Balance Of Power td-44

by Warren Murphy

  Barney nodded knowingly. "That'd make anyone pure," he said.

  "Right. Perhaps I was wrong about you, Mr. Daniels. Perhaps you are interested in more than money."

  "But of course," Barney said gallantly. "I never would have come here if I didn't believe I would be working for a good cause."

  "Ah, wonderful. A man who wants more than money. Good. We're running short of funds now anyhow."

  Barney started for the door.

  "Stop," the woman called, wedging herself between Barney and the door before he could locate the white doorknob. "We have plenty of money. Millions," she yelled into his face.

  "Millions?" Barney asked.

  "Millions." She pulled him toward her. He attempted to fight his way free, but his left hand which was reaching for the door drew itself inexplicably around her waist instead. And his right hand somehow began playing brazenly with her jiggling breast and his lips were laboring above, working their independent way from her mouth down her neck to her erect pink nipples, and oh, goodness gracious, her pants were coming off.

  "Take me upstairs and make love to me," she whispered hoarsely.

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  "Yes, yes," Barney obeyed, lifting her off the smooth carpeting and heading directly for the stairwell with only a small detour to the bar to pick up a bottle.

  In the round white bed, Barney worked his hands over the woman's silky body. She teased his ear with her teeth.

  "You will kill for me," she hissed, fired with passion.

  "Yeah," Barney said.

  She pulled him on top of her. "You'll spy for me."

  "Yeah."

  "You'll do anything I say." With agonizing slowness, she opened her legs to him.

  "Yeah."

  "Anything."

  "You name it," Barney said, bringing her to full gallop.

  "Anything," she moaned.

  With intoxicating relief, Barney spent himself. "Well, almost anything, honey," he said, puffing. "Can't rush into things, you know."

  She was mad, but not too mad. About as mad as a satisfied woman can get. "Roll over," she said, tweaking his cheek.

  Barney did, and his eye fell on the bottle he had brought up with him. It was bourbon. What the hell, he thought. He would start cultivating a taste for the stuff. It was easier than trekking nude past Malcolm to retrieve the tequila.

  "Forgot the glasses."

  "Drink from the bottle. Give me a cigarette." She sat up in bed, her firm, sharp breasts peering out above the sheets. Barney handed her a pack of smokes.

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  He took a swig. It went down hot and good. It was fine bourbon. There was much to be said about the drink.

  "How about me?" the woman asked. She ex-' tended her hand for the bottle.

  Barney examined the hand. It had fine lines. It was a fine hand. If he had another bottle of bourbon, he certainly would have put it into that hand.

  "Well, how about me?"

  It was a good question. Barney took another swallow, a long one. She had a right as his bed partner to share in the bourbon. An inalienable right. She certainly had that right. And it was her bourbon. Barney swallowed again and moved her hand away.

  She settled for a cigarette. They lay back contentedly, she smoking, Barney drinking, and she told him about the Afro-Muslim Brotherhood.

  Her name was Gloria X and she was its leader although only a handful of people knew it. It was a secret society aimed at fomenting a sense of outrage among the black people, to make them angry enough to revolt against their white oppressors.

  "Enough, enough," Barney said, waving away her prepared speech. "What is it you want me to do? Paint my face with shoe polish and join the Peaches of Mecca?"

  "I want you to kill someone."

  "Anyone special?"

  "A prominent civil rights leader whose middle-of-the-road policy is holding back the cause of black nationalism and the freedom movement."

  "How do you know I won't go racing off to the police with this information?"

  "Because, Mr. Daniels." She smiled evilly.

  "Because what?"

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  She stared directly into his eyes, her coldness reaching to the pit of Barney's stomach. "Because I know what happened in Puerta del Rey. That's an interesting scar you carry," she said, touching the "CIA" brand on his belly.

  Barney turned toward her. He was about to speak. He was about to tell her that he himself did not remember what happened in Hispania that led him through the jungle and into the hut where he had been tied and cut and burned with the glowing poker, that he did not remember the thing buried deep in his brain, the event that caused him not to care when they cut him and beat him and branded him and yet kept him alive in spite of the torture.

