Bloody Tourists td-134

by Warren Murphy

  Martin nodded and left. Grom's shoulders slumped slightly with relief.

  "Back in a flash," she announced to Grom. She strolled to the ladies' room, carrying her purse. Locking the door behind her, she stared into the mirror and considered the huge risk she was about to take. She could let her guard down when she was alone, and what she saw in the mirror was the face of a young woman. Smart. Pretty. Ambitious. The young woman in the mirror had a long life left ahead of her. The only way she could guarantee that long life was to leave now. Climb out the bathroom window and get off the island fast. Get away from Greg Grom and start fresh elsewhere.

  Or she could go through with this, and take the huge risk. If she gambled, and she lost, then the woman in the mirror would be gone forever. Dawn Summens would no longer exist. There would be only a soulless puppet in the hands of puppet master Greg Grom.

  But if she gambled and won...

  Then she would hold the strings to Greg Grom and to all of Union Island. And Union Island was only the launch pad.

  She had her sights set high.

  Without further contemplation she opened her clutch purse and yanked out the black inner liner, then opened the small protective case hidden there. She snapped it open and twisted the lid off the bottle of charcoal capsules, upended the bottle into her mouth. She swallowed them all, washing them down with cupped handfuls of water from the faucet. That was a total of thirty-five charcoal capsules, each 260 milligrams, for a total of 8.32 grams or double a normal maximum supplemental dose. But would it be enough to absorb the GUTX that would surely contaminate the pasta Puttanesca she was about to eat?

  Next she withdrew three prepared, sealed syringes and packets of alcohol wipes. She pulled up her skirt and swabbed a spot on her thigh, then jabbed in the first needle.

  She was too preoccupied to even feel it. Would this work? Would it save her? She yanked out the needle, sterilized a second skin patch, and jabbed in the second syringe, squirting the contents into her leg. The first two syringes contained neostigmine and edrophonium, both of which were used to restore muscular strength in victims of intoxication by tetrodotoxin.

  Hopefully she wouldn't even need it. Hopefully the charcoal would absorb most or all of it before it got into her system. But she just didn't know.

  The third syringe contained 4-aninopyridine, a nondepolarizing neuromuscular blocking agent. It was used in the treatment of multiple sclerosis, and it had been shown to reverse tetrodotoxin toxicity in some animal experiments. She shot it into her thigh, then put the empty syringes away, snapped the case shut and tucked it back in her purse.

  She left the ladies' room without even a backward glance at the girl in the mirror.

  Chapter 34

  Martin, the waiter, cleared their plates. The president had hardly touched the big chunk of pork loin but he didn't seem displeased. In fact, President Grom wore an ear-to-ear smile.

  Minister Summens had made thorough work of her Puttanesca, though. Not a scrap of a noodle remained. "I'm glad to see you smiling, Greg," the minister said.

  "You will be spending the night with me tonight," Grom announced.

  "That makes me happy."

  "I'm glad it makes you happy."

  They packed up the paperwork and left Cafe Amore. They had walked just a few steps along the wide Bay Street walkway when Grom halted and turned on Summens. He smiled condescendingly. "Dawn, you know better than that. Tsk tsk."

  They started down Bay Street again, but now, instead of side by side, Dawn Summens walked a few steps behind him.

  It was a pleasant five-minute stroll to the presidential beach house, and Greg Grom was cheerful. He whistled. He tipped an imaginary hat at the waving police officers.

  The cops waved to the tourism minister, too, who waved back, her nose crinkling in its delightful way, and the cops couldn't tell that inside she was screaming.

  THERE WAS ALSO a policeman stationed at the beach house every night from dusk to dawn. The President of the United States had to worry about assassination attempts, but the president of Union Island had to worry about drunks who had a tendency to wander in thinking it was their hotel, or any hotel where they could spend the night. On average the officer on duty at the presidential beach house would taxi two drunks per night back to their resorts, Three on Saturdays and Sundays.

  Tonight it was still early. The cop was pacing the grounds, just because he hated being locked up in his squad car. He had no problems serving as doorman for the leader of his island and soon, he was convinced, his country.

