"I will be purchasing no more engines until certain technical problems are solved."
"I have solved all of your technical problems in the past. Allow me to assist once again."
"Go on."
"Your problem is that you posses a weapons-delivery system but no weapon with the punch you require."
"You can get me nuclear weapons? A missile perhaps?"
"Alas, no. Not at this time."
"What, then?"
"Imagine one of your engines hurtling to the United States."
"I do not need to imagine it. I have been doing it all day. So far, I have squandered millions of dollars to assassinate an American evangelist and a dairy cow."
"Imagine that same engine hurtling to America, its boiler containing a large quantity of nerve gas."
"Gas! Gas! Of course. Why did I not think of such a thing? Gas. It is better than a nuclear weapon. Even the people on ground zero suffer instead of being obliterated in a painless flash. With gas, I could strike anywhere in Washington and it would not matter. All would die."
"I can supply two chemicals. Each by itself is relatively harmless. But when combined, they create the most lethal chemical agent known."
"Yes, yes. Tell me more."
"It will be very expensive."
"I will pay whatever you ask."
"'Those words are music to my ears, Friend Colonel."
In his office, General Martin S. Leiber strode over to his file cabinet. He opened the first drawer, flipped through the file folders until he got to the letter G, and reached in. He pulled his old service .45 out of the G folder. He returned to his desk and checked the clip. It was full. A full clip was not necessary. All he would need was one bullet to blow his brains out.
General Leiber saw no other option. The Joint Chiefs were about to blow his cover to the President. The President was hollering for action. His other people had failed him, he said.
What could General Leiber tell his President that he knew who was selling the locomotives to the enemy? That the seller was a business friend of the general's? That General Leiber, in fact, had sold this associate the very carbon-carbon that had coated the KKV that had pulverized part of New York City?
No. No way was General Leiber going to do that. He would not suffer the indignity of court-martial, of the stockade. Hell, they might stand him in front of a firing squad. After all, a thousand people were already dead.
The way General Leiber saw it, he had no way out but to face the business end of the .45.
He clasped his hands in front of his bent forehead, muttered a few rusty prayers, and as a last gesture to the thing he held dear, kissed the brass stars on his steel combat helmet and placed it on his head.
Then he picked up the pistol and shoved it in his mouth.
The phone rang. Too late, he thought.
But the lure of the instrument that had made him a success was too great. He picked it up and announced his name in a croaking voice.
"Greetings, General Leiber."
"Friend. Er, what do you want?"
"I have been reconsidering. I might be ready to meet with you."
General Leiber let the automatic drop.
"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. Now, where and when? I can leave right away."
"Not just yet. I would not consider violating a corporate rule without something in return."
"Name it. Anything."
"I need nerve gas. Perhaps seven hundred liquid gallons of it."
"Nerve ... Oh, God."
"General, are you still there?"
"Yes." The answer was a whisper.
"Can you deliver?"
"Yes. You want nerve gas, you get nerve gas. I'll deliver it personally."
"Not necessary. I will provide a transshipment point. Send it there. I will handle it from there."
"Done. When can we meet?"
"When the cargo reaches its ultimate destination."
"I'll await your callback," said Leiber, hanging up.
He got to his feet. Fate had offered him a second chance. He knew what Friend had meant: when the nerve gas reached its ultimate destination. He meant its target. General Leiber knew that the rain of terror was escalating. And dammit, he wasn't going to chicken out of the fight now.
Not when fate had handed him a way to get directly to the origin of the intercontinental ballistic locomotives. And screw Friend and his crap about a meeting. The bastard might never deliver.
Getting the nerve gas was a snap. The Pentagon had tons of it stockpiled. And General Leiber had sent a thousand sergeants a bottle of Scotch each Christmas for just such a need as this. The stuff was already in transit when Friend called back with the shipment information.
Then General Leiber strapped on his automatic, and, giving his telephone a final contemptuous glance, strode out of his office.
