Bidding War td-101

by Warren Murphy

  "The Federal Emergency Management Agency."

  The President pounded his knee with a fist. "Damn. My wife made me freeze their money."

  "It could not have come at a worse time. You must release those funds at once."

  "That's easier said than done, Smith. People are going to ask questions. Can't we put your people on retainer?"

  "Unlikely."

  "Maybe we can scrounge up the money from other agencies. The CIA, DARPA, those kind of places."

  "I am willing to go along with any solution that does not expose the organization to public scrutiny, Mr. President."

  "Good. How much are we talking about here?"

  Smith named a figure.

  And the President of the United States suddenly felt like lying down. He did. Staring at the ceiling, he restated the question in a thin, faraway voice. "We pay how much?"

  "A raise was in order this year," said Smith.

  The President sat up. He kicked off his shoes. "Forget it. No raise. In fact, you're going to have to slash that sum. Who do those people think they are anyway?"

  "You have seen them in action. They saved your life."

  "I know that. But they're bankrupting the treasury with their demands."

  "Mr. President, these people have put out word that they are available to other nations. I have reason to suspect this knowledge, or—more to the point—the knowledge that they may no longer be in our employ, has emboldened the Mexican government."

  "Are you saying—you can't be saying—that the Mexicans see us as vulnerable because they don't work for us? What about our nukes?"

  "How likely are we to deploy nukes?" Smith countered.

  "They're a last resort. The political fallout would be horrendous. Not to mention what would blow our way if the Gulf Stream picks up the radioactive dust."

  "Exactly. On the other hand, if the Mexican government—or any other government—should acquire Sinanju capability, you might die in your sleep of natural causes and there would be no retaliation because no one would ever know or even suspect you were assassinated."

  "I see your point. But what can I do? The budget's a mess."

  "That money must be found."

  "I'll get back to you," said the President, and hung up.

  The President jumped from the bed and crossed the room in his stocking feet and took hold of the doorknob. He gave a sharp yank. And the First Lady came spilling into the room.

  "Because of you," the President said sternly, "we just lost our ultimate defense."

  "I don't know what you're talking about," said the First Lady, scrambling to her feet. Her cheeks glowed red in her anger, and that gave the President an idea.

  "You're overdue," he said.

  "For what?"

  "For this."

  And the President grabbed his wife around the waist and carted her over to Lincoln's rosewood bed.

  "Not now! We're in the middle of a crisis," the First Lady countered.

  "That's not what I had in mind," said the President, sitting down hard with the First Lady draped over his lap.

  He began to apply his big right hand to her backside with stern enthusiasm, saying, "Stay out of my business. Stay out of my damn business."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Night had fallen when Remo returned home. He tipped the cabbie who had brought him from the airport a hundred dollars, and on his way to the front door, found a drunk sprawled on the front steps, a huge green bottle of vodka clutched in one insensate hand.

  "Oh, great," said Remo. "This is all I need."

  The drunk was out cold, but when Remo grabbed the back of his black coat in one hand and the bottle of vodka in the other, he stirred.

  Lifting the hand that still thought it clutched the vodka bottle, he mumbled, "Do svidaniya."

  "Same to you, buddy," said Remo.

  "America good," he said.

  "Yeah, it's great. I just hope I'm still living here this time next month."

  Dragging the man up the street, Remo dumped him in the bushes fringing the high-school quadrangle. The police usually patrolled this area. When they found him, they'd slap him in a cell to sleep it off.

  "I am not clown," the man mumbled.

  "That's a matter of opinion," said Remo, who emptied the vodka bottle preparatory to tossing it into the bushes.

  He noticed the label. It showed a man with a pugnacious face wearing a black-billed cap like that of an old-fashioned streetcar conductor. Remo noticed the drunk had a similar black-billed cap sticking out of a pocket. Then he noticed the drunk wore the same pugnacious face as the label, only looser. He also drooled.

  "You have your own vodka?" Remo blurted.

  "Da. I do."

