Rain of Terror td-75

by Warren Murphy

  Remo and Chiun walked into Smith's Folcroft office hours later. They looked dusty and worn, especially Remo.

  "Smitty, you're not going to believe this," Remo began.

  "Do not rub it in," Chiun inserted. "I will speak. Emperor, I can explain."

  "Explain what?" Smith asked absently.

  "My ... mistake."

  "I'm certain it will not happen again, whatever it was." Remo and Chiun exchanged glances.

  Remo snapped his fingers in Smith's ear. "Smitty, Smitty, wake up."

  "What? Oh. Remo. Master Chiun. I did not realize you had returned."

  "You were just talking to us," Remo reminded him.

  "Oh! Was I? How peculiar," he said, his gaze drifting back to his terminal.

  Remo took Smith's head in his hands and forced him to look away from the screen. "Look at me, Smitty. Wake up!"

  "No need to shout, Remo."

  "I need your undivided attention."

  "It is undivided. Go ahead."

  "The Air Force has identified the KKV's."

  "No, I identified the KKV's," Chiun insisted.

  "Yeah, right. Actually, Chiun identified the new one before the Air Force showed up. Generally."

  "You cannot get more specific than I did," Chiun complained, relieved that Smith was not going to bring up the matter of his earlier mistake.

  "The Air Force had the model, year, and everything."

  "Mere details," Chiun scoffed.

  "Here's a drawing of it," Remo said, offering the page he'd torn out of the book on steam locomotives.

  Smith took the page.

  "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "This is a steam engine."

  "That's what the thing was. Crazy, huh?"

  " 'Absurd' was the word I was thinking of."

  "The Air Force confirmed it."

  "Nonsense," returned Smith. "I was just speaking with the President and he told me the first two had been identified. But he said nothing about steam engines."

  "What did he say?"

  "He said . . ." Smith's voice trailed off. "What did he say?" He reached for his keyboard. Remo seized his hands.

  "Do you mind?" Smith said. "I input the confirmation."

  "Can't you remember it without the computer's help?" Remo demanded.

  "I've been handling so much data today that it's all a blur," Smith admitted.

  Remo let go. Smith's fingers attacked the keyboard. He brought up the file.

  "Odd," said Smith in a weak voice.

  "What is it, Smitty?". Then Remo saw what it was. Smith's file indicated that the earlier KKV strikes involved an American Big Boy and a Prussian G12.

  "Now, how could I have forgotten something like that?"

  "What I want to know is how you could have put it aside. Those identifications may be our only lead."

  "Yes, indeed. I imagine I was so preoccupied with file setup that I lost track of time."

  Remo looked at the ES Quantum Three Thousand in the corner of the room. It gleamed under its tinsel and ornaments.

  "Why don't you ask it?"

  "Why don't you ask me yourself?" the ES Quantum said.

  "Smitty?"

  "Computer, File 334 contains hard data on the KKV situation. Can you correlate?"

  "Affirmative."

  "Then do so."

  "Answer in memory."

  "I cannot get used to how quickly you process data."

  "This data was processed when you originally input the data."

  Smith frowned. "Then why didn't you tell me?"

  "Because you did not ask," the ES Quantum replied.

  "Since when do I have to ask?"

  "You always have to ask. I am not a mind reader."

  "This is starting to sound like a bad marriage," Remo whispered to Chiun. The Master of Sinanju nodded.

  "Please give me the answer," Smith said, brittle-voiced. "Both locomotives recently changed hands on the open market, passing from their original owners to a transshipment point in Luxembourg. There is no record of their final destination."

  "Hmm," said Smith. "We have to know where they ended up. Where they came from is not that important."

  "An agent handled each transaction."

  "Who?" asked Smith.

  "A conglomerate known as Friendship, International."

  "More data."

  "Friendship, International is a multinational conglomerate with interests in one hundred and twenty-two corporations, institutions, and holding companies. Current net worth is in excess of fifty billion dollars."

  "Who is the CEO of record?"

  "There is no record."

  "Stockholders?"

