Death Therapy td-6

by Warren Murphy

  "Whose idea was it?" Remo asked. "Yours or hers?"

  "Mine, of course. She didn't have brains enough to think of it." He turned now, shuffling and laboured, to face Remo. "But I saw the possibilities as soon as I came here for therapy and saw all the government personnel here. I thought right away of the kind of power she could have over them. She could get them to do anything."

  "How'd you get her to do it?" Remo asked.

  "You might not believe it, Donaldson, but she loved me."

  "So you used drugs and post-hypnotic suggestion?"

  "To simplify it for you, yes. Plus Lithia's peddling her ass. That helped. Men were just fascinated by her body. A little of her twiff and they'd do anything," Garrand said imperiously. He was lecturing now. "I never could understand it myself. She just wasn't that good."

  "I thought you couldn't get someone to act against their will under hypnosis," Remo said.

  "A typical piece of comic-book stupidity," Gar-rand said. "First you convince them that what they're doing is the right thing to do. That colonel, for instance. He thought you were a Russian spy. And General Dorfwill. He wasn't bombing St. Louis; he was bombing Peking in retaliation for a sneak attack. And Admiral Crust? Why shouldn't he destroy the Statue of Liberty, particularly since he knew it was the hideout for a band of anarchists about to blow up our country? That's how it's done, Mr. Donaldson."

  "And the song?"

  "That was my idea, too," Garrand said, smiling, his teeth pearled in the ground coffee brownness of his face. "You've got to be careful when you use trigger words to set a person off. You can't pick a word that someone's liable to hear in conversation. It could set them off before you were ready. When you think about it, not many people are likely to use super-kali-fragil-istic-expi-ali-docious in conversation."

  "A lovely plan," Remo said. "I respect you for it. Now I need to know where the bidding will be held."

  Garrand smiled and ignored the question. "One thing puzzles me, Donaldson. I had everything worked out. All except you. This government isn't that good that one of our sources shouldn't have a line on you. It's like all of a sudden there was an organization that did not exist. But it existed. And so did you. Now, if you wish to live, if you wish these darts not to enter your eyes or your temples or wherever I wish, you can tell me where you came from."

  Remo laughed. "You lose," he said. He saw his laughter grate Dr. Garrand like a rasp and then the two pointy hands flicked and the darts were at him in that flat trajectory, across the eight feet of room, but Remo's head did not move. His eyes, toward which the darts flew, did not blink. Remo's hands flashed up in front of his face and his hands caught the darts by the points, between thumb and index finger; hands receiving the thrust of the killer weights, wrists like spring locks accepting the force and holding short, just short of the eyes.

  Garrand's mouth opened. His eyes widened. He looked toward the box of darts on the table and querulously reached forward a hand. But suddenly his hand was pinned to the table as Remo pierced it with one of the darts. "Right thumb," Remo said. He still held the other dart in his right hand.

  For the first time in years, Garrand became physical. He ripped his hand loose from the dart, tearing the flesh, and lumbered toward Remo. And for the first time in years, he felt his legs going high above him, above his head, and he was up at the diffused lighting, then at the walls, and than his head was buried in the polar bear rug, and there was that arrogant white face between his barefeet, and Lawrence Garrand was upside down, his head pressed painfully into the rug. He had scarcely seen the man move. And it was becoming hard to breathe.

  "Okay, sweetheart," said the leering face between his feet. "Where's the auction?"

  Garrand breathed in and tried to breathe out. It was getting more difficult. The blood was pouring into his head and his chocolate skin was taking on a blood-gorged purple colour. He fought to exhale. His chest pressed down into his chin. A strand of polar-bear hair caught in his eye and burned.

  "Where's the auction?" that white face insisted, then began to press down on Garrand's legs, forcing them into his waist, and Garrand finally blurted out, "Villebrook Equity Associates. New York. Tomorrow." He was exhausted from the effort.

  "Okay, sweetheart," Remo said. "Time to go bye-bye."