  "Then you won't miss this one when you sober up," said Remo, tossing the bottle and walking away.

  "I am not clown," the drunk burbled thickly after him. "I will make scorched desert where I go. You will see. I do not need you."

  "Likewise."

  "I do not need bodyguard. I do not need advisers. I do not need Sinanju."

  Remo reversed direction. "Did you say Sinanju?"

  "I said Sinanju. But I do not need it."

  "Why do you need Sinanju?"

  "I do not."

  "But if you did, why would you need Sinanju?"

  "To conquer world, of course."

  Remo knelt at the man and turned his face so the streetlight hit it squarely. The loose, pasty face was starting to look familiar. But it kept swimming like putty so the lines were indistinct.

  Remo fished the vodka bottle out of the bushes. The face on it rang a bell. And it wasn't because Remo had the real face sprawled at his feet, either.

  "What language is this?" Remo asked.

  "Engleesh. I talk exshellent Engleesh."

  "No. I mean on the label."

  "You are ignoramus. I may be clown. But you are ignoramus not to know Russian. When I annex USA, you will be hung by thumps and forced to kiss the boot that crushed you."

  "You're—"

  "Yes. Exactly. You know now."

  "I don't remember the name, but you're him."

  "Zhirinovsky," slurred the drunk, reaching for the bottle. And on the label, in Cyrillic letters, many of them seemingly formed backward to Western eyes, appeared to be an approximation of the name Zhirinovsky.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" Remo asked.

  "What I do everywhere. Being kicked out. Everyone love Zhirinovsky so much they kick him out. Been kicked out of Poland. Serbia. Constantinople."

  "Constantinople doesn't exist anymore."

  "When I conquer world, I will rename America Constantinople. Now surrender bottle if you value thumps."

  Remo compressed his hand, the bottle broke and the man on the ground was so devastated by the awful sight that he fell backward.

  "It's thumbs."

  "I am not clown."

  Remo decided if this was who he thought it was, dumping him in the bushes wouldn't cut it. So he dragged the man to the subway station and dumped him in the back of a waiting cab.

  The cabbie was firm. "Hey, I don't haul drunks."

  "Here's six hundred dollars. Cash," Remo told the driver. "Take him home."

  "Where's home?"

  "Bismark, North Dakota. Six hundred bucks get him there?"

  "Can I stop for food and lodging?" the cabbie asked.

  "You bet."

  The cabbie folded the wad of cash, kissed it and stuffed it into a pocket. "In that case, tell his folks to expect him home sometime next week. I know a short cut to Bismark via Atlantic City."

  "You're the professional."

  As the cab took off, Remo ran back home, hoping what he feared wasn't true.

  The second he opened the front door, the metallic smell of fresh blood hit him like an unpleasant wave.

  There was only one body on the stairs leading up. That was good. One body was easily disposed of. Maybe if Remo broke it into small pieces, it would slip down the garbage dispos
al.

  A second body occupied a toilet on the second floor. Remo knew he was dead without listening for a heartbeat because heads immersed in toilet water for long periods of time usually belonged to the deceased.

  Outside the tower room, there was a stack of bodies, very neatly arranged. It was hard to tell exactly how many bodies there were, the stacking was so professional. In some cases more than one arm was jammed into a coat sleeve, and other limbs were interlocked so that rigor mortis setting in would make it easier for Remo to pick up the bodies as a unit.

  That was Chiun. In the old days, when the Master of Sinanju was addicted to American soap operas, anyone who interrupted them was subject to his instant death penalty. Many times Remo returned home to find a similar pile of corpses needing disposal.

  The sight of these made Remo feel almost nostalgic.

  Letting the dead decompose in peace, Remo entered the meditation room. "Chiun?"

  "I have been awaiting your return," Chiun said.

  "Well, I'm back."

  "In time to take out the garbage."

  "Who were they?"

  "Russians."

  "Yeah?"

  "Lying Russians. I would have accepted truthful Russians, although it was a grave breach of decorum to send emissaries when first contact should be through a letter or simple message. I do not treat with pretenders or their bodyguards."

