Death Check

by Warren Murphy

  He was frankly worried. The business with the motorcycle hoodlums was one thing. But how had he escaped the fall from the plane and managed to kill Hawkins in the process? He wished only that his job were finished. That he could leave this accursed place.

  His attention was brought back to the stage by Ratchett’s voice.

  Dr. Schulter was sitting in a chair at center stage. Ratchett’s lardy body was frozen before the seated figure. It had taken six minutes to put Schulter under, and the boredom of moving bodies coughing and sighing could be felt, as only courtesy tethered the forum personnel to their seats.

  “Black longing pools of opalescent nights and the deepest of deep escapes. You are moving down, black-ward, into darkness and restful slumber,” Ratchett’s voice purred. A few coughs brought a haughty condemning glance from Ratchett and back to the gibberish. Strange that a theoretical chemist, surrounded by great psychiatrists and psychologists, would seek to entertain them with hypnotism. And such amateurish hypnotism.

  Oh, well. The dangers of espionage this decade varied. Death by boredom was a possibility. He heard Ratchett call for a return to horrible times. What were horrible times? Let’s see. The surrender was bad, the Russian occupation worse. The removing of testicles from trembling men with forceps? Not bad at all, especially when that Jew professor stood before him. The Jew professor who had attempted to expel him from medical school in Hamburg because of alleged sadistic practices. What was wrong with sadism? Really. If you didn’t look at it in the sloppy Jewish sentimentality, or through the rose-colored filter of Jewdom’s whore child, Christian ethics. Sadism was good. It was the extension of natural hostility, to a point where it had its own meaning, its own beauty. The Nazi Party knew it.

  The Nazi Party. The only healthy, honest force in history. And the way these scrawny, hairy youngsters dared call the American government fascist and Nazi. How dare they? The American government, nothing but hypocritical flotsam, mealy-mouthing its way through history, obsessed with domestic well-being and international public opinion. How dare they call that Nazi? He could show them NAZI. They should see NAZI! They should see that Jewish professor. Why didn’t that Semitic scum scream? That was the bad part. He didn’t scream. Yes. That was a horrible time. Horrible. As on stage.

  Schulter was searching, in his hypnotic past, for a horrible time. Then he jumped to his feet, dancing around the stage. Skip and a hop. And his jacket flew to the floor, followed by his shirt, his undershirt. Unzip the pants and step out. Then down on his bony knees. The white stage-light reflected blue off his perspiring back. “The whip,” he cried. “The woman with the whip. Whip. Whip.”

  Ratchett was panting heavily. “The whip,” he chorused. “The whip,” making little sucking noises through his puffy lips.

  The staff was not sure what happened next. Nobody could recall exactly. But when the new director for security asked around the next morning, the story was this:

  1) The hypnotism show had touched off something that was better not talked about and really none of Remo Pelham’s business.

  2) Dr. Nils Brewster snapped both men out of their trance by jumping on stage and mimicking Ratchett’s voice.

  3) Everyone was strangely disturbed by the episode, and really, stop bothering people.

  They would be bothered though — even more, when they discovered the awesome price Doctor Ratchett would have to pay for his dramatic success.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  HAVING BEEN THROWN OUT OF A PLANE while trying to talk to Dr. Hirshbloom, there was no price too great for Remo to pay to see her. He would even talk to Nils Brewster.

  Brewster was arrogant, almost as if that tragic accident to the sky-diving instructor had been Remo’s fault.

  “No,” Nils Brewster had said, through bandaged nose. “No request from Doctor Hirshbloom. Why are you so interested?”

  “Why is there joy in your voice?”

  “Don’t answer a question with a question. They tell me that’s how you carry on a conversation.”

  “Four out of five department heads want to talk to me. The fifth doesn’t. Why?”

  “That’s your answer?” Brewster asked.

  “Yes,” said Remo.

  “I told you you’d never understand about us.”

  “Well, I’m going to see her.”

  “You don’t have my permission.”

  “How do I get it?”

  “You don’t.”

  “Do you know that if I flick your nose with this forefinger,” Remo said, bringing the forefinger very close to the white bandages, “I can cause you all sorts of hurt?”

  “And you’ll be out on your ass before the throbbing subsides.”

  “What if a brick should fall on it at night from you know not where?”

  “You’ll be out on your ass before it hits the ground.”

  “What if I teach you to do to people what I did to those motorcycle thugs?”

  “I’m pushing sixty, man.”

  “I could teach you to do it to at least two people.”

  “Young people?”

  “Young people.”

  Dr. Nils Brewster dialed his telephone and said into the receiver: “Deborah, I thought you would like to do an input feedback on Remo Pelham, the new security officer. The others have and… oh. Yes, of course. Certainly I understand.” He returned the telephone to the receiver.

  “She said she was busy on something else. But you have my permission. I’ll deny it afterwards, but of course that’ll be too late. At least you’re not risking your job. Now when do we start on the… ” Brewster made striking motions at young faces and young stomachs, dodging very swift punches of young athletes whom he would now rend asunder should the little twerps dare make wiseass comments on the road or in restaurants or anywhere. Anywhere.

  “In two weeks.”

