Hostile Takeover td-81

by Warren Murphy

  "It's not the bat that people are buying, it is what it symbolizes. Batman. He's a guy who goes around-"

  "Yes, yes. I have seen that insipid TV show."

  "The TV show is history. This is the new Batman. He kicks ass. Kids love him."

  "How anyone could love a man who dresses like a winged rodent is beyond me," Chiun said dismissively.

  "Trust me. Or better yet, rent the video. But enough of all this. Smitty, this is it. I'd say it's been fun, but that was before you booby-trapped my house."

  "I do not share Remo's bitterness," Chiun said loftily. "I forgive you for such minor transgressions. It is your failure to bequeath me Cheeta Ching that I find unconscionable. But this sad ending to our association lies on your head. Had you fulfilled the terms of our last contract, I would be bound to service."

  "I understand," Smith said, spinning his wheelchair toward a green file cabinet. He pulled a folder from a lower drawer. "Before you go," he added, pulling a sheaf of stapled papers from the file, "there is one last bit of unfinished business to transact."

  "Yeah?" Remo said sourly.

  "I must have the Master of Sinanju sign a document. It is a mere formality."

  "What is this document?" Chiun asked, approaching Smith.

  "The firm I mentioned earlier," Smith said. "Nostrum, Inc. For security reasons, neither I nor any Folcroft employee could be listed in its papers of incorporation. I took the liberty of using your name, Chiun."

  "My name?" Chiun asked, accepting the papers.

  "Yes. Simply sign this release, signing over control of Nostrum to me, and you are free to leave. I will attend to all the legal details."

  "One moment. I wish to read this document," Chiun said.

  "Come on, Chiun," Remo said impatiently. "We've wasted enough time here."

  "Speak for yourself, Remo," Chiun snapped.

  "I thought I spoke for both of us," Remo retorted.

  "That was before I discovered I was the president of an important corporation."

  "It's a shell corporation," Smith explained. "Of course, it does own an office building and has assets of over seven million dollars."

  "Seven million?" Chiun gasped. His wispy beard trembled. "Mine?"

  "Technically, yes," Smith admitted.

  "Oh, no, you don't!" Remo said, snatching the documents from Chiun's clawlike hands. "I can see where this is going. You're going to dangle this under Chiun's greedy nose, and he's going to take the bait. Nice try, Smitty, but we quit."

  "You have quit, Remo," Chiun said, snatching the document back. "I have not."

  "What happened to I-spoke-for-both-of-us?" Remo demanded hotly.

  "You spoke for Chiun, CURE employee. Not for Chiun, CEO of Nostrum, Inc."

  "CEO?"

  "It means chief executive officer," Smith supplied.

  "I knew that!" Remo snapped.

  "But I did not," Chiun returned. "Emperor Smith, I cannot sign away my rights without conferring with my attorney."

  "Oh, here we go!" Remo wailed. "You don't even have an attorney."

  "This is true," Chiun admitted, lifting a long fingernail. "Therefore I must remain in Smith's employ until I can find one and this matter is settled with correctness and fairness."

  Remo groaned an inaudible word.

  "Emperor," Chiun asked Smith, "am I correct in assuming that I have an office in this Nostrum entity?"

  "Yes, it has never been used, but your name is on the door. "

  "Then I wish to inspect my office and my building. I must know that it was not being run into the ground during my unavoidable absence."

  "I can arrange that. But if the stock market crashes on Monday, it won't matter. All of Nostrum's assets are tied up in stocks and other securities."

  "Sell!" Chiun cried. "Sell them immediately. Buy gold. Everything else is mere paper. Gold is eternal. It cannot be burned, or lost, or made worthless by manipulative men."

  "We cannot sell until Monday," Smith explained. "The market is closed. Your best protection is to help me uncover these unknown stock manipulators."

  "I will crucify them on their own worthless paper," Chiun raged. "The baseness of them. The perfidy. Attempting to ruin my wonderful company."

  "I'm not hearing this," Remo said weakly.

  "Shall I book you on the next flight to Hong Kong?" Smith inquired.

  "At once," Chiun said, furling the Nostrum documents and slipping them up one sleeve for safekeeping.

