A high whistle pierced the din and silenced it. "Gentlemen," the deep voice said, unruffled. The economist released Smith and took his seat along with the other delegates.
"Dr. Smith's reservations are well taken." The camera moved from its focus on him and resumed its wide, sweeping arc. At the doorway, where she had stationed herself in case of an emergency, Circe breathed a sigh of relief and walked back to her place on the divan.
"You have all been patient these many days, waiting while our assembly has gathered from around the world. During this time little has been revealed to you about the true work of this conference. I am speaking with you now to elucidate those plans so that we may begin together, as we will end, in a unity and harmony and peace that will spread to the four corners of the earth."
"Then start with how you turned Peabody and the other two innocent men into assassins," Smith said.
"That was not the case, as you will come to understand," the voice said calmly. More pitchers of the pink beverage were passed around. Smith pushed his glass away with disdain.
"For all the ages of man, war and self-interest have destroyed any possible cooperation between the peoples of the world. Where great progress might have been made, the ends of mankind have constantly been thwarted by petty provocations. I wish to see this unhappy state ended once and for all, so that the true potential of the human race may be realized."
Smith stifled a yawn.
"My plan to accomplish this has been divided into three parts: Unity, Harmony, and Peace. Phase One of the Plan, Unity, will bring together the disparate elements of society under one common banner."
"Yours," Smith muttered under his breath.
"Yes, mine." The camera swept past him. "Abraxas will not harm those under his guidance. Mr. Peabody and the others were the beginning of Phase One, rooting out the sources of true evil in the world and making it a better place to live. Already people in every country are calling the elimination of the three terrorists a major step forward in the attainment of world peace. Some of the rotten flesh of the body of mankind has been cut away, and the instruments of surgery— Peabody, Groot, and Soronzo, have grown to the stature of legends."
"They are dead," Smith said levelly.
"Yes. And in death they have achieved immortality."
"It was a bone," Smith said. The eyes of the delegates shifted to him. Smith met them. "A bone thrown to the dogs. An empty gesture. The purpose of those killings could only have been to dupe whoever was on the receiving end of those subconscious television messages into believing that this Abraxas character is some sort of Lone Ranger, spreading good wherever he goes." He scanned the blank faces of the delegates. "Don't you understand? Three terrorists. It was nothing!"
"It was not even announced that the executions were my work," the voice on the loudspeaker said.
"Peabody announced it. In a way that made every journalist in the world pay attention."
The voice rumbled a low laugh. "Very well. I concede the point. The murders were committed to propagate the name of Abraxas. Are you satisfied, Smith?"
Smith sat down, bewildered. Abraxas had just admitted that his "benevolent conference" was a sham. And yet the faces around the table remained unchanged, staring up reverently at the camera.
It didn't make any difference to them, Smith realized with sickening clarity. Good or bad, saint or killer, Abraxas had taken their minds and swallowed them whole.
"Those men were trained to perform their tasks through the medium of television," the voice continued crisply. "As many of you know, they were instructed by subliminal messages transmitted through ordinary television programs. The same can be done on a larger scale, bringing the message of Abraxas to millions. World opinion can be swayed in a fraction of the time it would take through normal political or military channels. There will be no dissent"
"What are you talking about?" Smith asked, aghast.
"Don't be dull," Abraxas snapped. "I am talking about revolution. Revolution, Dr. Smith. In a short time this conference will formulate and carry out a worldwide revolution without spilling a drop of innocent blood."
Cheers went up from the table. Smith hung his head, feeling nauseated.
"That is Phase One. Phase Two, Harmony, will speed up the process even further. Gentlemen, we must be realistic. Although the masses will flock to the Plan of Abraxas, those wielding power and money will not easily give up their privileges for the good of society. For this reason, the private reserves of wealth must be taken from those who hoard it and redistributed to best serve the ends of humanity as a whole."
Smith sat up with a jolt. "What?"
The voice continued, deep, hypnotic, assured. The delegates at the table listened in rapt attention. "The people in this room have been assembled to devise ways to topple the world's economy and remove the corruption of private wealth. Here in this room we will find a way to eradicate the reserves of the New York and American Stock Exchanges. We will manipulate, by controlling the vast networks of communications, the prices of oil and other wealth-producing commodities."
"I can redirect the telephone lines of the OPEC countries for a day," the Middle Eastern engineer cried enthusiastically. "Chaos for one day— it will be enough to confuse the world for months."
"I can have the mail of the United States monitored for an indefinite period," the former secretary of state announced. "All priority mail will be discarded."
"A beginning," Abraxas said. "And I'm sure that Monsieur Beaupère, our banker, can arrange for the dispersal of funds from large individual accounts in Swiss banks."
"Without a trace," the elegant Swiss said lazily, sipping his cocktail. "Some of the richest men in the world will become paupers overnight."
Abraxas continued, "And you, Dr. Smith. I would like for you to take on a project by yourself. Through your genius with computers, I want you to find access into the information banks of the Internal Revenue Service. You will feed false information into the IRS computers, and confiscate the funds handled by that organization. When you have completed your task, you will do the same for the tax systems of other nations."