  “Two weeks?” Brewster looked hurt, cheated.

  “Well, you’ve got to get into shape first. Run a quarter of a mile a day for a week, then a half-mile the following week.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. That’s it”

  “What is your school of attack, by the way? Karate, kung fu, judo?”

  “Wow tu,” said Remo, making up the most idiotic name he could think of.

  “Wow tu? Never heard of it.”

  “That’s why it works so well. Do you think anything really good would be sold out of a gymnasium or a book?”

  “Wow tu,” repeated Dr. Nils Brewster, Faversham Fellow of Sociology, Ph.D., University of Chicago, author of “Man as Hostile Environment.”

  “Wow tu,” he said again, and in the place where dreams are formed he saw his older daughter’s latest boyfriend crumple to the floor in agony.

  Now Remo was at her cottage. Mosquitoes and moths held a mass rally near her window and Remo slapped unsuccessfully at them while awaiting her answer. He knocked again.

  “Who is it?”

  “Your security officer, Remo Pelham.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “I don’t want to talk out here.”

  “Come back tomorrow.”

  “Can I see you now?”

  “No.”

  “Are you busy?”

  “Will you go away!” It was not a question.

  “I just want to talk to you.”

  There was silence and the bugs poured in reinforcements. It was the stale hot of the Virginia summer, a deadening sweat-demanding night that buzzed with the insects of the land. And she did not answer.

  “I’m not going until you talk to me.”

  “Does Brewster know you’re bothering one of his scientists?”

  “Yes.”

  “He does not. That is a lie. Leave me alone.”

  “After you talk to me.”

  He heard footsteps pad to the door. It opened, and Deborah Hirshbloom stood before him with the unamused tolerance of a parent declining to b
e manipulated by the antics of a child. Her face was set, but calm, enhancing its fine smooth lines. Her eyes were black jewels in a setting of smooth, milky skin garnished with the joy of freckles. Her lips, unpainted, were tight; allowing nothing for Remo standing before her.

  “All right. What?”

  “I’d like to talk to you. May I come in?”

  “It’s late.”

  “I know. May I come in?”

  She shrugged and beckoned Remo to enter. She wore a plain khaki blouse with plain khaki shorts. She was barefoot, and her cottage office was just as bare, except for the books stacked to the ceiling and a chess set open on the small table, near the lamp. There was a metal cot and two chairs. She sat on the cot, but with such stiffness that it obviously was not an invitation.

  “May I sit down?” Remo asked, nodding to the chair.

  She allowed it.

  “As you know, the other department heads of the forum have been interviewing me.” She did not respond. Remo continued: “And I wondered why you had not.”

  “Because I’m not interested.”

  “I was, well, sort of wondering why.”

  “Because one man beating up seven ridiculous hoodlums is not exactly the awe-inspiring scientific phenomenon my colleagues obviously believe it to be.”

  “Then you know something about violence.”

  “I am learning from you, and I like no part of it. I know Hawkins came down with your chute and you with his. I know he tried to kill you and died for it.”

  “You’re Israeli, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. You know that.”

  “And violence offends you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t all Israelis have to serve in the Army?”

  “Yes.”

  “And violence still offends you?”

  “Of course, why not?”

  “Because you people couldn’t survive without violence. Without being tough. The Arabs could have peace by not firing a shot. You people would have another holocaust.”

  “Mr. Pelham, what are you driving at? That because we are outnumbered one-hundred-fifty to one by people who unfortunately have made our annihilation a national goal, that I should like what I must do to survive? One must dig latrines, too, for survival. But you do not have to like digging latrines. What do you really want? You do not care that violence offends me. This does not interest you. What do you want?”

  “Well, I have a problem and you contribute to it. You see, I’m responsible for the protection of everyone here. And everyone moves around so much, especially you, that to really make sure I can provide the proper security, I have to know generally where I can reach you when I need you. That attack on the forum by the motorcycle gang could be a portent of things to come. I’m not sure they will, but if those people try again, I want to make sure they can’t reach any of the top staff.”

  “There is a word in English, Mr. Pelham, that describes beautifully what you have just said. It is both sharp in definition and meaningful in substance.”

  Remo knew he was opening a door. “What word?” he said, preparing himself for the deserved consequences.

  “Bullshit,” said Dr. Hirshbloom sweetly.

  “That’s unfair, Deborah.”

  “That is your name, Remo, it is bullshit should you deny it to your grave. They called for you. They challenged you. And they got you. Or, as you will, you got them.”

  “They went for me first so that they could get to you. Certainly you are aware of a situation like that. Russia attacking us through Israel.”

  “Why must you put everything on an international level? You’re sitting here, asking my schedule, obviously not to protect me because you know I do not need your protection. So why else would you want to know where you can reach me, except to do me harm? Right?”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Hah. Mr. Pelham… ”

  “Remo, remember.”

  “All right, Remo. Good night.”

  “Deborah, I would like to see you again.”

  “I’m certain you will. But, please. Not in such frightening fashion as the other day, or such annoying fashion as tonight.”

  “Frightening? You were frightened? You didn’t seem frightened.”

