Cold Warrior td-91

by Warren Murphy

Hands so fast they left no blurs in the night air rendered the weapons useless.

  This was how Comandante Leopoldo Zorilla saw it:

  The rifle muzzles were poked forward.

  They never touched the bodies they were intended to prod. Instead his soldiers jumped back, as if startled by the unexpected sound that came from their muzzles.

  It was not an explosive sound. Not even the click of chambers being charged.

  The sound was more of a runk! Like a steel goose honking in the night.

  The sound was what made his soldiers recoil, weapons coming up in their hands. The right-angle bend in their barrels was what made their eyes go round in their heads.

  Leopoldo Zorilla changed his mind again. These men, for all their odd appearance and odder behavior, were highly trained professionals. He had never seen the likes of them before.

  Wordlessly, he signaled his soldados to break up the argument.

  The men, who were left clutching maimed weapons, startled expressions making their faces clownlike, retreated as the replacements came in.

  Runk!

  These too, stepped back, as if they had poked their barrels into the whirling blades of the most powerful fan ever constructed. But there was no fan. The pair seemed not to touch the weapons at any time. They merely used their hands to gesticulate angrily at one another. At no time did they appear to reach out and actually touch the rifle barrels. But this was the only explanation, that they were using their hands to create this wonder.

  It is either that, Zorilla concluded, or they are protected by personal force-fields.

  The thought, wild as it was, intrigued Leopoldo Zorilla. He lifted his open and weaponless fingers and inched them toward the Anglo named Remo, as if he were an electrician approaching a possibly live wire.

  He received a shock that was no different.

  It was not electrical in nature, but his fingers stung very suddenly. Zorilla withdrew them and looked at his fingertips.

  The nails were already turning black, the way they had once when he had tried to fix a broken window in his Santiago de Cuba comandancia.

  The upper casement had slammed down, catching the tips of his fingers. Within days the nails had blackened, eventually to fall off, leaving a black, gritty substance resembling crushed coal that was probably dried, trapped blood.

  The pain this time was not nearly as intense, but the fingernails were already blackening and Zorilla felt them go numb.

  "Are you injured, Comandante?" a corporal asked worriedly.

  "Silence these two!" Zorilla ordered, a slow-traveling pain moving from the area of numbness up his arm and to his central nervous system. It was like a delayed pain. It shot through his muscles suddenly, and his teeth clamped down so hard he distinctly heard a bicuspid break.

  This time, his soldados went to work in earnest. They brought the butts of their rifles around and prepared to club the still arguing pair apart.

  This, apparently, was enough to make the pair notice that they were under attack.

  This time, Zorilla could see their hands at work. Their feet as well. Kneecaps cracked like seashells. Fingers were bent backward, against the natural flex of the knuckle. Men were flying. Rifles cartwheeled from nerveless hands.

  In seconds, the cream of his New Cuban Army was standing about as he: clutching injured members, or squirming in the dirt, weaponless and conquered.

  The Anglo said, "Our information is that Uncle Sam has nothing to do with this little boot camp here."

  "Your information is wrong," Zorilla muttered through pain-tightened teeth. A bloody chunk of tooth enamel dribbled from his mouth.

  "What do you think, Chiun?" the Anglo asked the Asian.

  "You have asked the question wrongly," said the Asian named Chiun.

  And the Asian proceeded to ask the question in a unique manner.

  He said not a word. He used the long, spidery nails of his right hand, which gleamed like curled ivory. He took Zorilla by the point of his chin and, neither exerting obvious pressure nor inflicting additional pain-not that any was needed-used that chin as a handle to bring Comandante Leopoldo Zorilla to his knees in the dirt like an effeminate maricon.

  "You command this ragtag army?" he demanded.

  "I do," Zorilla admitted through his teeth.

  "And who commands you?"

  "Uncle Sam."

  "Liar!"

  "I swear it is the truth! I serve Uncle Sam!"

  "Satisfied?" the one called Remo asked.

