Market Force td-127

by Warren Murphy

  "Oh, I see," Smith said, nodding. "You're probably right. However, since we know of no others, we have to begin the search somewhere. I will monitor flights to and from the island. The mainframes are already programmed to flag any deaths with a Sinanju fingerprint. I will broaden the search parameters. That is how we stumbled upon him the first time years ago." He began typing at his keyboard.

  "I fear it will do you no good, Emperor," the Master of Sinanju cautioned. "Although Purcell is mad, he was never a fool. He was a gifted young man with a bright mind. He has escaped into the world. It is likely we will not see him again until such time he chooses to be found."

  There was a note of sad resignation in the old Korean's voice.

  "Perhaps," Smith said unhappily. "But we must make an effort." As he worked, he shot a quizzical glance at the tiny Asian. "I'm surprised to see you here, Master Chiun. When Remo called for another assignment an hour ago, I assumed you would go with him."

  A cloud passed across the old man's face. "Remo does not need me any longer," he said.

  Smith detected the bitterness in the Korean's voice. "Is something wrong between the two of you?"

  ''Nothing that was not anticipated."

  The old Korean could see that Smith expected more. With a sigh, he shook his aged head.

  "When a Master arrives at the level Remo has reached, he begins to look differently at those around him," Chiun explained. "He even sees as a burden those who raised him, who brought him up from despair and squalor, those who gave him the best years of their lives. It is this way with many Masters in transition. Not me, of course," he added hastily. "I was a joy to train. But the lesser pasty-skinned ingrates with ugly noses and big feet are notorious for this sort of behavior during the time of final passage to full Masterhood."

  "Hmm," Smith said. "Your description makes it almost sound like Remo is going through a new adolescence."

  "Remo never stopped going through his first adolescence," the Master of Sinanju replied. "This is different. I would not expect an outsider to understand."

  Smith grunted acceptance. He finished up work at his computer.

  "There," the CURE director announced. "I have updated the search function to include all suspicious deaths, not just those that seem to involve Sinanju characteristics. I have also alerted authorities in the northeast to be on the lookout for individuals matching Purcell's description. I have issued orders not to attempt to apprehend. It would be pointless to do so, and we do not need any more deaths on our hands. They will focus their attention on airports, as well as train stations and bus terminals."

  For a moment his hands rested at the edge of his desk, fingers curled to attack his keyboard. He quickly realized that he had done all that he was able to do. Jeremiah Purcell was a free man now. If he was spotted, Smith's basement mainframes would let him know.

  His hands withdrew from the hidden keyboard. "We must deal now with another urgent matter," the CURE director said ominously. "Mark has disappeared."

  Chiun's eyes opened wide. "The Prince Regent has fallen victim to the evil Dutchman?" he asked, concern blossoming anew on his weathered face.

  "Possibly," Smith said. "Unfortunately, that would be the more agreeable option. There is evidence that Mark is in collusion with Purcell."

  The Master of Sinanju's face darkened. "Impossible," the old Korean insisted firmly. "Whoever told you this is lying, Emperor Smith. Point me to this untruthful adviser and I will award you the gift of his false tongue for daring to slander the character of your gracious and loyal prince."

  "I know you are fond of Mark, Master Chiun, but I saw it with my own eyes. Mark is the one who issued the order to cut Purcell's sedatives."

  Chiun shook his head. "Sinanju has long danced along the blade of palace intrigue," he said. "We can recognize the seeds of treachery in faithless underlings. Prince Mark does not possess a traitorous spirit. He would not betray you of his own free will."

  "I hope you're right," Smith said. The weariness of the past few days suddenly began to catch up with him. He sank back in his chair, closing his tired eyes. "It would be easier if I could question him directly. So far the police have been unable to find him."

  "He was not seen leaving?" Chiun asked.

  "No," Smith said. "He may still be on the grounds. His car was in the parking lot when I arrived.-"

  "In that case I will find him for you."