  “Now I am terrified because now I know you even had time to look around at me and the other scenery.” Deborah sat calm, but a cool formal smile set it. It did not change, and Remo recognized the personal control people develop when they are faced frequently with danger. They develop it, or they die, or they are incredibly lucky.

  “All right. I had time to look around. Suppose that is so. Suppose my defense was really an attack. Suppose all those things.”

  “Then suppose, Mr. Pelham, you’re not a policeman.”

  “All right, suppose that.”

  “Then you must be something else.”

  “Then I’m something else.”

  “Then I don’t feel comfortable. I do not feel comfortable, seeing an approach to attack which I recognize, and then seeing added an awesome ability to do things that I do not recognize at all. I was truly afraid the other afternoon, Mr. Pelham. And I was afraid of you. I am afraid of you now.”

  “Strange for a psychiatrist.”

  “I am tired also, Mr. Pelham. Good night. I do not know what you are really here for. Perhaps it is even to be, as you say, a security officer. But I have seen your like before. When I was a little girl, a volunteer from America. He taught us that set, and two days ago I saw it on you.”

  Chiun in Israel? Impossible. The set? It was not Chiun who taught the set, the apparently awkward foot alignment that made you look as if you were about to step backward when really you moved forward. That was not Chiun. The first days of training after the electrocution were… Of course, the set. Conn MacCleary. Conn MacCleary in Israel?

  Deborah rose to usher Remo to the door. Remo remained seated.

  “This man, did you like him?” Remo asked.

  “As a matter of fact, the whole village loved him. But he is dead now, a fate that awaits us all. It is really only a question of when. And toward extending that when, we are all devoted, no?”

  “Where did this man die?”

  “You seem very interested in this man. Why?”

  “Perhaps I knew him.”

  “If you did I would not have to fear you anymore because he was a good man. That is what we all remembered about him most. He was a good man. What he did for his livelihood does not attract good men that often. He was rare. And he died. And I believe he probably died sooner than he should. Because good men do not often live long lives in some situations.”

  Her voice was softer now and Remo detected a break, the quiver of emotion stronger than one expects, a memory that remains forever too fresh.

  “This good man,” Remo said, “had he lost a hand?”

  “Yes,” said Deborah.

  “And was his name Conn MacCleary?”

  “Yes,” said Deborah, and she shut the door she had opened. “You knew him then?”

  “Yes,” said Remo. “I knew him.”

  “You were in the American intelligence then?”

  “No, no,” Remo said. “I knew him. I knew him once.”

  “Do you know how he died?”

  “Yes.”

  “They said it was in a hospital.”

  “It was. It was. In a hospital.”

  And Deborah’s face became a smile and warmth and tenderness, a delicate joy that people who can understand beautiful things bestow upon their surroundings.

  “It is funny, and since you remember Conn, so typical,” she said, taking the chair facing Remo. “When he came to our village, it was just before independence when the five Arab armies attacked, and we had, I think, one rifle for five men in our village, or something like that. I was very young.”

  “Of course,” Remo said.

  “Of course,” Deborah laughed. “Well, he had volunteered to give special training to people, I am not at liberty to disc
lose what, and we were all waiting for him. Anxious. Everybody was anxious. My uncle would say: ‘When the American arrives here, he will show you all what technology is. Wait and see. American organization.’ So it is supposed to be a big secret and so naturally everybody knows about it and is waiting for his arrival. Like a welcoming committee for his secret entrance into our village. Well, he is driven up in the back of a car, and I do not know if you know how valuable a car was to us then, but you can imagine, and Conn is in the back seat and you will never guess… ”

  “He was drunk,” Remo supplied matter of factly.

  Deborah guffawed and slapped Remo’s knee. Tears began to form in her eyes and she struggled to talk through the laughter.

  Remo added quickly: “Sure. I told you I knew Conn MacCleary.”

  And his casual way of saying this threw Deborah into an hysterical reach for the table to steady herself. “Drunk,” she finally said. “He was passed out drunk. You should have seen the look on Uncle David’s face. He kept asking the driver if this was the right man and the driver kept nodding. We found out later he had been drinking since Tokyo where he had been mustered out, I think it was a month before. Drunk? He reeked. I mean when they carried him out everyone stepped back he smelled so badly.”

  “Conn MacCleary,” Remo said.

  “He was one of a kind. It took him three days to realize where he was.”

  “There must have been a lot of pressure then.”

  “Well, not really so much for us. Our training thing was for something else. I think we all believed that we would win. Although it was frightening and I was, at the time… ”

  “After all, a young girl.”

  “Of course. Otherwise I would be an old woman instead of the incredibly attractive, beautiful young woman that I am now.”

  “Of course. You know you are beautiful.”

  “Come. Stop that. I gave you a MacCleary story. Now you give me one.”

  “Well, the first time I saw Conn,” Remo said, conveniently planning to leave out details, “was… No, let me see. The first time.”

  “No. The second time,” Deborah said. “The first you won’t tell me and that’s all right. So tell me the second time.”

  Okay. So she believed he was with the CIA or the FBI. So what? That was to be expected from the kind of work they were doing here anyway. He had used CIA as a cover before anyhow.