Dr. Harold Smith, director of Folcroft Sanitarium, was the man with the office that had the only computer terminal that took all the hookups from all the computers and unscrambled them. It was a brilliant system, Corbish thought. But the man running it was too stubborn. Perhaps that was a function of late middle age, another reason why IDC retired its executives before they became doddering, senile, and worst of all, stubborn.
There was no room in the corporate world for stubbornness. That was old-fashioned, outmoded, obsolete as the abacus. People became obsolete also. Too bad for Dr. Smith.
Corbish's landing at Westchester Airport was, as usual, perfect. He was a careful, impeccable flyer who, though he entertained no fear—not even in the most hazardous storms—never indulged in unnecessary risks. There were old pilots and bold pilots, he knew, but never any old bold pilots.
He supervised the refueling, discussed checking out the craft with one of the few mechanics he trusted, then drove away in his wife's station wagon which he had parked there two days before. He thought of phoning her to say hello, but decided against it. He did not want to waste the time. It would not hurt to be a few minutes early for his evening meeting with Dr. Smith. Better a few minutes early than a second late.
Corbish drove through the high gates of Folcroft with the rising brick walls that discreetly hid everything, and parked his station wagon alongside the administration building in the back. Only one light was on. It came from Smith's office with the one-way glass that emitted just a faint glimmer of light at night, but obscured any shapes. Within forty-eight hours, according to the best research on the subject, Corbish would see all he wanted about Folcroft. He would see everything with utmost clarity.
By happenstance, Corbish glanced into the clean dark night at the awesome array of stars whose distance and magnitude had remained mysterious before the advent of the computer. Seeing the eternity of space, Corbish, for reasons he did not know, thought of a perplexing readout from Folcroft. It had referred to The Destroyer, some kind of navy ship obviously, and to a little village in North Korea called Sinanju.
CHAPTER TWO
His name was Remo and he was making a polite visit to a Detroit suburb, a gracious large-lawned sprawling house in Grosse Pointe, miles from the inner city where people injected death into their arms or sniffed it or sold it in "protected" houses.
Those who used the product that provided the income that enabled this lawn to get a daily manicure, the house to receive daily cleaning by two maids, the swimming pool to remain heated and functioning—all winter—were not allowed in this neighborhood. If they were seen walking the streets after dark, policemen asked them what they were doing. Unless they could name a house where they were going to tend bar, make beds, or take out garbage, they were whisked away. They were very easy to spot in this neighborhood because black faces stood out very well.
Remo's face did not stand out. He had high cheekbones and dark eyes that seemed to go on for eternity and the paleness of a just lost tan. He was about six feet tall and, except for his large wrists, appeared almost lean. He rang the doorbell of the Jordan home, a name which had once been Giordano when Angelo Giordano was running numbers in downtown Detroit, before he had found the awesome profitability of bulk-supplying black pushers with the white powder that continued its fine sales despite a lack of advertising and the marketing handicaps, like fifteen years to life.
Arnold Jordan had so many broken links between himself and the final sale, that it was very unlikely that he would personally face these handicaps. That was for the little men.
A maid answered the door.
"Good evening," said Remo. 'I'm from the Grosse Pointe Homeowners' League and I would like to talk with Mr. Jordan."
"Is Mr. Jordan expecting you?"
"No," said Remo.
"If you would wait here, I'll see if Mr. Jordan is at home."
"Thank you," said Remo. He began to whistle somewhat nervously while he waited for a reply. He had an unusually busy schedule for the evening. Upstairs—where his orders came from—had become highly unreasonable recently, almost bordering on the worst of all possible sins, incompetence. It was this IDC thing. It had to be the IDC thing, although Remo had not even been formally notified that there was such a thing as an IDC thing. He had just been given the names and general whereabouts of three computer programmers. Disposing of the last one on a Long Island beach had taken fifteen seconds. Remo spent the first fourteen of them laughing as the man had assumed some sort of silly Kung Fu stance, which was fine for a martial arts school, but which left the chest as open as the ocean.