Smith rose out of his seat in disbelief. "You're mad," he said in a whisper, not trusting his voice. "You're talking about the destruction of civilization."
"The beginning of civilization," Abraxas corrected. "Phase Three will be the culmination of all our efforts, the end to justify the means we will use. For Phase Three, Peace, is nothing less than the reorganization of the planet."
"War will be eradicated. Discord will not exist. Personal ambition and competition among men will be done away forever. In Phase Three, I offer you a world where each nation and all the people in it serve one function to benefit all mankind. Japan, for example, will be a completely technological society, producing electronics for the entire world. All persons living in Japan will serve its one industry, and all will benefit."
"You can't be serious," Smith said. "Japan is a nation, not a company. You can't expect every single person in the entire country to work for one industry. What happens to everything else?"
"I'm glad that you're showing an interest, Dr. Smith. The Scandinavian countries will be the dairy center of the earth. Greenland, because of its geological stability, will contain the nuclear components to heat and light the planet for centuries to come. All of the fish and sea products used by the population of the earth will issue from a chain of islands in the South Pacific. The Soviet Union, because of its vast grasslands, will produce livestock."
"Livestock?" Smith asked, dazed. "What about America?"
"The United States possesses the largest expanse of fertile land in the world. For this reason, all of America will be converted to farmland. Your country will feed the world."
"We'll be farmers?"
"Indeed."
Smith sputtered. "Another 'final solution' by another lunatic," he shouted. "The world will laugh at you."
"Oh, but you're wrong. You underestimate the far-reaching eff
ects of Phase One. The silent messages transmitted through television will continue to be broadcast until the world finds itself begging for its new leader. And Abraxas shall be there for them. On the twelfth of this month, I will reveal myself to all the people of the planet. The purpose of my broadcast will be to instruct them to follow me. They will listen, I assure you. They will follow me into the new age. And none will laugh."
The people at the table leaped to their feet, applauding and stamping. LePat took up the name of Abraxas in a chant, and the others joined him.
"I thank you," the deep voice said at last. "And now I wish for you all to see the work that the members of the Phase One task force have already begun. Circe, the lights, please."
The room dimmed.
"What you are about to see is recent film documenting actual occurrences around the world. It is the result of a program using the same type of subliminal television messages that worked so successfully with Mr. Peabody and the other assassins in our tests. The message that was broadcast in this case was the single word 'Abraxas.' If you will, Circe."
The projector clacked to life. Light flooded the blank screen. An image appeared of a throng of people gathered around the Eiffel Tower, their hands raised to the sky. The noise was deafening as the people in the film opened and closed their mouths in unison. "Abraxas!" they shouted again and again, the chant growing louder.
"Abraxas," called a crowd of thousands gathered near St. Stephen's Tower at the foot of Big Ben. "Abraxas," chanted a gathering of hundreds of saffron-robed Hindus before the reflecting pool of the Taj Mahal. Millions, from the factories of Peking to the streets of Nairobi, called the name of the new god. The chant was on the lips of Iowa farmers and Danish fishermen and Korean students and Russian sailors. "Abraxas," spoke the people of the world.
"My God," Smith said. Whatever madness had been committed, however the gears of Abraxas's terrible destructive machine had been put into motion, Smith knew only that he must reach the president.
But his attaché case was gone, and the portable telephone inside it. To warn the one man who could end Abraxas's reign of terror before it progressed further, Smith would have to escape the South Shore compound.
Overhead, the camera continued to swing in its arc above the darkened room. The delegates cheered as the film went on, chanting along with the masses on the screen.
He had a chance, Smith said to himself, eyeing the door. He hadn't seen any guards around the compound. It was dark in the room. If he could dash out of the place while the camera was angled away from him, he might be able to make a run for the village.
He waited for his moment. Then, when the group was roaring and the camera tilted toward the far left corner, he doubled over and ducked out of the room.
It was dark outside, the dirt road illuminated only by the moon and the stars. The fence surrounding South Shore was fairly tall, but Smith managed to climb it. At the top, he dropped over the side. A stabbing pain shot through his ankle.
He stood up and tested the leg. It was only a sprain, but the pain was bad. He told himself that he'd been hurt much worse during his years with the OSS and the CIA. That was a long time ago, but he hadn't forgotten his training. He scrambled quickly away from the fence and limped along the side of the road, traveling as fast as he could among the shadows.
The village was more than a mile away. By the time he reached the deserted main intersection, his ankle was throbbing with pain that pounded at him in waves. "The president," he mumbled. Once he found the telephone he was looking for, it didn't matter what Abraxas did to him. But he had to find that phone.
He had seen a telecommunications center on the outskirts of the village on his way into South Shore from the airport. From it, he had guessed that Abaco was one of those islands where private telephones were scarce, and most calls were made through one office. If his leg would only hold out until he reached the office, he could probably break into it.
Past the village, a small circle of light glowed on a winding side road. Smith recognized it. The telecommunications center was nearby. He forced his swelling ankle to move toward the light.
