Deadly Seeds td-21

by Warren Murphy

  "Really, I don't know anything. If I knew anything, I would tell you."

  "Several people who are the breakers of commodities… ''

  "Brokers," Remo said.

  "Yes. Brokers and contractors have been killed with Fielding. You know nothing of this?"

  "Nothing. I thought you did." Something nagged at Remo. He remembered. Dead contractors. Jordan had mentioned that too before Remo had killed him but Jordan had not explained the contractors. Why contractors?

  "Contractors?" he asked Maria. "What contractors?"

  "Our intelligence people do not know. They think it may have something to do with Fielding's warehouse in Denver. I must see. I cannot fail my country."

  "Don't be upset. There's always room for another Maria Gonzales in this hotel."

  "I do not belong in this hotel. I am here to get the secrets of Wondergrain for my government."

  "And if you fail, so what? I know Fielding. He's going to sell it so cheap it'll be like giving it away. Why pay for what's going to be a gift?"

  "You do not understand socialist dedication," said Maria. She looked at him carefully. "Or capitalist greed."

  "Maybe not." Remo was interrupted by a knock on the door. He rose lightly and went to the door, opened it and peered through the crack.

  A man said, "I want to see Maria."

  "You know Maria?" asked Remo.

  "Yes. I was here last week."

  "Wrong Maria," Remo said.

  "I want to see Maria. I came up here to see Maria. I want to see Maria. I won't wait to see Maria. I have to see Maria now."

  "Go away," said Remo.

  The man stamped his foot. "I won't go away. I want to see Maria. You've got no right to make me stop seeing Maria. Who are you anyway? Let me see Maria and when we're done, we'll have bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches. On toast. I want a sandwich. With mayonnaise. On light toast. Whole wheat toast. They have good whole wheat toast across the street at Wimple's. I want to go to Wimple's. I have to have a sandwich. Why won't you let me go and have a sandwich? I'm going to Wimple's now and if they're all out of whole wheat toast, it'll be your fault for keeping me here talking. I'm hungry."

  "What about Maria?" Remo asked. "Maria? Who's Maria?" asked the man and walked away down the hall, a walk that wasn't quite a walk but more of a cross between it and a bunny hop, the walk of a child who just knows there has to be a bathroom somewhere around and is determined not to wet his pants, because he'll find it. Remo waited a while before closing the door, lest Peter Rabbit change his mind and come skipping back. But when he heard the elevator door close at the end of the hall, he went back into the room.

  "Who was it?" Maria asked.

  "I don't know. It was either Chicken Little or Henny Penny."

  "I do not know these people," said Maria. As Remo turned, he saw Maria was up out of bed and full dressed.

  "Where are you going in such a hurry?" he asked.

  "To Denver. To see what I can find. You have pumped me… is that the word?"

  "Almost," Remo said.

  "Anyway, you have pumped me and I have pumped you, and we have found out that neither of us knows anything and so I will go to the Fielding warehouse in Denver to find out what I can find out." She smiled. "You were very good. I enjoyed myself."

  "I won't tell Fidel," Remo said.

  But Maria did not hear him. She was out of the room and gone, and Remo watched the closed door for a moment before sighing heavily and dressing himself.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Seven secretaries did not know where James Orayo Fielding was. The eighth and ninth knew but would not tell. The tenth knew and told, particularly after Remo had said that if she did not tell him where Fielding was, he would not come back to her apartment that night and explain to her, at very close range, why his facial bones were so hard and why his eyes were so dark.

  Fielding had a penthouse suite atop the Hotel Waiden, which differed from the Hotel Needham in the presence of hot water and cleanliness and the absence of hot-and-cold-running occupants all named John Smith.

  "Of course I remember you," said Fielding. "We had that talk out in the Mojave, after that unpleasant violence. You're a government man, aren't you?"

  "I didn't say that," said Remo.

  "You didn't have to. You've got that look of someone who has a mission. I've found in life that the only people who have that look are people who work for a tight structure like a government… or people who are dying."

  "Maybe they're the same people," said Remo.

