Profit Motive td-48

by Warren Murphy

  "I am the Master of Sinanju. I have been with you, and when you need me again, my house will be here to serve you."

  "But, Master," the sheik heard himself say, "aren't you dead? Did you not fall in battle?"

  And the voice answered, "The House of Sinanju never dies, never to those it has sworn to serve and protect. And now I go."

  "Where do you go, Master?"

  "I go to other places where I am needed. Remember, my friend—do not try to cloak your people in your wisdom because that powerful garment dies with you. Lead them to their own wisdom, and then they will be mighty and protected forever. Good-bye, my friend."

  The sheik lay in the darkness for a while, then tried again to open his eyes. This time they opened easily; there was no longer any pressure on the lids.

  He looked around. The tent wás empty, but the door flap was moving as if someone had just passed through it. It might have been the breeze, but it was a dry and windless night. He felt something on his chest. He reached his hand over and lifted the object. In the dim moonlight reflected from the sand into the tent, he looked at it. It was a gold medal, circular, and inside was a trapezoid with a metal slash bisecting it. He recognized it. It was the symbol of Sinanju. He had seen it on the contract he carried with him, signed by another Master of Sinanju so many years ago.

  The sheik felt his eyes dampen.

  The Master of Sinanju lived. He would live forever.

  Remo and Chiun borrowed Reva Bleem's Rolls Royce to drive to Nehmad. He would have someone take it back to her in the morning.

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  •r

  "What did you tell the sheik back there?" Remo asked.

  "To stop worrying about oil," Chiun said.

  "Good," said Remo. "Reva thinks you're dead."

  "And why shouldn't I be? I'm old. I carp. If it weren't for you, I'd probably have been dead years ago."

  "Chiun, I had to tell her that."

  "Remember that when I have to tell somebody something about you," Chiun said.

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  Chapter Fourteen

  "It's water?" Harold Smith's voice registered uncharacteristic surprise as he stared at Remo.

  They were sitting in Secaucus, New Jersey, in an old luxury ferryboat that had been converted to a restaurant. Remo was looking out at the cold gray waters of the Hackensack River. Chiun was folding cocktail napkins into dragon shapes, trying not to look bored.

  "Yeah. Water kills it," Remo said.

  "Why then not on St. Maarten's? The island's surrounded by water."

  "Chiun and I figured that out. It has to be pure water. Impurities probably act like food for the bacteria."

  At the mention of his ñame, Chiun smiled at Smith.

  "You did well, Emperor, to send us on this mission. I have learned a great deal about anaerobic. It justifies your wisdom in sending me."

  "Oh?" Smith said. "What else can you tell me about it, Chiun?"

  "You can't see it, and when you put it in water, it turns white like wax. If you don't put it in water, it eats oil. Would you like to see me hold my breath?"

  "No, that won't be necessary," Smith said. He turned back to Remo, who was sipping a cup of tea. "This causes us a problem, you know."

  Chiun said, "Just name that problem. We will deal with it as we deal with all your enemies."

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  "Pure water," Smith said. "Where do you find pure water in the United States?"

  "I don't know," Remo said. "You know, when I was a kid, you didn't have to be Jesus to walk across this river. It was so thick with gunk, you could walk on it if you had on big shoes. Now it's pretty clean. They've even got fish in it."

  "Clean?" Chiun said. "You call this clean? If you want clean water, you have to see the river in Sinanju."

  "I've seen the river in Sinanju," Remo said. "People do their laundry in it. It's filled with soap."

  "And soap makes things clean, doesn't it?" Chiun said. He whispered to Smith, "Don't pay any attention to him. He doesn't understand anaerobic at all."

  "Please," Smith said. "I guess there's no real problem. I'll just have water made from hydrogen and oxygen."

  "Don't forget anaerobic," Chiun said.

  "What are you going to do now?" Smith said.

