Dangerous Games td-40

by Warren Murphy

  "Okay." She had her eyes screwed tightly together.

  "Now see it in your mind," Remo said. "Do you see it? Two-foot-wide beam, a four-inch red stripe."

  She laughed. "Yes. I see it. I see it."

  "Keep your eyes closed," Remo said. "Okay. Now you do your routine on that two-foot beam, but you try to stay on the four-inch red stripe."

  "All right." She walked to the far end of the beam to begin her routine. She looked at Remo before starting and he shook his head, "Not with your eyes open, dummy. With your eyes closed."

  "Remo, I can't."

  "Yes, you can. Look. Get down off there for a moment," he said, and as she hopped down, lightly, Remo vaulted up onto the beam.

  The Russians' list of rules for athletes had explained that all athletes would be treated equally, but, like Animal Farm, some were more equal than others.

  Because he came from a Russian satellite country,

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  East German runner Hans Schlichter had no trouble in getting a key to the locked practice gymnasium. He had told the Russian staff he wanted to do some calisthenics. But, in fact, he wanted privacy to examine the equipment and see if he could devise a way of making his victory in the 800-meter race a sure thing.

  He let himself in with the key and when he saw the light on at the end of the gym, pressed himself into the shadows against the wall.

  He recognized the American man instantly. All the East German athletes had been given dossiers and photographs of all their potential opponents. It was that Remo Black, and he was considered odd even by his teammates, but what was he doing on tEe balance beam?

  Schlichter watched in amazement as Remo, with his eyes tightly shut, did a flawless routine on the bar beam, and then hopped down where the Indian-looking American woman hugged him and told him he was marvelous.

  "So will you be when we're done," Remo said.

  Schlichter saw the young woman hold Remo in her arms, then lift her mouth to be kissed. Remo obliged, and even though Schlichter would have liked to stay to watch, he slipped back out through the door, just as the two athletes slid to the practice mat on the floor.

  Schlichter had to think about this Remo Black. If he could do such wonders on the balance beam, which was not even a man's event, what might he do on the track?

  Something, he decided, would have to be done about that American.

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  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The next morning, Colonel Dimitri Sorkofsky received a message directly from the Southern Africans for Athletic Equality. The contents of the note caused him to summon Captain Bechenbauer to his office immediately.

  In the weeks they had been working together, they had not come to understand each other any better but they had learned substantial mutual respect. Each knew the other was a professional.

  Sorkofsky was anxious for Bechenbauer to arrive so they could discuss the new note and how to guard against its threat.

  Despite what Sorkofsky thought of Bechenbauer's morals, the West German missed his wife very much. In fact, when the telephone summons came from Sorkofsky, the Ferret was reading a letter from his wife. There was a lovely young blonde woman in the bed with him while he was reading it. She was nuzzling his neck and reading over his shoulder.

  "She truly misses you," the woman remarked.

  The German smiled. "As I miss her and my children. It will not be much longer."

  At that point, there was a knock on the hotel room door. Bechenbauer donned his dressing gown and opened the door to the military messenger who was carrying the summons from Sorkofsky.

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  "The colonel would like you to come to his office at once, sir. He said it was very urgent."

  "Thank you, soldier."

  The soldier stood there a second too long, his eyes looking past Bechenbauer at the blonde on the bed, who stretched her arms over her head, causing the sheet to slide down and bare her breasts.

  Reluctantly, the soldier looked away, saluted Bechenbauer and turned to the door.

  "Soldier?" Bechenbauer said.

  "Sir?"

  "It would not be wise of you to speak of the young lady's presence. Her husband might object. Do you understand?"

  The soldier nodded and grinned. "Perfectly, sir. Have no fear."

  When he left, Bechenbauer smiled. He knew that in minutes Colonel Sorkofsky would know that there was a blonde in the German's bed. There was no surer way of getting a Russian to carry a message than to ask him not to. They all feared they would be implicated in a spy plot unless they told everything they knew. And it gave the German pleasure to tease the Rhino. Who knew? Before this assignment was over, he might even have brought the big Russian colonel back down to earth, to life as a man.