  He was going to tell her, but she cut him off. "So I know, Mr. Daniels, that you have no love forchis government or its agencies or, for that matter, for white men."

  So she didn't know. She didn't know any more than he did.

  "And besides, Mr. Daniels," she continued, "if you refuse I will have you killed. Now hush up. The news is coming on."

  Gloria X flipped a switch at the bed table and a transistorized television set on the opposite wall instantly lit up.

  Barney sipped the bourbon, once again trying to remember Hispania but failing, as always. Something had happened there. Something.

  The newscast reported on the usual goings on of the planet. A revolution in Chile, a flood in Missouri. A drought threatened in New Jersey, and a civil rights threat in New York.

  Gloria X began to emit happy little squeals as the television flashed a picture of a fat black man. Daniels had seen him several times on TV in South

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  America. He was called a national civil rights leader. He spoke a lot, but was never shown with a following of more than forty persons, most of them white Episcopal ministers.

  He was Calder Raisin, national director of the Union of Racial Justice, commonly called URGE, fat, pompous, invariably making wild inaccurate statements calculated to offend whites and at best amuse blacks who paid him no attention anyway.

  The affected voice bellowed out of the TV set. "The Block Mon," Raisin shouted, "will not tolerate lily-white hospital staffs. At least one out of every five doctors must be black, in both public and private hospitals." It took Barney a while to understand that "Block Mon" meant "black man." Maybe Raisin's gulping adenoidal pronunciation was a new proof of high culture.

  "Mr. Raisin," the television reporter quizzed, "where will the country get all these black, doctors?"

  "After centuries of educational deprivation, the Block Mon must be given doctor's degrees. I de-mahnd a massive medical education program for Blacks, and, if need be, an easing of the discriminatory standards of medical boards."

  "Would you name these discriminatory standards?"

  "I would be glad to. Because of segregated and inferior education, the Block Mon has more difficulty getting into medical school, let alone passing tests given by white medical boards of examination;

  "I demahnd immediate abolition of entrance examinations for medical schools. I demahnd the end of testing to pass. I demahnd the end of the strict standards of medical schools as just another technique of Jim Crow segregation, northern style."

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  "And if your demahnds-er, demands-are not met by the medical schools?" the reporter asked.

  "We shall begin a sick-in, utilizing every badly needed hospital bed. I call upon everyone, Block Mon and white alike, who has a passion for racial justice to register at a hospital. I have here a list of phony symptoms guaranteed to get you admitted. When the truly sick are dying in the streets because there are no beds for them, perhaps then the medical schools will face up to the need to create more black doctors."

  The camera panned back, revealing the portly Mr. Calder Raisin clad in a white hospital gown, standing by an empty bed. His voice was taken off the audio and a commercial for throat lozenges went on.

  "Oh. Oh," sque
aled Gloria X. "He's great. Great. Just great. Great."

  With each great, Barney felt her squeeze a tender spot of his anatomy.

  "Great," Gloria X said.

  Barney pinched her hand. She ignored the pinch. "Great, he was great, darling. Wasn't he wonderful?"

  Barney sipped the bourbon and grunted. "He's not my type."

  "Well, he is mine," Gloria X said. "He's my husband."

  Barney looked at her.

  She'leaned over, brushed the bottle away from Barney's mouth onto the floor, and ran her tongue over his lips.

  "He's really great," she whispered. "It's a shame you're going to have to kill him."

  Barney pushed her away from him. "Now wait a

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  second. First you tell me you're married to this chocolate donut-"

  Gloria nodded. "He's great," she said.

  "And then you tell me to go out and kill him."

  She smiled.

  "May I ask why?" he said after a pause.

  "To further the cause of black freedom," she said. "To eliminate Raisin's middle-of-the-road policy from the rising black consciousness. To demonstrate to my followers that personal sacrifice in the cause of freedom is glorious-"

  "And to collect the insurance money?"

