He heard one of them say, "It's awful. It would only happen in America. Who'd shoot a Maverick Car Genius?"
"They must have thought he was a politician. Probably the President shot him because he thought Lavallette was going to run for President."
"No," another one said. "It was big business. The capitalists. The Big Three had him shot because he was going to hurt their car sales."
The man with the scar who had shot Lyle Lavallette listened to all of them and he knew they were all wrong. Lyle Lavallette was shot simply because his was the first name on the list.
That afternoon; the Detroit Free Press received an anonymous letter. It said simply that Lavallette was only the first. One by one, the automakers of America would be killed before they had a chance to totally destroy the environment. "Enough innocent people have already died from air-polluting infernal machines," the letter said. "It is time some of the guilty died too. And they will." Harold Smith took another swig of Maalox. Beyond the big picture windows of his office, looking out on Long Island Sound, a skiff tacked close to the wind. Strong gusts blew up and pushed against the sail and the skiff listed so sharply it looked ready to capsize. But Smith knew that sailcraft were balanced so that the sail above and the keel below formed a single vertical axis. The wind could push the sail over only so far, because of the counterpressure from the keel below the water. When the sail reached its maximum tilt, the wind glanced harmlessly off. Perfect equilibrium.
Sometimes Smith felt CURE was like that. A perfectly balanced keel for the sailboat that was the United States government. But sometimes just as a really rough sea could capsize a sailboat if it was struck in just the wrong way at the wrong time-even CURE could not always hold America on an even keel.
It felt that way right now. Smith had just gotten off the telephone with the President.
"I know I can only suggest missions," the President had said. His voice was as cheerful as if he had just finished his favorite lunch.
"Yes, sir," Smith said.
"But you know about this Detroit thing."
"It looks as if it might be serious, Mr. President."
"Darned tootin' it's serious," said the President. "The car industry is just getting back on its feet. We can't have some environment cuckoo killing everybody in Detroit."
"Fortunately, Lavallette is still alive," Smith said. "He was wearing a bulletproof vest."
"I think all the rest of them need more than a bulletproof vest," the President said. "I think they need your two special men."
"I'll have to make that decision, Mr. President. This might just be the work of a vicious prankster."
"I don't think it is, though. Do you?"
"I'll let you know. Good-bye, Mr. President," Smith said and disconnected the telephone that connected directly with the White House.
Smith had disliked being abrupt but it was the tone he had taken with all the previous Presidents who had turned to CURE to solve a problem. It had been written into the initial plans for CURE: a President could only suggest assignments, not order them. This was to prevent CURE from ever becoming a controlled wing of the executive branch. There was only one presidential order that Smith would accept: disband CURE.
Smith had been abrupt for another reason too. Remo had not yet reported in after his last assignment against the Ravine Rapist on the airplane, but while checking the reports of the Lavallette assault, Smith had run across his name.
The police at the scene had dutifully taken down the name of everyone in the room where the automaker was shot.
And at the bottom of the list was printed the name of Remo Williams, photographer.
It was not the kind of name like Joe Smith or Bill Johnson that someone would just make up out of the air. Anyone who wrote down the name "Remo Williams" had to know Remo Williams . . . or be Remo Williams.
And no one knew Remo Williams.
Smith shook his head and drank some more Maalox. The conclusion was inescapable. For some reason, Remo was free-lancing and it was time for Smith to act.
Chapter 6
"I say we leave," said Lawrence Templey Johnson.
He was a big, bluff man, the kind who ran wild in America's corporate boardrooms. Even with his suit reduced to cutoff pants and his white shirt a rag, his takecharge manner clung to him like a stale odor.
"I say we stay," said Remo quietly. "So we stay. End of discussion."
It was turning cold now on the desert. The sunbaked sand had given up the last of its stored heat, and now the chill was setting into everyone's bones.
"Why?" demanded Lawrence Templey Johnson. "I want to know why."