  "And you, Remo?"

  Remo was leaning into the wall, his eyes closed in pain.

  "Okay, okay, I'm going to Hong Kong. But don't count on me coming back."

  "I know you'll do the right thing."

  "Come, Remo," Chiun said imperiously floating from the room.

  Remo started for the door, then doubled back. He advanced on Smith with such purposeful violence that Smith reached for his wheel rims and sent the chair retreating to the wall.

  Remo leaned over.

  "You've gotten very clever at manipulating him," he said in a chilly voice.

  "I need him," Smith said simply. "And you."

  "Just don't try to manipulate me anymore. Got that?"

  "Yes," Smith croaked. He watched Remo leave the room with tired eyes. He wondered how much longer he could keep the organization together. It was falling apart.

  Then, as he sent the chair rolling to the safety of his desk, he caught a glimpse of his wasted face reflected in the one-way picture window that looked out over Long Island Sound. He wondered how much longer he could hold up.

  He looked over to his cracked leather office chair, sitting forlorn and forgotten in one corner of the room, and abruptly stood up. He pushed the wheelchair aside and dragged the chair back to its rightful place.

  When he sat down, he felt immensely more comfortable. He made a mental note to remember to be back in the wheelchair when Remo returned.

  Chapter 6

  Remo Williams endured the flight across the continental U. S. in smoldering silence. He spoke not a word to Chiun during the Pacific crossing. He now stood with his lean arms folded outside Hong Kong's Kai Tak Airport as Chiun disdained the taxicabs in favor of a bicycle-powered pedicab.

  Remo climbed into the rickshawlike rattan pedicab seat silently. The driver, who straddled the bicycle front, listened as Chiun rattled off incomprehensible directions, and started off.

  Remo kept his mouth shut as Chiun hectored the driver, who nearly collided with a red-and-cream double-decker bus during the congested ride.

  As they passed the junk-littered waterfront, the stink of the harbor invaded Remo's sensitive nostrils. Even Chiun sniffed. Remo suppressed his breathing so that the atmosphere-borne pollution particles didn't trigger his olfactory receptors.

  But the stink was stronger than his self-control. The harbor stench mingled with the ever-present odors of rotting cabbages and sweaty human bodies.

  Finally Remo could stand it no longer.

  "China," he said in a brittle voice, "is definitely out!"

  "Did you say something, Remo?" Chiun inquired in a disinterested voice. There was no point in allowing Remo to come out of his funk without having to work at it. A little.

  "I said we're not moving to China. It stinks here."

  "This is not China. This is Hong Kong."

  "I've been to China. It smells exactly like this. It's congested like this. Look at these streets. There are more people than pavement."

  "The same as New York," Chiun said coolly.

  " I don't want to live in New York either. China is out."

  "We could live in the countryside. Inner Mongolia is much like my village of Sinanju."

  "Great. A clam flat decorated by barnacle-encrusted rocks. No, thanks."

  "Your tone is bitter," Chiun said, not looking at Remo. The sea of Chinese faces passed by like unbaked rolls. "Could it be you are unhappy with me?"

  "I'm unhappy with everyone," Remo said.

  "Ah," said Chiun.

&n
bsp; "Especially you," Remo added. "Smith I can understand. You sandbagged me back in his office." Remo snorted. "I-spoke-for-both-of-us, my foot."

  "This is business," Chiun said. "You have no head for business. It is up to me to safeguard our financial security."

  "Smith conned you."

  "I own an important company. It is my duty to protect it. When this assignment is done, we will be done with Smith."

  "Promise?"

  "Promise. "

  The tension stayed in Remo's face, but he unfolded his arms. Chiun rearranged his skirts. He was wearing a simple gray traveling robe, unadorned but for three red roses across the chest-which for the Master of Sinanju was dressing plainly.

  The pedicab pulled up before a modern office building in the heart of Hong Kong's Central District, near the monolithic China Bank with its guardian lions.

  The sign outside said "REUTERS NEWS SERVICE."

  "This must be the place," Remo said, alighting. Chiun paid the pedicab driver in American dollars.

  "Not enough!" the driver protested in English.

