"What the hell is that?" Remo asked, incredulous.
"A shrine," Chiun said blandly.
"Where'd you get it? It looks like a model of something."
"It was. I removed it from the library."
"You stole it?"
Chiun clucked. "How crass you are. The Master of Sinanju has no need to steal. I told them you would pay for it."
"Great. That's just great." Remo paced around the room. "What'd you take it for, anyway?"
"It was not being put to proper use. Some fool had covered it with signs calling it a tomb."
"Oh," Remo said. "And of course, anyone can see what this splendid object's real use is."
"Of course."
Remo exploded. "Then would you mind letting me in on the secret? Because it sure looks like a model of a tomb to me."
"Lout." The old man sniffed. "It is an object of worship. Obviously."
"To what?"
"To Abraxas." The old man's eyes sparkled.
"Oh, no."
"I have found the knowledge I was seeking." He floated into a full lotus in front of the pyramid.
Remo sat down beside him. "Okay, who's Abraxas?"
"I thought I was a madman in your estimation."
"I was wrong."
"Naturally."
"Other people have been seeing the same thing. I've got to know, Chiun."
The old Oriental smiled smugly. "Very well. I'll tell you. Abraxas was a deity worshipped by the ancient Chaldeans from between 1000 and 600 B.C., according to your calendar. His followers proclaimed him to be a god of both good and evil, light and darkness. Hence the white candles upon the black shrine."
"600 B.C.," Remo reflected, wondering how a forgotten god from a lost civilization could possibly figure into a ring of modern-day assassins. "That's old."
"Old enough to be of merit," Chiun said, conferring his highest praise upon the deity. "Perhaps Abraxas was an acquaintance of the great Wang himself."
"Did Wang say so?"
Chiun snorted in contempt. "Not one of the greatest Master's writings was included in the inferior collection of worthless books at the library," he said. "I had to command the librarian to seek the information about Abraxas through lesser channels."
"I can't figure this out."
Chiun patted his head sympathetically. "It is not the place of white men to understand." With a quick look to the balcony, the old man rose from the floor and dashed out. "It is time," he said hurriedly, checking the position of the sun.
"For what?"
"The Noon News, featuring the lovely Cheeta Ching."
"Come on," Remo whined. "This is serious. Can't you put off watching that fly-eating armadillo until the next newscast?"
"If you cannot bear the sight of such beauty as Cheeta Ching's, then leave. Go stare at ox-teated white women." He switched on the set.
With a sigh, Remo watched the screen dissolve onto the pancake-faced, fang-toothed visage of the Channel 3 anchorwoman.
"Good afternoon," Cheeta said through snarling lips. "There's a new wrinkle in the international fracas involving the assassination of three terrorists earlier this week. Small but vocal groups around the world are calling for the posthumous pardon of the three assassins who lost their lives after eliminating the known terrorists."
"Assassins," Chiun said with disgust. "They use the word to mean any bumbling fool with a weapon. Even Mr. Pea Shooter."
"Peabody," Remo muttered.
"In Washington this morning, demonstrators rallied in front of the White House to demand that the government extend a formal apology and full restitution to the widow of Orville Peabody, who killed terrorist Franco Abbrodani in Rome last Monday. The demonstrators, calling the assassination an act of heroism, are being dispersed by Washington police for assembling without a permit."
The image shifted to a group of people picketing outside the White House gates as police attempted to break up the crowd.
"What is the purpose of this gathering?" an unseen reporter asked a burly working man in his forties.
"We want to clear the memory of Orville Peabody," he said. "Peabody was an agent of God. When he killed that Eyetalian troublemaker, he made the world better for all of us." Cheers went up behind him.
The screen switched back to Cheeta Ching. "What marks these worldwide demonstrations is a seeming lack of organizational leadership. When asked by authorities to produce their assembly permit, the Washington demonstrators stated that they were called together by an invisible force named Abraxas. Whether or not this is related to Mr. Peabody's famous last word is not known. Nor is the fascist Washington government's reaction to the demand. This is Cheeta Ching, the voice of truth. More news at six o'clock."