Remo was looking at a woman's broken arm. Lorna had put on a splint, but the woman was still in deep pain. Remo took the woman's shattered arm in his fingers and gently kneaded the flesh from wrist to elbow, not sure of what to do, but growing more confident as he worked the arm.
He could sense the breaks. Three of them, all below the elbow, and the broken pieces of bone had not been aligned correctly.
"I want to know why," Johnson repeated. He was using a foot-high rock near the hull of the burned-out jetcraft as a soapbox and he sounded like a politician in training. He was starting to get on Remo's nerves.
"How does it feel now?" Remo asked the woman.
"A little better. I think."
Remo suddenly squeezed and the woman gasped, but when the first shock subsided, both she and Remo knew the bones had been properly aligned. Remo massaged a nerve in her neck to ease the dull healing pain that would come later.
"Thank you," the woman said.
"I'm talking to you," said Lawrence Templey Johnson. "How dare you ignore me? Who do you think you are?" He looked around at the survivors, who sat, dully, on the sand near the plane. "Look at him," he told them. "Look how he's dressed. He's a nobody. He probably fixes cars for a living. I'm taking charge here and I say we're leaving."
Remo stood and casually brushed sand off the legs of his chino pants.
"We're staying because it's just a matter of time before the rescue planes come," Remo said. "If we start wandering around this desert, we might never be found."
"We've been waiting hours for these so-called rescue planes," the other man snapped. "I say we leave."
"I say we stay," Remo said coldly.
"Who appointed you cock of the walk? Let's put it to a vote," said Johnson, who had visions of a Hollywood movie chronicling how he had led his stranded fellow passengers out of the desert. Starring Roger Moore as Lawrence Templey Johnson. He would have preferred David Niven but David Niven was dead. "We'll vote. This is a democracy. "
"No," said Remo. "It's a desert. And anybody who wanders out into it is going to die."
"We'll see about that." Johnson raised his voice. "Everybody in favor of getting out of here, say 'Aye.' "
No one said "Aye." They voted with their rear ends, keeping them firmly planted in the sand.
"Fools," Johnson snapped. "Well, I'm going."
"I'm sorry. I can't let you do that," Remo said.
"Why not?"
"Because I promised myself we'd all get out of here alive. I'm not going to let you become buzzard bait." Johnson jumped off the small rock and marched toward Remo. He poked him in the chest with his index finger. "You're going to have to get a lot bigger real quick if you think you're going to stop me."
"Say good night, Johnson," Remo mumbled. And mumbled an answer to himself: "Good night Johnson." And pressed his right hand into the bigger man's throat, squeezed for a moment, then caught him as he crumpled and laid him on the sand next to the plane.
"He's not hurt, is he?" Lorna asked.
Remo shook his head. "Just asleep." He looked around at the other crash survivors, who were watching him. "He'll be okay, folks. Meantime, I think all of you ought to move closer together to try to keep each other warm. Just until the rescuers get here."
"They're really coming?" the little girl asked.
"Yes," Remo said. "I promise.
"
"Good. Then I'm going to sleep."
Later, with the stars wheeling in the ebony sky above their heads, Remo and Lorna slipped away from the others. "You've never told me your last name," she said, as she took his arm.
"I don't have one," Remo said. He sat on a slightly elevated dune and the young woman moved down lightly beside him.
"I thought you were a real wiseass back on the plane, even if I was attracted to you. But I was wrong. You're no wiseass."
"Don't get too close to me," he said.
"What?"
He took a long look at a big moon, perched atop a spire, miles away. It looked like a futuristic desert lamp. The wind blew a fine sand spray off the tops of the small dunes. The sand hissed.
"When the rescue planes come, I'm leaving. My own way. I'd appreciate it if you'd just not even mention me," he said.
"But you're the one who saved everybody. You got them out of the plane. You've taken care of them since then. That little girl . . . she adores you."
"Yeah. Swell. But I'm still vanishing when the planes come, so just forget about me."