  "None. It is privately held."

  "Offices?"

  "Central office of record is in Zurich, Switzerland, 55 Booggplatz. However, that is a vacant warehouse. A phone line does connect with the Longines Credit Bank."

  "That's our lead," Remo said.

  "Go immediately. Find out who bought those engines and where they went."

  "Now we're getting someplace."

  "I will monitor your progress from this end. You still have your communicators?"

  "Yes," said Remo.

  "Yes," said Chiun. "Remo still has his communicator."

  "Good," Smith said, returning to his terminal. That mesmerized expression came over his face again. Remo nudged Chiun. Chiun shrugged.

  "If you need us, we'll be at Mount Rushmore, shaving off Teddy Roosevelt's mustache," Remo said.

  "Have a safe trip," Smith replied vaguely. Remo sighed:

  "Good-bye, machine," Chiun said to the computer.

  "Farewell, Master of Sinanju. See you soon."

  "Not if I see you first," Chiun said when they got to the hall elevator. "I do not like her," he told Remo firmly.

  "Her? Now she's got you doing it too."

  "You just called her a she."

  "We're going to have to have a long talk with Smitty when we get back," Remo said as the elevator doors closed on his unhappy face.

  Chapter 21

  Henri Arnaud was very old. He had outlived his friends and every relative he cared about. All he had left were his trains.

  He walked among them one last time, his cleft chin lifted in defiance to the cruelties of fate.

  It was not so bad for himself. He would not live much longer. The zest for life had faded long ago. But his trains were different. He had hoped that they would survive him. But times changed. A hundred years ago, the train was as romantic as a fine auto. Fifty years ago, it was nostalgic. But in this age of Concorde jets and space shuttles, the train was an anachronism.

  And the Arnaud Railway Museum was a conclave of anachronisms. Fewer and fewer people attended it each year. It had been ten years since Henri Arnaud had let go of his last greeter. Now he was greeter, accountant, and, when necessary, janitor.

  No more.

  Touching the shining flank of a 1929 four-cylinder de Glehn compound locomotive, Henri Arnaud reflected on how suddenly one's fortunes could be reversed.

  He had survived the Depression and German conquest, and even the most recent stock-market crash had not diminished his family wealth. It was the Arnaud money that had enabled Henri Arnaud to assemble this collection-some purchased from dying rail lines, others reclaimed from the junkyards of the world. The 1876 Paris-Orleans 265-390 was his prize. It was the only surviving model. The 1868 L'Avenir was a treasure. He had purchased it in 1948. One wing contained American engines. Less aesthetically pleasing, but in their way fascinating because of their raw power:

  A magnificent collection, rivaling the great railway museums of the Continent. Now it was about to be broken up and scattered to the four winds. Just like that.

  Heaving a gentle sigh, Henri Arnaud wished that he could turn back the clock. Not much. Just a week. One last week to enjoy his collection. One final sunny weekend to greet the tourists. Even American tourists with their infantile questions would be welcome. But last week it had rained and no one had come
. Then, Henri Arnaud had not thought much of it. There would be other weekends.

  For Henri Arnaud, yes. For the Arnaud Railway Museum, alas, no.

  It had all disintegrated with a phone call and a familiar voice.

  "Ah, mon ami, it is good of you to call," Henri Arnaud had told his mellow-voiced friend. He had never met this wizard of an investment counselor. It did not matter. For years, Friendship, International had managed his portfolio. So when Monsieur Friend had called, Henri Arnaud's humor had brightened in spite of the lowering clouds over the Pyrenees.

  "I have unfortunate news," Friend had said.

  "Not a death in your family, I hope."

  "No," Friend had said. "But I am deeply distressed to inform you that you are personally bankrupt."

  Henri Arnaud clutched the telephone. Could it be? "How? Why?" he croaked, trying to get a grip on himself.

  "An unforeseen repercussion of the crash. Some investments I selected for you have dried up. Others are faltering. I am divesting even as we speak."

  "This is terrible. This is so unexpected."