  "Pah!" said the one called Chiun. "We have been sent on a wild weasel quest."

  "Wild goose chase, and right about now I think discretion would be the better part of valor."

  "Meaning?"

  "We'd better check with Smith."

  "Who is Smith?" asked Comandante Leopoldo Zorilla, at the exact moment before the lights went out and he knew no more.

  Chapter 9

  Harold Smith was very close to falling asleep.

  National security depended upon Harold Smith's remaining awake, alert, and in contact with the developing situation. Yet he found himself nodding off.

  It was night over Long Island Sound. The moon was high and full, and its silver effulgence washed the dark pimpled water like a luminous bleach.

  The light poured through the one-way picture window behind his Folcroft desk. It was made of one-way glass so that no one could look in on the office, over Smith's shoulder, and read the computer screen that often displayed the deepest secrets of America.

  The overhead lights were fluorescent, and shook the air.

  Except for the medical staff and security guards, Folcroft slept. Only Smith, in the administrative wing, was working.

  He was at his desk. The CURE terminal was up and running. On a corner of the pathologically neat desk sat a tiny black-and-white television set. It was turned to a network channel.

  The bearded face of El Lider animated the screen. Smith had the sound turned up. Still, even with the sound of that raging voice, he could barely keep his eyes open.

  "Does that man ever stop?" he complained, catching himself nod off for the fifteenth time.

  The situation in Washington remained tense. After the MIG interception over the Gulf of Mexico, there had been nothing from the President. Smith continued to watch the seemingly endless Castro speech. The networks, having been overwhelmed in South Florida by the more powerful signal from Havana, had made matters worse by repeating the signal to affiliates all over the nation, with a running translation at the bottom. It was certain to heighten tensions, but nothing could be done about it.

  No doubt, Harold Smith reflected as he put eye drops into his bleary gray eyes in an attempt to keep them open, the President was working the phones in an effort to convince the networks to downplay the interruption of regular programming.

  In the meantime, it was all Smith could do to stay awake. For all his bluster, Castro and his tirade were having a soporific effect on him. But he dared not shut off the set while there was a possibility the networks would break in with an important bulletin.

  So, while the Maximum Leader of Cuba ranted on about the Cuban people being willing to eat their shoes and pick their teeth with the nails rather than turn away from Socialism, Harold Smith continued to monitor his computer, waiting for word from Remo and Chiun.

  It came when the blue contact telephone began ringing.

  "Yes, Remo," Smith said, replacing his rimless glasses.

  "We got a problem, Smitty."

  A surge of adrenaline perked Harold Smith up in his cracked leather executive's chair.

  "What is it?" Smith asked, his voice lemon-bitter.

  "We found Zorilla. All tricked out in his soldier suit, ramrodding a paramilitary outfit in the Big Cypress Swamp."

  "Good. You have interrogated him?"

  "Yep. "

  "And?"

  "That's the problem, Smitty. You'd better check back with the President."

  "Why?"

  "According
to Zorilla, Uncle Sam's behind the whole thing."

  "He said that?"

  "He did. With Chiun squeezing every syllable from him. So he has to be telling the truth."

  "I understand," said Smith, his gray-hued face going ashen.

  Remo asked, "So what do we do? Back off until you clear this up?"

  "One moment, Remo," said Smith. Cradling the blue receiver between jaw and shoulder, he attacked his keyboard. As he worked, he continued speaking.

  "If there is a covert U.S. Cuban invasion in the works, it has to be a CIA operation," he muttered.

  "Sounds about right to me."

  "I am entering their central computer net right now."

  "Don't startle any sleeping spooks," Remo said dryly.

  "They have no idea I am in their system. I have super-user status."

  "Goody for you," Remo said in an impatient voice.

  Smith entered the deepest recesses of the CIA system. He executed a global search of keywords. "CUBA" brought up only intelligence intercepts and contingency plans.

  "ULTIMA HORA" produced nothing more than raw intelligence.