From now on, he was going to act like a real soldier. An InterFriend corporate plane picked up the three coffin-shaped containers in Canada. They were waiting in a deserted airfield exactly as the instructions said.
"That's funny," the pilot said. "What?"
"I see three boxes. There were supposed to be only two. "
"Should I load them or not?"
The pilot shrugged. A shortage would have been a problem. Overage was fine. "Load them," he ordered. As the crewman shoved the third box into the cargo bay, it smashed against the plane wall.
"Careful! Who knows what's inside those things."
In the third box, General Martin S. Leiber allowed himself to breathe again. They had not opened any of the boxes. He was on his way. He prayed for a short trip. He had spent so much time driving the nerve-gas components here that he had forgotten to pick up food for the trip. And he was already hungry.
When word came in on line one that the pickup had been made, Friend arranged to purchase a gas-mask supply house on line three. He then purchased all available stock in public-health-maintenance organizations. He expected to make a windfall when the first gas-laden locomotive came down.
All was going smoothly. There was only one loose end. Chiun had not reported from Stockholm, and the one called Remo refused to answer Dr. Smith's urgent demands that he fly immediately to Gibraltar to handle the nonexistent nuclear-terrorist threat.
There was an 88.2-percent chance that his communicator was supplied by the same manufacturer that had produced the faulty telephone system. Friend logged into memory a corollary to the earlier memo. Replace the communicators. Remo and Chiun had many assignments ahead of them. Friend was already contacting other heads of state who were eager to have the services of the two finest assassins in modern history.
Chapter 30
Remo Williams waited impatiently at the baggage carousal at Kennedy International Airport.
Finally the expensive valise he'd bought in a London gift shop came around. He opened it, extracted the candy-dispenser communicator, and stuffed it into his pants pocket. Then he threw the valise into a wastebasket. Remo didn't care about the valise. He just didn't want to listen to the beeper beeping all the way across the Atlantic. Smith kept trying to reach him. Remo knew that Smith wanted to send him to Gibraltar. Remo also knew that he wasn't going anywhere Smith's silly-ass computer said to go.
Remo rented a car and drove it from the airport. As he sped past one of the terminals, he spotted a familiar figure in a firecracker-red kimono arguing with a skycap. He pulled over and threw open the passenger door.
"Going my way?" Remo asked the Master of Sinanju. Chiun leapt into the seat. Remo took off.
"Smith sent me on a fool's errand," Chiun complained.
"Me too. I think it's that computer's fault."
"Me too. What should we do?"
"What we should have done long ago. Talk to Smith. Man to man."
"I fear he will only listen to that demon machine."
"Not the way we're going to handle it," said Remo, flooring the accelerator.
It was dark when they pulled into the Folcr
oft gate. Remo parked and they took the elevator to Smith's office. For the millionth time, Remo's beeper signaled. He reached in and shut it off.
"Why do you not crush that annoyance?" Chiun sniffed.
"May need it later."
The cage opened on Smith's floor.
"You take the computer. I'll handle Smith," Remo whispered as they approached Smith's office door.
"Do not hurt him," Chiun warned.
"Right. I don't care what happens to the computer."
"I am glad you said that."
Remo shoved open the door. Smith's haggard and bestubbled face greeted them.
"Remo! Thank God! I've been trying to get both of you. What happened to your communicator?"
"Must be on the fritz," Remo said casually, approaching Smith. "What's up?"
"The Gibraltar situation is critical. The terrorists are threatening to detonate. They have a hydrogen bomb."
"That so?" Remo remarked calmly. In the corner, Chiun was addressing the ES Quantum Three Thousand.
"Hello, machine."
"Hello, Master of Sinanju. I see you are back. Did your trip go well?"
"It was very educational," Chiun replied. "I learned a new, important fact."
"What is that?"
"People will sometimes lie. But not when properly motivated. However, machines are not to be trusted ever."
"I do not follow. More data."