  Chiun rose to his feet in a single fluid motion and went over to the wall. Sinking back to a lotus position, he pressed his back tight against the paneling. His papery eyelids fluttered shut.

  For several long minutes he sat in utter silence-an ancient statue that not even a single dust particle would dare alight on for fear of breaking his trance.

  Across the room Smith was engulfed by the waves of utter stillness. At one point he shifted in his chair to ease the discomfort in his lower back. For an instant he cringed, afraid that the squeak from his chair might intrude on the Master of Sinanju's thoughts. But then he remembered the squeak was no longer there.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the old Korean's eyes sprang open wide. In a twirl of silk, he rose to his feet and bounded for the door, flinging it open.

  Smith jumped to his feet and hurried after the Master of Sinanju. He caught up with him in the hallway. There were police in the hall of the executive wing. At first Smith was worried that Chiun would say something to them-or worse. But it was as if they didn't exist. The Master of Sinanju breezed past the officers they encountered.

  Upstairs, they passed through the hospital wing. Smith noticed that it was unusually quiet for that time of morning. The only talking in the ward came from television sets. In every room the TV set was turned on. A dozen Folcroft patients stared, mesmerized, at the flickering images on a dozen separate television screens.

  It was odd given the excitement of the morning. Smith had expected the residents of Folcroft to be disturbed by all that had been going on. He didn't have time to see whatever it was the patients found so fascinating.

  Down the hall and through another set of doors, he and the Master of Sinanju found themselves above the administrative wing of the big building. Another hall led around a corner. When they got to the end, Smith found that he was looking up a dusty old staircase.

  The stairs led to an old abandoned attic. Chiun had been using the room as a private hideaway during the time he'd been living at Folcroft. It was tucked so far off the beaten path that the police had so far failed to find it.

  Kimono hems spinning crazily around his ankles, the Master of Sinanju mounted the stairs. Smith followed.

  The enclosed staircase led to a warped pine door. Chiun pushed the door open and slipped inside.

  At the far end of the long room, weak winter sunlight spilled through three ceiling-to-floor windows. Smith hadn't been sure what to expect. He realized his expectations needn't have been very high.

  For once the Master of Sinanju's instincts had been wrong. The room was empty, save the collection of medical junk that had accumulated in the attic for the eighty-or-so years Folcroft had been in operation.

  Smith was allowing the tension to drain from him even as the old Korean made his way across the floor to the window.

  "I suppose we should allow the police to conduct the search for Mark after all," Smith said with a sigh. "You may return to your quarters if you wish. I'll let you know if they turn up anything. Master Chiun?"

  Chiun seemed intensely interested in a bundle of old rags that had been dumped beneath the window. The rags rested in shadow, tucked up under the sill away from the sunlight.

  Only when he squinted against the light did the CURE director see that the pile of rags was wearing shoes.

  Holding his breath, Smith hurried over to join Chiun.

  The man was lying in the inch-thick dust, curled up in a tight fetal position. His head and knees touched the wall beneath the grimy windows.

  Smith's mouth opened in slow shock. "Mark?" he asked.
Deep apprehension flavored his lemony voice. It was as if the voice were some intangible lifeline. The man on the floor rolled his head from the wall. Desperate, terrified eyes darted between the two standing men. The instant he saw Smith, the young man's eyes seemed to find focus. All at once the man lunged at Smith.

  He grabbed the CURE director tight, wrapping both arms around the older man's neck.

  Baffled, Smith looked at the Master of Sinanju. Great sadness filled the old Korean's leathery face. And the pleading voice warm in Smith's ear was filled with fear and incomprehension.

  "Help me," Mark Howard croaked.

  And with that his frightened eyes rolled back in his head and the assistant director of CURE passed out in the arms of Harold W. Smith.

  Chapter 5

  The Australian outback would have been a dream. A deserted tropical island? Heaven.