  "Could be," said Fielding, walking back away from Remo and sitting himself again behind his desk. "But on the other hand…"

  Remo, who had no tolerance for philosophy, jumped in with "I think people are trying to kill you, Mr. Fielding."

  Fielding looked at Remo with large open eyes, bland and blank. "It wouldn't surprise me. There's money to be made in food. Anywhere money is to be made, there's potential for trouble."

  "That's my question," said Remo. "Why don't you just give away the formula for Wondergrain? Just publish it and let it go at that?"

  "Sit down… Remo, you said?… sit down. There's one simple reason, Remo. The same greed that may have people trying to kill me. That's the same greed that stops me from giving away my secrets. Human nature, son. Give away something and people think it's valueless. Put a price tag on it-any price tag, no matter how small-and it becomes like gold. People just won't accept what's free. Another thing. I had to make a deal with Feldman, O'Connor and Jordan to publicize Wondergrain. Well, they took over the ownership of it from me. And they want a profit. I thought I explained all this to you. Didn't I?"

  Remo ignored the question. "I understand you've got a Denver warehouse?"

  Fielding looked up quickly and his eyes hooded over. "Yes," he said slowly. He seemed about to say more, then stopped.

  Remo waited, then said, "Don't you think you should have security guards there?"

  "That's a good thought. But guards cost money. And frankly, all I had, my personal fortune, it's all gone into Wondergrain. I wouldn't worry too much about it though." He smiled, the satisfied smile of a cat licking its face after an uncooperative meal.

  "Why not?"

  "It kind of guards itself," said Fielding. "Anyway, anybody in there wouldn't know what it was all about anyway."

  Remo shrugged. "I think you ought to be protected too. There's been just too much violence at your plantings."

  "Are you volunteering, lad?" asked Fielding.

  "If I have to."

  "We have an old saying, at least in the Army I was in: never volunteer." Fielding essayed a small smile. It was the smile of a man who didn't care, Remo thought. Was it possible that Fielding's only purpose in life was to get his Wondergrains to the world and to hell with everything else?

  "You aren't afraid?" asked Remo.

  Fielding picked up the digital calendar from his desk. It read three months, eleven days. "I have no more than that to live. You think I've got something to worry about? Just let me get my work done."

  Later, talking to Chiun in their room, Remo said, "He's an incredible man, Little Father. All he wants to do is some good for mankind."

  Chiun merely nodded. He had taken to becoming morose in the daytime hours lately since he had begun boycotting the television soap operas. Instead, he spent his time with pen and inkwell and large sheets of paper, writing letters to television stations, demanding that they stop introducing false violence into their daytime dramas or he would not be responsible for the consequences. He gave each of them three days in which to acknowledge the acceptance of his demand. The three days was up today.

  Remo noticed Chiun's nod was unenthusiastic.

  "All right, Little Father, something's wrong. What is it?"

  "Since when have you become so interested in mankind?"

  "I'm not."

  "Then why are you so interested in this Fielding person?"

  "Because even if I'm not interested in mankind,
it's nice to meet someone who is. Little Father, he's a good man."

  "And As the Planet Revolves was a good story. Good and true. But it isn't anymore."

  "Meaning?"

  "One spells out small words only for children." And Chiun folded his arms and stubbornly refused to explain his remark.

  "Do you know why organizations should never promote people?" asked Remo.

  "No. But I am sure you will tell me."

  "Now that you're a coequal partner, you've stopped working. It happens all the time."

  Chiun snorted.

  "All right," Remo said. "You sit there, but I'm going to make sure that no one rips off Fielding's formula. If he wants to give it away on his own terms, well, then I'm going to make those terms work."

  "Waste your time anyway you wish. Since you picked this assignment, I will sit here thinking of something important to do on our next assignment. Since I am a coequal partner now, I have the right to choose."

  "Do what you want." Remo went into the next room and flopped onto the bed. First things first. He was dealing now with two threats: some force that was using violence and might have Fielding as its target, and Maria Gonzales who was trying to steal Fielding's formula.

  He dialed the Hotel Needham and recognized the oily desk clerk.