"What are you saying, Master of Sinanju?" Smith asked, frowning.
"I think he's trying to tell you something, Smitty," Remo said. "Better listen."
Chiun spoke without taking his gaze away from the ES uantum Three Thousand.
"I questioned the Swede, Emperor Smith. Under duress, he told me everything."
"Yes?"
"He had nothing to do with the locomotive menace."
"Impossible! ES Quantum Three Thousand, tell him." Friend's electrical synapses quickened. He put all incoming calls on hold. The profit-loss was insignificant compared to the sudden arrival of Remo and Chiun. One was diverting Dr. Smith from the steady stream of crisis updates needed to maintain Smith's nonthreat-factor status. The other was eyeing him critically.
Friend searched memory for the best available defense. And for the first time since the original Friend program had been installed, there was no answer in memory.
Unfortunately for Friend, he had been so preoccupied making money that he had not cleared time to have defenses installed around this current host unit. And so when the Master of Sinanju reached for the plug that provided electricity from a wall outlet, Friend had no recourse but to effect an immediate transfer of intelligence from this host unit.
Friend put in a call to the Montreal auxiliary host unit. But even with speed-of-light program execution, it was not enough.
The Master of Sinanju was quicker still. The plug came out of its socket. A tiny blue spark flared. And for Friend, all input, all thought, all artificial consciousness ceased.
"My God! Remo. He's unplugged it." Horror settled over Smith's ravaged features like a cloud. "He may have wiped the memory banks clean. My God. The Gilbraltar crisis. Weeks of new intelligence accumulation gone!"
Smith sank into his cracked leather chair brokenly. He reached for a bottle of red pills, moaning. "Master of Sinanju, how could you?"
Remo snatched the pills from Smith's trembling hand. He crushed them into colorful powder.
"Forget that stuff, Smith. Listen to what Chiun is saying. The Swedish general was innocent. British Intelligence was not behind this either."
"Never mind that. The Gibraltar matter."
"I hope I'm right, but I don't think there is a Gibraltar matter. "
"Of course there is. Computers don't lie."
"That one did," Remo said firmly.
Chiun approached Smith, his hands tucked into his balloon-shaped sleeves. He regarded Smith with sad eyes. "This man is ill."
"Amphetamines," Remo said.
Chiun nodded. He reached out splayed fingers and took Smith by his lined forehead. He kneaded each temple. The tension drained from Smith's face.
Chiun stepped back. "Better?" he asked.
"Yes. I do feel calmer. But I must protest your actions."
"Smith. You still have the old computer?" Remo asked.
"Yes. In the basement."
"Reconnect."
"I fail to-"
"Humor me."
Smith pushed back his chair and went into the well of his desk. He pulled several flat gray connecting cables from a plate in the floor. With swift motions he reconnected them to his desk terminal. Then he returned to his seat.
"Check the Gibraltar situation," Remo suggested.
"I don't have full global capabilities anymore, but domestic news feeds have been issuing hourly bulletins." Smith called up the data.
"Odd," he said, small-voiced.
Remo and Chiun looked at one another knowingly.
"I see no bulletins," Smith went on. "And there are reports of strange phenomena all over this country. My God, it seems as if there may have been several new KKV strikes. But the other computer reported none of those. What can it mean?"
"Never trust a computer that talks back," Remo said.
"But it was so ... so perfect."
"A lot of women seem that way ... at first," Chiun told him wisely.
"Let's get to work on the locomotive matter," Remo suggested.
"But where do I start? I have nothing current in memory."
"Use this," Remo said, tapping Smith's forehead. "It's better than any computer mind. It's called your brain."
"Start with a desert kingdom. And a passionate prince," Chiun suggested.
"What?"
"Chiun thinks they're throwing locomotives because they don't have rocks," Remo said skeptically.
"I have to start somewhere," Smith said with a sigh. Chiun struck out his tongue at Remo.
