Market Force td-127

by Warren Murphy

  Still on his knees, General Zaw looked around at the room smeared with blood and brains.

  It had all happened in the wink of an eye. As the realization sank in, his terrified stomach clenched. General Zhii Zaw puked his breakfast onto the sensible blue carpet. Afterward he bowed his head deep into the puddle of his own stomach contents. In supplication to the awesome power of the glorious Masters of Sinanju.

  WHEN REMO STEPPED off the elevator downstairs, he found a bunch of very pale vacationing American college kids crowded around the lobby television set. They were watching a show about a group of people who had been stranded in a remote location and were forced to use their wits to survive.

  On the screen were printed the flashing words "You will not change the channel."

  As Remo passed by, he paused, frowning at the words of command on the screen.

  "You come all this way on Christmas vacation, presumably on daddy's dime, and all you do is sit and watch TV?" Remo asked one of them. "What's the matter with you? Why aren't you drunk and getting herpes like normal college kids?"

  The nearest student turned to Remo. He was ghostly white and could have benefited from a few hours in the sun. By the looks of it, he'd been in front of the television his whole Cancun vacation.

  "Shh," he insisted, pointing to the television.

  On the screen Becki had just confided to an offscreen interviewer that her alliance with Jojanna was just a scheme to get Curt voted off the show, where he would have an inevitably short-lived career as a cheesy product spokesman or B-list actor. At least this had been the most common career for most of those dismissed from the popular survival program.

  "It's days like this," Remo mused, "when I actually see what I'm out there protecting, that I almost wish it wasn't my job to keep Western civilization from collapsing around all our ears."

  When the chorus of "Shut ups" came, Remo had already vanished out the hotel's front revolving door.

  Chapter 3

  As he hurried through the snow, the wind from Long Island Sound sliced Harold W. Smith to the bone. The tails of his overcoat blew out behind him like a gray cape.

  The well-tended grounds of Folcroft Sanitarium were surrounded by several acres of pristine woods. At one time a hiking path through the woods had been maintained for patients. However, so few of Folcroft's residents had used it, Smith eventually ordered the groundskeeping service to let it fill in. In the warmer months it was overgrown with brush, but by this time of winter the rough outlines of the old trails slowly reappeared.

  The old path was covered with a foot of snow. The footprints of the police who had gone before were clearly visible, broken through the snow's crusted surface.

  It was slow going for Smith and Detective Davic. Each man held a tranquilizer gun.

  The CURE director could see that the Rye police officer was anxious. Every few feet the middle-aged detective would switch his air gun from one hand to the other, wiping perspiration from his palm onto his trousers.

  Smith's palm was bone dry. He held his own air gun loose in his hand. Clenching the weapon as if it were some sort of magic talisman was pointless. When the time came, Harold Smith would be ready. Not that he had any delusions about the certainty of success.

  There was every possibility they would fail. The man they were looking for was possessed of abilities like no one else on the planet.

  No. Check that. There were two others, but at the moment they were far away. Smith had seen to that. As they made their way through the woods, the CURE director wondered if he had made the right decision in not calling Remo directly back to Folcroft. The moment the self-doubt came, Smith banished it.

  The police were here. On the grounds of Folcroft. It was not a CURE matter that had brought them here, but their presence raised the omnipresent specter of discovery.

  Smith had lived with the risk of exposure for many years now. Most times it lurked at the fringe of conscious thought. It was a canker sore. Sometimes you missed it for a time, but it could never be entirely forgotten.

  At other times risks to CURE's security had almost brought about the end of the secret organization. This situation was threatening to become one of those times.

  No, Remo couldn't be involved in this. At least not until the police were cleared out. CURE's enforcement arm had never been as cautious as he should. To bring him here could raise even more questions.

  "Here," Davic announced all at once. His breath was labored, his cold-seared lungs scarred by years of smoking.

  A fork split the path. The heavy footprints they were following broke to the left.

