Line of Succession td-73

by Warren Murphy

"In America," Remo said, and he whispered the where and when in her ear.

  "Perhaps," said Jilda.

  "Good-bye, Daddy. Can I have the hug you can't give Mommy? I'll give it to her later for you."

  "You sure can," Remo said, squeezing her tight.

  Then, walking backward because he wanted to hold their image in his mind as long as possible, Remo returned to the helicopter. It lifted off before his feet left the ground.

  Remo settled in beside Chiun. He waved out the open door. Jilda and Freya waved back until long after they had become dots that disappeared under the helicopter's wheels.

  "What were you doing with that child?" Chiun asked, pulling his unfinished scroll from his kimono.

  "I was just showing Freya how not to be afraid."

  "You were showing her early Sinanju breathing. You were wasting your time."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Because women do not know how to breathe. And never will," said Chiun, untying the scroll's blue ribbon.

  "What's that?"

  "You tell me, trainer of females."

  "Looks like a scroll. Blue ribbon. A birth announcement?"

  "You have the mind of a grasshopper," said Chiun, starting to write.

  "Quick, and leaps high?"

  "All over the forest," said Chiun. "And seldom landing in the correct place."

  Chapter 32

  He maintained his control until he came to a little fishing village. He did not know the name of the village, only that it lay below the thirty-eighth parallel and therefore was in South Korea.

  The village reminded him of Sinanju, and because he had kept it penned in too long, the beast burst free.

  The village caught fire, every hut at once. The people screamed as they fled their homes. Then they too caught fire. The flames were blue. Pretty flames. The flesh that burned under the flames was pretty. Then it shriveled and blackened and slid off the bone as the helpless screaming peasants rolled in the dirt in a futile attempt to put out their roasting bodies.

  The beast satiated again, the Dutchman continued his slow march to Seoul.

  In the South Korean capital he bought a pair of wraparound sunglasses and a Sony Walkman headset. He also purchased a brush and jar of flat black enamel paint. And a cassette of the loudest rock music he could find.

  He paid for the airplane ticket with a credit card that was an illusion and went through customs with a passport that was a product of his imagination. Everyone saw him as a portly American businessman in a cable-knit gray suit.

  In the airport men's room he painted the inside of the sunglasses with the black paint.

  The Dutchman put on the glasses immediately after takeoff. And although it was against airline rules, he donned the Walkman. He hoped the sounds of the overproduced music and the fact that he could not see past the painted-over sunglasses would keep the beast in check. Just long enough. Just until he was safe in America.

  Where he could kill again.

  Because there was nothing left for him.

  Chapter 33

  The President of the United States had never felt more helpless.

  The ornate walls of the Oval Office seemed to press in on him. As commander-in-chief of America's armed forces and vast intelligence apparatus, he should have been able to find the answers he so desperately needed.

  The CIA had assured him that they had no special operative detailed to guard the Vice-President. So did the DIA, and the FBI, and even though it hurt him to have to ask, he inquired of his National Security Council. And the Secret Service.

  He was assured that only normal Secret Service agents guard the Vice-President. Not fancy martial-arts practitioners.

  Not even the Secret Service could say that they were guarding Governor Michael Princippi. He still refused protection. In fact, for a man who had escaped one assault on his life, he seemed serene.

  In desperation the President had put in a call to Dr. Harold W. Smith. And for the first time in his memory, Smith did not pick up the red phone. The President tried calling at all hours.

  It was obvious something had happened to Smith. It was impossible for the President to learn what. An average citizen could have made a normal phone call to Smith's Folcroft office. But the President could never get away with it. The phone company would make a record of any ordinary long-distance call. Nor could the President ask his staff to investigate the disappearance of a certain Dr. Harold W. Smith. Someone might ask why. And the President could never answer that question.

  So he sat alone in the loneliest office in human history, trying to put the pieces together himself.

  He did have one new fact, courtesy of the Secret Service. It had taken them two days to uncover it. Two critical days in which the news media and editorial writers of the nation had whipped themselves into a frenzy attempting to link all the loose ends into some sinister skein.

