rumble sounded behind it.

"She let us live," Smith said.

Remo eyed the computer. It was growing louder by the second. He switched off the power button. Nothing happened.

"Like hell," he said, shoving Smith toward the wall. "This thing's a bomb."

Chiun was already at the metal panel, tracing its outline with his fingernail. The panel loosened. He pressed harder against it. It wouldn't give. He pulled it out. Behind it was a wall of solid earth.

"It filled in to block the entrance when she left," Smith realized. "There is another way out, but—"

Remo was climbing the ladder.

"Don't!" Smith shouted.

The jolt of electricity from the opening sent Remo flying backward into the room, the skin of his hand blackened. His face was contorted in pain.

"My bad hand," he growled.

Remo felt the pain emanating like waves from his injured hand. First a bullet, then electricity. Of the two, he far preferred the bullet. Nothing hurt like electric shock, because it brought fear along with the pain. Every nerve ending in his sensitive system seemed to be screaming. Not electricity! Fire, bullets, knives, but not electricity.

He had once been sentenced to die in an electric chair...

"She's reset the charge through the computer," Smith said, opening his leather tool kit. "Maybe I can dismantle this." He turned a couple of screws, rearranged some wires. "Unfortunately, I don't know this machine. It could take hours, and she's probably got the explosive, wherever that is, on some kind of timer to allow her a few minutes to get away."

"Can we dig our way out?" Remo asked.

"Too slow," Chiun said.

Remo regarded the walls. They were all underground, surrounded by earth. It would be no use breaking through them. There wasn't enough time to tunnel themselves out.

The ceiling? Remo thought. Possible. "Smitty, is the whole area up there electrified?"

"No. Just the opening. If I could only dismantle that from here..." He probed deeper into the machine. "Would you test this?"

Remo took a piece of paper, spat on it, and rolled it into a ball. He tossed it through the opening. Sparks flew.

"All right," Smith said. "How's this?"

The same reaction.

Chiun was looking up toward the opening thoughtfully. "Let me see your hand," the old man said.

Remo showed him. The flesh was entirely charred. He couldn't make a fist. "Little Father, could we—"

"No," Chiun said, looking at the electrified entranceway. "Burning could not be avoided. Or death. Even for such as us. We will wait for the Emperor." He moved to a spot in the center of the floor and sat down in full lotus position.

Smith was drenched with sweat. "Did that do it?"

Remo tossed his paper ball again. "No."

Outside, the big engine of Darcy's Cadillac roared. Remo felt-afraid.

Nothing would be worse than dying by electric shock, he thought. The burns, a thousand times worse than fire... It would be better to die in the explosion.

And then again, maybe they wouldn't die. Smith might make it in time.

"Try that."

Sparks encircled the paper ball.

Chiun waited patiently to die. Smith would go, too, Remo thought. Poor Smitty. He was already so battered, and scared out of his pants. They'd all be gone in a minute. There probably wouldn't even be any pain. Just a lot of pressure, and then... Not like electricity. Agony for endless minutes while you fried, burned to death.

"Now?" Smith asked.

"No, Smitty," Remo said.

There was no time left.

Burned to death...

He crouched on the ladder, focusing his entire mind on the opening above him.

"What are you doing?" Smith called, but in Remo's mind his voice was already receding into another plane, an existence Remo was leaving far behind. He was entering the sphere of the possibility, the dimension in which there were no rules.

There is no fear. Conquer the fear and you will conquer the pain. No fear. No fear. I am whole. I am unafraid. I am ready.

He shot upward, his arms encircling his head, his legs lifting effortlessly, flying through time and space, illuminated by the light of burning stars, touched by the essence of the universe. In that moment, he saw all, felt all, experienced all, suffered all. Pain and beauty, ecstasy and despair. All of the strings connecting him to life vibrated with great music before they snapped and sent him floating into a void of unspeakable peace.

He was free.

And then he was descending, snatched back, yanked by one string that was stronger than the others. It was unpleasant. He tried to rid himself of the thread, wound round him like a steel bond, but it was infused into his very soul, and it dragged him back, back through ages of darkness, out of the peace of eternity, into a place of terrible pain, so terrible that he screamed aloud, and the shock of the scream brought him further down... No... to the depths of suffering, so bad he wanted to weep with it. Oh earth! Can't resist... oh, fragile life. Chiun, why have you brought me back?