  Smith and Davic followed the left fork. It carried them away from the Sound and toward the road. As they trudged along, Smith thought of the events that had brought him here.

  He had known long before today that the escaped patient they were looking for was dangerous. Yet Remo and his teacher had refused to eliminate him. Something to do with some silly superstition that Smith had never fully understood. Despite his misgivings, the CURE director had acceded to their request that the patient be allowed to live out his life in a perpetual medicated coma in CURE's isolated security wing.

  A mistake. Smith's fault for allowing it. And it wasn't the only mistake. After the events of that morning, there was another that would soon need to be addressed.

  More than a year ago circumstances had deposited Remo and his teacher on Smith's doorstep. The two men had been living at Folcroft ever since. No more. It was just too risky. Once this was over, that arrangement would have to end. He would bring it up with them at the earliest convenient time. Assuming, that is, Smith survived the day.

  The path they were on angled up a small hill. Long Island Sound was barely visible through the tangle of trees. In the past few minutes, the weak winter sun had begun to break through the bleak cloud cover. Just a few glimmers of yellow morning light could be seen on the white-capped waves. As they climbed the hill, the water disappeared, obscured by brambles and bushes and thick woods.

  Smith saw the body the instant they crested the hill. It was lying in the snow, surrounded by four other men. Three were uniformed police; the fourth was a detective.

  Smith and Detective Davic hurried over to the body.

  The uniforms stood around Detective Wayne as he crouched over the body. When Davic's young partner saw the gun in Smith's hand, he glanced questioningly at Davic.

  "This is Dr. Smith," Davic explained, breathless. "He offered to help, and at this point I'm not refusing. What have you got?"

  Detective Wayne turned his attention back to the body. "Young male," he said. "Looks to be around the right age. The only man missing is your assistant, Dr. Smith."

  The dead man was the right build for Mark Howard. His face was pressed in the snow where he'd fallen. The man had been stripped of his clothes.

  Whoever had taken them had failed to disturb the crusted snow around the body.

  "Let's see him," Davic ordered.

  Detective Wayne gently turned the head to give Smith a better look. They all saw the blood for the first time. It wasn't as it had been back inside Folcroft. There was barely any here. Just a small stain of red in the clean white snow.

  Smith's features were pinched as he glanced at the dead man. The youthful face was familiar.

  But it was not the one he had expected to see. "That's not Mark Howard," Smith said. He exhaled a relieved cloud of bile-scented air.

  Davic seemed disappointed. "Do you know who it is?"

  "Yes," Smith said, nodding. "He's the grandson of Mrs. Sudbury, one of our patients. He frequently stops by in the mornings to bring his grandmother pastry."

  "Perfect," Davic grumbled. "Our boy's got street clothes now. Wayne, get back to the building. See if anyone there saw this guy this morning. What he was wearing."

  With a sharp nod, Detective Wayne turned. "C'mon, Javez," he barked at one of the uniformed men.

  The two officers headed down the path.

  "See if his ca
r is still here," Smith called after them.

  Davic nodded. "Right. You know what he drives?"

  "I believe it is a red Ford Explorer."

  "Red Ford Explorer," Davic shouted after Wayne. "Check with the guard at the gate. Javez, search the lot while he's asking."

  He turned to Smith. "No offense, but I've talked to your security guard. He ain't exactly Columbo."

  "I'm not sure if that will yield anything useful," Smith said. "If this is the path he took, I believe he would continue on it. After ten years of confinement, he would take the most direct route to freedom."

  "You're the head doc," Davic said. "Stay with the body," he ordered one of the uniformed men. "And keep sharp. You're with us."

  The other uniformed officer fell in with Davic and Smith as they continued on the path.

  A dozen yards away they found a small mound of discarded linen. Smith recognized the blue-speckled johnny that was standard for Folcroft's bedridden patients.

  Around the area a few cracks were visible in the ice-coated snow. Several delicate footprints marred the otherwise untouched frozen sheet of snow.

