Shock Value td-51

by Warren Murphy

  "You'll have to ask him. That's Vehar over there, the tall guy. But whatever it was, you can be sure it was for the good of humanity. That's what the Great Plan of Abraxas is all about."

  Smith whirled to face him. "I'll tell you what your Great Plan was all about. When Peabody and the other two men left here, they went out in the world and murdered people."

  Longtree smiled indulgently, snatching a drink off a passing waiter. "Hey, maybe that was their thing, right? Don't be so uptight. Have a drink."

  "Excuse me," Smith said stiffly and walked away.

  He approached a handsome young man dressed in expensively tailored playclothes, who was holding forth in the middle of a group of adoring listeners sipping pink cocktails. "Are you Vehar?" he asked.

  "Hey-hey-hey," the man greeted expansively, pumping Smith's hand. "Look who's here. How're you doing, Kemosabe? Remind me to give you the address of my tailor. How's the little woman?"

  "Do you know me?" Smith asked, bewildered by the man's overwhelming friendliness.

  "Don't I?"

  "I don't know you," Smith said.

  Vehar straightened, casting a sneer in Smith's direction. "Then get out of here. I can't have riffraff imposing on my time. Besides, your suit looks like you bought it with green stamps." There was sycophantic laughter all around.

  "I want to talk to you about Orville Peabody."

  "Peabody? What's a Peabody?" He tweaked a young woman's nipple to her squeals of delight.

  "Your drone," Smith said flatly.

  "Ah, yes. It would take one to know one." His words were received with gleeful appreciation.

  "How did you get him to assassinate Franco Abbrodani?"

  "My dear fellow," the ad man drawled, playing the crowd. "How you managed to find a place in this think tank is beyond me. Any individual with even a moderately interesting I.Q. could deduce that Mr. Peabody's mission was accomplished through the power of television."

  "Television?"

  "Plus a forger for his personal documents, of course. We certainly couldn't allow Peabody's actions in Rome to be traced to this place, could we?" The crowd tittered.

  "The medium is the message," Vehar pontificated. He was no longer directing his remarks to Smith. The faces in the group were rapt with attention. "Send out a series of ultra-short-wave directives long enough, and every person capable of receiving the message will follow your orders to the letter. Am I correct?"

  "Whatever you say, baby," a woman agreed, staring hard at Vehar's fly.

  "Subliminal communication," Smith mused.

  He knew that years ago, in the early days of television, enterprising advertising executives had managed to tap into the subconscious minds of viewers by flashing commercial messages on the screen at speeds too fast to be converted into conscious thought. All the viewers knew was that the brand names of certain soft drinks and household goods kept swimming uncontrollably through their brains, urging them to buy products about which, often, they had no knowledge.

  Subliminal advertising was touted, among industry "in" circles, as the wave of the future until some legislators, seeing its dangerous possibilities, outlawed the practice.

  "That's against the law," Smith said quietly. The group surrounding Vehar roared with mirth.

  "Mister, ah—"

  "Smith."

  "How appropriate," Vehar said, fingering the lapel of Smith's suit. "Allow me to enlighten you. The law was devised for a society without a true leader. With such a leader, however, laws are unnecessary except to enforce that leader's plans."

  "You're talking about a dictatorship."

  "Abraxas is not a dictator," Vehar said hotly. "He is a being of supreme wisdom. And in his wisdom he saw that Franco Abbrondani and his kind were the pariahs of the human race, a cancer. I was the surgeon who removed that cancer. Peabody and the others were my tools."

  "It still sounds like murder to me," Smith said.

  " 'Murder' is only one way of looking at it. Those of superior intellect see many facets in the same stone." He smiled, the blinding, false smile of his calling.

  "Who put you up to this?" Smith asked, expressionless. "Don't tell me you've never seen Abraxas, either."

  "No one sees Abraxas until Abraxas decides to show himself."

  "Then as far as I'm concerned, you're the murderer. And you'll be brought to trial."

  "Excuse me, Dr. Smith," a woman said behind him. It was Circe, dressed in a flowing chiffon dress. Her hair hung in soft waves around her face, nearly hiding the long scar. "It's time for your task force to meet. Come with me, please."

  "I will do no such thing. I demand to use a telephone."