"Oh, God," Remo said. "I've got to call Smitty."
"A fine idea," Chiun said patronizingly, turning off the television. "Emperor Smith's mind is even weaker than your own. It will make you feel better."
"I keep telling you he's not an emperor, and besides— oh, never mind." He waited for a long time with the telephone receiver against his ear. He dialed again. Once again the direct line to Smith rang. And rang.
"What's going on?" Remo said aloud. The direct line was accessible to Smith anywhere. It connected with his desk at Folcroft, with Smith's home, in a room where Mrs. Smith was not permitted, even with the portable phone Smith carried in his attaché case. Just about the only place in the world the direct line didn't go was to Smith's secretary's desk. It was for Harold Smith alone, and Harold Smith always answered it. Always.
"Something's wrong," Remo said, slamming down the receiver. "We've got to get to Folcroft."
'They chartered a helicopter on the roof of the Pan Am building. Smith was good about keeping Remo in ready cash. The money came in handy for emergencies, even though he had to explain the expenditures to the penurious Smith later.
Well, this was one expense even Smitty wasn't going to complain about, he thought as he climbed out of the helicopter. He made his way from the roof down the walls of Folcroft Sanitarium. Chiun was ahead of him, easing down the sheet-faced building as if it were a stepladder. Hand under hand, the old man crawled deftly toward the reflecting glass windows of Smith's inner office. With the long, iron-hard nail of his index finger, he outlined the window and pushed at it gently until it gave. He caught the glass as it fell and set it on the floor inside the office before he slipped silently in. Remo followed, acknowledging Chiun's work with a brief nod.
The office showed no signs of a struggle. The desk at the computer console was tidy as ever, its drawers locked. The wastebasket was empty. The closed door leading to the outer office didn't look as if it had been tampered with. If Smith had been abducted, Remo said to himself, it was the cleanest kidnapping on record.
There was nothing to show that Smith had even been there except for the short sheet of printout paper that hung from one of the computers. Remo walked noiselessly to it. Not that he would understand Smith's arcane computer jargon but...
"DOCTOR SMITH. CALL 555-8000. DOCTOR SMITH. CALL 555-8000. DOCTOR..."
Remo blinked at the paper in his hand. He read it again. "What is this?" he whispered.
Chiun asked a question with his eyes. Remo handed him the sheet and walked to the telephone. The old man restrained him, motioning to the door leading to the secretary's desk.
"It doesn't matter," Remo said. "The place is clean." He dialed 555-8000.
"The number you have reached is not in service," the recording announced. He slammed down the phone.
"Who's in there?" shrilled a woman's voice from behind the door. The lock jiggled with frightened, clumsy movements. Mrs. Mikulka opened it with a gasp and stood stock still in the doorway, her hand on her chest. "No one's allowed in here," she said hoarsely. "Who are you? What do you want?"
"My name is Remo. Where's Smitty?"
"Oh." The tightness went out of her voice. "Dr. Smith had to leave unexpectedly, but he left a message for you." With an uncertain glance
at the removed window, she edged back toward the outer office. "Er... Follow me, please."
Sandley. 12 mi. S/E
18 min. DC3 #TL 516.
"What's this mean?" Remo said, scowling at the neat handwritten note. "What's Sandley?"
"An airport, sir," the secretary explained. "It's nearby. But Dr. Smith didn't say anything about—"
"Thanks," Remo said.
TL-516 was the only DC-3 at Sandley Airport. It was painted red, and it had enough dents and scratches on it to pass for a World War II bomber.
"Who flies that red plane?" Remo shouted as he burst into the flight office.
The two old men were playing cards. One was bald, drinking coffee out of a stained paper cup. The other was swigging bourbon straight from a near-empty bottle. His eyes were watery and unfocused. He set down the fifth with a thud and smeared his hand across his mouth. "I do," he said.
"That figures." Remo strolled toward the table.
The man with the coffee saw the look on Remo's face and rose hurriedly. "I got some book work to do, Ned," he said timidly as he edged away.