  Chiun fired back a stream of singsong Chinese. The driver's face broke out into a sick-eyed grin. Remo recognized that grin. It was universal throughout Asia. It masked anger, fear-sometimes hate. The driver tried to protest, but Chiun cut him off in his own language.

  Finally the driver mounted his pedicab, stone-faced, and scooted away.

  As they entered the glass lobby of Reuters' Hong Kong branch, Remo asked, "What was that all about?"

  "He overcharged us."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I refused to pay his demands and he only protested twice. The certain mark of a cheat. Remember that if we go to China."

  "We're never going to China," Remo said flatly.

  "Remembering will cost you nothing."

  "Forgetting even less," Remo said, looking around.

  The Reuters branch was all glass walls and computer-equipped cubicles. It hummed with ringing telephones and men and women scurrying from desk to desk like, it seemed to Remo, mice in a laboratory maze.

  Remo grabbed a tweedy British-looking man as he hurried by.

  "Excuse me, pal," Remo started to say. "I'm looking for the head of Reuters."

  "See the clerk," the man said in a thick British accent, pronouncing it "clark." He pointed back over his shoulder. "And it is pronounced 'Roiters,' not 'Rooters.' " He disappeared through a blank door.

  Remo looked back at the beehive of activity. He cupped his hands over his mouth.

  "Which one of you is Clark?" he called.

  Eighteen out of a possible twenty-seven hands went up.

  "Must be a popular name," Remo muttered. He pointed to the nearest upraised hand. "You. Come here."

  The man came up to him, saying, "May I be of assistance?"

  Remo flashed an ID card. "Remo Farris. SEC. I'm investigating rumors that the stock-market problem started in this office."

  "Highly improbable, sir. But you'll have to speak with Mr. Plum about that matter. I'm only a clark."

  "What do you mean, only?" Remo asked. "And what does your name have to do with anything?"

  Chiun stepped in.

  "Please excuse Remo," he said. " I am Chiun, his interpreter. I will translate your words for him."

  "What do you mean?" Remo said. " I speak English."

  "No," Chiun corrected. "You speak American. It is not the same. This man is a clerk. The British pronounce it 'clark.' It is not his name."

  Remo turned to the man. "Is that true?" he asked.

  "Quite so, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience. Shall I tell Mr. Plum that you wish to see him?"

  "Sure."

  "Come this way."

  They followed the clerk to a cluttered desk, where he opened a file in a computer.

  "State your business," the clerk said to Remo, his fingers poised over the keyboard.

  "I already did."

  "Again, please. For our records."

  Remo sighed. He explained again his SEC cover story, his purpose, and his fictitious name.

  "Will there be anything else, then?" the clerk asked.

  "Not unless you give out prizes for waiting," Remo said in a bored voice.

  "Very good, sir." The clerk pressed a button marked "Send" and waited.

  "Where did you send that?" Remo wanted to know.

  "To Mr. Plum's office. Naturally."

  "Where is that?"

  "In the office across the hall."

  Remo looked. The clerk was pointing to the office where the tweedy man Remo had first accosted had disappeared.

  "This Plum," Remo said. "Is he about six feet tall, sandy hair, and built on the lean side?"

  "I believe he is, sir. Ah, here comes the response now."

  A block of text appeared on the screen. Remo tried to read it over the clerk's shoulder, but the man had already digested the text and was erasing it by holding down the delete key.

  He turned in his swivel chair and expressed his regrets with a pointed smile.

  "I'm sorry, sir. But Mr. Plum is not available to callers at this time. If you'd like to leave your name . . ."

  "I already did. Remember?"

  "I fear I no longer have that particular information on my terminal. I shall have to take it again." His fingers lifted over the keys. "Mere formality. It shan't take long."

  "It's already taken too long," Remo grumbled. "Come on, Little Father."

  Remo skirted the profusion of desks and went through the unmarked door. Chiun floated after him, serene of face.

  Clive Plum, manager of Reuters' Hong Kong branch, was in the middle of a phone conversation, his eyes on the interoffice computer transmission, when the office door opened with a bang. Remo appeared before him as if teleported there.