  "I'm going to see Reva Bleem," Remo said. "She doesn't know who's behind all this—I'm pretty sure of that—but she can lead me to him. He's the key. You got all this bacteria off St. Maarten's, but he's the guy that invented it. If he did it once, he can do it again. So we've got to get to him."

  "You said she thinks Chiun is dead?"

  "I figured there was no point in letting her know otherwise. Kind of an insurance policy."

  Smith nodded and looked at his watch. "I have to get back. I want stores of pure water in case we need it."

  Chiun was back to folding napkins, and he ignored Smith as the CURE director left.

  "If you're finished playing," Remo told Chiun, "we can go."

  "See," the president of the United States said to his cabinet. "It just takes water."

  "That's interesting," said the secretary of the interior. He hoped the president wasn't going to tell him

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  to keep his hands off some river somewhere just because somebody needed water. Rivers, if you dammed them up right, were good for making electricity. Then you could use the electricity to power all the homes you could build where the river used to go. It was so simple, he sometimes wondered why people seemed to oppose it.

  'Water's always interesting," the president said. "We were always fighting about water." He lapsed smoothly into a Western twang. " 'But I've got to be able to graze and water my flock.' And then the bad guy would say, 'The river's on my property, and you can't use it. Keep those damn sheep outa my way.' Of course, he didn't say 'damn' 'cause you couldn't say it then. You can say anything now, even the four-letter words, but you couldn't say 'damn' then. And then we'd have a range war over the water and I'd always win."

  "War?" said the secretary of defense, snapping to attention. "Who's having a war?"

  "Range war," the president said. "The old days."

  "Oh. I thought it was a new war and somebody forgot to tell me. I've been busy with my budget."

  "No," the president said. "An old war. About water. So now we have to find clean water to get rid of all this stuff."

  "Big Bear," said the secretary of the interior. "They have great water."

  "Who's Big Bear?" the president asked.

  "You know. In those big bottles. Your secretary's got one outside in the office. They have great water, and you don't hear them whining all the time about rivers, either."

  "No, we can't use that," the president said. He turned to the secretary of commerce. "Get hold of some company and tell them to make us a lot of fresh water. From those chemicals."

  "What chemicals?"

  "You know, hydrogen and like that," the president said.

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  "That's not water," said the secretary of state. "You put that on a boo-boo to make it better."

  "That's hydrogen peroxide," said the budget director. "It fizzes. Water is hydrogen and oxygen. Two parts of hydrogen and one part of oxygen."

  "I thought hydrogen was in bombs," the secretary of defense said.

  "No, that's different," the president said. "That's like hydrogen air, not hydrogen water. You tell some company to make us a lot of it. And put it in clean barrels without germs."

  "What for?" the secretary of commerce asked.

  "Haven't you been paying attention?" the president asked.

  "Well, I kind of lost track when we were talking about the range war with the sheep. We going to have another range war?"

  "No," the president said. "Ever since Enrol Flynn died, there hasn't been a good range war."

  The headquarters of Bleem International were located in a low, brick-fronted building two blocks from the state assembly chambers in Raleigh, North Carolina, and Reva Bleem felt comfortably at home as sh
e stepped into her dark oak-paneled office. Along the left wall was her private bathroom and her wet bar. The right wall held a long sofa, with a large conference table dominating the floor. Behind the couch wall, she knew, was the company's computer, which took up an entire wall of the next room. When it was first being installed, she hadn't wanted it there. She had expected that it would be thumping and throbbing and making a terrible noise, but the computer ran silently. Only occasionally, by a faint dimming of the overhead lights, could she tell that the computer was running on full speed because of its drain on the company's power supply.

  She poured herself a drink from the bar and fondled the bottle of Stolichnaya for a moment before replacing it in the rack.

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  Not bad, she told herself. Not bad for a woman who three years earlier had been selling houses in Florida, supporting a husband who had decided that work was the curse of the leisure class, and wondering how she was going to make the next payment on her thirty-month old Ford station wagon.