"Let's see," Smith muttered. "We'll begin with the Africa connection. Desert kingdom. Must be North Africa. The Egyptians are our friends. The Algerians go both ways. Lobynia ... Lobynia. Passionate prince . . ."
"I thought Lobynia was in the Middle East," Remo said.
"Common mistake."
Remo shrugged. "Colonel Intifadah, yeah. Could be him."
"Let's see what satellite tracking tells us," Smith said. "I'm calling up Spacetrack satellite feeds for the last two weeks."
"What are you looking for?" Remo asked.
"I don't know. Wait, yes. Now, why didn't I think of this before?"
"You were in love," Chiun supplied.
"Nonsense. But as I was saying. When we suspect the Soviets are about to launch a satellite, we can usually tell by power drops in the surrounding area. This creates what is called a period of interest. Yes, the Lobynians have been experiencing unusual power outages."
"Why didn't anyone notice this before?" Remo wanted to know.
"The Lobynians are always experiencing power outages. But what I want to see is if these outages can be reconciled with the known launch times. Yes, yes! Dapoli was blacked out seven times in the last fourteen hours. Now, let's see if the New York strike ties in. Yes. And the second Washington strike." Smith stopped speaking. He was lost in his work.
Remo watched with interest. Smith's fingers played like a concert pianist's. He was totally focused. Data blocks passed before his eyes at high speed. Amazingly, Smith seemed to absorb them at a glance. It made Remo wonder why Smith thought he needed a computer to help him think. The man was a wizard.
Finally Smith lifted his head. It was gray, leaden. "Lobynia. There is no question of it. The blackouts coincide exactly."
"But where in Lobynia?" Remo asked.
"Except for the area bordering the Mediterranean, Lobynia is a virtual desert. If they're moving the engines to the launch site by rail, as one would suppose they would do, then there should be visible tracks. This is so obvious, why didn't it occur to me before?"
"Because before, the whole world
was your suspect," said Chiun. "I have told you about the desert kingdom and the passionate prince."
"Even so . . ." said Smith. His voice trailed off again. On the terminal, satellite photos flashed before Smith's eyes. They were on the screen for only a second each. "There!" Smith cried, hitting a key. A photo froze on the screen. "Look."
Remo and Chiun crowded close. "Tracks," Chiun said.
"Going through the desert," Remo added. "But they stop in the middle of nowhere.'
"Not nowhere," Smith pointed out. "See that shadow? They must disappear into a bunker or underground complex. Of course, for the launcher to hurl a locomotive thousands of miles, it would have to be extraordinarily long. It's probably concealed under the sand."
"Well, let's go," Remo said.
"I'll get a helicopter," Smith said, reaching for the telephone.
"You'll be on an Air Force jet within the hour." He stopped suddenly. "This phone is dead."
"Better use the pay phone downstairs," Remo suggested. "The world can't wait while you call for a repairman."
"Yes, I will. But I do not understand. This phone came highly recommended."
"That's the biz," Remo said airly.
Chapter 31
Colonel Hannibal Intifadah watched the work from a safe distance.
The 135-ton Kolomna locomotive had been halted well away from the underground-complex entrance. The tubular boiler had been laid open and workers partitioned it so that the steam combustion chamber lay in two sections. They were sealing it now.
Then, donning protective masks and garments, they pumped in the nerve-gas components through hastily installed valves on top. One agent into the forward section, the other in the rear, making the entire locomotive a binary nerve-gas projectile on wheels. They were harmless now. But when the massive locomotive crashed, the boiler would rupture, the agents would combine, and death would billow up for miles around.
Hamid Al-Mudir came up to report.
"It is done. But, Brother Colonel, we still cannot open the third container. It defies every tool."
"Malesh," Colonel Intifadah said. "No matter. Bring it below. Phase one is completed. Let us go to phase two." They loaded the container onto the jeep and Colonel Intifadah drove into the bunker, down the sloping tunnel, careful to avoid the ruler-straight rail tracks, and into the launch-preparation area.
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