Created, the Destroyer

by Warren Murphy

  At Folcroft, an army of clerks, most of them thinking they worked for the Internal Revenue Service, recorded the information on business deals, tax returns, agricultural reports, gambling, narcotics, on anything that might be tainted by crime and some of it that couldn’t possibly be, they thought.

  And the facts were fed into giant computers in one of the many off-limits sections of Folcroft’s rolling grounds.

  The computers did what no man could. They saw patterns emerging from apparently unrelated facts and through their circuits, the broad picture of crime in America grew before the eyes of the chiefs at Folcroft. The how of organized lawlessness began to unfold.

  The FBI, Treasury Department and even the CIA received special reports, lucky leads. And CURE operated in different ways, where the law enforcement agencies were powerless. A Tuscaloosa crime kingpin suddenly got documented proof that a colleague, the man with whom he had split up Alabama’s crime, was planning a takeover. The colleague got a mysterious tip that the kingpin was planning to eliminate him. It ended in a war that both lost.

  A large New Jersey pistol local changed command when sudden injections of big money saw the honest insurgents win at the union ballot boxes. It also saw the man who counted the votes retire quietly to Jamaica.

  But the whole operation was slow, murderously slow. CURE made its strikes but no really finishing blows against the giant syndicates that continued to grow, prosper and stretch their money-powered tentacles into every phase of American life.

  Moving agents into certain spheres — especially in the New York metropolitan area whose Cosa Nostra worked more smoothly and efficiently than any giant corporation — was like unleashing doves into a flock of hawks. Informants disappeared. A special division head of the informer network was murdered. His body was never found.

  MacCleary learned to live with what he called “the monthlies.” Like the agony of a woman’s period would be Smith’s every-thirty-days berating.

  “You spend enough money,” he would say. “You use enough men and equipment. You spend more on tape recorders than the Army does on guns. And still the recruits you bring us don’t do the job.”

  And MacCleary would give his usual answer. “Our hands are tied. We can’t use force.”

  Smith would sneer. “In Europe, where you might recall we were highly successful against the Germans, we did not need force. The CIA uses very little force against the Russians and does rather well. But, you…you have to have cannons against these hoodlums.”

  “You know very well, sir, we’re not dealing with hoodlums.” MacCleary would start to boil. “And you know damn well we had armies following us in Europe against the Germans and a whole military establishment waiting against the Russians. And all we have here are these goddam computers.”

  Smith would straighten at his desk and imperiously command: “Computers would be good enough if we had the right personnel. Get us some people who know what they’re doing.”

  Then he would make out his reports for upstairs, saying computers were not enough.

  CHAPTER NINE

  FOR FIVE YEARS, THE ROUTINE WAS THE SAME until two a.m. one spring morning when MacCleary was trying to put himself to sleep with his second pint of rye, and Smith rapped on the door to his Folcroft suite.

  “Stay out,” MacCleary yelled. “Whoever you are.”

  The door opened slowly and a hand snaked its way to the light switch. MacCleary sat in his shorts on a large purple pillow, cradling the bottle between his legs.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said to Smith who was dressed as though it were noon, in white shirt, striped tie and the eternal gray suit.

  “How many gray suits you got, Smitty?”

  “Seven. Sober up. It’s important.”

  “Everything’s important to you. Paper clips, carbon paper, dinner scraps.” He watched Smith glance around the room at the assorted pornography in oils, photographs and sketches, the 8-foot high cabinet stacked with bottles of rye, the pillows scattered on the floor and finally to MacCleary’s pink shorts.

  “As you know, we’ve had problems in the New York City area. We have lost seven men without recovering even one body. As you know, we have a problem with a man named Maxwell whom we don’t even have a line on.”

  “Really? That’s interesting. I wondered what happened to all those people. Funny we didn’t see them around.”

  “We’re going to low profile in New York until we have our new unit ready.”

  “More fodder.”