"Why? Are you a criminal or something?"
"Not a criminal, but something," Remo said. "You know, I never had a family. This is the first time I ever felt I belonged with people." He laughed bitterly. "And it took a plane crash to make it happen."
"It happened though," she said.
"When do you think the planes will come for us?" he said.
"Soon," she answered. "I'm surprised they haven't arrived by now."
She put her hands to his face. "But we have a little while, don't we?" she asked quietly.
"We do," he said and brought Lorna down to the sand with him. Their lips met first, hungry and sad. Remo reached for her right wrist instinctively, ready to begin the slow finger massage that was the first of the thirty-seven steps of the Sinanju love technique.
Then he remembered how it had always been with Sinanju love techniques.
"Hell with it," he mumbled and he just took her. Their bodies joined pleasurably, unrhythmically. Each time one of them came to a peak, the other slid off it. It was long, elemental, sometimes frustrating, but natural, and when the peak did come, it came to both of them at once.
And that made it worth all the effort in the world, Remo thought.
She fell asleep in his arms and Remo looked at the sky, knowing their first time together was also their last.
The telephone had been ringing, on and off, for hours but Chiun had declined to answer it. It was probably Remo calling and if Chiun answered it and then asked him had Remo yet spoken to Nellie Wilson, Remo would have some lame excuse about how he had been too busy, and it would all just annoy Chiun, the way Remo always did. And it was also good to let Remo wait awhile, lest he develop the habit of telephoning and expecting Chiun to answer immediately, like a servant.
Three hours of intermittent telephone ringing seemed like enough punishment to Chiun so he went to the telephone in the corner of the hotel room, lifted the receiver, and said slowly, "Who is speaking?"
The receiver crackled and hissed in his ear. "Who is there? Who is there?"
More crackling and hissing and Chiun said, "Fool device."
"Chiun, this is Smith," came the voice.
"Emperor Smith. I thought you were Remo."
"Why?" asked Smith sharply. "Have you heard from Remo?"
"No, but I expect him to call at any moment."
"You don't know where he is either?" Smith asked.
"I have not heard from him," Chiun said.
"Chiun, I have a report that indicates Remo may be in Detroit. He is trying to kill America's top automobile executives."
"Good," Chiun said. "At least he is working."
"No. You don't understand. He's not on assignment."
"He is practicing then," Chiun said. "That is almost as good. "
"Chiun, I think he's free-lancing for someone else."
"Strange," Chiun said under his breath. Louder, he said, "He is perhaps trying to earn extra money to donate to the impoverished of Sinanju. That would be nice. "
"We have to stop him," Smith said.
"What do you have against the poor of Sinanju?" Chiun asked.
"Listen to me, Master of Sinanju. Remo is running amok in Detroit, I think. He may be on the other side."
Chiun spat. "There is no other side. There is only Sinanju."
"He shot a man today."
"Shot?"
"With a gun," said Smith.
"Aiiiieeee," wailed Chiun.
"Now you understand the gravity of the situation," Smith said.
"A gun," said Chiun. "To profane Sinanju with a mechanical weapon. It is not possible. Remo would not dare. "
"Someone shot the president of Dynacar Industries earlier today. People took a list of names of everyone there, and Remo's name was on the list."
"There is your proof that you are mistaken," Chiun said. "Remo cannot even write his own name."
"Chiun, you have to go to Detroit. If Remo shows up and is free-lancing, you have to stop him."
"This is outside our contracted agreements," Chiun said.
"We'll talk about that later. I'm sending a car for you and I've booked you on a flight in an hour."
"Outside our contract," Chiun repeated.
"We'll worry about that later," Smith said.
"Earlier we had discussed some land," Chiun said.
"Forget Disneyland. If Remo's acting on his own, you have to stop him. That's in the contract. And then there won't be any more contracts.
"Very well. I will go. But I tell you that Remo would never use a gun or any boom thing."