  As they approached, Greg Grom gave Summens a suggestion, off-handedly and over his shoulder. "Good evening, Mr. President," the officer said respectfully.

  "It is a good evening, isn't it, Officer?"

  "Yes, sir, Mr. President. Ms. Powlik has already arrived. Good evening to you, Minister Summens." Like the damned she screamed. Like eternal agony the wails echoed inside her skull. She struggled to make the sound come from her lips. She had to let someone know this wasn't the real her.

  "Good evening, Officer," she said. "Your tie is a little bit crooked."

  She adjusted the police officer's uniform tie, her lips parted provocatively, and for a moment her slender, tanned fingers rested on his shoulder. The officer didn't know quite how to react, and before he could figure it out she was gone inside with the president.

  He never guessed that, on the inside, she was howling like a rabid animal latched inside a steel cage.

  AMELIA POWLIK WAS wearing nothing except a sparkle in her eye.

  "Been waiting for you, Mr. President. Did everything go as planned?"

  "It all went perfectly, Amelia."

  Amelia Powlik barked happily. "I have more good news. Your federal friends just stopped by for a little dinner at the cafe."

  "Oh, really?" Grom said.

  "I was watching from the balcony. You just missed them."

  "Pity," Grom said, wondering how the night could get any better, really. "Well, Martin knows just what specials to serve our honored friends from the federal government."

  "Let's watch what happens!" Amelia bounded out the open balcony doors and put her eye to the telescope, which was angled down into the heart of Union Island's urban center, right at Cafe Amore.

  "I'd much rather watch what happens in here than down there," Grom suggested.

  Amelia jostled back inside, barking. And Grom was chuckling. And, on the inside, despite the smile on her face, Dawn Summens was screaming and screaming.

  Chapter 35

  Chiun stood in the doorway of Cafe Amore and scowled at the decor, the potted plants and the hammered-tin ceiling. He scowled at Martin the waiter, who was coming at them in a smooth glide. Finally, he awarded his best scowl to the one who had brought him to this place. "What's the matter with it?"

  "It is someone's home," declared Chiun.

  "Believe me, it's a restaurant."

  "Excuse our intrusion," the ancient Korean declared to the entirely emotionless man in the tuxedo. "My ill-mannered son was under the impression that this is a restaurant."

  "Hiya, Martin," Remo greeted the waiter. "Set him straight, would you?"

  "This is indeed a restaurant, sir," Martin said stiffly. "Two will be dining, sir?"

  "If this is a restaurant, why is there no garish advertisement on the street?" Chiun demanded.

  "Relax, Little Father, it's a VIP place," Remo said.

  "For visiting dignitaries, royalty, business tycoons. They don't want the regular street rabble coming in. Isn't that right, Martin?"

  "This is an exclusive establishment," Martin agreed as he led them to a table.

  "Maybe a little too exclusive," Remo commented as they took their seats. They had the place to themselves.

  "Drink, sirs?"

  "No, thanks."

  "I shall fetch menus, sirs."

  "No need, Martin. Just bring me whatever's the freshest fish you've got back there. Steamed, with steamed rice."

  Martin pointed h
is utterly emotionless face at Remo for a long moment and was about to comment.

  "Do you have duck?" Chiun squeaked.

  "No, sir."

  "Do you, perchance, serve parrot?"

  "We do not, sir."

  "Then bring me fish, as well," Chiun said offhandedly. "Whatever is more fresh than what you serve him. Prepared the same way."

  Martin opened his mouth, closed it and left.

  "The plastic guys who model flannel shirts at Sears, Roebuck emote more than that waiter," Remo commented.

  "He is attempting some sort of deception," Chiun announced.

  The kitchen doors swung open again.

  "The fish is off," Martin declared in a monotone as he stood stiffly at their table.

  "Give us the fish that is not off," Remo said. Martin, finally, proved that he did have working facial muscles. He looked puzzled, as if he were trying to think through a brain teaser. "Um, all the fish is off, sir." Chiun rolled his eyes.

  "Let me get this straight," Remo said. "This is the most upscale restaurant on the island. There's an ocean so close I could probably toss you in it from here. And you're trying to tell me you're out of fresh fish?"

  "Um," Martin said, "yes, sir."