  He went back to the bed, kissed the blonde and ran a finger down her bare breasts, causing her to shiver.

  "You were teasing the boy," he scolded.

  She reached inside Ms dressing gown and said "It will give him character." He pulled away from her and said, "I have all the character I need. And duty calls."

  She lay in bed watching him as he dressed rapidly.

  When he was ready to leave, he asked, "Will you wait?"

  "Of course. Where would I go?"

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  He kissed her goodbye and said, "I will miss you when I return to Germany, liebchen."

  She kissed him back and said ominously, "We will worry about that another time."

  He thought of her on the limousine ride to Sorkofsky's office. She had been a pleasant diversion for him, but he hoped she would not become difficult when it was tune for him to leave. He did very much miss his wife.

  Sorkofsky was sitting behind his desk in the small office inside the Olympic village when Bechenbauer arrived.

  "Your messenger said it was urgent."

  "Look at this," the Russian said, handing the note across the desk.

  Bechenbauer sat back and read the brief note. Sorkofsky had memorized it and repeated it in his mind. "In the name of Southern Africans for Athletic Equality, we demand the cancellation of the Olympic games. If they are not cancelled, every American athlete will die. To convince you, there will be a show of power on the same day you receive this note. Long live free Rhodesia and South Africa."

  "A show of power," Bechenbauer repeated, handing the note back. "Our security is very tight."

  "It may be tight only in our minds," the Russian said.

  "Why do you say that?"

  Sorkofsky ran his hands over his face, dry-washing it, before answering. He felt drained. His younger daughter had run a fever the night before, and he had sat up all night watching her. She was fine this morning, but he had not slept at all and was beginning to feel it.

  "There are just too many people from too many countries," he said. "There is no way we can be sure. People are wandering all over the place." He waved at a pile of reports on his desk, then on impulse

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  snatched the first one. "Here. Two Americans wandering around Moscow. Found in a restaurant by soldiers."

  "Spies, no doubt," Bechenbauer said. "We knew enough to expect that. But they are not our terrorists." His curiosity was piqued anyway. "Who were they?"

  "An American runner named Remo Black. Here is his picture. Very mean looking. The woman is named Littlefeather, something from a cowboy movie, I gather. She is a gymnast. They said they had gotten lost. They gave false names." He replaced the report on the pile. "They are not unusual. There are many like that. I'm worried about this." He pointed to the note from the S.A.A.E.

  "A show of power," Bechenbauer repeated. "I wonder what that means."

  The West German's face was grave and Sorkosfky knew he was reliving the horrors of Munich.

  "Perhaps we will be lucky and not find out," the Rhino said.

  The show of power was an explosion.

  It was set off in a refreshment stand inside the village, early in the day, when there were no athletes nearby.

  Jack Mullin,
in Moscow as the director of the Baruban team, thought it best that no one be hurt by this blast. The way to create horror was insidiously, slowly, step by slow step, and deaths too early would work against his plan.

  Mullin had one of his bogus Baruban athletes buy a soft drink at the stand and leave, conveniently forgetting his equipment bag. Mullin watched from a safe distance and when there was no one near the stand, he triggered the explosives with a small sending unit in his pocket. Then he walked away.

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  Remo and Chiun heard the explosion. They were in the stands of the stadium watching other runners practicing, getting the feel of the artificial cindered track that skirted the large field.

  "An explosion," Remo said.

  "You go," Chiun said. "I'm not interested." He had been sulking since Remo had carefully explained to him that he just simply could not disable all the athletes of the world so Remo could win all the gold medals.

  "You'd better be interested," Remo said.

  "I'm interested only in your gold medal, nothing else."

  "Right. Because you want to get the credit and go on television and do commercials, right?"

  "Something like that?"