"When you get there, you can see if that's right or not," Smith said. "This would-be killer has threatened the heads of all the major auto companies."
"Then who will I guard?" Chiun asked. "How do I choose?"
"Today, the gunman tried to get Lyle Lavallette. He's a very high-profile automaker. Always in the press. It may be logical that his next target will be Drake Mangan, the head of National Autos. He's just written a book and he's on a lot of television shows. If Remo or whoever it is is trying to make a publicity splash, Mangan might be next on the list."
"I will go see this Mangan and I will bring you this impostor's head, so you can apologize to both Remo and me for your error. Good-bye."
Chiun slammed down the telephone, cracking the receiver and sending internal parts flying like popping corn. Working for a white was bad enough but working for a white lunatic was worse. Still, what if Smith were right? What if something had happened and Remo was working on his own?
Chin looked across the room at his thirteen steamer trunks. He decided he would pack light. He would not be in Detroit for long. Just six steamer trunks.
Chapter 7
Drake Mangan had become the head of the huge National Auto Company the old-fashioned way: he had married into it.
Since the beginning of the auto industry, the Cranston family-beginning with Jethro Cranston, who hooked a steam engine onto a horseless carriage back in 1898-had spearheaded virtually every major development that ran on rubber tires. When old Jethro had died, his son Grant took over and Cranston went international. And when the next son, Brant, took over, everyone knew the future of Cranston Motors was assured for at least another generation. A drunk driver in a Ford pickup changed all that when he plowed into Brant Cranston's limousine at a stop sign in 1959.
Control of the company fell then into the somewhat shaky hands of the sole surviving Cranston, Myra. At the time, Myra was twenty-two, spoiled, and on her way to earning a black belt in social drinking. Drake Mangan was her boyfriend.
They had been in a restaurant overlooking the Detroit River when the bad news came. Drake Mangan had picked the restaurant, whose wines were the priciest in the city, to break the bad news that he was calling it quits after eight months of dating Myra and not getting to first base. He waited until Myra had gone through two bottles of Bordeaux
before broaching the subject. He hoped she was drunk enough not to throw a tantrum because her tantrums were famous.
"Myra, I have something very important to tell you," Mangan began. He was an impressive man of thirty, although his hooded dark eyes and aquiline nose made him look a solid ten years older. He was chief comptroller at Cranston Motors and had been attracted to Myra solely because she was the boss's daughter. But even that enticement had worn thin after eight months of dating the woman Detroit society had nicknamed the Iron Virgin.
Myra giggled. Her eyes shone with giddy alcoholic light.
"Yesh, Drake."
"We've been together for almost a year now-"
"Eight months," Myra corrected, lifting her glass in a toast. "Eight looooooong months."
"Yes. And there comes a time in every relationship when it either grows or dies. And I think that in the case of ours, it has-"
At that moment, a pair of uniformed police officers came to their table, their faces so solemnly set that they might have been a pair of walking bookends.
"Miss Cranston?" one of them said. "I regret to inform you that there's been a terrible tragedy in your family. Your brother is . . . gone."
Myra looked at the officer through an uncomprehending alcoholic haze.
"Gone," she said. "Gone where?"
The officers looked even more uncomfortable. "What I mean to say, Miss Cranston, is that he is deceased. I'm sorry."
"I don't understand," said Myra Cranston truthfully. She gave a little bubbly hiccup at that point.
Drake Mangan understood. He understood perfectly. He handed each officer a twenty-dollar bill and said, "Thank you both very much. I think I should handle this."
The officers were happy to comply and walked quickly from the restaurant.
"What was that all about?" asked Myra, filling another pair of wineglasses. She had red wine on the right and white wine on the left. She liked to drink them alternately. Sometimes she mixed them. Once she had mixed them in a saucer and sipped from it.
"I'll explain later, darling," Mangan said.
"First time you ever called me darling," Myra said with a giggle.
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