  "Um, bullshit. Okay, just bring us the rice. Steamed."

  "We are out of rice, sir," Martin said finally.

  "You served me rice not seven hours ago."

  "That was the last of it, sir."

  "Um," Remo grumbled. "I see."

  "I see a man who is seconds away from death unless he ceases to tell falsehoods," Chiun said in Korean.

  Remo nodded and asked Martin, "My father would like to know your recommendations:"

  "Your father would like to throttle the help," Chiun added in his native language, but he nodded agreeably.

  "The chef has prepared an intriguing pasta Puttanesca," Martin orated.

  Remo nodded. "We'll take it"

  "And we'll force-feed you on it," Chiun added in Korean. But he smiled when he said it.

  Chapter 36

  "Bon appetit," Martin declared, presenting plates of steaming, odoriferous pasta.

  "Well?" Remo asked when the waiter departed. Chiun looked distastefully at the platter before him. He sniffed very slightly. "Boiled gelatinous wheat flour," he stated. "Chemically solidified oil of corn."

  "Yeah?"

  "Tomato, smashed and burned for hours. Dehydrated pungencies added to mask the soot. Compressed anchovies to further confuse the flavor. Brine-cured olives mixed in because this is what American palates demand of their 'authentic' Roman cuisine."

  "What else?" Remo asked.

  "Various forms of curdled cow's milk and enough salt to taint a village well," Chiun said with a nose wrinkled in repulsion. "Also, poison."

  "Mine, too," Remo agreed. "Oh, waiter!"

  THE KITCHEN DOOR SWUNG open and Remo poked his head in.

  "Oh, there you are, Martin."

  "Is there something I can help you with, sir?"

  "The name of whoever put you up to dosing the dinners."

  The cook emerged from a walk-in cooler with a large fish held by the tail. He dropped it and charged Remo a second after Martin made his move. Both of them had large knives conveniently at hand.

  Remo smacked Martin's knife away before the steel tips touched his T-shirt. Martin's butcher blade made a vibrating musical note as it embedded itself in an exposed wooden ceiling beam, and Martin looked at it in surprise. He missed seeing Remo's deft swat at the chef, whose scaling knife somehow ended up rocketing across the short space in Martin's direction. The scaling knife sliced thinly into the waiter's scalp before burying itself in the wall behind him. Frozen, Martin's eyes crossed to stare at the humming knife handle and then to watch the blood trickling down his nose and cheeks.

  "Talk," Remo said, and he started squeezing earlobes.

  "WELL?" Chiun asked.

  Remo sat at the table. "They were lying. They did have fresh fish. It's in the steamer."

  "I knew it."

  "The whole bit about trying to poison our pasta is a mystery to them. They don't even remember doing it, or why or who told them to," Remo added.

  "They were lying," Chiun said.

  "I would have known if they were lying," Remo insisted.

  A very shaky Martin emerged from the kitchen and came to the table. "I came to take away the unsatisfactory entrees." He was whimpering, yet he still managed to retain some of his condescending-waiter attitude.

  "The unsatisfactory entrees are no longer here, obviously," Chiun pointed out.

  Martin's eyeballs rolled in his head until they focused on two extremely valuable oil paintings adorning a place of honor on a wall behind a velvet rope. They were nineteenth-century Italian portraits, and their combined value was more than that of the restaurant itself. Their value had been much reduced, however, when the Italian duke and duchess were hit in the face with pasta Puttanesca.

  Chiun took Martin's wrist and applied pressure. "Did you lie to my son?"

  Martin's mouth opened and closed. He had been in pain when Remo interrogated him. Now he was in pain. "No!" he gasped like a suffocating carp.

  Chiun frowned at him, then let go of the wrist. "You have cut your scalp open, careless oaf," Chiun told the man. "If you bleed on my fish, I'll throttle you with it."

  Martin gulped. "Very good, sir."

  Remo wasn't paying attention. "I'm sick of this tiptoeing around," he announced. "I think we should go see the president after dinner."

  "Emperor Smith will be displeased."

  "Smitty can stuff it."

  "Good!"

  "Good?" Remo asked. "Why good?"

  "I have thought all along we should go interrogate the whelp, despite Emperor Smith's dictates."