  It had all started with a telephone call. The warmest, kindest voice she had ever heard was on the other end of the line, and he told her where to buy property in Florida that would soon be condemned for a new state highway. She was desperate, and she did it, and six months later she was rich. She had always assumed her caller was some state official trying to get rich on inside information and that he would come one day to collect his share of the winnings. But he never did.

  She next heard from the voice when it called and told her to invest her money in the stock of a company called Polypussides, and she did. She had made $600,-000 on the land deal, and she put almost every cent into Polypussides. Even as she did it, she cursed herself as a fool because she had never had a chance to spend any of her wealth, to revel in it, to try wasting some of it. All she kept was $5,000, and she used that to get a lawyer and get rid of her husband.

  Three months after buying Polypussides stock, she was elected president of the company. She had spoken to her friend on the telephone.

  "What do I do as president?" she had said in panic. "I don't even know what this company does."

  "This company does what I want it to do," her friend had said. "And you do the same thing and I will make you rich."

  So she had and he had. She became president of all the Bleem companies and all their subsidiaries, including Puressence. And once she had asked her friend why he had chosen her to help.

  "Because you and I are the same kind of folks," he had said. "I knew we could do business together."

  "When am I going to meet you? I owe you so much."

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  "I don't get out much," her friend said. "But maybe one day."

  It had been her friend who insisted that a computer be bought for the Raleigh headquarters of Bleem International. She approved it, even though she didn't know what they needed a computer for, because she still didn't know what the company did. Every time she had to make a presidential decision, she asked for a written memo on it. And every night, her friend would call her on the telephone, and she would read him the memo, and he would tell her what to do.

  She learned not to argue. Her $600,000 had mushroomed to almost $900,000,000. She might be America's first industrialist woman billionaire, she thought. As long as her friend stayed by her side.

  So far, she had done nothing to displease him. Until now.

  She settled down behind her desk with the drink in her hand and waited for what she knew would happen.

  She had time for one large sip before the telephone rang.

  "Hello."

  "This is Friend," the warm voice said. "I'm disappointed in you."

  iCT

  "Don't explain right away. Finish your drink."

  How did he know she was drinking? She gulped the rest of the Stolichnaya hurriedly.

  "Why are you disappointed, Friend?" she asked. "I tried to do what you said."

  "But you didn't succeed. I wanted you to get the bacteria in the Hamidi oil supply. You didn't do that. I told you to take care of those two men, to try to find their weaknesses and see to their removal. You failed at that. I asked you to try to find out who they worked for. You failed at that also."

  "One of them is gone," Reva said. "The old one. I couldn't find out the weakness of the other one. And I was holding back using the bacteria to promote a fight

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  between them. It was just by accident that it never got into the oil supply."

  "So the one man still exists and may yet interfere with our plans. This is not good, Reva. Is this any way to treat a friend?"

  "I'm still trying. I have him coming to my office later today," she said.

  "Well, that is good. Maybe we can find a weakness in him. Be sure to show him the computer when he comes."

  "Why?"

  "Reva, we have gotten along so far very well,

  haven't we?"

  "Yes."

  "Then why do you ask me why? It would really crush me if you didn't trust me."

  "I trust you," she said quickly. "I'll bring him in to see the computer."

  "Good. I'm going to make you terribly rich, Reva."

  "You already have."

  "A pittance. I mean really rich. And I'm not mad at you, Reva. I really like you. Just do what I say. Toodle-oo."

  And the connection was broken. Reva got up to pour herself another drink. Her course of action was clear. Remo was good in bed, but her friend was good for the long haul. She would do whatever she had to do for him. And maybe she could get Remo back in bed too.

  At five after five Remo arrived at the headquarters of Bleem International. The guard at the closed building escorted him to Reva's office, and when Remo opened the door, Reva ran into his arms.