  She led him away as the group around Vehar exploded into laughter.

  "Doctor, you can't have gotten a true picture of Abraxas's work through Mr. Vehar," Circe pleaded. "He's a bright man, but, well, sometimes a little tactless. I promise you that you'll come to understand us better with a little time."

  "I want my briefcase," Smith said stubbornly.

  "It's in a safe place. But I can't return it to you until you at least give the project a chance. Won't you come to the meeting?"

  Begrudgingly, Smith went with her to a large, sprawling residence on the edge of the sea, surrounded by palm trees and brightly colored hibiscus flowers. The mansion was painted sea-blue, and fairy-tale turrets rose steeply from its corners. Banisters of white gingerbread surrounded the third floor. There were more than forty windows, many of them made of stained glass and cut into strange patterns.

  "The trident of Neptune," Smith said, looking up at the peculiar old windows.

  Circe smiled. "All the gods are here." She pointed up to a small window near the cornice. "There's the lightning bolt of Thor, the Norse deity."

  "Abraxas's companions, no doubt," Smith said dryly.

  The woman bristled. "Abraxas did not build the house. It was here, waiting for him." She looked at Smith, harmless and confused. And probably afraid, she thought. She had been watching him since his arrival. He was the only one of the delegates to Abraxas's convention who had not melted with the flattery of being chosen as among the world's best minds. He was the only one who had refused the drinks and remained outside of the group. He was a misfit, and didn't even seem to mind.

  Smith kept his own counsel. He did not crave the reassurance of others. Alone, among all of them, this ordinary, drab-looking man with the metal-rimmed glasses and the ridiculous hat possessed a sense of honor. He would be difficult, Circe knew; possibly dangerous. For this she respected him.

  Her tone changed. "The house was built by slavers two hundred years ago," she said in her beautiful voice. "It's full of secret passageways where the original owners used to hide themselves from invading pirates." She laughed. "Or so the story goes."

  A cockatoo screamed overhead, its white wings brilliant in the sun. Circe pinned a blue ribbon on Smith's lapel. "You're part of the Phase Two task force," she said smoothly.

  Smith stared at the ribbon, then at the face of the woman with the disfigured face and the voice of a siren. "Is Circe your real name?" he asked.

  "No." She hesitated. "It was given to me after I was grown."

  "It's the name of a Greek enchantress," he said.

  "I know. She lured sailors to her island by the beauty of her voice and turned them into swine." She smiled.

  "Is that what you do here?"

  The question was unexpected, and Circe looked up at him, hurt. "Of course not. You're perfectly safe here."

  "As safe as Orville Peabody," he said quietly. She didn't answer.

  Smith looked at the sky and wondered if Remo would act quickly enough to save his life, because there was no doubt about it now.

  Abraxas would kill him.

  Abraxas would kill them all.

  ?Chapter Eight

  There are no great mountain peaks along the air routes between New York state and Florida, a fact for which Remo was eternally grateful. Ned the pilot developed a bad case of the D.
T.'s somewhere along the coast of South Carolina and had to be locked kicking and screaming in the small toilet.

  "I think I've finally got this figured out," Remo said, flying a loop over Orlando.

  "Stop thinking and set this flying gin mill down," Chiun advised.

  "That part's easy. They'll talk me down from the control tower. I've seen it in movies." He checked the map. "We'd better start the descent." He pushed the wheel forward. The plane shrieked as it catapulted toward the earth. "Hey, what's that?"

  "Death, I believe," Chiun said calmly. "Instant death."

  "The engine's not running."

  A muffled shout issued from the lavatory, followed by wild pounding. "Let him out, will you, Chiun? I think Ned wants to talk."

  "The engines are stalled!" the pilot screamed, bursting onto the flight deck. "Bring the nose up. The nose! Pull the steering column back!" He looked out the windscreen. Highways filled with automobiles spread out less than a hundred feet below. Ned fainted.

  "Geez, but he gets excited," Remo said, yanking back the steering column. The engines sputtered to life as the plane climbed steeply. "See? Everything's under control. That's the airport ahead."

  "Less talking," Chiun said.

  Remo picked up the radio. "Hello? Hello? Can anybody hear me down there?"

