Death Therapy

by Warren Murphy

  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,” Remo 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 heavily 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-paneled conference room.

  Seven pairs of eyes turned 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 tab
le.

  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.”

  Remo stood back and waved his envelope-laden hand toward the door. “Leave now, gentlemen, while you’re still able to. I will hold these bids for whatever use they will be to the government of the United States, Now leave.”

  Grumbling, but defeated, they got slowly to their feet and talking angrily with each other, passed through the door and began to leave the office.

  Remo sat back down at the table, looking at the envelopes in his hands. How much was the United States worth to its enemies? Or to its friends? He tore the corner off one of the envelopes, then shook his head. One more thing he was better off not knowing. Smith could take care of it.

  The sounds had died down and the office of Villebrook Equity Associates was silent.

  Remo stood up and walked out into the hallway. As he passed the small office, he saw Amadeus Rentzel still on the desk. He would be coming to shortly.

  And in the outer office, the Villebrook man was stirring. Remo smiled. The man had kids. He was happy he hadn’t had to kill him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  IT WAS AFTER 2 O’CLOCK when Remo returned to his hotel room. Chiun was fussing with his tape recorder when Remo entered, but Chiun turned and greeted him with warmth. The papers Remo had entrusted to his care were still on the floor where Remo had placed them.

  “Why all the pleasantness?” Remo asked suspiciously.

  “You had the look in your eyes today of a man with an awful mission. I am glad you have returned safe, full of accomplishment and nastiness.”

  “We’re not out of the woods yet,” Remo said.

  He lifted the phone and got a local dial tone from the operator and dialed the toll-free number that from anywhere would reach Smith’s desk.

  The phone was picked up on the first ring.

  “Smith.”

  “Remo. Someday I’m going to call and you’re not going to be at your desk and I’m going to tell the Bureau of Antiquities—or whoever’s payroll you’re on—to dock you for the time.”

  “Save the chatter,” Smith said. “What happened?”

  “The auction’s over. We won.”

  “Thank God.” He paused, then asked: “Were there any… er, personal losses?”

  “No,” Remo said.

  “Good,” Smith said, his mind relieved because there would be no international incident.

  “Just a minute,” Remo said, then called out: “Chiun, what time are you going to be done doing these?”

  Chiun said: “Three thirty. I have had trouble with this apparatus.”

  Remo turned back to the phone. “Chiun will be at your headquarters by 4:30. By cab. Have someone meet him to pay the cabbie.”

  “Give him the money yourself,” Smith said. “God knows you draw enough of it.”

  “Won’t work,” Remo said. “He won’t hand the money through those money slots. Says it makes him feel like a criminal. Just have someone there to pay the cabbie. Chiun will have the lists from our lady friend. They’re something to see. Cabinet officers, department directors, senators, congressmen, a Presidential assistant. Oh, and a communications specialist. I’ll bet that’s how we were compromised. I just hope the list’s complete.”

  “How did the thing work?” Smith said.

  “Drugs and hypnosis. They were triggered to go off when they heard a certain word. With the lists and the instructions, you should be able to put them back under and bring them back to normal.”

  Smith thought a moment before answering. “Yes, I suppose so. Although I guess they can never be trusted again in sensitive jobs. We can’t just go firing the Congressmen, though.” He paused. “Maybe they’ll accept a suggestion to announce their retirements.”

  “Anyway you want to work it,” Remo said. “Chiun’ll have the lists. He’ll also have the bids that were entered today. They might be good for something.”

  “You say it was a word that was the trigger?” Smith asked.

  “Yes,” Remo said. “A line from that song.” He had feared this moment.

  “What was the song?”

  Remo cleared his throat nervously. “Are you listening, Dr. Smith?”

  “Yes, dammit, I’m listening.”

  Remo spoke slowly. “Super-kali-fragil-istic-expi-ali-docious. You will forget that I ever existed. The experiment eight years ago failed and the man known as Remo Williams died in the chair. He does not exist.”

  There was a long pause. Back at Folcroft, a beatific smile crossed Smith’s face. He began to hum the tune softly into the mouthpiece of the phone. Then he said:

  “Forget it. You’re in this, Remo Williams, until death do us part. I’ll expect Chiun with the lists.”

  He hung up chuckling.

