Bloody Tourists td-134

by Warren Murphy

  Chiun heard him argue briefly with whoever it was that answered the phone and then say, "Smitty, it's me." Remo went on to detail his unproductive lunch date with the island minister of tourism. Chiun walked to the glass doors that opened onto a large balcony. He and Remo shared a spacious suite with a deck large enough for a dinner party. He slid open the door and stepped outside.

  He was the Master of Sinanju Emeritus, and he felt restless.

  At the time when Remo assumed the title of Reigning Master, in all the chaos that accompanied that event, Chiun had experienced something phenomenal. Amid a battle against horrific foes of Chiun's own making, he had been visited by Wang, greatest of all Sinanju Masters.

  To meet with Wang while one was earning the title Master, undergoing Attainment, was a great honor. To meet with the great Wang at any other time in the career of a Master of Sinanju was unique in the annals of the Masters.

  Wang told Chiun that his own future would be unprecedented in the history of Sinanju, but what Wang foretold was also less than crystal clear. Chiun's future would be magnificent, Wang said, but he hinted that a magnificent price would be paid.

  But what price?

  Chiun had slowed down in recent months, dwelling endlessly on the words of Wang, on the histories of Sinanju. He had sought to resolve in meditation the mysteries of Wang's prophecy, but had come away with only speculation. He had no clearer picture of his future now than he had when he was in the village of Sinanju, after the Time of Succession, after the final obliteration of Nuihc and the Dutchman.

  Chiun didn't even have a path to follow. But he knew he needed to be more active again, escape the thrall of inactivity. Distantly he heard a familiar voice coming from the open-air lobby a few hundred feet from the balcony. "Prettier than you! Prettier than you!"

  He allowed himself a slight smile. He did thoroughly enjoy berating that unbeautiful bird. But it was idle entertainment. He needed to clear away the cobwebs of his months of idleness.

  There was a meaningless squawk, and then the bird spoke again.

  "WHAT THE HELL?" Remo exhorted.

  "What?" Smith said.

  Remo hung up the phone and went onto the balcony, where Chiun stood with a shocked tightness to his face, as if his parchment skin were being stretched.

  "Little Father?"

  "Listen!" Chiun hissed.

  Remo probed the grounds of the resort with his ears. Lots of air-conditioning noises. Vacuums from rooms being cleaned. The hush of the surf and laughter from the swimming pool. All the noises expected from a beach resort. Cutting through it all was the big macaw calling out from inside the lobby, "Prettier than you! Prettier than you!"

  "What am I-?"

  "Be still and listen!"

  Remo shut up and listened. He knew Chiun well, and he knew something was wrong. But all he heard was the piercing squawk of that idiot parrot. Then even the parrot shut up.

  "It is gone," Chiun said finally.

  "What is gone?"

  "Something strange," Chiun said ambiguously, looking out over the resort to the sea.

  "That tells me a lot. Why'd you get so excited?"

  "I was not excited," Chiun said, but without vehemence.

  "Then why did you get so alarmed?"

  "You may be assured I was not alarmed."

  "Whatever! You were not your usually sunny self for a second there, so how come?"

  "If you were ever to focus your attention away from Remo Williams, you would notice that I go through a range of emotions in any given day that we are in each other's company," Chiun said. "Sometimes I am aggravated, sometimes I am frustrated and sometimes I am irritated. There are times when I am exacerbated, disgusted, offended, sickened, shocked, galled, annoyed and appalled."

  "Okay-"

  "There are times when I am disturbed, or perturbed, or distraught, and sometimes I am just sadly amused."

  "Well, whatever it was, you're sure back to normal now," Remo snapped and retreated inside the suite to call back Smith.

  Chiun stayed on the balcony, watching the Caribbean glimmering in the sun but not seeing it. His concentration was on the sounds.

  He did not hear it again.

  Had he been mistaken? Could his ears have fooled him? Could he have been so engrossed in his momentous thoughts that his mind tricked him into thinking that he heard something that wasn't there?