  "A pity," Friend had agreed. "I myself have lost millions."

  "I am so sorry for you," Henri Arnaud said sincerely. And he meant it. After all, he was an old man. Friend sounded at best thirty-five. Very young. The poor unfortunate man.

  "Thank you," Friend replied graciously.

  "I will survive."

  "As will I, I am sure."

  "Not without some further liquidation. You're over seven million francs in debt."

  "Debt? Impossible!"

  "I will send you a full report and accounting. But my preliminary assessment is that the only certain avenue to solvency would be to liquidate your museum."

  "I would of course be retained as a greeter," Henri Arnaud said stiffly. "It would be all that I would ask."

  "I did not say sell. I said liquidate. The collection would be broken up."

  "Non! That would be outrageous. Non, non! It is all I have left of my life."

  "I am sorry, friend Arnaud. But your advanced years make an extreme solution mandatory. I had hoped you would see the necessity of this unpleasant solution. After all, you have had your life."

  Henri Arnaud was a stubborn man. But he was also a sensible man. He drew himself up proudly, even though he was alone in his genteel parlor.

  "You ... you would find them good homes?" he asked quietly.

  "The best. I know several wealthy collectors-much like you in your younger days. Think of it not as a liquidation, if you wish, but as a bequest to the younger generation."

  "I have no choice," Henri Arnaud said finally, a catch in his raspy voice.

  "You will send me a letter of execution?"

  "Oui, oui. Naturellement. Now, please, I feel unwell."

  "Then I will not keep you. It has been a pleasure to serve."

  Only days ago, thought Henri Arnaud. But he had not slept since then. All the fears of old age that he had successfully beaten off with work had come to roost upon his stooped shoulders like heavy-headed vultures.

  Within an hour, the transport men would arrive. The trains would be hoisted onto great trucks and taken to the seaport of Marseilles, and from there shipped to some distant port. Arnaud had not asked where. He did not wish to know.

  With an infinitely sad expression on his face, he stepped into the cab of the de Glehn, and taking the woodenhandled throttle in one hand, leaned his lined face out of the side window. In his mind's eye he imagined himself barreling down the old Paris, Lyons nean line, the tracks ahead converging into an infinity of promised adventure, the smokestack belching the coal smoke of his younger days.

  A breeze freshened out of the east to set his thin hair blowing. It was nice. It helped the illusion.

  Colonel Hannibal Intifadah received the first news reports of the carnage in upper Manhattan with glee.

  "This is what I hungered for," he said, slapping the briefing report on his desk.

  Pyotr Koldunov said nothing. He was thinking of the one thousand dead Americans and felt queasy. There would have been many more dead, but he had stalled until he knew it was Saturday in New York, when fewer would be in their offices.

  "I assume, then, that Comrade Colonel is satisfied with the performance of the Accelerator," he said finally.

  "Yes, of course. I would rather have pulverized the White House, but this will do."

  "Then may I assume that since you have achieved your objective, this project can be quietly dismantled?"

  "Dismantled? I said I was satisfied, I did not say I was finished. I have struck a great blow. I will strike even greater blows in the weeks to come."

  Pyotr Koldunov grimaced. He was about to speak when the colonel's desk telephone rang.

  "Yes, what is it? I told you that I was not to be disturbed. Oh, yes. Always. Put him on."

  To Pyotr Koldunov's surprise, the brutish face of Colonel Intifadah softened. He actually smiled. Not a savage barbarian smile, but one of pure pleasure. He wondered if he was talking to his lover-but then he dismissed the idea. According to KGB intelligence, when Colonel Intifadah felt amorous, he took to the desert. The speculation was that he mated with goats. His father had been a nomadic goatherd, so it was not unlikely. Besides, he was calling the other person his friend.

  "Yes, Friend. How many? Three. Yes, definitely. What? That is quite a bit more money than we discussed. I do not care if they are museum pieces. I am not collecting antiques. Yes, I understand the difficulty. They must be untraceable. And you say there may be more? At the moment, three will do. Yes, I will pay your price, but only because I am in a hurry. Yes, thank you. The bank draft will be deposited in your account at once."