  The Secret Service had interrogated surviving members of the Eastie Goombahs. They learned that the gang leader had boasted of having been paid to assassinate Governor Princippi. Okay, thought the President, so maybe it's a conspiracy. Who runs it? Who could know about CURE and use it to topple the American electoral system or even the entire government?

  Over and over the President chased the possibility around in his mind. The name that he kept coming back to was that of Dr. Harold W. Smith.

  Perhaps that was why Smith had disappeared. He was the mastermind. Having failed, he had gone into hiding. Now, if only there was some way to prove it. . . .

  Dr. Harold W. Smith breathed.

  That was all. He took his food through a tube that ran into his discolored right forearm. His gray eyes were closed and for the fourth day there was no rapid eye movement to indicate a dream state or even minimal brain activity.

  Dr. Martin Kimble checked the progress chart that was clipped to the foot of the hospital bed on which Smith lay. It was a flat horizontal line. There was no rise or fall. They had brought Smith in in this state. It was not a coma, because there were no obvious signs of brain activity. But Smith was not dead. His heart continued to beat-if the slow-motion gulp his vascular organ gave every twenty minutes could be called a beat. Perhaps the lungs worked too. It was impossible to tell. Dr. Kimble had ordered life-support systems hooked up to the man who had been found at his desk, inert, without any sign of trauma or violence or poison.

  As Dr. Kimble had explained to Smith's frightened wife, "I don't have a firm prognosis. This could be a long vigil. You'd be better off at home. "

  What he didn't say was that for all his vital signs, Dr. Harold W. Smith might have been a block of cheese carved to resemble a human being. He even had the same waxy, yellowish color to his skin.

  A rush of ammonia-scented air came from the direction of the doorway, causing Dr. Kimble to turn. An elderly Oriental man in a teal-blue embroidered gown stepped in and, ignoring Dr. Kimble, floated over to Smith's bedside.

  "Excuse me, but visiting hours are over," said Dr. Kimble stuffily.

  "I am not visiting," said the old Oriental in a squeaky, querulous voice. "I am Smith's personal physician."

  "Oh? Mrs. Smith never mentioned you, Dr.... "

  "Dr. Chiun. I have just returned to this country from my native Korea, where I attended a serious burn patient."

  "I assume you have some identification," prompted Dr. Kimble, who knew that there were a lot of foreign medical schools turning out third-rate doctors these days.

  "I can vouch for him," said a cool voice from the door. Dr. Kimble saw a lean man in a white T-shirt and black slacks. "And who are you supposed to be?" he asked. "I'm Dr. Chiun's personal assistant. Call me Remo."

  "I'm going to have to ask you both to come with me. We have procedures at this hospital regarding visiting doctors."

  "No time," said Remo, taking Dr. Kimble by the arm. The man merely touched his funny bone, but the pins-and-needles feeling started immediately. It ran up his arm, over his chest, and up his neck. Dr. Kimble knew that it was i
mpossible to feel pins and needles in the brain, but he felt them nonetheless. His vision started to cloud over.

  When the man called Remo let go, Dr. Kimble found himself on his knees. He could see again.

  "Tell us about Smith," said Remo.

  Dr. Kimble started to speak but the little Oriental, who was fussing over the patient, cut him off.

  "Forget that quack," said Dr. Chiun. "Look at what he has done to Smith. Jabbed him with needles and hooked him up to machines. Where are the leeches? I am surprised that he has not attached leeches to Smith's arm to suck out the rest of the vitality."

  "Leeching hasn't been used in centuries, Little Father."

  "Actually, it's coming back," said Dr. Kimble, groping to his feet. He felt woozy and began looking around for an oxygen tank. When he found one, he pushed the clear oxygen mask to his face and breathed deeply. As he inhaled, he watched and listened.

  Dr. Chiun strode around the bed, examining Smith critically.

  "He's been like that for four days," Dr. Kimble told him. Dr. Chiun nodded silently.

  "There's no sign of injury," Dr. Kimble said.

  "Wrong," said Chiun, pointing with an impossibly long fingernail at Smith's forehead. "What is this?"

