Firing Line td-41

by Warren Murphy

"When those firemen go back to work, you're still going to have a problem."

  "What's that?"

  "Those arsonists. They really can bum down the World Trade Center. They can burn down this whole city."

  "What's left of it, you mean," said the mayor.

  "Right. What's left of it. Anyway, if you don't stop them, this city is in bad trouble and going to stay in bad trouble."

  "As opposed to?" the mayor asked.

  "When are the arsonists calling back?"

  The mayor looked at the wall clock. "Five minutes," he said.

  The aide interrupted him. "Mayor, I just talked to the firemen."

  'Tes?"

  They want St. Swithin's Day off, too."

  "What the hell is St. Swithin's Day?" the mayor asked.

  "I don't know, something about a groundhog, I think," the aide said.

  "No," the mayor said. "It's rain. Groundhog is winter or something." He groaned again. "Give it to them. Give them anything. It doesn't matter. I'm gonna have all those bastards thrown off the frig-

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  ging department if it's the last thing I do."

  The aide nodded and went back to the phone. Remo said, "All right, Mayor, when the arsonists call, here's what you do."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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  The Trade Center police still ringed the block, but all of them had been pulled out from inside the twin tower complex when Remo and Chiun arrived. The lights had been turned out in the lobby, but as the two men walked down the store-lined corridor connecting the two towers, a flashlight beam shone from one end into their faces. "Who are you?" a voice called. "I can't hear you," Remo said. Tve got a flashlight in my face."

  The light went out. "One man only," Chiun hissed to Remo. "Now who are you?"

  Tve got your money," Remo said. He swung the attaché case he was carrying into the air above his head before realizing that his questioner couldn't see it in the dark. Remo made out the man. Early thirties, flashily dressed, wearing two gold rings. He had seen him before behind the wheel of a car in St. Louis. Solly Martin. Remo was disappointed. He had hoped that the kid Sparky would be here, too.

  Remo and Chiun walked toward him. Solly's voice was crisp. "That's far enough," he said.

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  "We're twenty feet apart," Remo said. "How do I get you your money unless we get closer than that? Mail it?"

  "What's the money in?"

  "A briefcase," Remo said.

  "Okay. Put it down on the floor, then back up."

  The light flashed on. Remo put down the attaché case and then motioned for Chiun to back away. So did Remo.

  They saw the flashlight click on, zero in on the attaché case, and then come closer. It waved up to them.

  "Back farther," Solly called. "No funny stuff. I've got a gun on you."

  "No gun," Chiun whispered to Remo.

  "How do you know?"

  "His balance when he walks. He is just one flashlight off in balance. Not a flashlight and a gun," Chiun said.

  Remo had made the same judgment. "Maybe he's dragging the gun on a rope behind him," he said sullenly.

  "No," Chiun said thoughtfully. "I don't hear

  that."

  The flashlight was at the attaché case. Solly bent down to flip it open.

  Remo said, "Where's Santa's little helper?" "Sparky? He's upstairs ready to put this building away if there's any funny stuff." Suddenly, he realized that no one should have known about his young accomplice. He looked up at Remo as he fumbled with the locks. "What do you know about . . ."

  Remo interrupted. "You set many fires?" "Enough to know what we're doing," Solly said.

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  "Who are you?"

  "You set that one in Newark? At the tenement? For Reverend Witherspool?"

  "Yeah. That was ours. Good fire."

  In the dark, Remo nodded. "A friend of ours died in that fire."

  "Sorry to hear it," Solly Martin said. 'That's life."

  Tm glad you're taking that attitude," Remo said.

  Solly had forgotten the question he asked Remo in his hurry to get the case of money open. He Lifted the top, glanced at the money, then raised his light toward Remo, catching him full in the eyes. Remo saw the swing of the light and contracted the pupils of his eyes before the light hit him, and when the light was on him, the pupils of his eyes were only little pinpricks of black.

  "I know you from somewhere?" Solly asked. He rotated the light around Remo's face.

  "We never met," Remo said. "But we almost did in St. Louis. At the sporting goods store."