Remo did not know the name of the stance, because as the Master of Sinanju—Remo's trainer—had explained, one should not waste precious time cataloguing someone else's foolishness. Sinanju, unlike the known variations of the martial arts, was not an art but a working tool. Less and less could Remo fathom how people would want to make games out of daily work, even devoting leisure hours to it. But then there were even lawyers who mowed lawns for relaxation.
The maid, in starched white apron, returned with apologies that Mr. Jordan was unavailable.
"It will just take a minute. I'm really in a rush," said Remo, gliding around the maid who could have sworn she had a hand out there to stop him. She watched the visitor seem to slip through it as she stood there, hand upraised in empty air.
Arnold Jordan was having dinner with his family. He was poised with a forkful of blueberry pie when Remo entered the somewhat overfurnished dining room.
"I'm awfully sorry to bother you," said Remo. "This will only take a minute. Finish your pie. Go ahead. Don't let me bother you."
Jordan, a massive man with the strong rocklike face of a Roman legionnaire but the styled dry hair of a TV announcer, put down his fork.
"Go ahead, finish it," said Remo. "You like blueberry pie?"
"May I ask who you are?"
"Grosse Pointe Homeowners' League. It will only take a minute. I really don't have more than a minute for you anyhow."
"You can phone my secretary in the morning. I am eating now."
"I said, finish it."
Arnold Jordan wiped his mouth with the fine white linen napkin, excused himself from the table, receiving scarcely a nod of recognition from his wife and children. "I will give you a minute," said Jordan heavily. "But I think I should warn you that you are not doing yourself any good by interrupting my supper."
Remo merely nodded. He did not have time for polite chitchat. Jordan led Remo into a book-lined den.
"All right. What's your name? What are you here for? What's your employer's name? I told you, you didn't do yourself any good by interrupting my supper. I want his name and phone number."
"His name's Smith, but don't worry about making any phone calls. That's not why I'm here. You see, you've just connected with a massive shipment, and it's so big I was sent to dispose of it." Remo muttered under his breath, "No one bothered to think that I can't be two places at one time or there are so many hours in the day. No, just go to Jordan's house, find out where it is, then do the normal thirty-five hours work in one night. And we're supposed to be efficient."
"I beg your pardon," said Jordan.
"C'mon. I don't have all night," said Remo.
"That's right," said Jordan. "That's very right. You don't have all night at all. Now why don't you do yourself a very big favor and leave."
"I take it that's one of your subtle threats." Jordan shrugged his shoulders. He estimated that he could crack this man in two if he had to, but why should he have to. He merely had to phone the police and have the man arrested for trespassing. Then when the man was released in his own recognizance, he would prove that the courts were too lenient by just disappearing. Perhaps in Lake Michigan.
Jordan's self assurance was somewhat shaken by a searing, biting pain in his right shoulder. It felt like a hot iron. His mouth opened to scream but there was no sound. Just the pain and his visitor's forefinger and thumb where the pain was.
Jordan could neither move nor speak.
He sat at his desk, like a frog that had just had its stomach rubbed, helpless.
"All right," said the visitor. "This is pain."
The shoulder felt as if hot needles pricked the socket But the visitor's fingers hardly moved.
"This is an absence of pain."
Jordan felt a relief so blessed he almost cried.
"You can have an absence of pain, or this."
The hot needles again.
"This goes when I find out where the heroin shipment is."
Jordan tried to speak but he had no voice.
"I don't hear you."
Jordan tried to yell but he couldn't.
"You've got to speak up."
Didn't this man realize that he couldn't speak? He was a crazy and the shoulder felt as if it were coming out of the socket and Jordan would say anything, tell anything, if only his voice would cooperate. He felt the pain shift to his chest and suddenly his vocal cords were free but he could hardly breathe.