  “Not this time.” Smith shut the door behind him. “We’ve been given permission, highly selective but permission nevertheless, to use force. A license to kill.”

  MacCleary sat upright. He put down the bottle. “It’s about time. Just five men. That’s all I need. First, we’ll get your Maxwell. And then the whole country.”

  “There will be one man. You will recruit him this week and set up his training program in thirty days.”

  “You’re out of your bloody mind.” MacCleary jumped from the pillows and paced the room. “You’re out of your goddam mind,” he shouted. “One man?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get us roped into that deal?”

  “You know why we never had this type of personnel before. Upstairs was afraid. They’re still afraid. But they figure one man can’t do much harm and if he does, he’s easily removable.”

  “They’re damned right he won’t do much harm. He won’t do much good either. He won’t make enough of a splash to wipe up. And when he gets it?”

  “You recruit another.”

  “You mean we don’t even have one on standby? We assume our man’s indestructible?”

  “We assume nothing.”

  “You don’t need a man for that job,” MacCleary snarled. “You need Captain Marvel. Dammit, Smitty.” MacCleary picked up the bottle and then threw it against the wall. It hit something and did not break, only increasing his anger. “Dammit, Smitty. Do you know anything about killing? Do you?”

  “I’ve been associated with these projects before.”

  “Do you know that out of fifty men, you might get one halfway competent agent for this type of work? One out of fifty. And I’ve got to get one out of one.”

  “Make sure you get a good one,” was Smith’s calm reply.

  “Good? Oh, he’ll have to be good. He’ll have to be a gem.”

  “You’ll have the finest training facilities for him. Your personnel budget is unlimited. You can have five…six instructors.”

  MacCleary propped himself on the couch, right on Smith’s jacket. “Couldn’t do it with less than twenty.”

  “Eight,” Smith said.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Nine.”

  “Eleven.”

  “Ten.”

  “Eleven,” MacCleary insisted. “Body contact, motions, locks, armaments, conditions, codes, language, psychology. Couldn’t do it with less than eleven instructors. All full time and then it would take at least six months.”

  “Eleven instructors and three months.”

  “Five months.”

  “All right, eleven men and five months,” Smith said. “Do you know of any agent who would be suited for this? Anybody in the CIA?”

  “Not the superman you want.”

  “How long to find one?”

  “May never find one,” MacCleary said, rummaging in the liquor cabinet. “Killers aren’t made, they’re born.”

  “Rubbish. Lots of men, clerks, shopkeepers, anybody turn into killers in war.”

  “They don’t turn into killers, Smitty. They find out that they were killers. They were born that way. And what makes this damned thing so tough is that you don’t always find them wearing guns. Sometimes, the really good ones have an aversion to violence. They avoid it. They know in their hearts, what they are, like the alky who takes one drink. They know what that drink means. It’s the same with killing.”

  MacCleary stretched out on the couch and began opening a new
bottle. He waved at Smith as if to dismiss him. “I’ll try to find one.”

  The next morning, Smith was in his office drinking his fourth alka seltzer to wash down his third aspirin, when MacCleary entered with a bounce. He walked to the picture window and stared at the sound.

  “What do you want?” Smith growled.

  “I think I know our man.”

  “Who is he? What does he do?”

  “I don’t know. I saw him once in Vietnam.”

  “Get him,” Smith said. “And you get out of here,” he added as he popped another aspirin into his mouth. He called casually after MacCleary’s back as he headed for the door: “Oh, there’s a new wrinkle. One more little thing upstairs wants from your man.” He spun toward the window. “The man we get cannot exist,” he said.

  MacCleary’s grin evaporated into astonishment.

  “He cannot exist,” Smith repeated. “No one anyone can trace. He has to be a man who doesn’t exist, for a job that doesn’t exist, in an organization that doesn’t exist.”

  He finally looked up. “Any questions?” MacCleary started to say something, changed his mind, turned around and walked out.

