Killer Chromosomes td-32

by Warren Murphy

  "They are cubs yet, Remo. I do not want you here when they grow up."

  "Chiun, that's the worst pack of bullshit I ever heard."

  "I am glad you feel that way, Remo. As soon as you are a little better, we will go somewhere to discuss it. Somewhere far away."

  Remo suddenly felt tired, too tired to answer. He closed his eyes and fell asleep. The last thought on his mind was not concerning Sheila Feinberg and her pack, but a deep, abiding desire for a cigarette. Without filter. Packed with lung-rotting tars and nicotines.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  He was not to sleep for long.

  "Remo, how do you make this thing let you talk to Smith?" Remo opened an eye. Chiun was pointing a long, index finger at the telephone. His finger quivered, as if personally enraged at the thought of having to use the instrument. The finger contained all the outrage in the world, as if it were trying to shame an ant which had just climbed into the noodle salad.

  "At this hour?" Remo said sleepily. "You going to start negotiating a new contract? Because tigers aren't covered under your old one?"

  "We are not amused at your feeble attempts to be funny. How?"

  "It's very easy," said Remo thickly, sleep still fuzzing his brain. "What day of the week is this?"

  "Tuesday, Wednesday, the way you name them, who knows?" Chiun said.

  "Well, you've got to know before you can call Smith. That's the key to the whole dippy system."

  "All right. It is Wednesday."

  "And does this month have an R in it?" asked Remo.

  "May does not have an R in it. So how do I call Smith?"

  "Well, as long as this is Wednesday and the month doesn't have an R in it, you just dial the 800 area code then the first seven digits of my old army serial number. If it had an R in it, you'd have to look in the Wall Street Journal for the total number of shares traded on the Big Board and dial the first seven numbers of that."

  "What is this board that has shares?" asked Chiun.

  "The Big Board. That's the New York Stock Exchange."

  "Why did they pick that? They are truly lunatics."

  "Ah," said Remo. "Now you're falling into the trap I always fall into. Instead of just doing it and making the call, I always wonder why they picked the New York Stock Exchange and not the Amex or Chicago Options Board. I get to wondering about things like that and before you know it, I forget the code or it's after midnight and the code has changed to something else and I don't remember it. Smith says that this is the product of a restless mind."

  "Smith is wrong as usual," said Chiun. "It is the product of no mind at all. This is Wednesday in May without an R so how do I get to talk to Smith?"

  "I told you. Dial 800 and then the first seven digits of my old army serial number."

  "And that is?"

  "Now you know why I never call Smitty on Wednesday. I don't remember my old army serial number. Call him tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow may be too late," Chiun said softly.

  But Remo wasn't listening. He had turned to the wall and sleep enveloped him like a fast-breaking wave. He slept with heavy, labored breaths. To Chiun, for whom breathing was the secret key to the art and science of Sinanju, the noisy gasps told him how far Remo had slipped because of his injuries and how far he would have to come to return to condition.

  If he had the time.

  He lifted the telephone and dialed 0 for operator.

  Dr. Harold W. Smith had spent the night in his office, reading the latest reports from Boston. There could no longer be any doubt. Dr. Sheila Feinberg had created more of the very same creatures she had become.

  The rising toll of deaths proved that; separated by distance but not by time, they were the work of more than one.

  Now, in a population where wits had already been scrambled by fright, there would be worse outcry with the mysterious death of James Hallahan, the assistant FBI director for Boston. A house had burned and in the charred ruins, firemen found the bodies of two persons. In the backyard, Hallahan's body was found. He may have been tracking the tiger people, been discovered and fell off the roof while trying to flee.

  But why hadn't he been wearing shoes?

  Still no word from Remo and Chiun. The days dragged. Smith was being forced to face the prospect that his two strongest weapons, Remo and Chiun, had gotten in the way of the tiger people and been...

  Eaten?

  Could it be? Remo and Chiun? A meal for someone?