The music and light were gone. He lay in the narrow landing between the floorboards of the house and the ceiling of the basement. And somehow his legs moved hard enough to kick out a section of the flooring, and then Smith's face appeared through the splintered wood and Chiun was behind pushing Smitty out.

Chiun carried Remo outside. It was so pretty out there in the open air that he forgot all about flying through space, and if anyone would have told him about it, he'd have said they had a screw loose.

Only he did remember the music for a few minutes afterward, and that was what he listened to as he watched Chiun catch a big black Caddie on foot and drag some woman who was wailing like a banshee out of it and then toss her like a football into this empty house where she must have exploded, because the house went up like a stick of dynamite, the way trees do in war movies, eaten up by a ball of fire, all to the tune of this magic music that he had to listen to with all his might because even in his memory it was fading so fast.

It was beautiful.

He couldn't understand why Smitty looked so sad.

?Epilogue

Remo woke up in a sunny room in Folcroft Sanitarium. He was covered with bandages from his scalp downward. On another bed in the same room lay Harold Smith, a bottle of plasma dripping slowly into his arm.

"Where's Chiun?" Remo mumbled through the narrow mouth slit in his bandages.

"Outside. He's terrorizing the staff."

"How bad are we?"

"You're worse than I am," Smith said. "How much do you remember?"

"Everything up to going through that hole in the house in Indiana."

"That's good," Smith said weakly.

"All I can see is light and dark. Am I blind?"

"I don't think so. The doctors say the bandages will come off in a few days."

Remo slept. It was dark when he awoke again. "Are you working?" he asked when he came to.

"I have a temporary secretary come in twice a day," Smith said.

"What'd you do about Peruvina?"

"Coded message to the CIA. The poppies have been burned to the ground, and Arnold's laboratory has been destroyed."

"Is the girl from Hassam's dead?"

"The dancer? No, she's recovering, surprisingly."

"Send her some flowers for me, okay?"

"She's a witness," Smith said.

"Wasn't it you who said you can't kill off everybody who knows anything?"

"That was different."

"Hey—"

"All right," Smith grumbled. "Just get some rest. And let me."

"You've got to do something else," Remo whispered before he slipped out of consciousness.

It was light again when he awoke.

"What do you want?" Smith asked.

"A pilot named Thompson," Remo said. "He was arrested in a military hospital on Malagua Island."

"Enlisted?"

"Civilian. Get him out of jail."

There was a long pause. It may have been days. "Why?" Smith asked.

"He's innocent. Sort of."

"Sort of? I can't—"

"Get him out of the slammer and send him to the Caribbean."

"What?"

"And give him a plane. A DC-3."

"You're delirious."

"Smitty. Do it for me. Because you're a friend."

"Don't be absurd."

"Then do it for me because I'll break your face when I get out of here if you don't," Remo said sleepily.

Smith grunted.

"She wasn't right, was she?"

"Who?"

"Darcy Devoe. She said you were two of a kind. Are you?"

Remo slept.

"Are you?" he asked the following evening.

"Yes, I suppose I am."

"Did you love her?"

"I'm a married man," Smith said.

"Oh, come on."

Smith sat up. The tube was out of his arm. "No. No, I didn't."

"But you could have."

"We could all do a lot of things. We don't," Smith said tersely. "She's dead, you know."

"Yeah, I figured. I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

"I wanted to stop killing once. It can't be done."

"I understand," Smith said.

"No, you don't. I don't. But that's just the way it is. Some people have to die."

"I suppose so," Smith said. He cleared his throat.

It was light. Remo opened his eyes. The bandages had been removed. Smith sat in bed, a breakfast tray covered with papers on his lap.

"Hey, I can see."

Smith looked over, annoyed at being interrupted. "Er... That's fine."

"Did you do it? Get Thompson out?"

"I'm trying to work." Smith turned back to his papers.

"Well?"

"Yes, I did," Smith said irritably. "Although I'll never understand why. I must not have been myself."

Remo smiled. "Thanks," he said.

Smith rustled his papers and pretended to read.

the end