  "So you killed them?"

  "I suffered the loud one to live," Chiun answered.

  "I think I know who that was___"

  "He claimed to be the new czar, but I know this to be untrue. He is merely a braggart and a drunkard. But since being a braggart and drunkard is sometimes a prerequisite to rule Russia, I allowed him to depart with his internal organs still functioning. Should he ever become czar in truth, he will no doubt be grateful."

  Remo cocked a thumb over his shoulder. "These dead guys his bodyguards?"

  "No longer," said Chiun. "Dispose of them."

  Sighing, Remo got to work. He reached into the pile of interlocking dead, and just as in the old days they came off the floor as a unit, like chicken bones left a long time at the bottom of a garbage can.

  Carrying them down to the basement, Remo was confronted with an immediate problem. How to get them in the trash cans, which were man-size at best. He considered the problem while he took the lids off each can.

  When all five cans were exposed, Remo decided that since he had seven dead and only five cans, there was no point to separating the dead so each corpse had its own receptacle.

  Once that was settled, it was easy. He broke off limbs and other projections. They snapped off clean as dead branches, and he distributed them equally among the five cans.

  The body on the steps also contributed to the tossed salad of dead parties. As did the body dunking for oxygen in the toilet bowl. Remo had to pry his dead fingers from the seat, but after that he was no more trouble than the others had been.

  Returning to the meditation room, Remo cleared his throat. This was not going to be easy.

  Chiun beat him to it. "You have failed."

  "How'd you know?"

  "I have excellent nunchi for your kibun," Chiun said aridly. "You have lost the greatest client in Sinanju history through your incompetence."

  "Not so fast. That's not how it went."

  "No? Have you come to terms with Harold the Mad?"

  "No," Remo admitted.

  "Then you have failed, and the details are unimportant. All that matters is the disaster you have wrought."

  "I didn't blow it. Smith did."

  Chiun jumped to his feet. "Smith refused our service?"

  "No. He was all set to renew. I got double the gold."

  "Double?"

  "Yeah, double."

  "Not triple?"

  "Triple—are you crazy?"

  "You did not seek triple. Not even to posture?"

  Remo made his face still.

  "You asked for triple and he argued you out of it."

  "Not exactly. Look, can I finish?" Remo said impatiently.

  "You have already finished. Because of you, we are finished. To think I threw the next czar of Russia out onto the street like a common inebriate because I put my faith in a redskin mutt."

  "Cut that out. Look, Smith was all set to go for double. But the well was dry."

  "Well? What well?"

  "The golden well. The U.S. Treasury."

  "This lunatic land is bankrupt?"

  "No. The agency Smith gets the gold from is frozen," Remo explained.

  "Because of a frozen well, we are denied more gold than the House has ever known?"

  "Look, Smith talked to the President. They're going to try to work something out. In the meantime you gotta call off the open bidding. Okay?"

  "Never," Chiun swore.

  "C'mon. We got Mexico on the border. Next it'll be the Canadians in Maine. Before we know it, the Russians will want Alaska back."

  "Good. This will prod Harold the Mad and his puppet, the glutton, into putting forth their most strenuous efforts."

  "You don't understand."

  "No. It is you who do not understand. We have the upper hand. We must not relinquish it. Perhaps if we play our cards correctly, triple gold will yet be ours. Show me how you narrowed your round eyes at Smith."

  Remo rolled his eyes, and Chiun grabbed at the puffs of hair over each ear. "No, no. That is not how I taught you."

  A phone on a corner stand rang, and Remo started for it.

  "Let it ring," said Chiun.

  "What if it's important?"

  And before Chiun could reply, the answering machine began speaking in his voice:

  "Greetings, O seeker of perfection. The glorious House of Sinanju hovers eager to hear your every syllable. State your throne, rank of rulership and needs, and the glory that is Sinanju will reward you by considering you for future employment. Begin speaking at the sound of the gong."

