Mission Earth Volume 3: The Enemy Within

by L. Ron Hubbard

  “I think we had a financial transaction that was not complete,” I said.

  “There was a cost overrun,” he said.

  “I will need a huge storage addition and a refrigeration building,” I said.

  “There was no cost overrun,” he said, “if it comes to another half a million US”

  My Gods, this hospital was expensive!

  “Same terms,” I said.

  “Same terms,” he said.

  “Make the plans with the man in charge,” I said, “and get started on it.”

  “You’re rich,” he said.

  “You better not get too rich,” I said. “There’s an awful lot of mud around here.” I hung up. But oh, well—charity hospitals had their good points. My rip-off would now be half a million, US.

  I got ready to leave. My nose was still hurting. “Just tell the Mudlick people what you want when they come and get them started on it. I’ve got other things to do.”

  Prahd was making no effort to get up. “Don’t you want to hear the news from Voltar?” he said. “I know how you have the welfare of your country at heart.”

  People will be chatty and social. I sat back down.

  “Everything on Voltar is fine,” said Prahd. “The weather was nice. All the flowering shrubs were doing beautifully.” I knew he was talking about the Widow Tayl’s place. I was wary.

  “You know that I had some work going on the Widow Tayl,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to know it was all concluded successfully before the Blixo left.”

  It was more suspicion than interest that prompted me to ask, “What work was that?”

  “I knew your interest in her place and your obvious concern about her. So I did exactly what you would have wanted me to do, Officer Gris. The problem was nymphomania—an obsession with sex.”

  Oh Gods, was he ever right!

  “So I enlarged her ovaries, as a beginning. She can now have three times as many orgasms as before and much more strongly.”

  Devils! No man in Pausch Hills would be safe! Thank Heavens I was down here on Earth! But wait, he had used the word beginning. “You did more?”

  “Why, of course. As you are part of the famous Gyrant Slahb family, I did not want to be remiss in my professional activities in your employ.”

  I waited with my eyes getting narrower. Suspicion is a built-in fact in the Apparatus.

  “Nymphomania,” he said learnedly, “is often caused by sterility. So I checked and, sure enough, there was an ovulation blockage—the ovum could not come down to be fertilized. So I removed the blockage.”

  Aha. Maybe he had handled the situation. If the Widow Tayl started having babies, maybe it would slow her down.

  Prahd was smiling happily, the true professional. “Well, remember the first day I had the honor of meeting you? You had intercourse with her in the house? Well, I took some of your semen . . .”

  “Wait!” I said in sudden alarm, “You’d been having intercourse with her for a day and a half! How do you know it wasn’t yours?”

  “Oh,” he said, waving it away, “it’s against the ethics of the profession to use my own.” He gave a pitying, professional smile. “What cellologist does not know his own sperm configuration? Easy to tell. Anyway, she was ready to ovulate, even if blocked, so I put one of her ova in a test tube with one of your sperm. And here is the good news: they ‘took’ very successfully. And so just before I left, I made sure there was nothing else in her womb and I inserted the established embryo.”

  Horror was going through me in waves. The Widow Tayl! “Does she know whose it is?” I said with dimming hope.

  “Oh, yes! She said that as long as it couldn’t be Heller’s, yours would have to do. She was very happy about it, really. She will be seven weeks along by now. It will be a boy.”

  I had gone through horror and was into savageness.

  “I was so appreciative for all you had done for me,” said Prahd, “that I did it all for you. And imagine! It will carry along the line of your great-uncle, Gyrant Slahb! It will have the blood of the most famous cellologist on Voltar! Doesn’t that make you proud?”

  My fists were clenched. “You can’t make this stick! There’s no evidence I’m the father!”

  “Oh, yes,” said Prahd. “I filed the medical parental certificate with the authorities. Have no fear you’ll lose it. I made very sure you could claim the parentage.”

  Oh, Gods and Devils! This fellow was a fiend! I surged up. “Why have you done this?”