  "You can't kill me," Garrand insisted. "I'm the foremost authority on atomic waste disposal. I deserve to live."

  "Sure. So did Clovis Porter. General Dorfwill. A lot of others."

  "Call the police then," Garrand gasped. "You can't kill me. If I were white, you wouldn't kill me."

  "I'd kill you in any colour, sweetheart." Remo looked down along Garrand's wet brown body and his eyes met those of the world's foremost authority on atomic waste disposal. Remo extended the remaining dart out over Garrand's face with his right hand. "External jugular," he called, then dropped the dart. It buried itself into the flesh alongside Garrand's throat and a thin purple spurt of blood fountained out of his neck as the blood pressure was momentarily relieved by the pierced vein. Remo dropped Garrand heavily to the floor. Before Remo turned off his breath forever, Garrand managed to gasp something muffled by the fat folds of his cheeks and chin. Later, Remo would think that what he said was "I knew it wouldn't work. You people…"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  When Remo returned to his room, Chiun was sitting rigidly in the lotus position, staring at the television.

  Remo opened his mouth to speak and Chiun raised a hand for silence.

  Only seconds later, organ music up and over, Chiun leaned forward and turned off the television.

  "Good afternoon, little father," Remo said. "Have you had a pleasant day?"

  "Relatively, my son, although I must admit I weary of telling that blighted mass of womanhood that she is indeed loved. And you?"

  "Very productive. We must leave now."

  "Our work is finished?" Chiun asked.

  "Our work here is finished. We have other tasks to perform elsewhere."

  "I will be ready to leave in moments," Chiun said.

  He was and Remo realized that his uncharacteristic haste was fuelled by his desire to get back to their Washington hotel room and recover his TV taping machine to record the shows he was now missing.

  But they stopped at the hotel only long enough to pay their bill and for Remo to slip the bell captain $100 to ship their luggage to a non-existent address in Avon-by-the-Sea on the Jersey shore. And then they were back in their rented convertible on their way to Dulles Airport outside Washington.

  Chiun grumbled all the way at the idiocy of leaving a perfectly good television recorder behind and finally extracted a promise from Remo that he could buy another in New York that night.

  And later that night, after they checked into a mid-town Manhattan hotel, Chiun insisted upon Remo's giving him $500 so he could buy one, which he did, along with five new robes, a pocket knife and a whistle. The latter two were to protect himself on New York's crime-ridden streets, he explained.

  They both rose early the next morning and Chiun worked with Remo on his balance and rhythm, setting out strings of drinking glasses across the floor and having Remo race across the tops of them, barefooted, at increasing speeds.

  Remo felt good. He could taste the end of this assignment. After he showered and shaved, he dressed, reluctantly donning the polka dot tie he had brought with him. If he was going to take part in the bidding for America, he should look the part, he told his image in the mirror. He buttoned his new double-breasted dark blue suit.

  Before leaving, he entrusted Lithia Forrester's lists with Chiun, telling him: "Until you hear from me guard these with your life."

  Chiun was deep in his morning meditation and only grunted, but that meant he understood. The lists lay on the floor in front of Chiun where Remo had placed them as Remo went out of their room.

  In a men's store off the lobby, Remo bought a conservative regimental striped tie and dropped the other into an ash-bucket near the desk.

&n
bsp; In the telephone book, he looked up the address and number of Villebrook Equity Associates then dialled.

  A woman's voice answered and Remo told her he was an investor who wanted someone to propose a tax shelter for him. Could he make an appointment to see someone right away?

  "Not today, sir, I'm afraid. Our offices will be closed from noon until 3 p.m. I could make you an appointment for tomorrow."

  "That's a strange way to run a business," Remo said.

  "Well, frankly, sir, the building is a little run down and we are having an exterminator in."

  "And there'll be no one there at all?" Remo asked.

  "Only Mr. Bogeste, our treasurer and founder. But he'll be keeping an eye on the exterminator. He won't be able to see anyone."

  "Okay," Remo said. "Thank you. I'll call tomorrow."