"Hey, I was winning," Ned said, raising the bottle to his lips.
Remo yanked it away. "Hold the poison till we talk. I'm looking for a man named Smith. Tall, fifties, metal-rimmed glasses, three-piece gray suit, a hat. You see him?"
The old pilot tapped his finger to his forehead. "Little tetched?"
Remo cleared his throat. "I guess some people might think so. Where'd you take him?"
"Clear Springs Airport, near Miami. About nine o'clock this morning."
"Was he alone?"
"Yep. Didn't even know what he was going there for." He chuckled. "Tetched. Didn't even know the girl who sent for him. A real rich bitch, too. Isn't that right, Bob?" He glanced blearily at the bald man behind the counter. Bob jumped at the sound of his name.
"What girl?" Remo asked.
"I got it all here in the books, sir," Bob said, twitching.
"You the base operator here?"
"Eee-yess," he said hesitantly. "You from the FAA?"
"No," Remo said, grabbing the log containing the day's flights. "Jane Smith? You believed that?"
"She called late last night. I figured maybe it was his daughter."
"Didn't you ask?"
The man straightened. "Mister, there's no regulation says I got to find out what their relationship is. Anybody sends over a private armed guard with five thousand dollars cash for a one-way flight to Florida, I ain't going to ask no personal questions." He slammed the log closed. After a moment, he added, "Nobody forced him to go. He come up by himself. And he wasn't on drugs or nothing, either, was he, Ned?"
"Wouldn't even take a shot of hooch," Ned said disgustedly.
"Where was the call made from?" Remo asked.
"Miami. Said she was meeting him there. She sounded real nice."
Remo turned back to the old pilot and watched as he belched and rocked back in his chair, the Jack Daniels drooling off his chin. "Who picked Smith up in Florida?" he demanded.
"How should I know?" the pilot answered crankily, hiccupping.
Remo jerked his thumb toward the drunk. "He the only pilot you got?"
"There's another guy coming in about four."
"I can't wait that long." He walked over to Ned and hefted him out of his chair. "Come on, Ace. We're heading south."
"Hey, you can't take him," Bob protested. "He's stone drunk." Remo threw the roll of bills onto the counter. "Think that'll sober him up for your log?" He hoisted the pilot over his shoulder.
Ned was singing "The Yellow Rose of Texas" as he fumbled with the panel controls. "Fuel rich, thrust up," he mumbled between choruses.
"Who is this person who fouls my air with breath like hyena droppings?" Chiun demanded from the wing window seat.
"He's the pilot. He's going to fly the plane. If he can figure out how."
"Once again, your unerring judgment has taken control," Chiun said.
"Very funny. He'll be all right. They say flying's like riding a bicycle. You never forget."
"I'm sure I will never forget," Chiun said.
Remo ignored him. "Okay, Ned. You've got to get us to Clear Springs."
"No problem," Ned slurred. "Just keep the bottle handy. 'Less you want us to fly into a mountain." He laughed. They took off like a rocket.
The pilot squeezed at the air beside Remo's face. "Hand it over."
"Hand what over?"
"The bottle. You do have the bottle, don't you?" He looked out the window. The ground below them swam in a pleasant haze.
"What bottle?" Remo said.
?Chapter Seven
Most of the hundred best brains in the world were blotto.
Smith observed that the South Shore of Abaco, separated from the rest of the island by a tall fence, appeared to exist solely for the purpose of hosting a round-the-clock party. Some of the guests were famous people from different walks of life. Smith recognized a noted woman anthropologist who was dancing a tarantella on the beach. A former United States secretary of state, wearing a T-shirt with "Shake Your Booties" emblazoned on the chest, chugged down a pitcher of some pink and apparently alcoholic beverage while the crowd around him clapped and cheered.
"Cocktail, sir?" offered a waiter in a white jacket. He held out a tray with a dozen champagne glasses filled with pink liquid.
"No, thank you," Smith said tightly. The waiter walked away.
"Aw, go ahead," the fat man with a pink ribbon pinned to his collar prodded, slapping Smith on the back heartily. "Loosen up."