  Harold W. Smith allowed no antic thoughts to cross his mind and disrupt his usual pattern of precise logical thinking. But he could not block out the picture of Remo and Chiun, on a platter, lying on a table, surrounded by people drooling with anticipation.

  Smith laughed. In that brief, fleeting, uncharacteristic act, Smith finally came to understand something he had never before allowed himself to consider.

  He did not believe that Remo was the reincarnation of Shiva. That was a fairy tale of Chiun's. But he now knew he believed Remo and Chiun were indestructible. These two very real, very human people had stood for Smith and for CURE against diseases, nuclear weapons, the forces of the universe, gunmen, arsenals and electronic devices. They had always prevailed.

  And would prevail again.

  If they didn't, then no one could. The human race was doomed, and no amount of worrying would change that fact.

  So Harold Smith discarded worry, for perhaps the first time in his adult life, and laughed again. Aloud.

  His secretary, hearing the strange sound, thought Smith was choking and came running into the room.

  "Are you all right, Doctor?"

  "Yes, Miss Purvish," Smith said and snickered. "Ho ho, I'm fine and everything's going to be all right. Don't you... ha ha ha... think so?"

  His secretary nodded and made a mental note. She would have to report Smith's unusual behavior to the person at the National Foundation for Scientific Research who paid her to telephone every month and report on Dr. Smith's mental health.

  She had never met the person and never knew why anyone would think it was worth $100 a month to know the state of Smith's mind. But she liked the hundred dollars.

  If she had been told the truth, that Smith himself paid her that money, she would not have believed it. But that was the way CURE operated, with thousands of people passing along tips to the FBI, the Agriculture Department, the Immigration Service, the Customs Bureau, pouring them all into a pipeline that carried information. And at the end of the pipeline, watching all the reports, were CURE's computers. And Harold W. Smith. Checking everything.

  But who checked the checker?

  Early on, Smith had realized the almost absolute and unbridled power of his position could be enough to distort a man's logical judgment. If he suffered from an error in judgment, would he be able to tell? Impaired judgment might make it impossible to recognize impaired judgment.

  So he devised the simple idea of having Miss Purvish pass along regular reports on his attitude and behavior. The reports bypassed the National Foundation for Scientific Research and went directly to Smith who had an opportunity generally unknown in a large organization-the chance to see what his secretary really thought of him.

  For ten years she thought he was perfectly normal, normal being unemotional, penny-pinching and totally devoid of a sense of humor. Ten years, 520 reports, reading. "Subject perfectly normal."

  He knew what the next report would read. "Subject laughed. Strange, unheard-of behavior."

  The fact that laughter was unheard-of behavior for Harold Smith struck him as so funny he laughed again and kept laughing until Miss Purvish buzzed him on the intercom.

  "Sorry to bother you with this, Doctor, but there is a phone call I can't make heads or tails of. I think it's for you."

  "Yes?"

  "As near as I can tell, we have fourteen telephone operators on the line at once, along with somebody speaking a language I can't understand. Everybody seems to be trying to reach some kind of emperor named Smith because if they don't
they're going to be killed. I really don't understand it, sir."

  Smith giggled. "Neither do I," he lied, "but I'll take it. I need a good laugh."

  "Yes, sir. I guess so, sir," she said. Another item for her report on Harold Smith's rapidly deteriorating mental condition.

  "Hello," he said and was deluged with a gabbling gaggle of operators all talking at once. He could not understand a single word until he heard a regal roar.

  "Silence, cackling hens. Remove yourselves from my hearing."

  It was Chiun's voice. Like clicking a switch, the line cleared and he and Smith could talk uninterrupted. Smith pressed a button that made it impossible for Miss Purvish to listen in. "Hello," Smith said.

  "Greetings to the Emperor from the Master of Sinanju," said Chiun.

  "Are you all right?" Smith asked. "Remo?"

  "I am well as ever. Remo is not."

  "What's wrong?"

  "He has been injured by one of those people beasts. We must return to Folcroft."

  "No," Smith said quickly. "That's too dangerous. We can't do that."

  "Last night they attacked and tried to kill us. Soon they may succeed. We must be gone from this city of beans and people who do not know how to speak."