  "Well, Chiun, I'll tell you. If any athletes are killed here, the only television or press coverage is going to be of the killing. I won't even get my name in the paper. I won't be interviewed. I won't be anything, and that means you get nothing. So you'd better be interested."

  "Why didn't you say so?" Chiun said. "Why are we sitting here wasting time talking?" He stood up and seemed to sniff the air like a bloodhound. "This way," he said and ran off toward the explosion.

  The radio monitor on Sorkofsky's desk crackled, just as the Russian colonel and Bechenbauer were moving toward the door to investigate the sound of the explosion.

  The report from one of the village security guards pinpointed the explosion at a refreshment stand.

  "Anyone killed or hurt?" Sorkofsky asked over the radio.

  "Unknown at this time, sir," the voice answered.

  Sorkofsky and Bechenbauer ran from the office.

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  Remo and Chiun brushed by the guards, who were trying to organize themselves without a commanding officer, and they had four minutes to pooch around in the rubble of the refreshment stand before they were ordered to leave.

  The four minutes was enough.

  Chiun picked up a small piece of heavy woven fabric from under the wood that had been the counter. He handed it to Remo who fingered it and said, "Probably an equipment bag."

  Chiun nodded. "It would be reasonable. One could leave an equipment bag near a counter here without it being out of place. And what is unique about the bag?"

  Remo looked again at the fabric as the security men herded them away from the ruins.

  When they were back behind the police lines, Remo said, "Handwoven."

  "Precisely," Chiun said. "But there is more."

  They watched as a mammoth Russian officer, accompanied by a thin mustached man with the look of a ferret, arrived at the scene and began barking out orders. Instantly, the bombing scene began to take on some semblance of order. The big Russian was good, Remo thought to himself. He knew what to do and he knew how to command. There weren't many like that, either in the police or in the Army.

  "Come," Chiun said. "What else?"

  Remo turned and followed Chiun away from the scene. He did not notice the Russian officer look up and see him. The glint of recognition came over his eyes as he saw the face of Remo Black, which he had seen in that report on his desk earlier. Sorkofsky nodded to one of his plainclothes men, who came over to his side, listened to the colonel's whispered directions and then casually sauntered off in the direction Remo and Chiun had gone.

  "I don't know, Chiun," said Remo, holding the

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  piece of cloth at arm's length for a different look. "What else?"

  "Smell it," Chiun said.

  Remo sniffed at the fabric, but could get only traces of aromas. He held the piece of cloth between his two hands tightly to warm it, inducing it to give off more of its scent, then raised his cupped hands to his nose and inhaled deeply.

  There was the smoky burned smell, characteristic of explosive, but there was another smell too. It was bitterly sweet and pinched at his nostrils. Remo had smelled it before, a long time ago . . . but where?

  He shook his head and tried again. He was able to pick out the scent now from among all the scents on the fabric-scents of gunpowder and sweat-but the sweet smell eluded him.

  "I don't know, Chiun. What is it?"

  "Arnica," Chiun said. "Smell it again, so you know it next time."

  Remo sniffed it again and impressed the aroma on his memory.

  "What's arnica?" he said.

  "It comes from the dried flowers of an herb. It is made into an ointment and used by fighters to reduce swelling and cuts," Chiun said.

  Remo remembered. It was back while he was hi the army, long ago, long before CURE and long before Chiun, and he had been corraled into a boxing show. He had landed a lucky right hand and put a cut next to his opponent's eye, and in the next round, during a clinch, his nose was right next to the cut and he smelled the arnica that his opponent's corner had used to reduce the swelling and stop the flow of blood around the cut.

  "A boxer," Remo said. "We're looking for a boxer."

  "Yes," said Chiun. "And one from a country with handwoven bags."

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  Remo nodded. "Probably a small country that might be too poor for real equipment."

  "Good," said Chiun. "I'm glad you understand. And now that I've done your work for you, I think I will return to the stadium and watch your opposition."

  "All right," Remo said. ''I'm going to the boxing arena. And I'll take the tail with me."