Below the bright circle the building stood, alone and vulnerable, its windows at eye level. Even with his useless leg, breaking into the place would be easy.
He picked up a rock and, spreading his coat over the window, broke it silently. Groaning from the pain in his leg, he managed to hoist himself up to the window and swing inside.
There was a switchboard, a primitive model Smith could figure out with one look. Crouched in the darkness, he whispered to the overseas operator and waited for the connection to click through to Washington.
"The White House. Good evening," the operator said after what felt like an interminable wait. Smith was sweating. His ankle pounded mercilessly.
"This is Dr. Harold W. Smith. I must speak with the president."
"I'm afraid that's not possible at this time, Mr. Smith," the operator said cheerfully. "Will you leave a message?"
"I assure you I'm not a crank," he said. "Please give the president my name. This is an urgent matter. And it's Doctor Smith."
"I've told you, Mr. Smith..."
He didn't hear the rest of her sentence. Outside, a car's headlights approached.
They followed me.
"I cannot reach the president through the channels I normally use," Smith persisted, glancing toward the headlights. They veered onto the side road, toward him. "This is a matter of top national security. Please tell him it's Harold Smith, and hurry. There isn't much time."
"Well, I don't know..."
"Tell him!" Smith hissed.
The car's engine droned louder as it neared the building, then shut off suddenly. Two doors slammed. "Hurry!"
"All right," the operator said uncertainly. "But this better be for real."
"It is." He waited. Sweat poured down his face into the collar of his shirt. His heart felt like a frightened bird flapping inside his chest. The line was silent. "Please hurry," he whispered into the dead phone.
The doorknob turned and clicked as it hit the lock. Someone on the other side kicked at it. Smith watched the cheap wood bend with the blow.
The telephone crackled. "Hello? Hello?" Smith shouted. There was no response.
From behind the door came the explosion of a pistol fired at close range. The door shook on its hinges. A man's foot kicked it open. It was LePat, a Walther P-38 still smoking in his hand. Circe was with him. They walked toward him quickly, Circe fumbling with something in her handbag.
Smith followed them with his eyes, but he remained with the telephone. His life, he figured, was worth as little where he was as it would be five feet away. He wouldn't get much farther than that before LePat's Walther stopped him.
"Yes?" came the familiar voice on the other end of the line. Smith opened his mouth to speak, but only a gasp came out. He felt a sharp stab in the back of his neck. His veins turned to pasta. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Circe's long, manicured fingers depressing a plunger into a hypodermic filled with pink liquid.
"Mr. President," he drawled, sounding like a drunk. He said no more. His brain reeled with what felt like the blow of a cushioned hammer. He opened his lips to speak, but it was useless. As the room began to swirl and darken around him, he was aware only of the president's voice calling his name from a world away as LePat's hand hung up the receiver.
?Chapter Eleven
Remo awoke with a start. He was fully dressed, lying on the floor of the hotel room. "What time is it?"
Chiun peered out the window. "Nearly nine."
"In the morning? You mean I've been asleep since yesterday afternoon?"
"You were tired," the old man said. "We both were. The journey was difficult."
"But I never sleep. Not like that, anyway." He got to his feet groggily. "The last thing I remember is watching television...."
" 'Ways of Our Days,' " Chiun said, smiling. "You were entranced with it. A fine drama, don't yo
u agree?"
"That's it," Remo said. "It was that idiotic soap opera. It gave me a headache. My brain felt like it was going to explode."
"Do not fear. It will never be full enough for that."
"You're a laugh a minute. Ouch." He pressed his fingers to his temples. Light flashed behind his closed eyelids. Lights, and a word printed in bold letters across a mesh of fine gray lines. "Chiun," he called, alarmed.
"What is it?"
"Abraxas. I see it. The word, I mean."
"You, too? Ah, well. The deity must have need of many disciples."
"Mrs. Peabody," Remo said in amazement.
"No, no. Mrs. Havenhold. The name of the heroine of 'Ways of Our Days' is Mrs. Havenhold."
"I mean Orville Peabody's wife. She saw the word, too. So did her son. Her son who wasn't in school. Get it? It was the television. 'Abraxas' was on the screen."
"I saw nothing on the screen."
"It had to be. Those gray lines you were talking about were the field behind the television picture. You can always see them if you look closely. See?" He turned on the television set. A children's program was on, showing a bunch of toddlers being led around a barnyard by a man in a rooster costume, Remo's head felt as if it were being constricted by steel wires. "It's still there," he said.
"Where?" The children squealed with delight as they picked up baskets of colorful plastic eggs from the henhouse.
"Somewhere. I can feel it."
"And I cannot?" Chiun asked archly. "Perhaps I am not sufficiently sensitive to receive this invisible message?"
"Perhaps you've spent a lot more time watching television than I have. A person's eyes have to get used to that flickering light. Mine have never adapted to it." He closed his eyes hard, then opened them. He repeated the motion.
"That is a ridiculous idea."
"Abraxas," Remo said slowly, blinking his eyes in a quick pattern. "There it is."
"Where?" Chiun demanded, staring at the screen, where nothing more pernicious than a bunch of children petting lambs was going on.
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