  "Last night?" Smith said. "Was that the building where there was the fire?"

  "Yes."

  "There was a body found in the yard. An FBI man, Hallahan. Do you know what happened to him?"

  "Yes. I removed him."

  Smith felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. "Why?" he asked.

  "He was one of them," Chiun said. "They are now many."

  "Oh."

  "We must return to Folcroft where Remo can be safe."

  "Where are you now?" Smith asked.

  "In a hotel you drive to," Chiun said.

  "A motel. How'd you get there?"

  "By a taxicab driven by a driver who mercifully did not speak once."

  "They'll find you then," Smith said. "The cabdriver will remember both of you."

  "Yes. We must return to Folcroft. If that is forbidden, we will leave the country, never to return."

  "No. All right," Smith said.

  He gave Chiun elaborate plans on taking a taxi to one of the entrances of the Massachusetts Turnpike and there transferring to a rented limousine. That rented limousine from Boston would be met on the road by another rented limousine from Connecticut which would finish the trip to Folcroft.

  "Do you understand all that?"

  "Yes," Chiun said. "One thing more, Emperor, but so small as almost not to trouble you over."

  "What is that?"

  "Who is going to pay for all these cabs and limousines?"

  "I will," Smith said.

  "Do I have to advance the drivers the money?" asked Chiun.

  "It would be helpful."

  "I will get it back from you?" asked Chiun.

  "Yes."

  "I will get receipts," Chiun said and hung up.

  Smith replaced the telephone. He no longer felt like laughing.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sheila Feinberg paced back and forth next to the cool brick wall of the big stone-floored, empty warehouse. She slipped off her low-heeled leather shoes. It felt better to have the pads of her feet touching the floor.

  "Where did they go?" she demanded.

  "I traced them to the Colony Days Inn," a man said. When he spoke the other eight people inside the garage looked at him. They all squatted on the floor in a semicircle as Sheila paced in front of them.

  "And?" she said.

  "They are gone from there," the man said. He yawned, a large yawn, not a signal of fatigue, instead, the gulping demand for more oxygen typical of large animals which do not get enough exercise.

  "Where did they go?" Sheila asked. She turned toward the wall as if counting the bricks, scratched down them with her fingernails in a brief show of anger, then wheeled around.

  "We have to get them," she said. "That's all. We have to get them. I want that young one. If only Hallahan hadn't fallen off that roof. He could find out."

  "I found out," said the man with a brief display of pique. Sheila spun her head toward him as if he were attacking her. He met her eyes for a moment, then settled deeper onto his haunches and lowered his head. He spoke without looking up.

  "They took a cab to the Massachusetts Turnpike and transferred to a limousine. I talked to the driver of the cab. The limousine was from Boston and was headed South. I have to wait for the limousine driver to get back to find out where he took them."

  "Stay with it," Sheila ordered curtly. She added, "I know you'll do a good job."

  The man looked up, smiling contentedly as if someone had stroked his neck. It was good to be noticed and praised. Especially by the leader of your pack.

  It might even mean, that night, that he would get first feeding rights. Before all the good parts were gone.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The sun poured in through the one-way window of the hospital room. Beyond the window were the dark gray waters of Long Island Sound, now as flat as slate on a typical breezeless, airless New York City day. The humidity made people on the street feel as if a towel had been pulled from boiling water and dropped onto their faces.

  Inside the room was the coolness of an air conditioner. As Remo woke up, he noticed it and noticed also that, for the first time in many years, he did not smell the faint charcoal flavor that air conditioning pumped into one's lungs.

  He blinked his eyes and looked around.

  Smith was sitting in a chair alongside his bed. He looked relieved to see Remo awake. His usual pinched-lemon look was replaced by the look of a lemon that had not yet been cut or squeezed. For Smith, whole lemon was happy; pinched, twisted, cut, squeezed, and juiced lemon was normal.