  Smith was surprised to see the prints. It had been the CURE director's experience that men like his missing patient always walked without leaving a trace. But, then, the man they were tracking had been in a coma for ten years. No matter how skilled he might be, he could not possibly be at one hundred percent. And if his skills were stale, then maybe-just maybe-this could be ended this day after all. Fingers tensing around his air gun, the CURE director hurried along the path in the company of the two police officers.

  The trail led directly up to the high north wall of the sanitarium. It would have been difficult for an average man to scale, but for the fugitive they were seeking, it would have been a simple matter to climb. But he hadn't gone over. He had gone through.

  A massive hole gaped in the high wall. The old concrete veneer had shattered to dust. The heavy bricks beneath were exploded outward. They peppered the snow out in the direction of the lonely road.

  To Detective Ronald Davic, it looked as if a stampeding elephant had broken through in its panic to flee Folcroft Sanitarium. As they approached the wall, the Rye police detective shook his head in disbelief.

  "What the hell kind of inmates do you have locked in this loony bin?" he breathed, glancing over at Smith.

  The Folcroft director didn't answer. His gray eyes were trained directly ahead. His lips pursed in concern.

  When Davic glanced back at the hole in the wall, he saw that the landscape had changed. A lone figure was now framed in the opening.

  When he saw the sudden movement ahead, the young uniformed officer whipped his gun up. "Hold your fire!" Smith commanded.

  Too late. The cop had already squeezed off a round.

  Luckily Smith managed to grab the gun at the last instant. Wrestling with the strong young man, Smith directed the barrel toward the ground. The revolver crackled and the bullet buried harmlessly in snow and earth.

  The gunshot echoed off into the distance.

  To Harold Smith, the fact that it was lucky he had managed to redirect the man's aim was not in question. Had the gun been aimed at the man standing within the remnants of the wall when it was fired, the police officer would have been dead already. As it was, the new arrival merely looked on with dark annoyance before returning his troubled gaze to the shattered wall.

  "That is not the man you are after," Smith snapped at the uniformed officer. "This is another Folcroft patient."

  The uniformed officer was panting fearfully. He looked over at Detective Davic, a frightened expression on his face.

  "I'm-I'm sorry, sir," he managed. Davic waved an angrily dismissive hand.

  Smith was already heading for the wall. Leaving the young officer behind, Davic hurried with the Folcroft director over to the man at the wall.

  The stranger who stood amid the collapsed bricks was five feet tall and older than most of the trees in the surrounding woods. He wore a green silk robe that seemed able to capture light where none existed. Twin tufts of soft yellowing hair clung to the parchment skin of his otherwise bald scalp. His button nose was directed up to where the wall arched in a snaggletoothed collection of jagged brick.

  "I thought you were away with your son," Smith said tightly to the wizened figure. A concerned eye darted to where Detective Davic stood, panting, beside them.

  "I am back," announced Chiun, the Reigning Master of the House of Sinanju. His sharp hazel eyes scanned the contours of the damaged wall. "And he is finally free."

  And the old Korean's singsong voice trembled with the grave tones of foreboding doom.

  Chapter 4

  Smith gave his spare tranquilizer gun to Detective Davic's partner, insisting that as director of Folcroft he had to personally escort the elderly patient to his room. Leaving the police to search the woods that lined the road beyond the sanitarium's shattered north wall, he hurried the Master of Sinanju back to the building.

  Smith was grateful that the old Korean didn't try to engage him in conversation on the way.

  By the time they reached the main building, there were even more police cars clogging the drive. Smith felt the watery acid in the pit of his stomach flare hot as he took note of the growing number of blue uniforms crisscrossing the snow-covered main lawn.

  Chiun watched the many officers through slivered eyes as Smith ushered him inside. They quickly mounted the stairs, ducking past Smith's harried secretary and into the CURE director's office.

  "This situation is very serious, Master Chiun," Smith explained after he had shut the door.