  Was his hearing starting to fail? He furled his brow and probed the sprawling resort. Down on the beach an obese and hirsute man was walking to the small shack where intoxicating beverages were dispensed, and Chiun concentrated on it.

  "Can you make me a Singapore Sling?" the hairy one asked.

  "Of course, sir," the bartender said with a habitual smile.

  Chiun felt satisfied. He heard every word perfectly, despite the distance and despite the slurred speech of the hairy one. His hearing was still as good as ever-that is, well beyond the capabilities of every other human on the planet except for Remo.

  But his moment of relief turned to worry. If not his ears, had it been his mind?

  Losing his senses would be terrible; losing his mind would be worse. It would be humiliating.

  No, by Sinanju standards he was far too young for senility or the infirmities of the elderly. A spring duck. But that meant what he heard was genuine. What could that mean? For his own peace of mind he would need to prove it. To himself.

  DR. HAROLD W. SMITH HAD a pallid gray complexion on his best days. When he grew pale, he looked like nothing less than a days-dead corpse.

  "Mark?"

  "Yes, Dr. Smith?" Mark Howard was hunched over his keyboard, oblivious to the display on his screen. Smith had come halfway behind the desk to get a look at his associate's progress.

  "What are you doing?" Smith asked.

  Mark Howard stopped and looked up at Smith. "Researching. You asked me to create a profile on that minister of tourism."

  "So instead you are downloading pornography?" Mark Howard's mouth dropped open, then he followed Smith's gaze to the monitor. In one corner was a looping video window showing a woman in a bikini.

  "That's not exactly pornography," Howard said, grinning. "I mean, she's not even naked."

  "That is very close to naked," Smith said, lips pinching together.

  "Well, that's her. The minister of tourism."

  "Where? In the bikini?"

  "It's a commercial," Howard said.

  "That's the one Remo ran into?" Smith asked incredulously. "Dawn Summens?"

  "Yeah. Lucky SOB."

  Smith stared at the image for a moment and then turned away with a sort of painted-on shock. "I'll wait for your profile."

  Mark grinned. The profile was just about complete, and he sent the batch of electronic files across the network to Smith's office.

  He included the commercial.

  "WHAT DID YOU MAKE of her," Smith asked Remo.

  "Huh? Oh, Summens?"

  "That is who we were discussing," Smith reminded him. "Are you sure you are feeling well, Remo?"

  "I'm fine," Remo said, pulling his thoughts away from the strange behavior of Chiun, who was still standing on the balcony and was abnormally alert. Something had spooked him. That worried Remo. Chiun was his mentor, his father, his friend. Remo loved the old man more than any human being on this Earth.

  Chiun was also one of the most powerful human beings on the planet by virtually any measure. He was a Master of Sinanju, for crying out loud. Masters of Sinanju don't spook easy.

  So what just happened out on the balcony? What had Chiun heard, or thought he heard?

  "So?" Smitty asked.

  "Huh?"

  "Minister Summens?" Mark Howard prodded.

  "Where'd you come from?" Remo asked.

  "I've been on the line since you called back," Howard said. "Remember, about ninety seconds ago when you said, 'Hiya Beav.' You were just now telling us about Minister Summens."

  "Yeah. She's a strange one. You know she started as a biki
ni model?"

  "We know," Smith said icily.

  "We found some of the commercials that are traded on-line," Mark Howard announced. "She has her own fan clubs."

  "I'd believe it," Remo said. "But she may be a part of whatever badness is going on. I don't know yet. She's about the most guarded person I've ever talked to. I had lunch with her and got nowhere."

  Silence.

  "I mean I learned nothing," Remo clarified.

  "So what leads you to think she could be tied into the mainland troubles?" Smith asked. "She was not on the U.S. bus tour."

  "My background checks show she does have strong ties to President Grom," Howard said. "They were romantically linked at one time. She's heavily involved in the proindependence lobbying effort, and with an uncanny degree of success. Senator Sam Switzer visited Union a few days ago, and today he came out in favor of granting the island independence and providing it an aid package to help it start a national government."

  "Brainwashed?" Remo asked.

  "I doubt that," Smith said.