  Still clutching the oxygen mask, Dr. Kimble learned over. In the middle of Smith's forehead was a tiny purplish spot. "That's a liver spot," said Dr. Kimble. "Probably a birthmark. "

  "You call yourself a physician and you do not recognize an inflamed third eye when you see it," snapped Chiun. He began probing Smith's temples.

  "Third eye? That's New Age mumbo jumbo."

  Chiun ignored him. He shifted his massaging fingers to Smith's waxy forehead. He closed his eyes in concentrations.

  "What is he doing?" Dr. Kimble asked Remo.

  "Search me."

  "I thought you were his assistant."

  "Mostly I watch and keep people like you from getting in his way."

  "I am testing the kotdi," said Chiun, opening his eyes. He withdrew his hands from Smith's head.

  "What's that?"

  "The kotdi is like your television on-and-off switch. When it is correctly pressed, a person is shut off. Like Smith."

  "Shut off! That's preposterous," sputtered Dr. Kimble.

  "Remo will demonstrate for you."

  Remo reached up and tapped Dr. Kimble's forehead in its exact geometrical center. Dr. Kimble's eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed like a sack of kitty litter. Remo caught him under the arms and asked Chiun, "What do I do with him?"

  "Turn him back on, if you wish."

  Remo felt for his forehead and tapped once. The doctor struggled to his feet and smoothed his doctor's smock. "Was I out?"

  "Actually, you were off," Chiun told him absently.

  Dr. Kimble said, "I don't believe it."

  Remo shrugged. "Then don't." He joined Chiun. "How is he?"

  "This is terrible. His inner harmony is totally gone. I fear permanent damage. "

  "We can't let Smith die. You've got to do something."

  "I am not talking about Smith," said Chiun, pulling an intravenous tube out of Smith's arm and unplugging electrodes from his head. "Smith will be fine. I was referring to the Dutchman. Look at the force he used to press the kotdi. "

  "Too hard?"

  "Not hard enough. He intended a death blow, merciful but final. I saw signs of this in Sinanju. Now I am certain. The blow with which he stole Mah-Li's life was also flawed. Remember the red tear? The Dutchman is losing control and this clumsy blow is the surest sign of it."

  "Oh," said Remo. "What about Smith?"

  Chiun set one finger so that it covered the purple bruise on Smith's brow and pressed lightly. As if triggered by rubber bands, Smith's eyes snapped open.

  "Master of Sinanju?" he said clearly. He tried to sit up. Chiun pushed him back. "You are well, Emperor. Thanks to your faithful servant."

  "The Dutchman!"

  "We know, Smitty," Remo put in. "He was behind everything."

  "Quiet!" Smith barked, indicating Dr. Kimble with his eyes.

  In a corner, Dr. Kimble was feeling his forehead with both hands, pressing different spots experimentally.

  "I think I understand," he said. "By disrupting a nerve center hitherto unknown to medical science, you shut off all electrical activity in the brain. The result is suspended animation with no tissue deterioration. But I can't seem to find the nerve."

  "I'll help you," said Remo, taking the doctor's hand and making a fist. He straightened the index finger and placed it over the doctor's eyes, which rolled up in a ridiculous effort to watch his own forehead.

  "You press there," Remo suggested, stepping back.

  The doctor did. And fell onto the floor. "Works every time." Remo whistled airily.

  "So the Dutchman was the mastermind behind the assassination attempts," said Smith, sitting up in bed. Color flooded back to his face like pale wine filling a glass. "Adonis and the ninja master were impostors."

  "Had you listened carefully to my story of the thieving ninja," Chiun scolded, "this would not surprise you. Only Sinanju is true."

  "He followed us to Sinanju," Remo said grimly. "But he got away. I've got a score to settle with him."

  "Where is he now?"

  "We don't know."

  "What about the presidential candidates? Are they safe?"

  "Yes," said Remo.

  "No," said Chiun.

  "No?" asked Remo.

  "No," repeated Chiun in a firm voice. "His reason is fleeing. His purpose in attacking those politicians was to embarrass Remo and me and force us to return to my village in disgrace, where he intended to complete his vengeance. Now that he has failed, he has returned to America to finish the killings he did not complete. "

  "Why would he do that?" asked Remo. "He doesn't give a hang about the election."