Hoarsely he mentioned a "protected" house downtown. But the crazy visitor wouldn't believe him, just kept saying that it wasn't true.
"My god, I swear it's true. Fifty-five kilos. I swear it. My god, please believe me, it's true. Please. The heroin's behind a wooden panel that secures the front door. Believe me."
"I do," said the visitor. And then the pain was magnificiently, gloriously, joyously gone and a sudden night descended on Angelo Giordano, alias Arnold Jordan, who encountered the ultimate marketing difficulty that can result from merchandising heroin.
Remo put the body in a lounging chair, closed Jordan's eyes, and left the room, jamming the lock to give himself twenty to thirty minutes. He expressed regrets to the Jordan family that he could not stay for dessert, and told Mrs. Jordan her husband was busy working on a decomposition and should not be disturbed.
"Composition, you mean," said Mrs. Jordan.
Remo did not have time to explain. Once again, Smitty had overloaded a work night, probably because of those computers. Remo had no faith in computers. He had faith in only one thing now and that was a person: an elderly wisp of an Oriental who could so often make Remo's life unpleasant. It was strange to have lost his faith in almost everything else in the last decade, but that might be because, as Chiun, the Master of Sinanju, had told him, his very essence was changing. Dr. Smith, on the other hand, had ascribed the change to a massive transformation of the nervous system not yet understood in the west
Whatever it was, he could not get himself to the inner city of Detroit and back out to the airport in less than an hour. He would have to risk missing the fifty-five kilos or risk missing the fourth IDC man that Smith had instructed him to eliminate. Remo noticed there was an absence of pay phones in Grosse Pointe. He had to walk three miles before he found a cab, and it was another twelve minutes before they reached a phone booth.
A line was to have been kept open for him all evening. It would be an insecure line, but what it lacked in privacy it made up for in availability. No one could secure a random pay phone.
The booth smelled more like a urinal than a phone booth. Remo dialed the 800 area code number. That meant that a dime from anywhere could reach it. It rang four times. Remo hung up and dialed again. With the phone system working the way it was, it was possible to get a wrong number. He dialed again. Again it rang and Remo counted to five rings.
He hung up and dialed "O."
"Operator, there's some trouble with the lines. I must be getting a wrong number. It just rings."
Remo gave her the number with the 800 area code.
"It's ringing, sir," said the operator.
"It's got to be answered," Remo said.
"I'm sorry, sir. Would you like me to try it again?"
"Yes, thank you."
Again the number rang and no one answered.
"It's ringing, sir."
"I fucking hear you," said Remo. He threw the receiver across the street and the metal-wrapped line popped like a dried-out rubber band.
The cab driver waiting at the curb saw this and said that he had suddenly gotten an emergency phone call. Since he had to leave so abruptly there would be no charge.
Remo wouldn't hear of it. He gave the driver the address of the house which probably still had the fifty-five kilos. The heroin could fly at the first warning and once it was broken down into nickel packs, it could never be destroyed. Remo would just have to hope that the IDC programmer would wait. Besides, Dr. Smith must be miscalculating if Remo had to make so many hits in the IDC thing, whatever it was. A well-thought-out operation should have only one elimination in it, two at the most.
Remo got into the cab, but the driver stood by the door.
"That house you're talking about, buddy, is in a black neighborhood."
"That's nice," said Remo.
Remo's mind wandered. Was it possible that the phone had rung in Smith's office in Folcroft and no one was there to answer it? No. If Dr. Harold Smith said he would be at a certain place at a certain time, Dr. Harold Smith was at that place at that time with disgusting regularity.
Maybe Smitty had had a heart attack and died? Probably not. Remo hadn't had any good luck all evening. Why start now? The cab still wasn't moving. The driver stood by the door.
"C'mon, c'mon," said Remo.
"I ain't driving to a black neighborhood at this hour of night."
"I see your point," Remo said. "But I've got to get there and you're the only way."
"No way, mister."