  "I've missed you," she said. "Why'd you leave Hamidi Arabia so quickly?"

  "I had business," Remo said.

  "Without saying good-bye?"

  "I knew it would never be good-bye between us," Remo said. Dammit, he hated Chiun. If he couldn't fig-

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  ure out a way to keep this woman off him, he would have to play royal stud to her forever.

  "Want a drink?" she asked.

  "No. You have one. Have a couple." Maybe he could get her drunk.

  "Thank you. Maybe just one," she said.

  "Have you spoken to your friend about meeting me?" Remo asked.

  "Yes."

  "I wish I knew his name."

  "So do I," she said. "He's just my friend."

  "What did he say?"

  "He wants to meet you," Reva said.

  "Good. Call him now and set up a date."

  "I can't do that," Reva said, sipping her Stolichnaya. "I don't know how to reach him. He always reaches me." She motioned with her head for Remo to follow her as she sat on the suede sofa, but Remo walked past it to perch on the edge of her desk.

  "You can't be very close if you don't know where to reach him," Remo said.

  "We're very close," she said stubbornly. "He's my mentor." Reva put down her glass and spread her arms back behind the couch along the wall, a pose she knew showed off her bosom to its best advantage. Through the backs of her arms, she felt a faint vibration. The wall was vibrating. It was the computer. That was odd, she thought. The machine generally shut itself down at exactly :30 p.m. each day, and here it was almost 5:30 p.m., and the wall was vibrating. Then she remembered what Friend had said. Bring Remo in to see the computer.

  "Come on, Remo," she said, standing up. "I want to show you something."

  "What?" Remo asked.

  "My computer."

  "Naaah, I don't want to," Remo said. "Place I work for has computers too. I hate them."

  "What place is that?"

  "Stop pumping, Reva."

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  "Come on. Friend wanted you to see this computer."

  "He did?" asked Remo.

  "That's what he said."

  Reva led Remo into the large room next door to her office. She flipped on the ligh
t switch and let Remo follow her inside. The computer was built against the left-hand wall of the room, covering every inch of space from wall to wall, ceiling to floor. It was three feet deep. There was a faint hum in the room.

  "It's still on," Remo said.

  "No, it's not," Reva said. 'That's an internal thermostat. Computer connections are delicate, so it has built-in heating and cooling units. It senses the room temperature, even when it's off, and turns on heat or cold automatically. Brilliant?"

  Remo shrugged. "People have been doing the same thing with their bodies for millions of years. Nobody ever called them brilliant." He was still standing in the doorway, and Reva gestured for Remo to join her in front of the machine.

  At the top of the computer's face panel were two openings covered with a thin mesh. Behind them Remo could see two cones moving around slowly. Then the points of the cones slowly fixed on him and stopped.

  "What are those things at the top?" Remo asked.

  "I don't know. I guess they're part of the sensors for the temperature."

  "They were just moving," Remo said. He stepped back, two feet farther from the computer. The cones, barely visible behind the thin glass-fiber mesh, began to circle again and then narrowed their circles until they were again pointing at Remo.

  "They're following me around the room," Remo said.

  "Maybe they don't like you."

  "Well, I don't like them. Machines should worry about other machines, not people."

  The telephone rang at the desk at the front of the room. When Reva picked it up, Friend was on the line.

  "Do you want..." she began. 222 •

  "No," Friend said. "Tell him I will meet him tonight. At eleven-fourteen p.m. in the Penny-A-Pound shopping center on Downtown Boulevard. That is all. You have done well."

  "Thank you," she said.

  "He is very unusual looking," Friend said. "Do you find him good-looking?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you in love with him?" Friend asked.

  "No. I'm in love with money, Friend."

  "I can understand that," Friend said.

  When the phone went dead, Reva Bleem looked at the receiver for a moment before replacing it. How did Friend know what Remo looked like?

  Remo stepped over and took the phone from her, but all he heard was a dial tone.