  "That was you?"

  ''Yeah."

  "You spooked the kid."

  "Nothing compared to what I'm going to do," said Remo.

  "What do you mean?" ,

  "I mean, you're first and then him. That's phoney money there. It's just cut-up newspaper, under a few bills. Phoney stacks."

  The light swung down toward the attaché case, but before Solly Martin could even glance at the money, Remo was on him, his right hand like a claw around the back of Martin's neck.

  "Where's the kid?" Remo asked.

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  "I don't know. Owwwww. I don't know."

  "What do you mean, you don't know?"

  "He's upstairs somewhere. In this building."

  "And how's he going to know you've got the money?" Remo asked.

  "He's going to call me on that phone over there." Solly tried, ineffectively, to point to a pay phone on the wall.

  "Is that the truth?" Remo asked, even though he knew it was. Pain in judicious doses, judiciously applied, always brought the truth, and Remo was a master at the measured dose of pain.

  "Yeah, it's the truth," Solly said. "This is a shit deal."

  "Maybe you're in the wrong business," Remo said.

  "I was always in the wrong business. And here, finally, I thought I had it. And now . . . goddamn jail."

  Remo shook his head. In the glow from the flashlight, forgotten on the floor, Solly could see Remo's face, the dark, deep-set eyes, the high cheekbones, and a shiver went through the man's body.

  "What do you mean, no?" he asked. "You're a cop, ain't you?"

  "Sorry, kid. Not me. I'm an assassin."

  "Hear, hear," said Chiun. "And about time, too."

  "What's next?" said Solly nervously. His voice trembled.

  "You are. Good-bye, Solly," said Remo.

  "You're going to kill me?"

  "For a friend named Ruby," Remo said.

  "You can't do that," said Solly.

  "Watch," said Remo.

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  As he finished Solly, the telephone on the wall rang. Before Remo could move toward it, Chiun had lifted the receiver.

  "Chiun," hissed Remo. "Ill handle that."

  "Just a minute," Chiun said into the phone. "Remo wants to talk to you." He handed the telephone to Remo. Remo glared at him.

  "Kid?" said Remo.

  "Yeah?"

  "Solly's here. He's got the money."

  "Good. Let me talk to him."

  "He says hurry on down."

  "If I don't talk to him, I go to work."

  Remo moved close to the mouthpiece, as if whispering. "Kid, you better get down here. I think he's planning to take a walk with your money."

  Sparky laughed, a chilling, hollow laugh that pierced Remo's hearing. "Who cares?" he said. "Let him keep the money. I just want to burn."

  "You're not gonna burn, wiseass," said Remo. "You're gonna fry."

  The kid paused, then said, "I know you."

  "St. Louis," said Remo.

  The young boy laughed again. "I knew you'd be along," he said. 'It makes it right sort of."

  "You think so?" Remo asked.

  "Yeah. It's like I been waiting my whole life for you. Like we got some kind of business, you know, like that."

  "We've got business, kid," said Remo. "It's been hanging around for thirty centuries."

  "Nine
ty-second floor," the kid said. 'Til be waiting for you."

  "You got it," Remo said. He let the telephone go dead in his hand, then turned to Chiun with a

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  quizzical look on his face. "He said he's waiting for me."

  "I heard what he said," said Chiun, who was standing ten feet away. "Do you think I'm deaf?"

  "He knows the legend, too," Remo said.

  "Everyone knows it and believes it but you," said Chiun.

  Remo put his hand on Chain's shoulder. "Little Father," he said. "Me, too."

  He walked toward a bank of elevators with Chiun at his side. Remo studied the elevator signs in the lobby. There was no elevator to the 92nd floor. They only went as high as the 60th floor. They started to ride up in the silent building.

  "I hate this," Remo said.

  "What?"

  "You can tell a country's gone to hell when they start messing around with elevators."

  'This one seems to work fine," Chiun said.

