When the aide had gone, the President threw the notes into an electric wastebasket by his desk, the basket that assured that no information would leave with the garbage. It ground up the notes with a whir.
Then the President left his office and went to his bedroom. From the top bureau drawer, he removed a red telephone and lifted the receiver.
Before one ring completed itself, the call was answered.
"We're on it," came the voice.
"The California thing?"
"Yes."
"That was fast," the President said.
"It has to be," the voice answered.
"These people, whoever they are, could trigger a disaster," the President said.
"Yes, they could."
"Are you going to use that special person?"
"Is there anything else, Mr. President?"
"Well, I wanted to know if you're going to use him?"
"It wouldn't do you any good, sir, to know. You might be tempted to look for his picture in crowds if the newspapers should have something to photograph out there."
"Suppose you use that person and lose him?" the President asked.
"Then we lose him."
"I see."
"If it would make you feel any better, sir, I think we have a good line on this thing. The perpetrators are dead meat."
"Then you will use him?"
"Good night, Mr. President."
The phone clicked and the President returned the telephone to the bureau drawer. As he covered the phone with one of his shirts, he wondered what that special person's name was.
CHAPTER THREE
His name was Remo and he had not read more than one of the geology books shipped to him at the hotel in St. Thomas. He had not looked at the scale models of California's crust for more than five minutes, and he had paid no attention at all to the tutor who had thought he was explaining faults and earthquakes to a salesman newly hired by a geological instruments' company.
Not that Remo hadn't tried. He read the basic college geology book, the primer, from cover to cover. When he was finished, his memory floated with cartoons of rocks, water and very stiff people. He understood everything he had read; he just didn't care about it. He forgot 85 per cent of the book the day after he read it, and 14 per cent more the day after that.
What he remembered was the modified Mercalli intensity scale. He did not remember what it was, just that there was a thing geologists called the modified Mercalli intensity scale.
He wondered about it as he stood on the cliff overlooking an outcropping of green moss-covered rocks. Maybe he was standing on a modified Mercalli intensity scale. Well, whether he was or not, the little grass air strip that began about one hundred yards farther on along the edge of the cliff and cut into the flat face of the cliff top was where at least five men would die. They would be killed very well and very quietly; in the end no one would think it anything but an accident.
Killing, Remo knew very well.
He lounged against a gracefully curving tree, feeling the fresh salt air of the Caribbean warm his body as it massaged his soul. The sun burned his strong face. He closed his deep-set eyes, folded his arms over his striped polo shirt. He lifted one leg to rest beneath his buttocks on the tree trunk. He could hear the voices of the three men sitting near their little farm truck. They were sure, man, that no white fellow could sneak through the jungle near them. Certain, man. They were also sure, man, that the delivery was soon. If there was any trouble, however, they had their carbines and could put a hole in a man at two hundred yards and do it right proper. Yessirree. Right proper. Through his bloody genitals, eh, Rufus?
Remo turned his head to get sun on the right side of his neck. His face was healing and he had been promised that this was the last time it would be changed. He looked now almost as he had looked when he had been a living, recorded, human being with fingerprints in Washington, a credit card, bills and an identity as Remo Williams, policeman. He liked that face. It was the most human face he had ever had. His.
And even if someone who had known him by sight should see him and think the face was familiar, they would be sure it was not Patrolman Remo Williams. Because Patrolman Remo Williams had died in New Jersey's electric chair years ago for killing a drug pusher in an alley.
The pusher was dead all right, but in point of fact, Remo Williams hadn't shot him. So, in the spirit of justice, Remo Williams didn't die in the electric chair either. But the whole charade was a convenient government way to remove his fingerprints from all files and his identity from all files-to create the man who didn't exist.
The Caribbean felt good to be near, like a life force. Remo languished on the precipice of sleep. One of the men near the truck, Rufus, told the others he was afraid.
"And if anything goes wrong, man, I'm going to kill those white boys. This is the big stuff we're dealing with. I'll shoot those coppers too, I will. Yessir, man. One dead copper what deals with Old Rufus."
Well, Rufus, if you want to shoot white men, feel free. It might even give me more sleep, thought Remo. He listened for a far-off engine and thought he deciphered it out of the gentle lapping of the waves below.
Rufus also had advice. He told his two companions not to worry.
"Worry about what, Rufus?"
"Just don't worry about what the old lady on the hill says."
"I did not know she said something, man." The voices were the sing-song clipped British of the Caribbean, the remnant of a not altogether good colonialism which was not altogether bad, either. The Caribbean seemed to be divorced from normal morality.
"About today and the venture."
"You didn't say, Rufus, about today. You didn't say the old lady of the hill said something about today."
"What she said doesn't matter."
Remo was sure Rufus now regretted bringing it up. No matter. All their regrets would be settled shortly. The island smelled of the rich plants. You could taste the plant oxygen in the air. Was that the plane? He didn't want to wait all night.
"What did she say about today, Rufus?"
"Not to worry your mind about it, man. It will be a bit of all right."
"Rufus, you tell me now, or I am getting in the truck, my truck, and going back home with my truck. I'll leave you and your goods here on the cliff, a good day's walk back to the city."