  "So why didn't you say so?" Remo asked.

  "I was waiting for you to make the decision. Now, if it becomes a political brew-a-ha-ha it will be your responsibility, not mine."

  "If he's the guilty guy it won't matter," Remo said.

  Chapter 37

  Dawn Summens was experiencing hell.

  Greg Grom wasted no time in creating a repeat performance of the role-playing she had witnessed the night before. Only this time, instead of Amelia standing in as Dawn Summens, he had the real Dawn Summens to play with.

  She had underestimated Greg Grom. The depths of his sadism and bitterness were far beyond what she had ever imagined. In the main bedroom of the presidential beach house, with Amelia Powlik cheering on the sidelines, Greg Grom took out months of pent-up anger and frustration on his minister of tourism in the most humiliating and painful methods he could engineer.

  He suggested that she beg for more. She begged for more.

  Her mouth made the words and her body acquiesced to his abuse, but inside she was fighting with every ounce of will. Some niggling sense told her that the chemical hold on her was weakening. Maybe her precautions had been somewhat effective. Maybe with a little more time...

  Maybe it was just wishful thinking.

  Greg Grom halted his entertainment and left her battered and bruised on the bed. He dressed, taking several plastic vials from the bedside table.

  "I'm off! There are breakfast buffets to be spiced up!" So he had enough supply of the good new GUTX synthesis to start dosing the tourists again. There was nothing to stop him now.

  "We'll be waiting!" Amelia Powlik giggled.

  "Amelia, feel free to entertain yourself while I'm gone."

  "Thanks, Mr. President!"

  "Just don't do any severe damage to the poor creature. That's my job."

  "NOW IT'S JUST You and me!" Amelia Powlik exclaimed with a bark of joy. "Here, have a drink." Dawn Summons, her head half-hanging over the edge of the bed, saw a bottle of tequila thrust in front of her. She hated tequila. But she took it and brought it to her lips.

  "Take a nice big swig," Amelia said.

  Dawn put it to her lips and then concentrated, with all her mental energies, on th
e act of closing her lips. As she upended the bottle, her lips did close. She felt the tequila burning against her mouth, but only a trickle got inside.

  "That's right, honey!" Amelia said. "That'll get you going!"

  Dawn sat up and held the bottle out to Amelia.

  "No, you go ahead and take another."

  "Yes, Amelia," Dawn said, and she pretended to take another big swig. Hope flared up inside of her-she was fighting it! She was disobeying!

  Was she ready to take it to the next level, to try something really rebellious?

  "We're gonna have fun while the prez is out on the town!" Amelia said. "Well, I'm gonna have fun. What'll we do for starters?"

  "How about this?" Dawn asked as she held the tequila bottle by the neck and brought it down hard on Amelia Powlik's skull.

  The bottle broke. Amelia grunted and staggered and sputtered to get the glass pieces and alcohol out of her mouth. She grabbed her eyes but forced glass splinters into her flesh. When she tried to blink her eyes open, the tequila burned her eyeballs.

  Dawn gave Amelia a shove. Amelia staggered across the room. Another shove sent her onto the balcony. When Amelia's hip collided with the iron railing, she knew what was in store for her and she forced her eyes open. They were bloodred and burning. She managed to hold them open just long enough to see Dawn Summens coming at her again. Amelia tried to slap Dawn away and failed. Dawn grabbed her by the shins and lifted.

  Amelia, with a bark of fear, flipped off the balcony and thumped against the beach twelve feet below. Something snapped. It was her ankle. Despite the agony, she began a miserable turtle crawl.

  "I found another bottle of tequila, Amelia," Dawn called down. Amelia felt the liquid spattering on her back and buttocks.

  "How about we heat this party up?" Summens asked. Amelia once again forced her eyes open. Dawn was on the balcony with a tubular box of fireplace matches. She lit one and sent the slender flaming stick arching off the balcony. It landed in the sand and went out.

  "Oops. Better try that again," Summens said. Amelia whimpered. She watched another match arc through the air and land in the sand just a foot from her body. She tried to crawl away, backward, but her body was shaking and her leg was limp. The third match was on target. Amelia tried to dodge, but she simply could not move fast enough.