  At last he was intimidated. He began to stammer. “All . . . all . . . all r . . . r . . . right. There was another reason. Y . . . y . . . you said you were going to burn down that b . . . b . . . b . . . beautiful estate! I couldn’t bear the . . . the . . . the thought of it. So I knew . . . knew that if you knew . . . knew you had a son there, you would not burn it down!”

  I slumped back down into the chair. Oh Gods, Devils and Hells. Here he had tied me to the worst nympho on Voltar! Maybe, if she pressed the demand, I would even have to marry her!

  Prahd recovered somewhat. “It has its good side. It is a beautiful estate. And she sent you a card.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. On one side it had a statue of a naked nymph leering at the viewer while hiding her nakedness in such a way that it was flagrantly displayed. On the other side there was a scrawl. It said:

  To Soltan,

  Yoo-hoo, wherever you are. I’m just coming great! It’s just coming great. Will you be coming soon? I hope so.

  Your cuddly Taylsy-Waylsy

  Ooooooh

  I went home.

  I lay down in my bed and wept.

  It was too bad Prahd was officially dead. Otherwise, I could have killed him on the spot.

  PART TWENTY-THREE

  Chapter 6

  Fate didn’t have me on rations that day. It was being very liberal. It was even insisting on me taking all the bad luck I could hold and then some.

  Midafternoon, Karagoz came into my bedroom. It seems when there is bad news, he brings it. When it is good news he doesn’t even send anybody with it.

  “There’s a horrible-looking man out on the lawn,” he said.

  I got up. You can’t hide a weapon in a sweater—besides, it was muddy. I changed to a windbreaker and put a Colt Cobra in my pocket. Watchfully, I went out.

  It was Jimmy “The Gutter” Tavilnasty. He was playing mumbletypeg with a stiletto.

  He turned his pockmarked face to me. He looked at me with his beady black eyes. He said, “You got my man?”

  “No gun play around here!” I said in alarm.

  He juggled the stiletto. “I never use guns. Why do you think they call me ‘The Gutter’?”

  He looked all around to make sure we weren’t being overheard. He seemed to talk mainly out of the side of his mouth. “I got the guys you want right here.” He tapped his pocket. “When you finger my man, you get these.”

  The candidates for altered identities! With us paying the local doctors to work and telling the world it was all free, this new income was not just good. It was vital!

  “You come back in a little while,” I said.

  “I stay right here until you finger Gunsalmo Silva. We got the latest on it. He was the triggerman on ‘Holy Joe’ after he became ‘Holy Joe’ Corleone’s bodyguard. He ain’t honest. We want Gunsalmo Silva bad. So these names I got is really good. But if the trade is off, say the word and I use you instead. I need practice.”

  “No, wait! You got me wrong! I just meant it will take a phone call to set it up away from here. You sit right there. I’ll have one of my men bring you a shot of something and . . .”

  “I never drink on the job. It’s illegal for cops so it’s illegal for me. Square is square. Make your phone call!”

  “What hotel are you staying at?”

  “None. I just drove in from Istanbul in a rented car.”

  “That’s all I need to know,” I said.

  I raced into my be
droom and locked the door. I got Faht Bey on the base internal system. “That Blixo deepsleeper,” I said. “Get him in an unidentifiable car that will seem to be coming in from Istanbul. Take him to the Saglanmak Rooms. Put him in the room at the exact top of the stairs. Register him as ‘John Smith’ and tell the clerk he had too much to drink en route. Turn the deepsleep current off in the car so he won’t know where he’s been. Make sure there are no identifying marks or equipment on him.”

  Faht Bey said that he would. But he added, “No commotions, Officer Gris. A riot is enough trouble for one day.”

  I picked up a night infrared scope. I went outside. I persuaded Jimmy “The Gutter” to get up off the grass and sit at a lawn table. I got him served some soft drink. He gave some to a cat that was wandering around and then watched the cat.

  He was not very good company. “How’s Babe?” I said at length.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Well, an old flame, after all.”