  Remo’s hands were wet as he hung up the telephone back in Manhattan. But he was not done yet.

  He watched Chiun putter around until the last problem of the day had been postponed on the last of his television shows. Remo picked up the lists from the floor and, along with the envelopes containing the bids, stuffed them into a large manila envelope he found in the hotel room closet.

  Then he walked downstairs with Chiun and called two cabs. As he helped Chiun into the first cab, he told him: “Remember, Chiun, give these to no one but Smith. I’ll contact you at Folcroft soon.”

  “At my age, am I now to be lectured on caution?” Chiun asked.

  Remo ignored him and leaned into the front of the cab. “The trip’s to Rye, New York. Folcroft Sanitarium.” Remo remembered Smith’s habits and pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. He tossed a twenty to the driver. “Here’s your tip in advance. Now don’t go talking to the old fellow. Don’t get him sore. And drive carefully or you’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “Gotcha, Mister,” the cabbie said, pocketing the twenty and lurching away from the curb in a screech of tires.

  Remo got into the second cab. “Kennedy Airport” he said.

  On the long rocky ride through afternoon traffic, Remo tried very hard not to think. He tried not to think of how he had breathed easier when he saw that Smith had not been compromised. Remo tried hard not to think on the plane to Washington. He tried not to think about the compromised men who could be transferred, put into jobs where they would not have a real chance ever again to expose America by their weakness. And in the cab from the Washington airport, he tried not to think of the last piece in the puzzle. The possibility that Lithia’s list had not been complete; that there was one more man and that man could not be transferred if he had been compromised. He tried not to think of what could happen if that man mentioned CURE’s existence, or if that man folded when the chips were down.

  He was still trying hard not to think about it when the cab driver interrupted him.

  “Here you are, Mac. Sixteen hundred Pennsylvania Avenue.” The cabbie looked out the window at the large white building behind the metal fence. “That guy’s got a helluva job in there. I hope he knows what he’s doing.”

  “He’d better hope, too,” Remo said, giving the driver a twenty and stepping out onto the curb without waiting for change. Washington smelled fresh in the early evening and the White House looked imposing. Remo noticed the guards at the front gate and smiled.

  · · ·

  Smith met Chiun’s cab personally when it rolled up to the locked gates of Folcroft He helped Chiun from the taxi. Chiun clutched the manila envelope of papers to his chest. “How much?” Smith asked the cabbie.r />
  “Nineteen seventy-five,” the driver said. Smith extracted a twenty from his wallet, rubbed it between his fingers to make sure two had not stuck together, and passed it through the window. “Keep the change,” he said. He turned to Chiun as soon as the cab had lurched away. “Where is Remo?”

  “He said he had other business, and he would see you or he wouldn’t,” Chiun said.

  Smith walked inside with Chiun, who left him outside the main building to take his evening stroll. Smith took the manila envelope and went back to his office in the rear of the building, overlooking the sound.

  He pursed his lips as he read the names and notes that Remo had taken from Dr. Forrester. It was a cross-section of the American government, so it would be necessary to deal with each one individually. Smith spent several hours studying the names, and working out a complex, detailed program for bringing all the men out of their post-hypnotic state. It would be delicate. He would need the assistance of the President.

  Smith’s hand reached toward the telephone when it rang sharply. He lifted the receiver to his ear.

  “Smith.”

  The familiar voice crackled into the phone sharply. “I thought you told me this afternoon everything was all right again.”

  “I did.”

  “Well, they’ve penetrated. They’ve gotten past my security. They’re right here in the White House.”

  Smith leaned forward in his chair. “Just a moment, Mr.President.Please tell me precisely what happened.”

  “I was walking down the hallway outside my bedroom. And then this evil looking man jumped out from behind a curtain and stepped in my way.”

  “What did he do, sir?”

  “He didn’t do anything. He just stood there.”

  “Did he say anything?” Smith asked.

  “Yes, he did. Some kind of nonsense. Super-fragile or something.”

  “What did you do?” Smith asked.

  “I told him, look, fella, you better get out of here or I’ll call the Secret Service. And he left.”

  “Then what did you do?”

  “I called the Secret Service, of course. But they couldn’t find him. He was gone. Doctor, do you think you should assign that person here until this entire business of selling our government is concluded?”