  "We read you," a voice crackled from the squawk box. "Identify yourself. Over."

  "This is..." He craned his neck to see down the side of the craft. "TL-516."

  There was a pause, followed by another crackle. "You are not authorized to land here, TL-516. Please proceed toward your destination. Over."

  "Not authorized? This is an emergency. The pilot's out cold. I don't know how to land this thing."

  "Repeat, you are not authorized to land here. Any attempt to land will be met with forcible resistance. Over."

  Remo exhaled a puff of air. "How do you like that. They're not allowing me to land. I never heard of such a thing."

  "I thought this was the easy part," Chiun said.

  Remo grabbed the radio again. "Hey, maybe you guys didn't understand...."

  "You are not authorized to land here, TL-516. Over."

  "And you go suck a cowpie," Remo shouted.

  "Over and out." He ripped the radio out of the control panel.

  "Very mature."

  "Ned. Wake up," Remo said, shaking the old pilot.

  "Wazzat?"

  "Get up here and land this plane."

  Tears streamed out of Ned's eyes. His nose ran. "I can't," he wailed. "Got the shakes. Bugs all over the walls. Sweating like a pig. Blood turned to water. Can't breathe. Seeing stars. Heart palpitations," he itemized. "Loose bowels. Double vision. Muscle spasms. Reflex..."

  Remo collared him and threw him into the seat. "Land this sucker or I'll break your skull."

  "Well, since you put it that way." His hands, shaking like a bongo player's, reached for the controls. He cleared his throat. 'Thanks, kid. I needed that," he said gruffly. "Almost lost it for a while, but a good pilot never forgets. Which runway do you want?"

  "There's only one."

  "Oh." There was a long silence. "Where is it?"

  "Oh, brother. That way," Remo shouted, pointing straight ahead.

  Ned squinted. "Just testing you, son. Flaps down..."

  "The flagpole," Remo yelled, gesturing to the tall metal spike directly in front of them. "You're off the runway."

  "How can I be off the runway?" Ned groaned. "I ain't even landed yet."

  "And you never will," Chiun said prophetically. "I am leaving." With a kick, the airplane door burst outward with a whoosh of air, and Chiun was gone.

  "Hey, how'd he—"

  "You too," Remo said. He lifted the pilot out of the seat with one hand and carried him to the door. Outside, the flagpole grew larger by the millisecond, its top now invisible.

  "Help!" Ned screamed. "It's comin' at us!"

  "Geronimo."

  Remo turned a somersault in the air and landed next to Chiun, in the soft cushion of a treetop, the trembling pilot still in his arms. Four seconds later the plane exploded in an inferno of flame and thunder.

  When the flying scraps had settled to earth, Ned uncovered his head and stared in wonder at the flaming spectacle. Apparently, falling out of a flying airplane had done much to increase his sobriety.

  "Well, kid," he said, elbowing Remo in the ribs, "you got to admit that was one hell of a landing."

  "Just swell," Remo said.

  The airport fire trucks and emergency equipment seemed to race out of nowhere, spraying the wreckage with carbon dioxide foam. They were new, Remo noticed. Also, the runway was in perfect condition. Three small planes were parked near the main hangar. They, too, were new and expensive looking, as was the building itself. Clear Springs had the newest, shiniest, richest airport Remo had ever seen.

  Chiun walked over gracefully, snapping a loose thread on the sleeve of his gown. "At least I can breathe now," he said. "That thing that burned up smelled like a brewery."

  "Better watch out," Ned said in warning. "Too much fresh air can kill you."

  "And your breath would keep me alive?" Chiun snapped.

  "Hey, do you notice something weird about this place?" Remo asked.

  "A lot of things are weird about this place," Ned chimed in. "Every pilot in America knows Clear Springs is the home of the wackos."

  "Wackos?"

  "Fiends. Dope fiends. 'Bout all they do here is run drugs. Lots of money in it, I guess. Built the whole airport just for themselves."

  "Doesn't the city have anything to say about that?"

  "Damn fiends own the city, too. Leastwise, most of the banks and businesses. They bring the dope in here in their own planes, and then truck it off to the mob somewheres. No trouble with customs, no hassle with the mob, what they call the Cozy Nosy, either. Got it all sewn up. Won't even let no planes besides their own land here, 'ceptin' special cases."