  "He is a wounded scorpion who is lashing out in his pain. He has always been driven to kill. He fears you, desires to be my pupil, and thinks that he has killed Smith. He will strike at those we were once hired to protect. It is the only way he can cause us pain without risking another confrontation he knows he cannot win."

  "I don't buy it," disagreed Remo.

  "But I do," said Smith. "Or at least I can't take the chance that Chiun is wrong. I need your help, both of you. "

  "I have a personal thing to settle with the Dutchman," Remo assured him. "You can count on us."

  "But I do not," said Chiun, surreptitiously kicking Remo in the shin.

  "Oww," muttered Remo.

  "I may be persuaded to reenter your service, however, Emperor Smith."

  "I'm happy to hear that," said Smith. "Of course I'm prepared to sign a contract on the terms we discussed earlier. "

  "I am afraid that cannot be," said Chiun.

  "Why not?"

  "Because you tore up that contract."

  "Can't you prepare another."

  "I could, but it would take several days, for I am old and my memory is slipping. It may be that I would have to reopen negotiations simply to refresh my feeble mind."

  "Then what do we do? We can't wait that long. The Dutchman could strike at any time."

  "It just so happens that, anticipating your desires, I took the liberty of preparing a new contract during my journey to America," said Chiun, brandishing a fresh scroll. He untied the blue ribbon and presented it to Smith.

  Smith took the scroll. He blinked at it. "I can't see. Of course, my glasses. Where are they?"

  Remembering that he had them, Remo pulled the glasses from his pocket and placed them over Smith's bleary eyes. "The Dutchman brought them to Sinanju as proof he'd killed you," Remo explained.

  "This is worse," said Smith. "I can't see a thing."

  "Oh," cried Chiun. "I do not know what to do. We could wait for you to obtain new spectacles, but I fear for the lives of your nominees."

  "What are the terms?"

  "Excellent. I am certain you would find them agreeable. Why
don't you simply sign now and read later?"

  Smith hesitated. "This is exceedingly irregular."

  "These are irregular times," said Chiun.

  "Very well," said Smith unhappily. "There's still a chance that CURE will be terminated after the election. It can't hurt to keep operations going another few months."

  "Excellent," said Chiun, plucking a goose-quill pen from one sleeve and offering it to Smith. An ink stone came out of the other sleeve. Chiun lifted the tiny lid and Smith dipped into the well. He signed the bottom of the scroll.

  "You will never regret this," promised Chiun, recovering the quill and the scroll.

  "I trust not," said Smith, moving his glasses in front of his eyes at different focal lengths. He still could not see. "Your first task is to protect the presidential candidates."

  "Immediately," declared Chiun.

  "Count me out," said Remo. "I'm after the Dutchman, remember?"

  "Who perhaps even now is on his way to murder one of them."

  "Count me in," said Remo.

  "One last thing before you go," said Smith. "I need to contact the President as soon as possible. Could you go to my office and bring my briefcase?"

  "It's already here," Remo told him, reaching out into the corridor. He placed Smith's worn leather briefcase on his lap.

  "Folcroft was the first place we went," said Remo. "Your secretary told us you were in the hospital. I figured it wouldn't hurt to bring the briefcase, just in case."

  "Good thinking."

  "Actually it was my idea, Emperor Smith," Chiun pointed out. "Remo merely carried your property."

  "Yes," said Smith vaguely, unlocking the briefcase. Inside, a compact computer link gleamed under the weak fluorescent lights. Smith plucked out the handset of a cellular phone. "I must speak with the President. Alone. Could you remove that doctor on your way out?"

  "At once," said Chiun, bowing. "Remo," he said, snapping his fingers.

  Reluctantly Remo toted the doctor out to the corridor, where Chiun stood before an elevator. Remo shoved Dr. Kimble into a broom closet and joined Chiun.

  "I'm worried about Smitty," he told Chiun.

  "He will be fine."

  "I mean his vision. He acted half-blind."

  "I am sure he will recover. Sometimes when the kotdi is improperly manipulated, the vision is slow to return."