  He hung up the phone. That was it. Right after noon, with all the workers out of the office, the bidding would be held. He hoped they had room for one more.

  Remo was in the eighth floor hall outside the offices of Villebrook Equity Associates shortly after noon when a dozen workers poured out from the glass doors, delighted at the prospect of a three-hour lunch, paid for by the company.

  Behind them, a young, athletic-looking man with long black hair cast a quizzical glance at Remo, then closed and locked the door from the inside.

  The crowd of workers took the elevator down, but Remo hung around the elevator door, as if waiting for an empty car. Minutes later, he heard a phone ring down the hall. It stopped ringing abruptly, and then, after no more than 60 seconds, another door down the hall opened and eight men walked down the hallway toward Remo. He pressed impatiently on the elevator button, but glanced at the men as they passed. It looked like a United Nations caucus, Remo thought, the men almost carrying on their faces the flags of their native countries. Did he look as American as they looked foreign, Remo wondered.

  The men walked past the main entrance of Villebrook Equity Associates and through a second door, which was unlocked. Remo could hear it click shut behind them.

  The elevator stopped again but Remo shook his head at the old woman in it who was riding down. "I'm going to wait for an empty one so I can get a seat," he said pleasantly and kicked his foot past the electric eye to activate the door, which closed quietly on the confused old lady.

  Remo waited for almost five minutes and then went to the door the men had entered. He pressed his ear to the door but could hear, only faintly, the mumbled buzz of voices. They must be in another office beyond this one, he thought. Remo quietly tested the knob. The door was locked.

  He went back to the double glass door marked Villebrook Equity Associates and with a coin from his pocket tapped lightly on the glass. He was sure that Mr. Bogeste would be guarding the front door.

  He tapped again, very softly, and then the door, fastened by a chain lock, opened slightly and the young man he had seen before peered out

  "Mister Bogeste?" Remo said.

  "Yes?"

  "I'm the exterminator," Remo said. He shot his left hand through the door opening and grabbed Bogeste's adam's apple between his fingers. With his right hand, he quietly wrenched the chain from the door and stepped inside.

  He locked the door behind him and still holding Bogeste by the windpipe pushed him back into a leather secretarial chair.

  He leaned over and whispered to him. "You like your children?"

  Bogeste nodded.

  "No more than I do," Reino said. "It'd be a pity if they had to grow up without a father. So why don't you just sit here and think about them?" With his right hand he pressed a vein behind Bogeste's ear and soon the blood drained from Bogeste's face and he passed out.

  He would be good for at least twenty minutes, Remo knew. Long enough to accomplish his business.

  Remo followed his ears. He went past a bank of secretary's desks, then right into a hallway that opened on two small private offices. At the end of the hallway, a door was ajar and light beamed from within. Remo walked quietly to the door and listened to the voices inside.

  A cultured voice, European but not British, spoke in English. "You gentlemen all know the rules now and agree to them. I will now receive your sealed bids and I will open them in another room. I will return to announce the successful bidder. The others may leave and next week may pick up their nation's good faith deposits at my office in Zurich. I will arrange with the successful bidder to speak with my principal and to transfer the gold and the information. Is that clear?"

  There was a polyglot rumble of assents around the table. Da, ja, oui, yes, si.

  "May I have your envelopes, please?" the first voice said again.

  Remo heard a rustle of papers, and then a chair slid along the floor. "I will now go inside to inspect the bids."

  "Choost a moment, Mr. Rentzel," came a guttural voice. "How do we know that you will report the truth? Will you tell us the amount of the successful bid?"

  "To answer your second question first, no, I will not announce the amount of the successful bid, since the raising of it will be a matter of some delicacy for the country involved. Knowledge of the amount might hinder those efforts. And in answer to your first question, would it not have been foolish to bring everybody here to bid if we had already agreed in advance to sell it to one specific country? Finally, sir, I might point out that the House of Rapfenberg is involved in these negotiations and we would not be a party to a fraud under any circumstances. Are there any other questions?"