  "Remember me?" Remo said. "I came by to see Maria Gonzales, the Cuban one, the other day."

  "Yes sir, I certainly do," said the clerk.

  "Is Maria back?"

  "No."

  "There's another fifty in it for you if you let me know when she comes back to her room."

  "As soon as," the clerk said.

  "Good. Don't forget," said Remo, and gave the clerk his number, then closed his eyes and slept.

  But when the phone rang, it was not the clerk. It was the lemony whine of Dr. Harold Smith.

  "I wouldn't like to hang by my thumbs waiting for you to report."

  "That's funny. That's just what I'd like you to do," said Remo.

  "There were three persons… er, found at that planting site in Ohio. Any of that yours?"

  "All three of them." Quickly Remo filled in Smith on what had happened and what he had learned. "I don't know why," he said, "but it seems someone's gunning for Fielding."

  "It could be. I'll leave that with you. It's not why I called."

  "Why did you call? Am I overdrawn on expenses again this month?"

  "We have some early indications that someone-we can't say who yet-is trying to get close to us. Questions are being asked around. Anyone close to us might be getting close to you."

  "That'd be their tough luck."

  "Maybe yours too," said Smith. "Be careful."

  "Your concern is deeply appreciated."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Maria did not return until the next day, but she would not have had time to take off her hat before the room clerk at the Hotel Needham called Remo.

  "Hey, pal, this is your old friend at the Hotel Needham."

  "She's back?"

  "Just got in." He paused. "Your turn now," he added with a dirty-minded chuckle.

  "Thanks," said Remo who did not feel thanks and determined then to beat the clerk out of the fifty he had promised him.

  Maria was a long time answering Remo's knocking at the door and when she did her face was drawn and pallid.

  "Oh, it's you," she said. "Well, as long as you are here, come in. But don't ask me to go the lengths."

  "What's wrong? You look awful."

  "I feel awful," said Maria. She wore an identical outfit to the one she had worn two days before. She locked the door behind Remo and then sat down heavily on the chair at the small Formica-topped desk the Hotel Needham provided, apparently for that .0001 percent of people who paid by check. She tried a thin smile. "Must be Montezuma's revenge. I have the upthrows."

  Rerno sat on the edge of the bed facing her.

  "So what did you find out?"

  "And why should I tell you? We are on different sides."

  "No, we're not. We both want Fielding's formulas to get to the world. If you can steal them for your country, fine," Remo lied. "I'm only worried about keeping him alive so that everyone isn't cheated out of them."

  Maria did not speak as she thought about this for a while. "All right," she said finally. "Anyway, it is not like I am giving away anything. You are the keeper of the Constitution. If I do not cooperate, you may have me deported from your country. Or worse. Is that not right?"

  "That's it exactly," said Remo. If justification was what she wanted, justification was what she'd get. "I'd go to any lengths to find out what you learned."

  Maria raised a right index finger in warning. "I told you. No 'to the lengths'." Remo noticed the tip of her finger was discolored and blistered.

  "So what did you find?"

  "I found Mr. Fielding's warehouse. It is not in Denver however. It is outside Denver. It is in a big building that is carved into the side of a rocky hill outside the city."

  "And what was there?"

  "Nothing. Barrels of grain. And barrels of a liquid I could not identify." She held up her finger again. "Whatever it was, it was powerful. It did this to me." She looked ruefully at the blister, seemed about to speak, then jumped to her feet and ran for the bathroom. Remo could hear her retching, and then the toilet being flushed. Maria returned, her face even whiter than before.

  "Forgive me."

  "No workers there? No guards. Nobody?"

  "There was no one to be seen. Just barrels and that was all." Her voice trailed off as she spoke and she seemed ready to pass out. Remo got up and went to her side.

  "Listen, Maria. You've got probably a touch of flu or virus or something."

  "A virus," she said. "Americans always have the virus."

  "Right," Remo said. "A virus. Anyway, you shouldn't stay here alone until you're well. I want you to come with me."

  "Aha. A Yankee plot. Get Maria away from her room and then throw her in a dungeon."

  "We don't have dungeons. Except in New York, and there they call them apartments."