  "So he was already in favor of this little hot rock getting a free ride?"

  "Actually, he was on record as being opposed to it," Smith admitted.

  "There's more to it than that," Mark added. "Switzer was calling for federal corruption charges to be brought against President Grom. He flip-flopped on that issue, as well."

  "So why do you think he's not brainwashed?" Remo asked.

  "The newspapers have charged the senator with caving into the womanly wiles of the minister of tourism," Howard said.

  "He was on the island for less than twenty-four hours," Smith added. "It takes quite a bit longer than that to brainwash someone."

  "Depends on how you go about it," Remo replied. "I do think that's what's going on around here, Smitty. I think that's the key to all of it."

  "Are we back to the poison smell again?"

  "Yeah. I thought you were coming around to my way of thinking on the subject."

  "Only to a point," Smith protested. "Remo, we know the substance is responsible for the acts of violence and the ensuing degradation of mental dynamics."

  "You also know that there was somebody on the UI tour bus that was doing the poisoning," Remo added.

  "Maybe somebody wanted us to think that," Smith said. "Even more important is the lack of motivation. Why would somebody on the tour bus set out to cause that kind of havoc?"

  "Why would anybody do any of this?" Remo demanded.

  "I do not know."

  "So we can't rule out the UI president," Remo declared flatly. "We can't rule out brainwashing of visitors."

  Smith sighed. "I fail to see the causal link between the poisoning and the ambitions of the Union Island leaders."

  "So how long was Senator Shitzer here? A day?" Remo observed. "I bet he's just the latest victim. I'll bet there have been others. In fact, I have a feeling that just about everybody who comes to this place gets a quick cranial fix."

  Smith made a sound then stopped. "Remo, I will not believe Union Island is brainwashing public officials and visiting tourists. It's outlandish."

  "Yeah," Remo said. "Maybe."

  Chapter 33

  Few people knew about Cafe Amore.

  Cafe Amore wasn't listed in the travel brochures. The Official Visitors Guide to the Caribbean Paradise of Union Island made no mention of the restaurant. Often tourists would spot the unassuming little beachfront establishment and try to get in. Usually they were denied reservations. Most days the Closed for Private Party sign was propped up in the front window.

  Dawn Summens ate most of her dinners here. It was the only safe place. There were actually few other restaurants on the island that weren't a part of one of the resorts, and anything you ate in any of the resorts had a chance of being, well, poisoned.

  When Greg Grom originally embarked on his campaign to control the island, he had not been careful. As a demonstration of her usefulness when she wriggled her way into his confidence, Dawn Summens had mapped out a plan for a zone of noncontamination. "Are you going to trust that some minimum-wage fry cook at the Centauri Beach Resort isn't going to use some of the contaminated breakfast supplies in the dinner entree?" she asked him.

  "I told them not to," Grom had protested. "So they won't."

  "So they won't deliberately," Summens said. "Who knows what they'll do accidentally. Greg, if they were smart they wouldn't be fry cooks."

  Grom saw her point and agreed to make one restaurant entirely off-limits to their special brand of generalized GUTX contamination. They chose Cafe Amore. It served swill, but it served a higher grade of swill than the other places. Some of the new island profits were funneled into its accounts, and the fare was upgraded even as the clientele was reduced to a select handful. It was here that visiting dignitaries were entertained. If necessary, their dinners were salted with GUTX carefully, on an individual basis. The Cafe Amore staff had been carefully programmed to follow a strict regimen of safety rules developed by Dawn herself to reduce any chance of cross contamination.

  When she and Grom arrived for dinner, they found the tables mostly empty. Just a few minor dignitaries and ranking locals. Grom shook hands and patted shoulders.

  "Join us, please," said the mayor of a large Midwestern U.S. city. He had been dragged on this vacation by his insistent wife, on the advice of her sister Rosie. The mayor hated his wife's sister. Somehow, Rosie's obstinate opinions had a way of making their way into his political policy making. For once, though, Rosie was right. This place was wonderful. The mayor was already planning to retire here. Maybe he'd even opt out of the next election and move here that much sooner....