  "You don't know how much fun it is to wake up and see you sitting there," said Remo, surprised by the thickness of his own voice. He usually didn't sleep that heavily. "I mean, some people wake up and see the woman they love. Or the surgeon who just saved their lives after a four-day operation. I see you, sitting there like a boa constrictor waiting to corner a mouse. It fills the heart with cheer."

  "I've seen your wounds," said Smith. "You're lucky to see anyone."

  "Oh, those," said Remo. "Chiun took care of them." He looked again around the room. "Where is he anyway?"

  "He went down to the gymnasium. He said something about wanting to see the place where everything started to go wrong for him. I think it was the gymnasium where you two first met," Smith said dryly.

  "Yeah. Well, forget that. Listen, have you got a cigarette?"

  "Sorry, I don't smoke. I gave it up when the surgeon general's report came out. I thought you represented all the danger to my health I could handle."

  "It's nice to be home," Remo said. "Holler out in the hall and get me a cigarette, will you?"

  "Since when have you been smoking?"

  "On and off. Every so often," Remo lied. He really wanted that cigarette and could not understand why. It had been years since he had smoked. Years of training had finally brought him to understand breathing was everything. All the tricks, all the magic, all the skill of Sinanju were built on breathing. Without it, nothing was possible. With it, nothing was impossible. The first thing one learned was not to breathe smoke.

  But he wanted the cigarette nevertheless.

  Smith nodded and went into the hall. While he was gone, Remo inspected the room. He realized, with a little shock, it was the same one in which he had awakened after being saved from the gimmicked electric chair.

  Sentiment? For old time's sake? Not from Smitty. Remo was in that room because that room had been vacant. If the only vacancy had been in the boiler room, Remo would have been sleeping in the furnace between shovelfuls of coal.

  It was the usual hospital room. White. One bed, one chair, one bureau, one window. But the window was a sheet of one-way glass through which Remo could see, but which was a mirror from the outside.

  Smith came b
ack with two cigarettes. "You owe them to the nurse in the hall. I told her you'd give them back to her. She said it was all right, but I told her you'd return them tomorrow. By the way, she thinks your name is Mr. Wilson and that Chiun is your valet."

  "Don't tell him that." Remo said and yanked the cigarettes from Smith's hand. One slipped and fell to the floor.

  Remo put the filtered cigarette to his mouth. Smith lit it from a book of matches that had exactly two matches. Remo wondered sometimes if the man was human. Two cigarettes, two matches. Smith could have taken an hour, walking the corridors looking for somebody with a free pack of matches with only two matches left in it.

  Remo took his first huge inhale as Smith retrieved the other cigarette from the floor and put it, along with the remaining match, in the bureau next to Remo's bed.

  The first taste made Remo cough. Had it always tasted so bad? He knew it had. Back when he had been smoking, he often quit, sometimes for weeks at a time. That first puff when he weakened and went back was always a choking cough-producer, like the body's last shout of warning before surrender. The second puff was better and halfway through the cigarette it was as if he had never stopped, not even for an hour. It was that way again.

  "Try to get me a pack, will you?" Remo said. "Put it on my room bill."

  "I'll see what I can do," Smith said, then briefed Remo on what was happening in Boston.

  The killings were continuing. Police had shot one of the tiger people. "It was a housewife. Unfortunately, she died so we didn't get a chance to study her and see if there's an antidote."

  "That's a shame," Remo said.

  "Now they're screaming for massive Federal intervention, and with you and Chiun out of it, I guess there's no alternative. What happened to you anyway?" asked Smith.

  "I was in a car with one of them. I think it was Sheila Baby, even though she looked different. She slashed my throat and tried to rip out my stomach. She did a pretty good job."

  "What about her?"

  "I bopped her up some, but she got away," Remo said.

  Smith felt a weight plummet from his gullet into his stomach. Remo was his best and had almost been killed. What hope did anyone else have? There was no limit to the number of tiger people Sheila Feinberg could make. Now each one of her pack was a new source of generic material for others. The only way out would be to kill all the pack and make sure to eliminate Sheila Feinberg. Without her scientific knowledge, the geometric progression would stop.