"She said all would be well, friend."
"You're lying."
"All right, man. I tell you the truth now and you'll run like a baby girl."
"I am not a coward. Talk."
Nice going, Rufus, thought Remo. He hated it when he had to go after one here and another there. He liked them kept together. Keep 'em together by pride, Rufus baby. Like the Marines.
"Well, friend, the old lady said that should we go on today's venture, we will meet a force from the east, kinda like what they call an Eastern god, against whom no single man can stand. Is what she said, all right."
There was laughter near the truck. Remo felt good.
"Oh, Rufus. You are a bit of a joker, aren't you. Hah, hah."
"I mean it, man. She said we're gonna see something fearsome. A man so fast no man can see him."
The other man laughed also.
"Well, I'm glad to see you're not scared," came Rufus' voice. "I'm glad to see my quid went for nothing for the reading. She came up with the black stone of death over the green stones of life, she did. You can wager that one, man."
The laughter subsided. The sound got louder. The single-engine Beechcraft, on its precarious way from Mexico, would be landing soon. The pilot and its passenger had made a little mistake. They had made the kind of mistake one does not make if one intends to continue to successfully import heroin. They talked.
Oh, the conversation was casual and it was just a tentative offer to sell. But from that tentative offer to sell came the place. Then someone else deduced the time, the little plane was seen taking off and it was all put together into a telephone call, so here was Remo Williams
sunning himself, listening to the soothing, sing-song talk of the Islands.
Here was Remo Williams, trained for nearly a decade as no Westerner had ever been trained, to do one thing better that any Westerner ever did before. To kill. With his hands. With his mind. With his body. Trained until he became something else.
Here was a planeload of men thinking the heroin they carried would get them maybe five to ten years if they had a bad lawyer or failed to buy favor from a judge. That is, if they were caught.
Well, there were other organizations, besides the courts, that dealt with crime. Organizations that thought maybe it was better that someone who imports heroin shouldn't. Organizations that thought that it was better that an importer die than a child.
All of which boiled down to upstairs telling Remo they wanted a simple heroin pop. Only with this heroin pop, you didn't pop your skin, you popped a supplier. Remo had been making these random pops for almost a year now. In between the big assignments. Like reading stupid geology books. He had been told that was a big assignment.
Remo watched the Beechcraft enlarge from a dot to a winged vehicle, going low over the Caribbean to decrease chances of detection. Must be a good navigator. No circling, just an approach. Remo looked at the plane to get the where and the feel of the men in it. Just staring at the white plane bobbing in the wind, an idea occurred to him; he felt immediately ashamed but intended to do it anyway.
He moved into the brush near the edge of the small clearing with the silence of a snake but the quickness of a cat. There he coiled. A small grunting toad made its way in front of his nose, then squatted, contemplating its relationship to the earth. The plane bobbed in, touched wheels, then up, then touched wheels again.
And Remo was off, the center of his body moving forward like a line drive to center field, his feet barely touching the sun-dried grass, only skimming it, until his hands reached the tail of the plane and he was running behind the plane, hands on its tail, feet skimming the ground.
The fumes from the engine up front whipped his face. He lowered the tail as he stayed with the bobbing, bouncing plane. Up ahead at the far end of the field, only about forty yards away now, was the truck and the three men. The pilot cut the engine and began applying the brakes. But as Remo pushed down on the tail hard, the nose of the plane bobbed up again, lifting the wheels and making the brakes useless. Then the front of the plane hit again and Remo bobbed it up again, and then just a slight push of the tail to the left, making the plane go right. It was really very easy and he guided the front of the plane into the truck, catching one man with the propeller. The other two were now attempting to aim their guns. From the inside of the cockpit, Remo heard two French voices shrieking. He imagined the pilot was being sworn at.
He would save the contents of the plane for last. Remo skipped behind the right wing of the plane. A young man in white shirt and trousers lay on the ground aiming a carbine at his groin. Remo bounded around the wingtip in a smooth motion, then came down on the man from behind, driving a thumb through the man's eye and into his brain.
Another man in whites dropped his rifle and stared disbelieving. He did this for only a fraction of a second since one cannot disbelieve for very long when one undergoes a frontal lobotomy, performed with the driving shards of one's own skull, propelled by a short, un-seeable, knuckle blow to the head. The propeller had done less damage.
Remo snapped open the cockpit door above him and was in the cockpit in one motion. One man was still yelling in French at the pilot. Both carried light submachine guns strapped to their laps. Their guns stayed strapped to their laps, which was more than their heads did to their necks.
"Welcome, our French friends, bringing joy for needles," Rerno said. The passenger, who was nearer to Remo, had a well-manicured Van Dyke. It was destinguished and gray. Then it was red. The deep perceptive gray eyes became red also. They were where the man used to do his seeing, before Remo loosened his spinal column at the neck.
Remo saw the pilot's eyes widen as he watched the slashing hands butcher his passenger's face.
"It's right behind the seat. You can have all of it. I will fly you anywhere Monsieur. Anywhere."