  "All right. A jail cell."

  "No. Just a clean hotel room where you can get some rest."

  "Alone? With you? That is not moral."

  Remo thought this strange for a girl who forty-eight hours before had gone to the lengths, but he shook his head. "No. We'll have a chaperone. Chiun."

  "The gracious Oriental?"

  "I think so."

  "Good. Then I will go. He is a man of much wisdom and kindness and he will protect me from you."

  In the lobby, Remo sat Maria in the only chair that might have won even conditional approval from the city's building department and approached the oily clerk.

  "I owe you something," said Remo.

  "Well, don't look on it as owing. I did a favor. You're going to do me a favor."

  Remo nodded. "Fifty favors if I remember right."

  "You remember right."

  Remo leaned on the desk casually. On a table behind it he saw a small cashbox.

  "Want to play double or nothing?" Remo asked.

  The clerk's eyes narrowed warily. "Actually, no."

  Remo reached into his pocket and pulled out a fifty. He held it away from his body in his right hand. "It'd be easy," he said. He manipulated his fingers, almost as if playing an imaginary piano with a vertical keyboard, and the bill vanished. "Just tell me what hand it's in," he said nodding toward his right fist.

  "That's all?" said the clerk, glancing quickly at Remo's left hand, resting on the counter, four feet away from the fifty. "That's all?" he repeated.

  "That's all."

  "Double or nothing?" said the clerk.

  "Double or nothing. What hand's it in?"

  "That one," said the clerk with a sheepish smile, pointing to Remo's right hand.

  "Look and see," said Remo. He extended his right hand toward the clerk. As he did, his left hand was over the counter, opening the cashbox and flipping through the bills there. Wi
th his fingertips, he felt for the twenties and peeled off eight, curled them into a tube, closed the box, and put the $160 into his left pants pocket. Meanwhile, the clerk was trying to pry open Remo's right hand.

  "How can I tell if I won?" he asked plaintively.

  Remo relaxed his fingers and opened his hand. Curled up in the palm was the fifty-dollar bill.

  The clerk grinned and snatched up the bill. "Terrific," he said. "Now you owe me another fifty."

  "You're right," said Remo. He dug into his righthand pocket but brought his hand out empty. From his left pocket, he pulled out the tube of twenties.

  He unrolled them and counted off three. "I'm out of fifties. Here. You've been such a good guy. Take sixty." He handed the bills to the clerk who set them on top of the fifty and quickly jammed them all into his pocket.

  "Thanks, old buddy."

  "Anytime," said Remo. He walked away, the hotel's other five twenties in his pocket, offsetting the two fifties of his own he had given away. He whistled as he escorted Maria from the building.

  She felt worse when Remo reached his hotel and he quickly put her into bed. Chiun was sitting in the middle of the living room floor when they entered but he did not speak, not even to acknowledge their greetings. When Maria was sleeping, Remo came back outside.

  "You're a real charmer when you want to be, Chiun."

  "I am not paid to be charming."

  "Good thing."

  "Remo, how could they do it? How could they do violence to the beautiful daytime dramas? I have sat here this night and asked myself that and I do not know the answer."

  "It was probably a mistake, Little Father. Start watching again. You'll see. It was probably just a thing they did once and won't do again."

  "You really think so?"

  "Sure," said Remo, feeling very unsure.

  "We will see," said Chiun. "I will hold you personally responsisble for this."

  "Hold on, hold on, hold on. I'm not in charge of the television shows. Blame somebody else."

  "Yes. But you are an American. You should know what goes on in the minds of the other meat-eaters. If not you, who?"

  Remo sighed. He looked in on Maria who was sleeping deeply then went into the living room to sleep on the couch. Chiun meanwhile had unrolled his sleeping mat in the middle of the floor and, reassured by what he would forever regard as Remo's personal word that the daytime dramas would not again be sullied by violence, had fallen instantly asleep. For five seconds of sleep, he seemed like a normal man, breathing normally; for the next ten seconds he was the Master of Sinanju, breathing deeply and almost silently; and then he turned into a flock of geese.