  It had taken four months. And now CURE had its man who didn’t exist. He had died the night before in an electric chair.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE FIRST THING REMO WILLIAMS SAW was the grinning face of the monk looking down at him. Over the face glared a white light. Remo blinked. The face was still there, still grinning down at him.

  “Looks like our baby’s going to make it,” said the monk-face.

  Remo groaned. His limbs felt cold and leaden as though asleep for a thousand years. His wrists and ankles burned with pain where the electric straps had seared his flesh. His mouth was dry, his tongue like a sponge. Nausea swept up from his stomach and enveloped his brain. He thought he was vomiting but nothing came out.

  The air smelled of ether. He was lying on some sort of a table. He turned his head to see where he was, then stifled a scream. His head felt nailed to the board and he had just ripped out part of his skull. Slowly he let his head return to the position where it had seemed to be punctured. Something yelled in his brain. His scorched temples screamed.

  Kaboom. Kaboom. Kaboom. He shut his eyes and groaned again. He was breathing. Thank God, he was breathing. He was alive.

  “We’ll give him a sedative to ease the after effect,” came another voice. “He’ll be as good as new in a few days.”

  “And with no sedative, how long?” came the monk’s voice.

  “Five, six hours. But he’s going to be in agony. With a sedative, he’ll be able to…”

  “No sedative.” It was the monk’s voice.

  The puncture started moving around his skull, like a barber’s hair massage with ten penny nails and kettle drums. Kaboom. Kaboom. Kaboom. Remo groaned again.

  * * *

  It seemed like years. But the nurse told him it had been only six hours since he had regained consciousness. His breathing was easy. His arms and legs felt warm and vibrant. The pain had begun to dull at his temples and wrists and ankles. He lay on a soft bed in a white room. The afternoon sun was coming through the one large window to his right. Outside a soft breeze rocked the color-gloried autumn trees. A chipmunk scampered across a wide, gravel path that no one seemed to use. Remo was hungry. He was alive, thank God, and he was hungry.

  He rubbed his wrists, then turned to the stone-faced nurse sitting in a chair at the foot of his bed and said: “Do I get fed?”

  “Not for forty-five minutes.”

  The nurse was about forty-five. Her face was hard and lined. She wore no wedding band on her man-like hands. But her breasts nicely filled out the white uniform. Her legs, crossed above the knee, could have belonged to a sixteen-year-old. Her firm backside, Remo thought, was just a hop out of bed away.

  The nurse picked up a fashion magazine on her lap and began to read it in such a way that it hid her face. She fidgeted in the seat and uncrossed her legs. Then she crossed them again. Then she put down the magazine and stared out the window.

  Remo adjusted his white night shirt and sat up in bed. He flexed his shoulders. It was the usual hospital room, white, one bed, one chair, one nurse, one bureau, one window. But the nurse wore no hat he recognized and the window was just one sheet of wired glass.

  He twisted his right arm behind his neck and brought the back of his night shirt over his left shoulder. There was no label. He leaned back in bed to wait for food. He closed his eyes. The bed was soft. It was good to be alive. To be alive, to hear, to breathe, to feel, to smell. It was the only purpose of life: to live.

  He was awakened by an argument. It was the monk with a hook versus the nurse and two men who appeared to be doctors.

  “And I will not be responsible for this man’s health if he eats anything but bland foods for two days,” squealed one of the doctors. The nurse and the other doctor nodded approval in support of their colleague.

  The monk was out of cowl. He wore a maroon sweater and brown chinos. The yelling seemed to bounce off him. He rested his hook on the edge of the metal bed. “And I say I’m not asking you to be responsible. I’m responsible. He’ll eat like a human being.”

  “And die like a dog,” the nurse interjected.

  The priest grinned and chucked her under the chin with his hook. “You’re cute, Rocky,” he said. She whipped her face violently away.

  “If that man eats anything but pablum, I’m going to Division Chief Smith,” said the first doctor.

  “And I’ll go with him,” said the second doctor.

  The nurse nodded.