  "Naaah," said Remo. "You know, in the old days, elevators used to go from the bottom floor to the top floor. Whoosh. Straight up. Now, they got classes in engineering schools in creative elevator design. They go halfway up. Others go a quarter of the way up. When you get there, you have to get a schedule and switch elevators like switching trains. Trying to get to the top floor is like trying to get to Altoona to see Aunt Alice. Stupid."

  "I didn't know you knew so much about elevators," Chiun said.

  "Just the way I am," said Remo. "I know a lot about so many things."

  "Then here is something you should know," Chuin said. He was interrupted by the elevator door opening. They stepped out and transferred to

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  another elevator. It moved up toward the 92nd floor.

  "What?" said Remo.

  "You are not permitted to kill this child," Chiun said.

  Remo spun toward him. "What?"

  "He is a child. His life is sacrëd in Sinanju," Chiun said. "A master cannot willingly take a child's life."

  "That's Sinanju," said Remo. "This is New York."

  "But you are a master. You are bound by the tradition."

  "Bulldookey," said Remo. 'Tou think I'm going to let this little sparkplug incinerate me, like Tungsten the Medium?"

  "Tung-Si the Lesser," Chiun said. "Rules are rules."

  "Good for you," Remo. "Don't go breaking any. And don't go giving any to me. This little swine killed Ruby, and I'm cancelling his library card."

  The elevator door opened. Remo stepped out.

  Chiun said "I'll stay here." He pressed the close door button.

  In the corridor, Remo paused and then heard the sound. It was a fast, crackling noise. He breathed deep, and the acrid smell of burning wood bit into his sensitive nostrils.

  Remo ran along the carpeted floor, lifting his head like a dog scenting air. At an intersection of corridors, he moved toward the sound and smell of fire at the southeast corner of the building. He found the offices of the Safety First Grandslam Insurance Company. Through the frosted glass of the door, he could see the tongues of flames. The

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  Safety-First Grandslam Insurance Company. Where had he heard that name?

  He pushed his way through the locked door. Sure. It was the company that had issued those life insurance policies that the Reverend Witherspool had hoped would make him rich.

  The office was burning. Desks were afire, bookshelves were smoldering and, as Remo watched, smoke pouring from open file cabinets was turning red and then exploding into flame. A large computer ran the entire length of one wall. Smoke and flames shot from its opening like a slot machine paying off in fire.

  Remo ignored the fires and pushed through the doors into all the connecting offices. Sparky was not there.

  He came back out into the main office and looked at the burning computer. He remembered the policies written on those poor families in Newark. He looked at the fire extinguisher on the wall. He looked at the burning computer.

  "Screw 'em," he said and walked out into the hall.

  Where was the kid?

  He ran along the corridors, pausing every so often to listen, but there were no more sounds—no crackle of flame, no whoosh of smoke, no breathing, no footsteps.

  The kid had left the floor. Where had he gone?

  Remo thought for a split second. He must have gone down. He might be trying to set fires all the way down to the bottom of the building. He would not have gone up because a fire on a lower floor might trap him up high. He must have gone down.

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  When he reached the elevators, the walls and the paint on the metal doors were burning. The carpet was ablaze, too. The kid had waited, trying to trap Remo on the burning 92nd floor. Remo ran back along the corridor, found an exit door, and ran down to the 91st floor. He pushed open the hallway door and listened. All was silent. No sound of human; no sound of fire.

  He began to work his way down through the building. Ninetieth floor. Eighty-ninth. Eighty-eighth. The kid could be anywhere. There were more fires burning on the 80th floor and again on the 74th. Remo let the fires sizzle. That was for the fire department, assuming they were not on vacation in any month with more than 27 days in it. But there was no sign of Sparky.

  Every floor. Checking all the way down.

  Remo opened the door to the 67th floor.

  As he did, he heard a voice call out, "Took you long enough, sucker."

  The sound came from a corridor to his left, and Remo ran along it. At the end of the corridor, he looked right, then left. A door was open at one far end of the hall. He walked slowly toward it.

  This was it.

  Remo stepped into the office through the open door and saw Kid Blaze standing across the room, near a window.

  He looked at Remo.

  "Is Solly dead?"

  "Just like you're going to be," Remo said.

  The boy laughed.

