By Eminent Domain td-124

by Warren Murphy

  "That remains true, Master Chiun," Smith nodded. "Our hierarchical structure is as it has always been. I merely asked Mark to get you because of a strange situation that is developing in Alaska. The President has filled me in on the broad details."

  "Were not the details of females the concern of the roly-poly billhilly who preceded the current pretender to the crown?" Chiun asked.

  "Figure of speech, Little Father," Remo said, sinking to the floor next to his teacher. "What's the story, Smitty?"

  Smith placed his hands to his desk, his fingers interlocking. "Over the past few days there have been multiple attacks on both civilian and military targets in rural Alaska," the CURE director began. "The first was a group of Alaskan pipeline workers. The next was a state defense force team. They were slaughtered to a man by an enemy that, until yesterday, had not shown itself." Smith seemed to grow uncomfortable. "At least not in such a way that I would be willing to trust a lone eyewitness account."

  "Why?" Remo asked. "What was it?"

  "A small army," Mark Howard supplied.

  Remo had been doing his best to ignore the young man. "Good," he said. "Send in our big army. I'll be at the tattoo parlor."

  He rose to a half squat but felt the pressure of a single bony finger on his thigh. With a sigh he dropped back to the floor.

  "You're lucky I'm not in a body-cleaning mood," Remo said in a voice so low only the Master of Sinanju could hear.

  "The first armed unit was put in place by helicopter near the murdered pipeline workers," Smith resumed. "When the pilot returned, he saw what he has termed a, er, ghost army."

  "Ghost?" Remo asked. He shot a look at the Master of Sinanju. The old Korean had grown more attentive.

  Smith nodded gravely. "He described a group of men who stood briefly among the dead as he flew over. He claims that, as he watched, the men vanished from sight. Fearing some supernatural force, he fled back to Fairbanks."

  "Sounds to me like he's got a couple of bent rotor blades," Remo said.

  "Quiet, Remo," Chiun admonished. His alert hazel eyes were locked on Smith.

  "My first impulse would be to agree with you, Remo," the CURE director said. "However, the ambushed ASDF unit wasn't alone. They were involved in joint exercises with the Alaska National Guard and the Army. A National Guard unit consisting of eighty men met a similar fate in the rural town of Kakwik. The sole survivor of that attack described a group of men who could hide in the open and kill at will."

  "Hmm," Remo mused. "That sounds like us, doesn't it, Little Father?"

  Chiun addressed Smith, not Remo. "We once encountered an invisible man," the old man said. Remo was struck by the worry in his tone.

  Smith nodded. "I considered that, too. But tests with the midnight-black paint were discontinued years ago. It was found that the molecular cohesion broke down over short periods of time. And we are not dealing with individuals who can hide only in darkness. Apparently, they can conceal themselves in daylight. Or, given the locale and time of year, partial light."

  "You ever hear of ghosts that can kill, Chiun?" Remo asked.

  "Well," Howard offered, reluctant to interrupt the comfortable dynamic of the three men, "it's obviously not ghosts, Remo." He waited for someone to agree with him.

  Remo ignored Howard. His full attention was on the Master of Sinanju. Even Smith remained mute. Troubled, Howard turned his gaze to the old Korean.

  His face unflinching, Chiun avoided Remo's eyes. "I would travel to this province alone, Emperor Smith," he announced levelly. "There is no reason for Remo to accompany me."

  Remo's brow dropped. "Like fish," he said. "Why? What's wrong?"

  "There is nothing wrong other than the fact that you are an obdurate contrarian," Chiun replied, his voice low. "Reserve one plane ticket, Emperor," he said, rising to his feet.

  Remo got up, too. "Nothing doing. Make that two."

  Chiun shot him an evil look. The old man's lips formed a razor-thin line of angry frustration.

  "Sorry, Little Father," Remo said. "For you to get so jumpy, something must be wrong. If you won't spill the beans, I'm not letting you take off on your own. Two tickets, Smitty," he said emphatically.