  So what if there were snakes in the outback or if it was the kind of island where you had to eat rats and bugs? Paradise was in the eyes of the beholder. Right about now, even having to endure a backstabbing, overweight gay guy strutting around naked wouldn't have been so bad.

  "When I signed on for this, I thought we'd be going somewhere tropical," R. Chappel said. "I worked out for two months straight. Got in the best shape of my life. I even bought a home tanning bed. For what? Look at this dump."

  He waved an angry hand at the surrounding scenery. The hand was covered by a thick mitten. The mitten matched his heavy down jacket. A tiny patch adorned the breast of the winter coat, its logo recognizable to television viewers across the country and around the world.

  "I mean it," Chappel concluded. "Did you expect this?"

  "Could be worse," replied David Felder. He continued to forage on the ground for supplies.

  That was typical Felder. Never wanting to complain, always trying to put on a good face. That was Felder's strategy. Keep his head down, stay quiet, don't make waves and-with luck-when this mess was over, walk away with the million-dollar prize.

  That wasn't R. Chappel's strategy. Chappel was the official complainer. There was one every time. Everyone would bitch and moan about his constant griping, and when they couldn't take it any longer they'd vote him the hell out of there. Right about now Chappel didn't care.

  "Gimme my own house, my own bed. I'm sick of sleeping on the ground. And you!" he suddenly snapped directly to the camera. "Get that damn thing away from me before I shove it down your throat!"

  The camera that hovered a few inches from his angry face didn't move. The cameraman behind it didn't reply.

  The camera operators never talked. It was in their contracts not to interfere with the contestants. They could film, but they could not interact.

  "Dammit," Chappel snarled. "Like talking to a damn zombie."

  He turned back to Felder. "We about done here?"

  "A couple more minutes," Felder said as he continued to pick items off the ground. "'This place is a gold mine."

  Crossing his arms, Chappel glanced around. It didn't look like a gold mine to him. Not unless gold mines were surrounded by bombed-out tenements and abandoned stores.

  This was the cruelest trick life had ever played on R. Chappel.

  At first this had been a dream come true. He had submitted the audition tape without any expectations at all, and he had made it! He'd beaten all odds and actually been chosen as a contestant for the biggest reality game show in the history of American television.

  Winner was a genuine cultural phenomenon. Hugely popular among viewers. A ratings juggernaut. Even those who had never once seen the show couldn't escape from it.

  The premise was simple. A group of people with wildly different backgrounds was placed in a remote setting and forced to survive without any of the creature comforts of modern life. Each week, the group would select one person to expel. Their numbers would be winnowed down until only one was left. To the winner was awarded the one-million-dollar grand prize.

  The settings of the first Winner seasons had been hot, exciting and dangerous. To shake things up in the latest installment, the producers had gone in a different direction.

  "Goddamn Harlem," R. Chappel griped as he looked around the benighted urban landscape. "What were they smoking when they came up with this?"

  David Felder didn't answer. He continued to dig up discarded hypodermic needles from the dirty snow of the abandoned lot. The group had leaned early on that the used needles could be traded to crack addicts for food stamps. The contestants could then trade in the food stamps at the corner convenience mart for necessities.

  Felder dropped two more needles into his knapsack.

  He had swiped the knapsack from base camp. The same logo that adorned both of their jackets was stitched to the bag. The words Surmount, Surpass, Survive were printed in an oval, surrounding the larger word Winner.

  That same logo was plastered all over everything, from hats to T-shirts to belt buckles. It was even on the goddamn rolls of toilet paper.

  Of course, real toilet paper was reserved for the producers and crew. The cast had to scrounge up whatever they could whenever nature called. When they couldn't barter with needles or deposit bottles, they were forced to make do with whatever they could find. R. Chappel had learned pretty quickly that Church's Chicken bags and discarded Wrigley's Spearmint wrappers weren't worth shit for absorbing.

  "It's all rigged anyway," R. Chappel said. "They pick who's gonna win even before we get started. A guy like me doesn't have a shot." He scowled for the camera. "Yeah, and don't think I don't know you're gonna edit that out."