  "Why'd you set those fires upstairs?"

  The youth shook his head. "They're nothing. Just to keep you interested."

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  "I knew they weren't big enough to mean anything."

  "That's right. From here down, I take this building apart," Sparky said.

  "To do that, you've got to get through this door behind me," Remo said.

  "Then I'll just have to." The youth paused. He squinted across the room at Remo's face. "It seems hike we've done this before," he said.

  "You wouldn't know about it, but our ancestors did. A long time ago."

  "Yeah? Who won then?"

  "Your team," Remo said.

  'Til have to keep our record clean," the kid said. "First you. Then this building. Then who knows? I'm ready to move on to bigger things. Maybe the White House or Congress. The Pentagon. Who knows? All I know is I don't need Solly stopping me everytLme I'm trying to have some fun."

  "That woman you killed in Newark. Was that fun?"

  "You betcha. And you're going to be fun. People in the street. Cats, dogs, passing cars. It's all fun."

  "You're a freaking looney," Remo said. "Say good night, looney."

  He started across the room, just as Sparky McGurl raised his arms. As Remo reached the row of desks in front of the youth, they flashed into flame. Through the flames, he could see the boy sizzling blue, flames crackling like electricity from his fingertips. The desks were incinerating in front of Remo's eyes. Great gouges of wood exploded into flame, popping up into the air, flying past Remo's head, and he backed off.

  He felt heat behind him, and as he wheeled, he

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  saw the floor burning behind him. Flames were shooting up from the floor, straight up, like a wall, an upside-down waterfall of fire. And then the fire was on both sides of him, too. Floor, walls, desks, furniture—everything was ablaze.

  Above the crackle of the flames came the high-pitched laugh of Sparky McGurl.

  "You're done for. Say good night, sucker," he called out.

  Remo fe
lt the floor begin to weaken under his feet. The ring of fire around him grew in closer. Through the licking of the thick flames, he could see Sparky near the window, and with a sinking feeling, he saw that the boy was glowing even more intensely with the fire power. Remo's weight buckled slightly into the floor. It would be going soon. The flames were now spitting toward his skin; his bare arms felt the singe of heat from the awful ring of fire. He lowered his body temperature to withstand the blaze, but he knew it was drawing drastically down on his stores of energy. If he had a move to make, he'd have to make it now.

  Remo coiled his legs into a crouch, then sprang upward, his pointed fingers thrust out in front of him like the business ends of tiny spears. He drove his fingers hard into the plasterboard of the ceiling. His fingers passed through the board and then grabbed onto the metal ceiling beam overhead. He gripped both hands around the metal beam, then swung himself out and through the ring of fire. He landed beyond the fire on the floor of the office.

  Sparky growled his anger. He aimed his hands at Remo. Remo darted for the water cooler in the office, yanked off the giant bottle of water, and with

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  the side of his hand slashed off the neck of the bottle. He tossed the water at Sparky, just as the boy was aiming twin bolts of fire at Remo. Remo ducked below the racing flames. The water, all ten gallons of it, splashed on the boy. He sizzled. For a moment he vanished behind a cloud of steam. Remo could see his fire aura change almost immediately from hot yellow-white down through red and blue to human skin.

  He stood there like a dog that had prowled the streets through a rainstorm, bedraggled and sad looking. It was easy now. Remo picked up a stone pen holder from a. desk. Just toss it through the boy's skull, before he had a chance to recharge himself and start the blazes again.

  He drew his arm back to throw the heavy weight at the boy, to deliver the killing blow. But he could not throw it. Slowly, he let his arm drop to his side. He shook his head. Chiun and his goddamn legends were going to get him killed one day. Throw the damn thing. But he couldn't.

  If anyone ever needed killing, this vicious little animal, this twisted product of too many wrongs, this murderer of Ruby Gonzalez, deserved death— and Remo could not deliver it.

  Sparky was screaming. "It won't save you," he yelled. "I'm not done yet." Remo could see the boy's face screwed up with the intensity of his effort to begin his eerie fire glow. Remo taunted him by beckoning to him with his hand.