  "I'm not certain what your concern is, Master Chiun, but it is too soon to make any assumptions," Smith said reasonably. "We could merely be dealing with some kind of new technology at work here that allows these men to remain unseen until the moment of attack."

  But the old Korean slowly shook his head. "It is not too soon," Chiun said, his voice ominous. "It is long overdue."

  And the look on his face was such that both Smith and Remo knew enough at this point not to press further.

  Remo exhaled. "Okay. Dead end there for now."

  He returned his attention to Smith. "We'll find out the skinny on your ghost guys, Smitty. And I'm gonna keep a good thought that they're with the Eskimo branch of the Crips or the Bloods. I've been up to my fanny in ghosts lately."

  "Actually," Smith said seriously, "if the lone survivor of Kakwik is to be believed, they are of a corporeal nature. It would be more accurate to say they are lost in time." His lips pursed unhappily. "He swears that the men who attacked his National Guard unit were Russians."

  Remo blinked. "You're kidding, right?"

  Smith shook his head. "Moreover, he seemed to think they were Soviet-era Russians. According to his eyewitness account, they were mired in the iconography of that time."

  Remo threw up his hands. "Great. Perfect," he said in disgust. "Twice in one week. Geez Louise, Smitty, what is it with them? Is it the fuzzy hats? The 800-proof grain alcohol they pour on their Brezhnev-Os? How many times we gotta rub their noses in it before they stop pooping on the red, white and blue carpet, for chrissakes?"

  "The Russia connection has not been confirmed," Smith said quickly. "Although those seeds have been planted, they may have been done so as a smoke screen." As he spoke, his hands sought the edge of his desk.

  "Yeah, well, it better not be them," Remo said as the CURE director began typing at his special keyboard. "I've pasted enough hairy-mole and double-chin snapshots in my Memories of Pottsylvania scrapbook lately."

  "I have arranged a military flight to Alaska for the two of you," Smith said. "It will be faster than a commercial airline. A taxi will be arriving at the main gate in fifteen minutes. It will take you to your rendezvous with an Air Force transport. Begin in Kakwik. That is the site of the-most recent attack."

  "Fine," Remo said, his expression still displeased. "But I'm warning you, if I see one more Eastern Blockhead this week, I'm not responsible for my actions."

  Remo was turning to go when Howard broke in. "That's it?" the young man asked, confused. All eyes turned to him. "It just-it seems like there should be more. At the CIA-"

  "Love to stick around and hear how you, Larabee and the rest of the Control guys escaped from Camp Gitche Gumee Noonie Wa-Wa," Remo cut in, "but we've got big-boy work to do. C'mon, Chiun."

  The Master of Sinanju was still deep in thought. Offering only the slightest of nods to the director and associate director of CURE, he padded quietly out the door.

  Once they were gone, Howard turned back to Smith, a questioning look on his wide face.

  "There is no need to weigh them down with minutiae," Smith assured him absently. The older man was fussing at his keyboard once more."

  "If you say so, Dr. Smith," Howard said. "If we're done here, I'll be in my of-"

  "Please sit."

  Mark was halfway out of his chair. The coldly precise words of the CURE director froze him in place. It was clear by his tone that something was wrong. Unsure what he'd done, Mark slowly lowered himself back to his seat.

  Behind his desk, Smith had taken on the disapproving look of a strict boys-school headmaster. His mouth pinched in a thin frown, he scanned his monitor briefly before raising his eyes to meet Howard's.

  "How did you know of the situation in Alaska yesterday?" Smith asked. His gaze never wavered.

/>   Just a moment's hesitation. "Well, the President-"

  "You knew of it before you left for Washington," Smith interrupted. "I have been going over your computer records. You used the time just before leaving for the airport to search for any anomalous activity there. What's more, in our meeting yesterday you suddenly seemed to think that I had mentioned something about Alaska when I had not. Now, under different circumstances I might assume you were involved in whatever is happening there. However, you are well above average intelligence. You would know that I have full access to your computer. And it seems highly improbable that, were you involved, you would blurt it out in front of me. Therefore, I must conclude that you are innocent but were somehow still possessed with the knowledge that something was wrong. So I will ask you again, how did you know?"