  He nodded toward his own shoulder and Chiun nodded his understanding. Without even seeing the Russian agent, both had known they had been followed since leaving the refreshment stand.

  Chiun strolled slowly back to the track and field arena stadium, while Remo walked off quickly toward the fieldhouse, where preliminary boxing bouts were starting. He would like to get this over quickly, he thought, so he could get to the other fieldhouse in time to watch Josie Littlefeather's routine on the balance beam.

  In the boxing arena, Remo walked down the long corridor of dressing rooms, stopping into each one, wishing all the fighters good luck, and checking their equipment bags. His tail loitered in the corridor behind him, smoking and trying to look casual.

  The last dressing room was labeled "People's Democratic Republic of Baruba," and as soon as Remo went in, he saw a woven equipment bag, its fabric identical to the shred of cloth in his hand, in a corner of the room near an open locker.

  "Hey, pal," Remo said to the lone figure on the table. "Good luck." The black-skinned boxer looked up, startled, then responded to Remo's smile with a smile of his own.

  "I hope you win today," Remo said. "What's your name?"

  The black man hesitated a moment too long. "Sammy Wanenko" he said.

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  "Good," said Remo. "Well, good luck again." He shook the boxer's already-taped hand.

  He wondered for a moment if he should shake the man up a bit and make him talk, but if he did, there would be questions and yap-yap and he would miss Josie's routine. He remembered the tail out in the hall. He would do to send the message back.

  Remo went back into the corridor, and his tail pushed away from the wall where he had been lounging and lit a cigarette, his eyes watching the dark-haired American.

  Remo beckoned to him.

  "Come here," he said.

  The Russian agent looked behind him, but there was nobody else in the corridor. He walked up to Remo, who grabbed the man's wrist, pulled him to the end of the corridor, and into a little alcove.

  "You speak English?" Remo asked.

  "Yes." The man was trying to free his wrist.

  "Stop that," Remo said. "I just
want to talk. I've got a message for your boss."

  "Yes?"

  "Tell him that the terrorists are the Baruban boxing team. You got that? The Baruban boxing team. Here. Give him this." He handed the agent the piece of woven fabric.

  "This was at the scene of the bombing. It's how they planted the explosives," Remo said. "It's the material the Barubans use for their equipment bags. You got it?"

  The Russian did not respond, but then quickly said "yes" when he felt something unbelievably hard probe his ribs right through the heavy suit he wore: Remo's index ringer.

  "Yes, yes," he said. "I got it."

  "Okay. I've got to go. But you give him that message."

  Remo took off on the run, to see Josie's routine.

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  The agent watched him leave, then looked at the fabric in his hands. Good old Colonel Sorkofsky, he thought. Trust the Rhino to spot somebody or something important.

  He looked forward to hurrying back to Sorkofsky and giving him the American's information.

  He walked back down the corridor, his eyes down, looking at the fabric in his hand.

  He never heard the door of the Baruban dressing room open behind him, and it was too late when he heard the footstep behind him because a strong arm was already around his throat, and as he was being dragged into the dressing room, he saw the glint of a knife up over Ms head and then it felt like fire as it drove into his chest, tearing his heart muscle and making it stop.

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  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  "You did well," Flight Lieutenant Jack Mullin told the Baruban boxer.

  The boxer was holding a white cloth to his bleeding forehead.

  "I got knocked out in the first round," he said.

  "I don't mean your bloody boxing match, you bleeding idiot," Mullin snarled. He pointed to the body of the dead Russian agent in a corner of the room. "I mean him."

  The three other Africans masquerading as Baruban islanders nodded.

  "Does anyone know who this American might be who talked to that agent?" Mullin asked.

  One of the Africans said, "From the description, he sounds like the one called Remo Black. When I am at the track, he is all the Americans talk about. They say he is very strange."

  "Probably CIA," said Mullin.

  "His trainer is an Oriental," the African added. "Very old and frail. He wears nice robes. All sewn with pretty pictures and-"