  The three-man camera crew was no longer looking his way.

  That was odd. He had gotten used to the cameras always being aimed at him. But now they were aimed at the ground. Chappel had come to think of the camera operators as cyborgs, their cameras permanently affixed to their faces. But the faces had emerged. What's more, they looked worried. They were staring down the street.

  Chappel followed their line of sight.

  "Oh, great," he said, rolling his eyes. "Not again."

  There was a group of people heading his way. That was part of the problem with using a public locale for Winner. When the Harlem location was first brought up, there were fears for the safety of the contestants. It turned out those concerns were unnecessary. The biggest worry in this modern era of celebrity worship were those locals who wanted to get in on the act.

  People had been trying to crash the Winner set for the past month. At first Chappel assumed the group coming down the street was just the latest in the seemingly endless parade of media whores. But as they closed in, he realized these ones seemed a tad more focused than the rest had been.

  They didn't talk. They just marched up the road. They were carrying things in their hands. Some had boards or iron bars, others had chains.

  Chappel gulped. "Um," he said out of the corner of his mouth, "you think they want our autographs?" When he turned to David Felder, he was dismayed to find that his partner was no longer digging in the snow.

  Felder was hightailing across the vacant lot. As he ran, he flung his knapsack. Syringes scattered across the snow.

  Two cameramen were on Felder's heels. They were struggling under the weight of their cameras. The third flung his camera at the approaching mob.

  "Run, you moron!" he screamed.

  It was the first time R. Chappel had ever heard one of the cameramen speak.

  Fear set in. Chappel turned and ran after the man. As he raced across the lot, he heard the steady beat of a hundred footfalls behind him. He looked over his shoulder.

  Big mistake. The instant he looked back, he tripped on a malt liquor bottle and landed in a heap on a broken-down chain-link fence. When he rolled back over, the shadows were already falling over him.

  The mob was on him.

  They didn't seem interested in David Felder or the three fleeing cameramen. The mob let the others make good their escape, surrounding the lone, terrified game-show contestant.

  Chap
pel cowered from the sea of blank faces. A rusted piece of twisted metal dug into the small of his back.

  "What do you want?" he asked, his voice small with fear.

  The crowd didn't answer. It stood quietly over him. There was no talking, no shouting. Just utter silence. After a long moment, the multitude parted.

  An obese man in a green jogging suit waddled from the mob. His eyes were as blank as the rest. In his dark hands he clutched a palm-size portable television set with a two-inch screen. The fat man looked from the tiny little screen to the frightened man on the ground.

  "Dat's the one," he proclaimed loudly. He flashed the tiny TV to the crowd.

  A few others had battery sets, as well. They passed them around, dull eyes feeding hungrily on the small image. When they were through, they refocused attention on R. Chappel. This time Chappel saw the blood lust in their eyes. It was the last thing he would ever see.

  Without a peep, without a whisper, without a single angry word, the silent mob fell on R. Chappel. They hit him with boards and rods. They beat him until his bones broke and his skin was bruised and bloodied.

  At first the pain was unbearable. Then it wasn't so bad. Then it was nothing, as the great numbness of death washed over him. When the final blow that technically ended his life came at last, he was already gone. With a nail driven deep into his brain, "R." Remo Chappel was voted from this life to the next.

  THE FORMER PRESIDENT of the United States watched the dilapidated buildings and burned-out cars through the window of his armor-plated limousine.

  Even though the people here loved him, the expresident hated Harlem. He was attracted to places that thrummed with life, like the real New York City and Los Angeles. The whole world knew Harlem was dead from the neck down.

  For this former president, the best gauge of a locale's vitality was whether or not it could sustain a steady stream of thousand-dollar-a-plate fund-raising dinners. Judging by the residents he glimpsed through the tinted windows of his car, the people of Harlem would be lucky to scrape up ten bucks for a Whopper with cheese and a battle of Crazy Horse.