  "I agree," Chiun said. "First we must scatter this army of constables that has had the temerity to roost on your palace grounds. I suggest you begin with boiling oil dumped from the parapets. Where do you keep your catapults? The Roman onager is a nice model. I'm sure you have some of those. Use your onagers to launch flaming garbage into their midst and then mow them down with ballista-hurled javelins."

  "Master Chiun, please," Smith begged. "You know Folcroft has none of those devices. And we cannot interfere with the work of the Rye police."

  "I strongly advise that you do not simply let them swoop in here unchallenged, Emperor Smith," Chiun said, his tone serious. "If you do not act, others will be emboldened by what they perceive as weakness. Soon you'll have Turkish goat herders wandering through your inner ward and Vogul horsemen squatting in the vestibule. If we stick the heads of a few of these pushy doughnut-gobblers on pikes along the walls of Fortress Folcroft, it will discourage the rest."

  "No, Chiun," Smith insisted. "Please. I must ask you to avoid contact with the police while they are here. Allow them to go about their business unmolested."

  The old man's shoulders sank in helpless confusion.

  "You want them here?" he asked.

  "No," Smith admitted.

  "Quickly, then," Chiun said. "Let us pass out crossbows to your nursing staff. If you lead the charge yourself, I will remain at your side to insure that no harm befalls you."

  He turned to go, but the CURE director bounded between him and the door.

  "What I mean is that I accept their presence," Smith said hastily. "Try to understand, Master Chiun. Even more complications would arise if we tried to forcibly remove them. It is best for security to allow them to finish their business without interference."

  The Master of Sinanju noted the look of pleading earnestness on his employer's face.

  "So you want them here, even though you do not want them here," the old man spoke slowly.

  "Precisely," Smith said. "You see?"

  The old Korean saw exactly. This was obviously some inscrutable white madness, the nature of which he had long ago given up hope of ever understanding.

  "Very well, O Emperor," Chiun said, resignation in his voice. "Though the shadows of the deepest cave in the darkest night are terrifying blind to the eyes of we mortals, they are pierced by the brilliance of the light that is your limitless w
isdom. It is not up to a lowly assassin such as myself to comprehend the complexities of your dealings in matters of state. If you wish to let foreign armies clomp around your palace as if it were their own, I will not interfere. But might your humble assassin offer one piffling suggestion?"

  "What is that?"

  "Hide the silver before the Spaniards arrive."

  As Chiun tucked his hands deep inside the voluminous sleeves of his kimono, Smith allowed a slip of relief to pass his thin lips.

  "I am not concerned about invading armies," the CURE director said. "My main worry at the moment is Jeremiah Purcell. You are aware that he has escaped?"

  Chiun nodded impatiently. "So I have said."

  "He may have a head start of three hours."

  "It is closer to four," Chiun corrected. "Judging by the prints he made in the snow and the condition of the body in the woods."

  "Then you agree with my assessment," Smith said with a troubled frown. "I had hoped he might have doubled back in an attempt to throw us off the trail. But I thought that unlikely. It is my opinion that he would not stay here."

  "I agree," the old Korean replied. "The footprints in the snow show that he is not what he once was. He knows he cannot face either me or Remo in his current debilitated state. He would go somewhere to recover."

  For a moment Smith hovered in the middle of the office, hands clenched in helpless frustration. But all at once a light dawned.

  "The castle where he was trained!" he exclaimed. "Maybe he'll go back to Saint Martin. He has fled to safety there in the past."

  Whirling from the Master of Sinanju, Smith hurried around his desk, settling into his chair.

  "It is possible he would return there," Chiun said. "But it is not the only possibility. After all, some of his training took place in other locations."

  "Oh?" Smith asked, looking up over the tops of his rimless glasses. "I wasn't aware you knew of any other locations your nephew used to train Purcell." There seemed an instant's hesitation on the leathery face of the Master of Sinanju.

  "I merely meant that his training would not be limited to one place," Chiun explained, averting his eyes. "It is likely there were other locations we knew nothing about." He made a show of settling crosslegged to the carpet. The air escaped with a gentle sigh from his collapsing robes.