  There was silence, and then Remo heard footsteps walking toward the doorway near which he stood. He softly darted back into one of the private offices that opened off the narrow hallway, ready to collar the man from behind if necessary.

  But the footsteps turned into the office in which Remo stood and as the man flipped the light switch and walked in, Remo softly closed the door behind him.

  The man heard the door close and turned, startled to see Remo standing there.

  "Who the hell are you?" asked Amadeus Rentzel of the House of Rapfenberg.

  "I'd like to borrow money to buy a used car," Remo said.

  "This office is closed. Get out of here before I call the police."

  "Well, if you won't lend me money for a car, I'll buy something else. Maybe a government. Got any governments for sale?"

  Rentzel shrugged. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I'll make it clearer then. I've come to bid."

  "From what nation?" Rentzel asked cautiously. "And why hasn't your country placed its good faith deposit?"

  "From the United States of America," Remo said. "From the land of Clovis Porter, General Dorfwill, Burton Barrett and Admiral Crust. My bid is their lives and we have already paid in full. No other deposit is required."

  Rentzel stared for a moment into Remo's eyes. He met and measured the hardness there, then rejected the possibility that Remo was a crank or a bluffer. Rentzel had stared down too many men across the table to be fooled.

  He knew it; it was all over.

  Rentzel took the news like a Swiss banker. He sat back lightly against the edge of the desk and ran a finger down a knife-edge crease in his trousers. "What of my principal?" he asked. "The man I represent."

  "Dead," Remo said.

  "What kind of man was he?" Rentzel asked. "I never saw him."

  "He was a mad dog. He died like a mad dog," Remo said.

  "And what will happen to me?"

  "I have no desire to kill you, Mr. Rentzel," Remo said. "After today, I think you should return to Switzerland and spend the rest of your career doing what bankers are meant to do: fleecing widows and orphans, embezzling funds from estates, borrowing money at 5 per cent to lend at 18 per cent."

  Rentzel shrugged and smiled. "As you would have it. Shall I go back in and tell them the auction is over?"

  "No," Remo said. "Some pleasures I reserve for myself." Suddenly, his hand darted out. The knuckle of a bent thumb tapped lightly against Rentzel's temple; the Swiss banker fell back heavi
ly on the desk, unconscious.

  Remo eased the envelopes from Rentzel's hand and left the office. He walked down the hall, pushed open the door, then walked into a large walnut-panelled conference room.

  Seven pairs of eyes tamed to meet him as he entered and when they saw it was not Rentzel, there was a murmured buzz of conversation. An Oriental said, "Where is Mr. Rentzel?"

  "He is out for awhile," Remo said as he walked to the head of the table. "I am empowered to complete his business."

  He stood at the head of the long glass-topped table, meeting the eyes individually, one after another, of the men who sat along the sides of the table.

  "Before I announce the successful bidder," he said, "I would like to make several points pertaining to this auction."

  He leaned forward on the table with his fists, one hand still holding the batch of envelopes he had taken from Rentzel.

  "It was announced that the initial bid would be in gold," Remo said. "But the successful bidder has bid more than gold. He has also bid in courage and in blood and in dedication. In the courage to stand against the forces of evil; in the blood spilled to open a new land; in the dedication to endure and to be true to the ideals of freedom and liberty for all men.

  "Gentlemen, the successful bidder is the United States of America."

  There were shouts of protest and outrage around the table. Men looked at other men. A man who had to be a Russian, because no one else would wear such a suit, stood up and pounded on the table. "We will double our bid."

  "So will we," said the Oriental. "Anything to prevent control of the United States from passing into the hands of these revisionist pigs," he said, staring at the Russian across the table.

  Another babble of angry voices broke out and Remo halted it by pounding on the table. "The bidding is closed, gentlemen," he said coldly, "and all of you have lost."

  He looked around at each in turn. "Now I would suggest you all return where you came from because in five minutes I am going to call the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  "If you are still here when they arrive, it might be embarrassing for your nations. And when you return home, tell your governments that the United States will never be for sale. If they want the United States, they must come bearing arms."