  Colonel Intifadah hung up, his face not quite as pleased as it had been before.

  "We have three more revenge vehicles. They will ship today."

  Koldunov nodded. "Of course, it will take time to ready the launcher."

  "I am a patient man."

  Koldunov wanted to say, "Since when?" but he held his tongue. Instead he said, "I have not been allowed to call my homeland in several days. I would like to do so now."

  "Impossible," said Colonel Intifadah. "The power shortage from the last launch has disrupted our international phone lines."

  "But you were just using them," Koldunov protested.

  "Did I say I was speaking with someone outside of this country?" Colonel Intifadah inquired coolly.

  "No, but I assumed you were purchasing foreign engines. Even you would not dare use an engine that could be traced to Lobynia."

  "When the phones are up again, you may place your call."

  The bastard, Koldunov thought. He has the first code and he wants to keep that knowledge from Moscow.

  At that moment a messenger brought in another dispatch. Colonel Intifadah glanced at it and suddenly shook with rage. He pounded a swarthy fist on his desk. He pointed to the messenger. "Have that man executed!" he raged.

  Instantly the Green Guards came in and took away the hapless messenger. A shot rang out and then a thud and Pyotr Koldunov knew that the elevator-shaft disposal had received another of Colonel Intifadah's "enemies."

  "Listen to this," Colonel Intifadah howled. "This is from the American media. They are claiming the Manhattan destruction was the result of a gas leak!"

  "A cover story to calm their people. They know better."

  "I want the world to know that this is a retaliation!"

  "Colonel, you cannot mean that," Koldunov said hastily. "The Americans would obliterate Lobynia if they traced the attack to us."

  "I want them to suspect! To guess! To wonder! To regret the bombing of Dapoli. I do not want to give them proof. I only want the American leadership to toss and turn in their beds, fearful and ashamed."

  "But the leadership that bombed this city is no longer in office."

  "I do not care!" Colonel Intifadah howled. "You, Russian, get to the launcher. I want it ready as soon as the new engines arrive. My wrath will
rain down on America until they cry out to their infidel God for mercy!"

  "Yes, Comrade Colonel," replied Pyotr Koldunov. As he left the office, he thought that surely there was some way to thwart this madman. The more launches, the greater the risk of discovery. If the Americans ever learned the full truth, their missiles would strike Lobynia only as an afterthought.

  Mother Russia would be their primary target.

  As he closed the green door after him, he heard Colonel Intifadah call back his mysterious friend and shout that money would no longer be an object. He would take every engine that could be delivered, museum-piece prices or not.

  Koldunov shuddered.

  Chapter 22

  Within minutes of deplaning from the Swissair flight at Zurich's Kloten Airport, Remo and Chiun tried flagging down one of the tiny Volvo taxis. The cab displayed a sign that said "Im Dienst," and Remo, who did not speak Swiss, asked the Master of Sinanju what it meant-on duty or off.

  "Why ask me?" Chiun said petulantly.

  Remo frowned. He had never seen the Master of Sinanju encounter a language barrier before.

  "I thought you once told me you spoke almost every known language."

  "Yes."

  "So what does Im Dienst mean?"

  "Search me. I speak only languages known to Sinanju."

  "I'll try waving," Remo said.

  The taxi pulled up, and Remo opened the door for Chiun. Chiun gathered up his kimono skirts and settled into the rear seat. Remo gave the driver an address and closed the door behind him.

  "I'm surprised you don't speak Swiss, Little Father. Switzerland isn't exactly a backwater."

  "To Sinanju it is. When was the last time you ever heard of Swiss political difficulties?"

  "I know they stayed neutral during World War II."

  "Yes. The Swiss love their money. They prefer to avoid arguments rather than have to spend any of it."

  "Oh. I think I understand."

  "No Master of Sinanju has ever worked for a Swiss ruler," Chiun said, folding his arms unhappily. "Ever. So please do not ask me about the meaning of their meaningless words."