  The CURE director's eyes were hard gray truth detectors, boring straight through to Mark Howard's soul.

  Mark considered lying. After all, he had successfully done so on this topic for almost his whole life. But he could not escape the penetrating gaze of Harold W. Smith. Shoulders sinking, Howard shook his head.

  "I don't know how," the young man said, exhaling. "I just had a feeling."

  Smith's lemony face grew interested. "Explain."

  "I really can't, Dr. Smith," Mark said. "It came to me while we were talking yesterday. Just a sense that something might be wrong. I wanted to check to confirm, but I couldn't find anything before I went to Washington. Then Kakwik happened, and it turned out I was right. But I still don't know how it came to me in the first place."

  Smith didn't see anything deceptive in the younger man's body language. He seemed certain of what he was saying, yet simultaneously frustrated by his own claim.

  "It came to you," Smith said evenly. "Are you suggesting that this is some form of psychic phenomenon?"

  Howard's head snapped up. "No, sir," he insisted. "It's just some weird thing that happens sometimes."

  "You are saying that this is not the first time?" Howard's reluctance seemed to return. "No," he said hesitantly. "I've been able to do it a long time. It's sort of a sixth sense, I guess."

  Smith considered Howard's words. "It is possible that your mind simply works differently," he ventured after a thoughtful pause.

  Mark's face showed cautious relief. "You believe me?" he asked.

  "When I was your age, I probably would not have," Smith admitted. "However, I have seen enough that I no longer dismiss such claims out of hand. How do these episodes manifest themselves? In words? Images?"

  "Both," Mark said. "Sometimes neither. With that Raffair business a few weeks back, it was mostly newspaper articles and on-line stories. It's sort of an instinct that directs conscious thought."

  The CURE director nodded. "If you indeed possess such an ability, I would assume that this is precisely the case," Smith said. "Every minute of the day, the human subconscious is bombarded with much more information than it could ever possibly process. A natural filtering absorbs data that is necessary while at the same time disregarding that which is not. Perhaps your subconscious is better able to detect what others might ignore. It then forces the data up into the conscious realm in what you describe as a sixth sense."

  Howard offered a wry smile. "I've been through all the possible explanations before, Dr. Smith," he said. "That one's always been the most comforting. It still doesn't go far enough, though."

  His brow creasing, Smith leaned back in his chair. "That will be all for now," the older man said. "However, if you have any further insights that might be considered out of the norm, do not keep them to yourself."

  Mark nodded. "Yes, sir," he said. As he got to his feet he was now clearly relieved. "Thanks, Dr. Smith."

  He was at the door when Smith called to him. "And, Mark, it would be wise if you did not share your intimate involvement in the Raffair matter with either Remo or Master Chiun. They lost their home during that assignment. Since it was you who initially called attention to the criminal activity at that time, I would not want them to ascribe any misplaced blame to you."

  Howard gave a lopsided smile. "You and me both," he said, and slipped out the door.

  When the door had closed and he was alone once more, Smith took the arms of his battered leather chair in both gnarled hands. He turned slowly.

  Beyond Folcroft's sloping rear lawn, Long Island Sound sparkled in the winter sunlight. Smith gazed at the water without seeing. Lost in thought.

  Lately, he had been contemplating more and more the end of CURE. For Harold W. Smith, that end would bring down the final curtain on a life that had been almost exclusively dedicated to country.

  In the watch pocket of his gray vest was a coffin-shaped pill. When his last day as director of CURE finally arrived, that small capsule would insure that any secrets Smith possessed would die along with him. And, Smith had generally assumed, CURE as an agency would die, too.

  But in the past few days the world had changed dramatically. And with it, for the first time in a long time, Harold Smith felt a touch of unaccustomed optimism. It was possible that he and his agency would no longer die together. CURE's life span could conceivably be open-ended.

  With that realization came a surprising irony. For a long time now, Smith had been exhausted. His advancing years and the constant pressure of his demanding job had been taking their toll. But these past few days had been different.