  "My dear man," he said, rising involuntarily. "I don't believe you have a proper appointment."

  "The name is Remo," the man said curtly in a rude American accent. "And I'll settle for an improper appointment. Just so long as we get this done."

  "I see," Plum said. His eyes went to the phone clutched in his hand.

  "I won't be a mo," he said. Into the phone he said, "Knight to Queen's Bishop Three." And then he hung up.

  "I play chess by phone," he explained self-consciously.

  "I'd be embarrassed to admit it too," Remo said casually. "And you're holding up my retirement with small talk. You people reported a Hong Kong stock sell-off fifteen minutes before it happened. Where did that report come from?"

  " I must tell you, my dear fellow," Plum said, "that the SEC does not have jurisdiction here. This is Hong Kong, a crown colony. We are subject to British authority. And British authority only."

  Remo leaned over and took the telephone receiver in one hand. He squeezed. The plastic creaked. When Remo replaced it on the cradle, it resembled a dog's chew bone.

  Remo smiled without humor. "Right now," he said, "you're subject to American intimidation."

  "I see," Plum said weakly. "Well, all reports such as this go through our computer room. Perhaps it was a computer malfunction."

  "Perhaps you'd better show me," Remo said in the same too-polite tone. He gestured toward the door.

  Plum stood up, adjusting the cut of his charcoal-gray Edwardian suit. "I really must protest-"

  "Protest all you want-after we're done. Call the SEC. Call the President. Just don't waste my time. Got that?"

  "I believe I do," Plum said, coming around the desk.

  Remo followed him with his eyes, noticing for the first time that Chiun wasn't in the room. On the way out of the room Plum picked up a silver-headed cane from a wooden rack by the door.

  Remo followed him into the hall, where Chiun was engaged in conversation with a pair of white-gloved Hong Kong police officers. They were speaking in Cantonese, so the trend of the conversation was lost on Remo.

  "I say . . ." Plum began, lifting his stick in the direction of the police.

  Plum broke into a relieved smile as
the police surged toward him. The smile went south-along with the faces of the two officers. As they passed the Master of Sinanju, they inexplicably tripped over their own feet.

  It was one of the oddest sights Plum ever recalled seeing. Not only did both men trip, but they tripped in perfect synchronization, without having encountered any impediment in their path.

  Most remarkably, they did not rise again.

  "Ready, Little Father?" Remo asked.

  "I would watch this one," Chiun said, drawing near. He nodded in Plum's direction. "He signaled for police in some fashion. But they will not bother us for a while."

  "Meet Chiun," Remo told Plum.

  "Charmed," Plum said through a frozen polite smile. It stayed on his face like a 3-D tattoo all the way to the computer room, six floors above.

  "Where is Ian?" Plum asked a white-coated technician.

  "I believe Ian is in the loo, sir."

  "What's a loo?" Remo asked Chiun.

  "The lavatory."

  "Now that I know what a loo is, what's a lavatory?"

  "I believe Americans call it the bathroom," Chiun said.

  "Tell you what," Plum offered. "As Ian's superior, why don't I fetch him?"

  "Just make it snappy," Remo said sourly.

  Plum did. He came out almost as quickly as he went in. "Summon the police," he said, aghast. "Ian has been murdered."

  "What!" Remo went into the rest room like a rocket. He found a young man seated on the toilet, his pants down around his knees, his forearms clutching his stomach and his eyes staring into eternity.

  Remo smelled the blood before he saw it. It was dripping from the man's crossed forearms. Remo separated the arms. There were a dozen puncture wounds in Ian's naked abdomen.

  "Damn," Remo said, stepping back into the computer room. He accosted Plum. "Who do you think did it?"

  "Obviously it is a plot of some kind," Plum said. Remo looked past Plum and noticed Chiun's nose wrinkle distastefully.

  "I smell blood," Chiun squeaked.

  "I'm not surprised," Remo told him. "The dead guy is bleeding like a stuck pig."

  "The blood I detect is not coming from that room, but from this man."

  "I believe I may have touched him," Plum said. "Possibly got a spot of blood on my hands. Nasty business, murder. It offends the sensibilities."