  "CASTRO" summoned up such an endless file of assassination senarios that Smith was forced to log off out of sheer impatience.

  He broke contact and turned in his squeaking chair.

  "Remo," he said, thin-lipped. "This is not a CIA operation. There is no active scenario fitting the description on file."

  "Who said it has to be on computer?" Remo asked reasonably.

  "Everything is on computer these days."

  "Then it's somebody else. Isn't the President heavily involved in the Cuban exile community? Through his son?"

  "Remo," Smith pointed out, "the President suggested this assignment."

  "Maybe to cover his butt," suggested Remo.

  "Remo," Smith countered, "the President would not put you and Chiun on the trail of these people if he had a stake in their eventual success. I have explained the situation to you. Cuba is hands-off. We do not wish to ruffle the Russian bear's fur."

  "Are they still a bear?" Remo wondered. "I thought they were just cubs now."

  "Never mind," Smith said. "Give me five minutes." And he hung up.

  Smith cleared his throat and lifted the red receiver. The dedicated direct line opened automatically, causing a matching red telephone in the Lincoln Bedroom to begin ringing.

  As he waited, Smith turned down the sound of Fidel Castro haranguing a world that no longer had a place for him.

  The President's voice was hushed when it came on the line. "Smith. Progress?" he hissed.

  "Slight progress. We have located the comandante of the operation. He is a Cuban defector."

  "Good."

  "He insists that Washington is behind his efforts."

  "That is insane! Unless . . . unless there's a rogue CIA effort under way."

  "Not possible, Mr. President," Smith said crisply. "I have just gone through the CIA computer net. It is devoid of any such operation. Furthermore, the agency itself shows no activity or message traffic that would be consistent with the management of an ongoing operation of this magnitude."

  "You have access to CIA files?" the President said, blank wonder in his tone.

  "Part of the mission, Mr. President."

  The President's voice grew disturbed. "Did you have it when I was in charge over there?"

  "You may conclude that if you wish," Smith said flatly. "But the matter at hand is what should concern us now."

  "Of course. Obviously this Cuban defector is lying through his teeth."

  "Impossible. He has been subjected to an interrogation technique that is one-hundred-percent irresistible."

  "But he implicated Washington," the President of the United States pointed out.

  "Specifically, Uncle Sam."

  "That could be anyone from a renegade senator to-"

  "-to a person with high connections claiming to be operating with presidential sanction," Smith finished.

  "Good point. But who?"

  "Mr. President, I must ask you this question in the name of national security. You have a son who is active in the Cuban community in Miami. Can you vouch for his recent activities?"

  Indignation rose in the President's tone. "I certainly can."

  "If you are certain, that is enough for me," Smith said.

  "Good," the President said tightly.

  "Still," Smith went on, "it might be advisable to get him out of Florida if he happens to be there now."

  "Why?"

  "Because I am about to order my enforcement arm to terminate everyone connected with this operation."

  "I didn't hear that."

  "Contact your son, Mr. President. I am about to pull the plug on Ultima Hora forever."

  Smith hung up and checked on the progress of the Castro speech. He was in the "History Will Absolve Me" phase. That meant the speech was coming to a climax. No more than an hour remained.

  The blue contact phone rang and Smith brought the handset to his grim gray face.

  "Remo," he said. "I want you and Chiun to render Ultima Hora completely and totally immobile."

  "That mean what I think it means?" Remo asked.

  "It does."

  "And Zorilla?"

  "Make sure he wakes up among the fallen."

  "Yeah?"

  "Then follow him to whoever he reports to."

  "And lead us to his control, right?"

  Smith sighed. "Let us hope. Otherwise, knowing the U.S. news media, Fidel Castro will become the next Bart Simpson."

  "Huh?"

  "His speech is into its fifth hour, with every network and CNN carrying it live with subtitles."

  "For crying out loud, why?"

  "I believe it is sweeps month," Smith said sourly. "Report when you have penetrated the next echelon."