  "Like what? I'd consider a crash landing a special case."

  "Not them. The only special case they know is made of paper and colored green. The lady who sent the Lear jet must have greased their palms good."

  The flames had been squelched. Two men were standing near the fire truck, talking and gesturing toward the crisp-fried plane, while the others put the equipment away. Both men drew weapons as soon as they spotted Remo and the others.

  "Who're you?" one of the men grunted as they approached the trio.

  "We're the survivors from that wreck," Remo said.

  "G'wan," one of the men said, waving his gun. "Nobody coulda come out of that crash alive."

  "Would I lie to you?" Remo said amicably, kicking one pistol out of sight and crushing the other into gravel in his hands. "Now can the tough guy crap and take us to your books."

  The man who had held the disintegrated gun looked at the pieces lying on the ground, then at his companion, and shrugged. "I'm not going to give you no trouble," he said, "but Big Ed don't let nobody see his books."

  "Let's let Big Ed decide that."

  Big Ed was a strapping middle-aged hippie with a mane of frizzy blond hair flowing down to the middle of his back like a Saxon warrior's. He was a giant, more than six and a half feet tall, with a crushed nose and the mien of a man who had eluded the law for decades.

  He spoke only one word by way of greeting: "F-A-A?"

  "No," Remo said. "P-I-S-S-E-D O-F-F. What's the idea of not letting us land?"

  "This is a private airport," Ed growled.

  "A Lear jet landed here this morning."

  "What's it to you?"

  "It picked up a passenger. I want to know where it took him."

  "That's confidential information," Big Ed said. He whistled. From behind the counter appeared four Cubans who looked as if they spent their spare time pulverizing bowling balls with their teeth. "Boys, show this dude the door."

  Remo moved toward the exit. "I can show myself the door." He turned toward the door, opened it, and tore if of
f its hinges. With one swing, the Cubans lay sprawled, unconscious on the floor. "This is the door. Now where are your records?"

  Showing no trace of surprise, Big Ed pressed a button. A loud wail, like an air raid siren, sounded around the airport. Heavy footfalls rumbled toward them from all directions.

  "Commandos," Ned said shakily, looking out the doorway.

  Chiun sighed. "And all with boom shooters." With barely a movement, he knocked the old pilot to the floor. "Stay out of the way."

  Ned crawled to a corner. He looked up at Big Ed meekly. "Don't suppose you got a bar around here."

  The blond giant drew a German machine pistol from behind the counter.

  "Didn't think so," Ned said.

  The Cubans were coming to, one by one. "You do the outside," Remo said to Chiun. "I'll take care of Conan the Barbarian."

  Big Ed snorted, the closest thing to a human response Remo had seen him manage. "You had your chance," he said, gesturing toward Remo with the weapon. The four Cubans advanced. One of them prepared for a roundhouse right in front of Remo. Another circled behind him. With perfect timing, the man behind him squeezed his arms around Remo while the other struck. Only at the moment of contact, the man behind Remo was squeezing dead air where Remo once was, and the one in front blasted his mighty blow directly into the face of his companion. The two others, scrambling in for the kill, found themselves suddenly in midair, hurtling through the windows at high speed.

  The shooting began. Big Ed's auxiliary troops stationed outside the building opened fire as soon as they saw the Cubans fly out like two human cannonballs. The back wall filled up with plugs of spent ammunition as the bullets missed the frail figure of the old Oriental standing in the open doorway. He was a point-blank target, but still nothing could touch Chiun. He dodged each bullet with a movement so small and quick that it was impossible to follow. To the men firing from outside, the old man seemed to be absorbing the bullets like a foam rubber target, unhurt and unkillable.

  When the firing stopped, Chiun went outside. There was a scream, and then the thud of bodies breaking. From the broken window, Remo could see the guards falling, in twos and threes and fours, as the Master of Sinanju went about his work.

  "What the hell's going on here?" Big Ed muttered, thrusting the machine pistol in front of him. He opened up on Remo. The thin figure in the T-shirt seemed to feint once to the right, and then was transformed into a blur, walking forward slowly. The pistol clicked, its magazine empty. Not one bullet had come close enough to Remo to muss his hair.