  "It's a bundle, big boy." She winked.

  "That's what I thought," Barney said. He took a deep swig from the bourbon bottle and rolled away from her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Grand Vizier of the Afro-Muslim Brotherhood held open the door for Barney as he tiptoed out of Gloria X's house at five in the morning.

  "Thanks, Malcolm," he said, trying not to slur his words too much.

  "Once you out on the street, you ain't my problem," Malcolm answered. "Plenty of bloods be happy to see your white face this time of day. Ain't no way Allah be looking out for you, white scum."

  "Hare Krishna," Barney said with a bow.

  Barney wasn't afraid of muggers. He could still

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  fight when he had to. He wasn't afraid of killers. He had killed too many times himself not to know that killers were generally more frightened than their-victims unless the killers were very well trained, and if the Peaches of Mecca were the best fighting men in the neighborhood, he was in no danger. And, with nothing in his pocket but the five-dollar bill Gloria X had given him to insure his return, he wasn't particularly afraid of getting robbed.

  What Barney Daniels was afraid of was that crazy old Oriental guy who seemed to materialize magically on the dim street corner ahead. He prepared to run in the opposite direction, but the old man was standing beside him before Barney could execute the about-face.

  "You sure are fast, Pops," Barney said.

  "Thank you. Greetings. I am Chiun."

  "Barney Daniels."

  "Yes, I know."

  "Where's your friend?"

  "He is nearby."

  Barney looked around him, but saw no one. "I don't mean to be nosy, Chiun, but are you planning to kill me?"

  "No."

  Barney breathed easier. "That's good. You know, Chiun, for some reason you don't look like you live in the neighborhood."

  "I do not. My home is the village of Sinanju, in Korea."

  "I see," Barney said, as though that explained everything. "Going my way?"

  "Yes," They walked silently for another half block.

  Barney tried again. "Listen, I know this sounds weird, but-"

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  "Yes?"

  "No, it's too weird."

  "Go ahead. You may ask."

  "Okay." He felt foolish even thinking it. "It's just that I saw you fight. You were pretty good, know what I mean?"

  Chiun smiled. "It was nothing."

  "So I was wondering, if you can fight like that, and if you're not going to kill me, well . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "Are you my fairy godfather or something?"

  A voice behind him snickered. Barney jumped into the air, his heart thudding. "Good reflexes," Remo remarked.'

  "How long have you been back there?"

  "Since you left the house."

  Barney shook his head. "You two are really something," he said, extending his hand to Remo. "Barney Daniels."

  "Idi Amin," Remo said, declining the hand.

  "One of us is the Master of Sinanju," Chiun elaborated. "The other is a rude pervert who is barely useful for household tasks."

  "And the third is a drunk we've had to stay up all night watching while he humped his way to heaven," Remo growled.

  "How could you watch?"

  Remo shrugged. "No scruples, I guess."

  "I mean, the sides of the building were sheer faces of poured concrete. You couldn't have looked in the window."

  "Suit yourself."

  "What did you hear?" Barney asked, testing.

  "Nothing special. Grunts, groans, a couple of giggles from Blondie, a belch or two from you-the usual."

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  "Hmmm."

  "And your promise to knock off Colder Raisin for her."

  Barney winced. "You from the CIA?" he asked.

  "That does it," Remo said. "He's going back unconscious, like I said." There was a flurry of discussion in Korean between the old man named Chiun and the young wise guy.

  "No!" Chiun said finally in English. "He is a man. He will walk."

  "Walk where?" Barney asked belligerently.

  "Tenth Avenue in midtown."

  "What for?"

  "We're supposed to keep you alive."

  "On Tenth Avenue? I'd have a better chance of staying alive in the Klondike wearing a jockstrap."

  "Breathe in the other direction," Remo said.

  "Who sent you here?"

  "Your fairy godfather. Get moving."

  Barney bristled. "Look, you guys, I appreciate what you did for me back there, but I want to know where I'm going and why."