  “She says she never heard of you.”

  “I don’t always use the same name,” I said.

  “Oh.”

  “How’s Giovanni?” I said.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  Well, it was not what is called a chummy get-together.

  I thought I’d given Faht Bey enough time to get organized.

  We went out to Jimmy “The Gutter’s” rented car.

  I told him where to go.

  In a few minutes, I had him park on a back street. We went to the house across the road from the Saglanmak Rooms. It was a flat-topped house. There was an old Turk that we know. I said, “I’m a roof inspector.” I handed him a five-hundred-lira note. “We don’t want to alarm people by making our inspections public.”

  He let us through a trap door. The roof had a parapet around it. On hands and knees, we went over to the edge of the flat roof, hidden from the Saglanmak by the parapet.

  We were looking straight into the indicated room of the hotel. I showed Jimmy “The Gutter” the stairway which led up to the outside porch. But he knew it already, to his sorrow.

  Even though it was autumn now, it was a bit hot on the roof. But Jimmy “The Gutter” didn’t seem to mind. He was apparently well conditioned into lying in wait. A properly trained hit man.

  The sun went down. We did not make any conversation. Some stars came out. This occasioned no comment.

  A car drove up in front of the hotel. Three men got out. The one in the middle seemed to be sagging. They went into the hotel.

  Shortly, the light went on in the room.

  “Oh, boy!” said Jimmy “The Gutter.”

  Gunsalmo Silva, very recognizable through the window, was half carried through the door. He seemed to be out cold.

  The two men got his clothes off. They put him in the bed and threw the covers over him. We could see the end of the bed.

  Jimmy “The Gutter” was checking his stiletto and a gun. He was so intent on his job, I had to remind him. “The list,” I said.

  He reached into his jacket. I had the Cobra on him in my pocket in case he drew something else.

  It was the list. “Two hunnert names,” he said. “All good ones, ready and waiting to come. The last on the list is my brother in Hoboken. You send the commissions to him. He’s the straight member of the family, a garbage man. If you forget to pay, I’ll be back for you next trip.”

  “Honesty is the best policy,” I said. “It’s a pleasure to do business with you.”

  He grunted.

  We went down through the trap.

  Jimmy “The Gutter” headed for the outside stairway to that room.

  Although I have been known to be a devotee of spectator sports, I thought it would be wiser to have an alibi.

  I went down the street and walked into a bar. I ordered a Coke. I was prepared to stay there half an hour talking with the barman about the weather. I didn’t.

  With a battering roar a shot racketed up the street!

  Then two more shots!

  My Gods, what was Jimmy using? A cannon?

  I stayed right where I was. A police car sounded. There were running feet in the street. Voices and shouts.

  “Awfully loud out tonight,” I said to the barman.

  “Can’t understand it,” said the barman. “You were standing right here, Sultan Bey.”

  “I sure was,” I said. I shortchanged him so he would remember it.

  After our argument died down, I went out on the street. A lot of people were standing outside the Saglanmak. A cop was at the door.

  I walked the other way and found a taxi.

  The driver let me out at the hospital.

  I went in.

  I was sort of amazed to see a white-uniformed nurse at the reception counter. It was a very competent-looking girl, good-looking, a Turkish brunette. But she seemed awfully young. “Whom did you wish to see?” she said professionally.

  I almost said “Prahd.” Then I recalled he had been given papers of a dead male baby and “had been overseas being educated.” What name was it? I couldn’t remember. “The new head man,” I said.

  “Ah, Doktor Muhammed Ataturk! You have an appointment? Perhaps I should direct you to a resident intern instead?”

  “He’s a friend,” I said hastily.

  “That will be three hundred lira,” she said. “We can adjust the amount after your examination. It is a deposit.”

  “I thought this was a free clinic!”

  “Only to those who cannot pay. You obviously can pay. You came in a taxi. No lira, no appointment.”

  “Get him out here!” I said in a deadly voice.