  A brass gong rang discordant and brash.

  And in a language Remo didn't recognize, someone began chattering excitedly. Chiun hovered close, listening.

  When the message ended, Remo asked, "What was that?"

  "Nothing."

  "It didn't sound like nothing to me. Nothing is silence."

  "It was less than nothing. A mere sultan. We are above sultans. Nothing less than an emperor will do."

  "Isn't that your 800-number line?"

  "Of course. I have given it out for the entire world to cherish."

  "Oh, great," groaned Remo.

  Remo sat down and faced Chiun, his face and voice earnest. "I said I'd do anything you say and I will."

  "You should," Chiun sniffed. "For you have much to atone for."

  "But I think we should do everything we can to continue working for America."

  "If their gold flows anew, I will consider it, but my feet yearn to feel the sweet dust of the Silk Road, where wonders upon wonders may be found. Not to mention treachery and sudden death."

  Remo stared.

  "Yes, those were the good days. Not like now. When was the last time we awoke in our beds to fight for our lives?"

  "Here, never. No one knows we live here."

  "This has changed. I have provided our address, as well."

  "Oh, man," groaned Remo, taking his head in his hands. "I should have never left the reservation."

  Chapter Seventeen

  When the first intelligence reports crossed the desk of the duty officer of the Central Intelligence Agency, Ray Foxworthy's first impulse was to burn them.

  If he didn't burn them, he would have to get on the NOIWON line and do confidence polling of the other U.S. intelligence agencies. NOIWON stood for National Operations and Intelligence Watch Officer Network. The duty officers of the main U.S. Intelligence agencies were obliged to place a conference call to exchange views whenever overnight developments warranted it.

  But if Foxworthy did trigger a NOIWON and one of the other Intelligence agencies had deve
loped superior intelligence, they would be the ones to take it to the Pentagon. And get the credit.

  In these days of shrinking budgets, everyone wanted credit, but no one wanted to take unsubstantiated intelligence to the Pentagon. Not the NSA, which a year ago had reported a coup in North Korea only to have it evaporate into a false alarm. Not CIA, which was on notice to get its act together. Not the Defense Intelligence Agency or the National Reconnaisance Office. Not anyone.

  The stakes were huge. To be Johnny-come-lately made your agency look bad. To promulgate bad intelligence, however, was worse.

  There was no winning in the post-Cold War intelligence game.

  CIA duty officer Ray Foxworthy picked up the phone and dialed an in-house extension. "Roger, this Intel report that just crossed my desk. Uh, how solid is it?"

  "It wouldn't have crossed your desk if it's not confirmed," a laconic voice replied.

  "That's not what I asked. Are you willing to back it up?"

  "I'll get back to you on that." And the other party promptly hung up.

  So did CIA duty officer Foxworthy, muttering, "Damn, damn, damn. Why do the hot potatoes always fall on my watch?"

  He read the report again. It was short, concise and very, very clear.

  CIA ground assets in Kuwait were reporting troop movement on the Iraq-Kuwait border.

  "That damn Hussein. Why doesn't he rent a clue?"

  Chewing his lower lip, Foxworthy glanced at the text as if trying to intimidate it by mental telepathy.

  Then he noticed something odd. He picked up the phone again. "Roger, sorry to bother you."

  "I'm still in the process of getting back to you, Ray."

  "I know. Just clarify—"

  "A clarification will be included in the return call, I promise you."

  "Just listen a goddamn minute. This report. It says our assets in Kuwait report movement."

  "If that's what it says, that's what it says."

  "Our Kuwaiti assets are under strict orders to stay clear of the DMZ, aren't they?"

  "Yeah."

  "So if Iraqi troops were on the border, they couldn't see them."

  "That's right," Roger said guardedly.

  "How could these be Iraqi troop movements if that was the case?"

  "I'll get back to you on that," said Roger, then hung up.

  Ray Foxworthy was still purpling the air with a colorful string of curses when the NOIWON line rang. He grabbed it, heart pounding.