  Smith hung up. He turned up the sound. As he watched the bearded man rant on, his mind went back over the years.

  The President of Cuba had been a thorn in the side of the United States for as long as Harold Smith had been sitting at this anonymous desk. Longer. Smith had once been a CIA bureaucrat, and Castro had been a CIA obsession even in those early days. Smith had been privvy to the Bay of Pigs plan, and his advice that the operation was ill conceived and would prove counterproductive if not carried out correctly was pointedly ignored.

  The ultimate failure of the operation had made Smith a man with an uncertain future at the CIA. Then had come the summons to the White House and the offer to head the agency that did not exist.

  Within a year, the young President had been assassinated. To this day, there were those who pointed the finger of blame for that heinous act at Havana.

  But Smith wasn't thinking of that. He was thinking of the global turmoil this one driven individual had caused. The Cuban Missile Crisis had simply been the earliest and most dangerous incident.

  Smith knew, because recent revelations had brought it to light, that Havana had attempted to egg the Soviet Union's Khrushchev into nuking the U.S. to protect a tiny island that had never contributed anything more important to the world than sugar and tobacco, one that had been built on the slave trade and was the last in the Western hemisphere to renounce it.

  The memory made Harold Smith shudder. The U.S. and U.S.S.R. nuking themselves, and human civilization, into hot smoking ash-over a useless green speck in the Caribbean. All because of one man's rabid antiAmericanism.

  Smith thought of the events of his life since 1961, of the people who had been born, the scientific and cultural achievements of mankind. None of them Cuban. And none of them would have happened had Havana gotten its way.

  While the first man was walking on the moon, Havana was overturning elected governments in Latin America and Africa. While human hearts were first being successfully transplanted, Castro was ordering Cuban cows to mate with zebu in defiance of elementary genetic logic, in an insane gambit designed to produce an animal that produced both meat and milk.

  On the
television screen, Fidel Castro shook his fist and dripped spittle onto his iron-gray beard. One man. One madman. From Attila the Hun to Adolf Hitler, it was usually one power-crazed lunatic who piled up the most bodies.

  Perhaps he had made a mistake in not ordering the man terminated years ago, after CURE had gotten its enforcement arm.

  Now it was too late. By presidential decree, CURE could not undertake that task. It shouldn't even have been necessary. The Cold War was over.

  Yet there he was: the last Cold Warrior, trying to push the world to the brink once more ....

  Chapter 10

  Remo left the out-of-the-way gas station pay phone off the loop road, with a slow look of uncertainty settling over his lean features.

  The Master of Sinanju saw this as his pupil approached their rented car.

  "You are troubled," he said.

  Remo eased behind the wheel. "Smith just ordered Ultima Hora hit."

  "What is so troubling about this? They are enemies of the Emperor. They live to die."

  "No," said Remo, starting the car. "They are Cuban patriots. All they want is to take back their homeland. Nothing wrong with that." He sent the car running down the long tunnel of a Spanish moss-overhung road. "We're supposed to be on the same side."

  "They are pawns," Chiun said coldly. "As are you."

  "Maybe. But I thought this kind of crap went out with the Cold War."

  "If you wish, I will dispatch them."

  "You will?"

  Chiun raised a wise finger. "But you must tell Smith you accounted for some of the vanquished."

  "Why?"

  "Because while I wish the credit, I am negotiating a contract for your services as well. You must demonstrate your worth."

  "I haven't done so badly this far," Remo growled, swerving to avoid a road-crossing armadillo.

  "For a white. A parentless white."

  "Get off that kick. And while you're dismounting, how about clueing me in on the bone that's caught in Smith's throat?"

  "What is this you ask?"

  "The sticking point in the contract. It's gotta be pretty big."

  "If you must know, I am seeking a new residence. One worthy of our station in this ugly land."

  "Yeah?"

  "One with battlements and great stonework and other accoutrements befitting our worth."