"I don't drink," Smith said.
"Hey, you're missing something," the man said. He tapped the rim of his own glass. The movement set him off balance, causing the contents to slosh over the side in a spill of pink foam. He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. "You know, this isn't any ordinary booze."
"I'm not surprised." Smith turned away, but the man followed him, huffing with drunken indignation.
"Maybe you don't know who you're talking to."
"That is correct," Smith said tersely. "I don't know, and I don't care."
"I'm Samuel P. Longtree," the man said with exaggerated dignity.
"I never heard of you."
The man stopped short, then laughed. "I didn't think you had. I'm a chemist. My brilliant career ended at the age of forty with my greatest discovery."
Smith sighed, knowing that Samuel P. Longtree wouldn't leave him alone until he took the bait. "Which was?" he asked wearily.
Longtree brightened. "This cocktail," he said, sipping his drink. "Cheers."
"Congratulations." Smith moved away.
"It's really quite remarkable. It affects the cortex of the brain so that a person's anxiety is all but eliminated. Imagine that— an instant cure for guilt, tension, performance anxiety, nervousness, apprehension, dread, fear—"
"And rational thought," Smith added.
"Ah, that's where you're wrong, my friend. The beauty of my concoction is that it leaves the drinker utterly lucid. You can perform the most complex and detailed mental tasks and still be flying higher than Betelgeuse. All it does is free you of your inhibitions."
Smith looked at him fully for the first time, his mind piecing together the information with what he knew about Peabody and the other two assassins. "Guilt, you said? No guilt?"
"Zero. Good-bye, mother-in-law. So long, lawnmower."
Smith inhaled deeply. "No guilt, no ethics, no morals..."
The man laughed. "Hey, who needs morals in Paradise? Only dirty minds need fig leaves."
"How long have you been here?"
"Who knows? Who cares?"
"Did you happen to see a man named Peabody here? He was possibly with two others." He described the dead American assassin.
The man thought for a moment before a glimmer of recognition came to his eyes. "I think so. Came from Ohio or someplace?"
"That's the one."
"Well, I didn't see much of him. I
've been busy adapting the ingredients in my cocktail into other forms. Do you know that it can be snorted, smoked, or shot?" He smiled knowingly. "Just name your poison. Of course, the injectable form isn't quite right yet. It produces some unfortunate side effects at first. Unconsciousness, that sort of thing. But the smokable version is a gas. Hey, maybe you want a joint?"
"Absolutely not," Smith said, unnerved. "Who would have seen more of Peabody?"
The fat man shrugged. "I don't know.... Vehar, I guess. He's the ad man on my task force." He pointed proudly to the pink ribbon he wore. "Say, you aren't tagged."
"Tagged?"
"Your task force. Pink, blue, or gold?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You're new here, aren't you? Well, you'll find out soon enough. The colored ribbons designate what group you're assigned to. Task forces, they call them. Each of the task forces works on one phase of the Great Plan."
"The Great Plan?" Smith repeated dryly.
"The Great Plan of Abraxas. In capital letters." Smith was stunned. "He's here? Abraxas?"
"He, it... whatever Abraxas is, his spirit has devised the Great Plan, and we are its instruments," he said solemnly. He looked from side to side. "I think I got it right."
"And what is this... er... Great Plan?" Smith asked.
"No one knows it all. The Plan is too vast for the human mind to comprehend, even the superior minds gathered here. All we know is the phase covered by our task forces."
"What phase includes your cocktails?" Smith asked.
"I'm part of Phase One," Longtree said eagerly. "It's called Unity. The job of my task force is to establish Abraxas and his good works all over the world."
"And Vehar, the advertising man. You said he's part of that, too?"
"Oh, Vehar's the big honcho in Phase One. Your friend Peabody was his drone."
"His drone? Wasn't Peabody part of your group?"
Longtree scoffed. "Oh, no. Peabody was a nobody. Nobodies aren't invited here. Only the crème de la crème. That's you and me, friend." He winked. "Peabody and the other two guys were just part of Vehar's experiment."
"What was he experimenting with?"
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