  Oddly, the addition of Mark Howard to the CURE staff seemed to be having an invigorating effect on Smith. He could feel it in his stride, in his mind. Smith still felt the pains in his joints and the inevitable slowing down that came naturally with age, but it was not the distraction it had been these past few years. With a protege, Smith now had a new purpose: to impress on Mark Howard the seriousness of their work here at Folcroft.

  Nothing at CURE could be taken lightly. Smith had been a relatively young man when he was first drafted into the agency. A CIA analyst like Howard, Smith was about to retire from the intelligence game to take a position teaching law at Dartmouth, his alma mater. But history beckoned and Harold Smith heeded the call. His life before that time had not been without difficulty, but it turned out that it was only a prelude to what was to come. Only when he became director of CURE did Smith finally feel real pressure.

  At first the task to save America seemed insurmountable. But eventually he found the help he would need. The moment the Master of Sinanju stepped off that first submarine so many years ago, things changed. When Remo was shanghaied into the organization not long after, CURE seemed complete. The secret agency had lucked into a tight group of three men who, by an amazing quirk of fate, complemented one another.

  But perhaps it wasn't luck after all. Mark Howard seemed possessed of a gift that could be a positive boon to the organization. Smith was not a religious man. Such ideals would be hypocritical for someone who had sent so many to their deaths. Yet part of him could not help but wonder if there was some larger force at work here, guiding his agency, his nation.

  If Mark Howard was to succeed, he would need a strong hand to guide him. There was much the young man had to learn. And much Harold Smith could teach him.

  Smith's eyes came sharply back into focus. Out beyond the one-way glass of his office window, the February wind continued to tear at Long Island Sound.

  Although in the winter of his own life, Smith no longer felt the beckoning of the waves.

  With a steely resolve, he spun back around. Surprised at the renewed vigor in his own arthritic fingers, Smith attacked the keyboard at the edge of his desk. He was quickly absorbed in his work.

  Behind him, the comforting siren song of the Sound faded to silence.

  Chapter 12

  A yellow cab brought them from Rye to the airport in White Plains. Thanks to Smith's string-pulling, an entire runway had been shut down. An Air Force transport squatted like an impatient bird at the far end.

  At Remo's direction, their driver steered them through a gap in the chain-link hurricane fence and
out to the waiting plane. The driver had barely slowed before they were out of the cab and scampering aboard the plane. Before the taxi had even left the tarmac, the aircraft was screaming skyward.

  The Master of Sinanju had remained silent since they'd left Smith's office.

  Over the years, Remo had cataloged sixty-two distinct variations to the old Korean's silences. Most of these fell under different subheadings in the overall ticked-off-at-Remo category. This was different, however. This was the Master of Sinanju's contemplative silence, which was always the most worrisome because it usually had to do with something else and only marginally reflected the old man's customary irritation with Remo.

  Remo let it go on for twenty more minutes. The airport had long disappeared behind them, replaced by wispy clouds and featureless land, when he finally opened his mouth.

  "I know you're probably cheesed off at me for countermanding you back there," Remo said, "but I wasn't gonna let you fly all the way to Alaska by yourself. Plus we don't know what's even going on there."

  The Master of Sinanju didn't turn his way. "Speak for yourself, white man," he said, his voice flat.

  "Okay, so you know," Remo said, exasperated. "Why don't you let me know so that we'll know? That sound like a plan to you, or are you gonna leave me in the dark till we get there?"

  Chiun considered for a long moment. Finally reaching a reluctant inner decision, he turned to face his pupil.

  "You are avatar of Shiva, the Hindu god of destruction," the old man began, "the dead night tiger made whole by the Master of Sinanju."

  Remo had heard this many times over the years. Chiun had been convinced for ages that Remo was the fulfillment of some ancient Sinanju legend.

  Even though Remo had experienced too much in his life to totally discount the claim, he still found some small comfort in offering at least token resistance to Chiun's assertions on the subject. To do otherwise would be to accept something that Remo preferred not to even think about.

  The younger man shook his head. "Chiun, I-" he began.

  "Do not argue," the old Korean cut in, his tone sharp.