  "Sorry, can't tonight," Grom begged off, smiling and holding up his briefcase.

  "This is a working dinner for the president," Dawn Summens added. "You know how it piles up while you're away."

  "Oh, sure!" the mayor agreed. He, for one, had no work piling up while he was away. He prided himself on his skills as a master of complete delegation. His workday consisted mainly of listening to his secretary read the summary conclusions of various city committee inquires and issuing decisions based on those reports. Some days he was on the job for less than an hour. That left time for golf.

  Grom and Summens took the president's private booth and laid out piles of paperwork. Summens boated her government-issue notebook computer and they ordered without looking at the menus.

  "Well?" Grom asked when the waiter was gone. "How was lunch?"

  "Difficult to say," Dawn Summens admitted. "He's a strange one. He was wary."

  "Suspicious?" Grom asked.

  "Not as far as I could tell. But definitely slow to become interested."

  "You mean interested in you?"

  Summens nodded, thinking over her lunchtime encounter.

  "Did you pull out all the tricks?"

  "No," she replied quickly. "No tricks. He would have seen through them."

  "He didn't look all that sharp to me," Grom said.

  "Maybe not sharp exactly, but insightful."

  "Hmm."

  "I felt I had to be quite careful," she added. "I kept my questions neutral."

  "You mean you learned nothing." Summens nodded.

  "Nothing."

  "Didn't you show him your tits?"

  "Yes, Mr. President, I showed him my tits. He seemed to like them very much, but there was some trouble on the beach. He got distracted."

  Grom's eyes flickered from side to side. They were beady little rat eyes. "What kind of trouble?"

  "Woman trouble," Summens said. "Our friend had apparently spurned the advances of another tourist, and she took offense. There was some shouting."

  "Really?" Grom said insincerely.

  "I think he's very careful," Summens observed.

  "Maybe gay."

  She considered that. "I don't think so."

  "Whatever," Grom declared, sitting back and tapping his Mont Blanc pen against the edge of the table. "Is he or is he not a fe
deral agent?"

  "Too early to tell," Dawn Summens said, and her voice reflected none of her rampaging thoughts. Greg Grom was acting differently. He was a little too confident. He was a little too belligerent. Dawn Summens was a student of human relationships, and she had made a point of studying this man especially carefully. She knew all his moods, and she knew when he had something to hide.

  He intended to turn against her. Finally. Tonight. The betrayal was oozing from him, and she could almost taste the reek of it in the air.

  "You struck out, Dawn," Grom said brusquely.

  "I gained some measure of his confidence. We have another date planned for tomorrow."

  "A lot could happen before tomorrow. Did you happen to notice that we're in a bad fix? We need some damage control, and we need it now. If those misfits really are federal agents-and I know they are-they're going to make things even worse."

  "Maybe you shouldn't have led them here."

  It was the kind of tart remark that would make Greg Grom fly off at the handle-or at least break out in an uncomfortable sweat that would start him scratching his itching palms and shifting in his seat.

  He just sat there, looking at her.

  "I don't appreciate you speaking to me in that way," he said finally in a low voice.

  "And I don't appreciate you screwing things up for us," she said even more quietly, and she saw the anger blossom in his eyes. Had she overdone it? She couldn't be acquiescent. She couldn't risk letting on that she knew what he was about to do.

  She and Greg Grom had been a team in a high-stakes poker game, but they were about to play the most important hand of all, and it was against each other. He knew it. She knew it. But he didn't know she knew it. Martin came to the table. He was the only waiter who worked Cafe Amore, ever. The less staff, the better the quality control. He flourished a small tray and placed their drinks before them. Stoli and tonic with a twist for President Grom. White wine for Summens.

  "Minister Summens," Martin said apologetically, "Gerhard has suggested a change of entree. The mahimahi is off."

  Of course it is, Dawn Summens thought. Steamed white fish would not disguise the taste. "What does he suggest, Martin?"

  "A flavorful pasta Puttanesca, Minister."

  "A little spicier than I am in the mood for tonight," Summens said thoughtfully, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Grom fidget. "But sure. I'll have the Puttanesca."