  The monk said, “All right, you go. Right now.” He began shooing them to the door. “Give Smitty my love.”

  When they were gone, he locked the door. Then he pulled a rolling tray from the kitchen over to the bed. He pulled over the nurse’s chair and uncovered one of the silver vessels on the tray. It contained lobsters, four of them, oozing butter from their slit, red bellies.

  “My name’s Conn MacCleary,” he said, spooning two lobsters into a plate and handing it to Remo.

  Remo lifted a metal cracking device and broke the claws. He scooped out the rich white meat with a small fork, and swallowed without even chewing. He washed it down with a large draft of golden beer suddenly in front of him. Then he went to work on the lobster’s mid-section.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here,” Remo heard MacCleary say.

  Remo reached for the second lobster, this time crushing the claw with his hands, and sucking out the meat. A tumbler was half-filled with Scotch. He drank the smoky, brown liquid and quelled the burning with foaming beer.

  “I suppose you’re wondering why you’re here,” MacCleary repeated.

  Remo dipped a white chunk of lobster meat into a vessel of liquid butter. He nodded to MacCleary, then lifted the dripping lobster meat above his head, catching the butter on his tongue as he lowered the morsel to his mouth.

  MacCleary began to talk. He talked through bites of lobster, through the beer, and continued talking as the ash trays filled and the sun went down forcing him to turn on the lights.

  He talked about Vietnam where a young Marine entered a farmhouse and killed five VC. He talked about death and life. He talked about CURE.

  “I can’t tell you who runs it from the top,” MacCleary said.

  Remo rolled the brandy over his tongue. He preferred a less sweet drink.

  “But I’m your boss. You can’t have a real love life, but there will be plenty of women at your disposal. Money? No question. Only one danger: if you get in a spot where you may talk. Then it’s chips out of the game. But if you watch yourself, there should be no trouble. You’ll live to a nice, ripe pension.”

  MacCleary leaned back in the chair. “It’s not impossible to live to a pension, either,” he said, watching Remo search on the tray for something.

  “Coffee?” Remo asked.

  MacCleary opened the top of a tall c
arafe that kept its contents hot.

  “But, I’ve got to warn you, this is a dirty, rotten job,” MacCleary said, pouring a cup of steaming coffee for Williams. “The real danger is that the work will kill you inside. If you have a night free, you get bombed out of your mind to forget. None of us have to worry about retirement because…okay, I’ll level with you…none of us is going to live that long. The pension jazz is just a load of crap.”

  He stared into Remo’s cold gray eyes. He said: “I promise you terror for breakfast, pressure for lunch, tension for supper and aggravation for sleep. Your vacations are the two minutes you’re not looking over your shoulder for some hood to put one in the back of your head. Your bonuses are maybe five minutes when you’re not figuring out how to kill someone or keep from getting killed.

  “But I promise you this.” MacCleary lowered his voice. He stood up and rubbed his hook. “I promise you this. Some day, America may never need CURE, because of what we do. Maybe some day, kids we never had can walk down any dark street any time and maybe a junkie ward won’t be their only end. Some day, Lexington won’t be filled with fourteen-year-old hopheads who can’t wait for another needle and young girls aren’t whisked like cattle from one whorehouse to another.

  “And maybe honest judges can sit behind clean benches and legislators won’t take campaign funds from gamblers. And all union men will be fairly represented. We’re fighting the fight the American people are too lazy to fight — maybe a fight they don’t even want won.”

  MacCleary turned from Remo and went to the window. “If you live six months, it’ll be amazing. If you live a year, it’ll be a miracle. That’s what we have to offer you.”

  Remo poured cream into the coffee until it was very light.

  “What do you say?” he heard MacCleary ask. Remo glanced up and saw MacCleary’s reflection in the window. His eyes were reddened, his face taut. “What do you say?” MacCleary repeated.

  “Yeah, sure, sure,” Remo said, sipping the coffee. “You can count on me.” That seemed to satisfy the dumb cop.