Remo felt in his pocket for some bills. He took out five of them. Three were tens and two were twenties.
"What good's money to a corpse?" asked the driver.
Remo did a very funny thing with the bulletproof shield which was supposed to separate driver from passenger. Applying pressure to the weak bolt points, he snapped it off. This impressed the driver, who suddenly thought a person should be driven anywhere if he had the fare. Remo insisted the driver take the money and even some extra for the shield. The driver noted how glad he was that his passenger tended to vent most of his hostility on property, not people.
A "protected" house is a relatively new innovation of the heroin trade. Instead of sending pushers out into the warring streets, where they can be ripped off by junkies, the junkies go to these houses to get a fix on the premises or to take out if they desire.
The houses are well supplied with weapons and even with what is called a hot needle—a syringe containing poison—should a buyer be suspected of being a narco cop. They have many fine locks, very thick doors and barred windows. In this respect they are not unlike the liquor stores in the same general neighborhoods.
For the fifty-five kilos, special precautions were taken. No small time customers were allowed; extra men with guns were placed inside the window openings. The front door was reinforced by plywood panels and two-by-fours that moved away so customers could be admitted. All the windows were nailed shut and the basement doors boarded and nailed.
It was the perfect defense. Against just about anything but a penny book of matches and a gallon of gasoline.
As Remo watched the front of the house flame up to become a funeral pyre for its inhabitants and an incinerator for the fifty-five kilos hidden inside the front door, he thought he heard the cab driver crying. But when he asked him, the driver said he was not crying. He was happy. He was happy because he loved his passenger with all his heart and soul.
"Lucky we're dealing with a slum neighborhood; although sometimes you get some good structures here that won't burn," said Remo.
Boy, did the cab driver think his passenger was right. Absolutely. Always thought that himself. Yes, sir. Was the passenger happy? Because the only thing the driver wanted was to keep his passenger happy. To the airport? Absolutely, sir.
At the airport, Remo discovered the IDC programmer was still waiting. Remo apologized for being late, said he would talk to the man in the men's lavatory. Remo left him in a pay toilet to be disco
vered only when the janitors realized the same still legs had been in the booth too long for even the most severe constipation.
"Rush, rush," muttered Remo as he quickly left the airport in another cab. If things had been properly assigned, he would not have had to run from an assignment so carelessly.
But strange things were coming from upstairs and Remo did not want to think about what they might mean. For as much as he often hated the parsimonious, bitter-faced, unredeemed-by-any-human-warmth Dr. Harold Smith, he did not want to have to exercise the final option against him.
CHAPTER THREE
The report was wrong. The old man had not broken in forty-eight hours. Oh, it looked like it, but all Corbish got was a very clever cover story about a gigantic undercover operation. A waste of precious time.
Why hadn't the report on interrogation told how hard it was to torture someone? Corbish felt the perspiration drip down the small of his back and the stethoscope was wet to his touch as he placed it over the white-haired chest and listened to the heartbeat. Good. The heartbeat was still good. Did this old fool wish to die? Corbish checked his watch again. He was well into the second day. The lead-lined cellar of the house near Bolinas had suffered a breakdown in one of the air ducts, so now it was not only incredibly hot but oxygen was getting scant. He removed the stethoscope from the chest and saw that the chest was now swelling in massive red welts where he had placed the electrodes. He had thought torture would be so easy, and now he realized he was outside the proper time projection for reasonable project success. Everything had worked so well until he had strapped Dr. Smith onto the table of the lead-lined room.
The meeting at Folcroft three days ago had gone perfectly. Corbish had set himself up as an informer who wished not to be seen lest he lose his job at IDC. Dr. Smith had gone for the story, agreeing to the late night meeting. Corbish had limited his externally observable acts to the time between his first contact with Smith, pretending to be an informer, and the night meeting. Like the Japanese beginning peace meetings with America before its fleet set off for Pearl Harbor to find the American navy berthed fat and lazy that sleepy Sunday morning.
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