  Remo sighed. "Let me knock him out," he said to Chiun.

  "You are in no danger with us," Chiun explained. "However, our employer feels that others will attempt to do you harm. We are to protect you."

  "So why do you have to protect me on Tenth Avenue? Why not just follow me home to Weehawken?"

  "Because you've decided to murder somebody," Remo said, disgusted. "And I've got to ask Upstairs if you're allowed to. Complications. Always complications."

  Chiun smiled proudly. "I knew he was an assassin."

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  "A fellow's got to earn a living," Barney said.

  They turned left on 81st Street, where muffled music leaked from a cellar door. "Oh," Barney said excitedly. "I almost forgot about this place. A terrific after-hours club. Care to join me for a cocktail?"

  He veered off. Remo collared him.

  This upset Barney. Did they know that he might not make the trip back to Tenth Avenue alive without some liquid refreshment to quench his thirst? Did they know they might well be delivering a corpse to their employer? Did they want that?

  "Walk," Remo said.

  "If I fought you, you'd win, right?"

  "Wouldn't be surprised," Remo said.

  "If you knocked me out, would you carry me?"

  "I suppose I'd have to," Remo said. "Where on Tenth Avenue are we going?"

  "Forty-fourth Street."

  "That's too far. A cocktail, or I go unconscious." He offered his neck to Remo.

  Just then, a gang of eight Puerto Rican street toughs approached them. One of them was picking his teeth with a stiletto. They circled the three strangers in the neighborhood.

  "Hey, man, you got any change?" the one with the stiletto asked Chiun, teasing the knife around his wrinkled throat.

  "You are annoying me with that toy," Chiun said.

  The eight of them laughed.

  "Tell them to go suck a mango," Remo suggested to Chiun.

  "How about this toy?" another asked, nicking out his stiletto with a pop. Six more pops punctuated the

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  night. Eight b
lades flashed. The circle closed more tightly.

  Barney moved into position, but Remo pulled him away. "He can take care of himself," he said.

  "What do you say, old man?" the leader sneered. "Got any last words?"

  "Yes," Chiun said. "Twice this night I have been inconvenienced by groups of hooligans with knives. It is getting to be impossible to walk these streets, and I plan to complain about it. I suggest you stop bothering innocent pedestrians and go home. Also, it is disrespectful to call me old."

  The leader poised his stiletto at Chiun's throat. On the other side, another gang member crept up behind Chiun, prepared to slash at Ms back. "Those your last words, man?"

  "Yes," Chiun said. And then he kicked behind him to relocate the manhood of the approaching man into the man's kidneys and the gang leader was thrusting his stiletto into thin air as he hurtled above the heads of his associates and came to rest around a telephone pole, which he encircled like a wreath halfway up the pole.

  Two gang members fled immediately. The remaining four bashed their heads together with the perfect synchronization of a Busby Berkeley chorus line as Chiun whirled around them. Their skulls cracked and flattened on impact.

  The man with relocated testicles rolled over once with a groan and then was silent. The man hugging the telephone pole slid bonelessly to the ground.

  "Irritating," Chiun muttered, turning back to Remo and Daniels. "Egg juice. Knives. Name-calling. It is enough to cause indigestion. And you," he said, pointing menacingly toward Barney. "You will walk."

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  "Yes, sir. Nothing like a good walk to perk up the old circulation. That's what I always say. A good walk stills the nerves." "And be silent."

  Barney walked to Tenth Avenue as the dawn rose. In utter quiet.

  Barney stuck a cigarette in his mouth as he entered the motel room. Remo crushed it into powder, so that Barney stood in the doorway holding a match to a one-inch filter. Then Remo reached into Barney's coat pocket and pulverized the rest of the pack.

  "You could have just said you preferred I didn't smoke," Barney said. He looked around the room. "Real cozy. Where's my room?" Remo pointed.

  Barney looked inside. "That's the bathroom."

  "That's right."Go take a shower. You smell like a brewery."

  "Okay, okay," Barney said. "You don't have to be rude about it."