'You're only saying that because you love me," Remo said and gave the pilot's head a healthy little snap. So much for the plane. Then back outside to where the man lay in pain from the propeller goring.
His hair was graying and Remo could see he was facing death with nobility, a strength that could only make a man think of royalty.
He could barely speak. But he gasped, "You are the one the old lady predicted, are you not?"
Reno shrugged. "Maybe next time, if you pay for advice, you'll take it."
"You are the one."
"And you must be Rufus. I was listening to you."
"No. I am not Rufus, man. Rufus is dead."
"Oh, gee, fella, I'm sorry. I didn't want you to think I thought you all looked alike. I mean I'm not insensitive."
"I am beyond pain."
"Okay," said Remo, cheerily. "So long." And he finished him with a simple blow to the temple.
Then he set fire to the plane and almost got knocked on his duff when the gasoline exploded. He hadn't really felt like searching for the heroin so why not burn it? It would go.
Despite everything, he was annoyed with himself. The business with the plane was foolish. It had not been the simplest point of attack; and as Chiun, his trainer, had told him many times:
"You will always be a white man. You play games."
Remo thought about that on the run back to the hotel. He needed a good run, not having had a really good workout for over a week.
CHAPTER FOUR
The two girls watched the fat sheriff stumble up the slight hill with the plastic bag. The cool breeze made the far-off sunrise in the east a melody of red light to be enjoyed in comfort. It was fun watching Wyatt make his way along the rocky trail.
"If we gave him some," said one of the girls, "It'd probably kill him now."
"Then I feel like giving him some."
They sat stretched beneath a poplar tree, rubbing their bare feet into the soil. Wyatt reached the top of the hill puffing.
"It's all here. Feinstein's giving us trouble."
"Nobody gives us trouble," one girl said. "They give you trouble. They don't give us trouble."
Wyatt dropped the bag and fought for breath.
"Feinstein is giving him trouble," one girl told the other.
"Piggy always has trouble with liberals," the second girl said.
"Don't laugh, girls ... I mean, women. He's going to squeal to the feds in Washington."
"Then shoot him."
"Add another notch to your gun," the second girl said.
"I can't just shoot him."
"Well, how else would you kill someone, pig?"
"Piggy, piggy, pig, pig. Piggy's afraid to shoot his big bad gun."
"Is all the money there?" the first girl asked.
"Yeah. But Feinstein's going to Washington to squeal."
"Well, stop him somehow. You've got all these notches on your gun for something."
"I can't kill him," Wyatt said.
"Then we're going to have to," one of the girls said.
"That's murder," Wyatt said.
"So's Vietnam."
"We could go to the gas chamber for murder," Wyatt said.
"You can be killed walking across the street, piggy-"
"That quake thing ... could it really snap off the entire fault? Could California go into the Pacific?" Wyatt asked.
"You can't make an omelette without breaking eggs, Piggy."
"Can you control it?" Wyatt inquired.
"Worry, you pig bastard. Worry."
"I'm worrying."
"Good. You should," said both girls in unison. Then they outlined what Sheriff Wyatt should do about Feinstein. And they told him what they would do when Feinstein got back.
"Do you have to?" asked Wyatt.
"Do you want to go to
jail?"
"Maybe you could poison him or stab him or something?" Wyatt said.
The girls shook their heads.
"He really isn't such a bad guy," Wyatt said. "I mean, not that bad."
Then they divided the money. Wyatt got one tenth. But he was assured he would get a hundred times that when things really got going.
"I wouldn't do this just for the money," said Wyatt.
"Then give the money back, piggy," one of the girls said.
Wyatt didn't.
CHAPTER FIVE
Later that day, Harris Feinstein kept the appointment he had been able to wangle with the assistant secretary of the Department of the Interior. He found out that the assistant secretary had examined his case and forwarded it to the proper department.
What department was that? asked Feinstein.
The Federal Bureau of Investigation, answered the woman.
Feinstein checked in at a hotel. He had not planned on staying the evening. The next morning, he went to FBI headquarters. Yes, they had received a referral from the Interior Department but could not make heads or tails of it. Some cheating on insurance?
No, said Harris Feinstein. And he was questioned about his background and asked about troubles with his wife.
What troubles? Feinstein asked.
"Sheriff Wyatt back in San Aquino says you've been having troubles with your wife lately and he'd appreciate it and the whole town would appreciate it if we would not hold any funny talk against you. We have checked with several leading citizens and they all vouch that you are harmless. I'm afraid, Mr. Feinstein, your friends are worried that you might get hurt. There are some excellent doctors in Washington. You might want to see one here if you're embarrassed to see one in San Aquino."
And so Harris Feinstein did not detail how California and the rest of the country, for that matter, might soon be at the hands of insane blackmailers with the power to create earthquakes whenever they wanted. Instead, he went back to the Department of the Interior and started to yell at the man who had transferred him to the FBI in the first place.
He yelled, although he knew his yelling corroborated the rumors of his insanity. He yelled, although he knew he was getting nowhere. He yelled because, dammit, he wanted to yell and the Department of the Interior was made up of idiots. If they weren't idiots in the first place, they wouldn't be in the Department of the Interior.
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