  It must have been kind of loud. Prahd stuck his head out of his office. He said, “That’s all right, Nurse Bildirjin. It is a business appointment.”

  She reluctantly let me pass. In his office, I said, “What the Hells is that?”

  “Her name means ‘quail.’ I thought it kind of pretty,” said Prahd.

  “More payroll?” I demanded.

  “Why, yes. She’s the daughter of the town’s leading practitioner. His son is coming in from Istanbul in the morning to finish his internship here. But only five more nurses are coming down from the Istanbul training school.”

  “Who’s this ‘resident intern’?” I demanded.

  “Oh, that’s me when they don’t have money.”

  I noticed he had a big tray on a side table, a finished dinner that must have been enormous. “Are you running up bills at the restaurants, too?” I demanded.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “You told me to be economical. So I only hired two cooks, three dishwashers, a laundress and a chef. They don’t want much money. Just plenty of food to carry home.”

  “Look,” I said, “that girl out there will steal your patients for her father. That son when he comes . . .”

  “Oh, I mean to train him in cellology!” His eyes suddenly glowed. “Officer Gris, I think I can clean up all the TB and trachoma in this district! And then go on to all of Turkey! And then the whole Middle . . .”

  “Dr. Bittlestiffender!” I said sharply. “They obviously omitted from your training a course in finance. Professor Gyrant Slahb often said, ‘Where the Hells would cellology be without money’! So there!”

  “She did try to collect a fee off you,” he said weakly.

  I sat down. “Prahd, I think you need basic orientation in the facts of life. It isn’t money from me you’re after. It’s money for me, young Dr. Prahd.”

  I saw he looked shocked.

  I am quick at these things. “So that I can finance cleaning up diseases,” I added.

  His eyes instantly glowed worshipfully. “Then it was all right that I ordered two new ambulances and have drivers coming in.”

  Gods!

  There was no use talking to him about some things. He was too stupid. I whipped out Jimmy “The Gutter’s” list. “Here are two hundred names. You will find phone numbers on this list. They are in Paris and New York and Las Vegas and
Rio and Gods know where else. Schedule them to come in here a couple dozen at a time and get busy!”

  He took the list. He looked confused.

  “Now what’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know how to use one of these phones!”

  I snatched the list back. I knew a balk when I saw it. “I’ll do it myself!”

  I started out the door.

  “There’s no need to walk back to your villa,” he called after me. “My car and driver will take you!”

  And, (bleep) him, there was a new Omni waiting on the front drive and a uniformed chauffeur opened the door for me. “To where did you wish to go, Sultan Bey?” he said.

  I told him he could go to any hell Moslems went to and walked back to my villa. That would show them!

  The walk cooled me off. Prahd was pouring out money in rivers. (Bleep)-all was coming in.

  I sat down with the list. What to do with it. I got to thinking. The National Security Agency monitored all long-distance calls. Perhaps it wasn’t wise to phone from here. It might even bring in hit men on their trail or even CIA hit men, which is worse, and I had had a bellyful of hit men for the night.

  Ah. I wrote explicit instructions to use messengers and not to use the phone at all. I wrote exactly what to do. I coded these and the lists up. I ran down the long tunnel to Faht’s office.

  “Send this to our New York organization,” I said. “Right away!”

  He took it. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Sultan Bey. We’re having about all the commotion we can stand. There was a shooting in town a little while ago. I just got a call. Where were you?”

  “In a bar, having a Coke, and I can prove it,” I said.

  “I bet you can,” he said.

  But he took the list over to his machine and sent it.

  PART TWENTY-THREE

  Chapter 7

  But Fate was not through dribbling on me yet.

  As I turned to go, Faht Bey said, “You have another prisoner in the detention cells. Captain Bolz phoned from an Istanbul whorehouse this afternoon and told me he had orders to take the person back with him when he left and he wanted to make sure we had an extra set of irons for him.”

  Too-Too! Oh Gods, would duty never cease to nag! “All right,” I said impatiently. “I’ll go interview him now.”