First, there had been the appointment by Hispania's President De Culo of the American-hating Estomago as his U.N. ambassador.
And then, there were growing signs of Hispania drawing closer and closer to the Soviet Union.
Then, there was the ship. A Russian military ship, carrying what might have been nuclear equipment, had simply vanished on its way to Cuba. One day, it had been sixty miles from Cuba's shore. The next day, high altitude spy flights and spies inside Castro's empire couldn't find the ship. It had never arrived.
The report had arrived on Smith's desk and at first, he was willing to think it accident at sea. The ship had sunk. But as the days had gone on and the Russians had not announced the accidental loss of
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the ship, he had begun to wonder. And then, three weeks later, agents in Europe reported that the ship was returning through the Baltic sea.
So, where had it been?
Was it possible that the ship had swerved from its expected course at the last minute and arrived in Hispania to unload a shipful of nuclear weapons supplies?
Smith drummed a pencil against the back of his left hand. Ordinarily, he would had have discounted such a scare prospect as nuclear arms in Hispania. But there were other things that made it difficult to discount.
In European capitals, agents were picking up tips and rumors-rumors about a strike against the United States now being possible.
Was it possible? Could Russia be planning a strike against the United States? A missile strike launched from Hispania?
Gloria Sweeney and Estomago had been behind the killing of Raisin. Therefore they were responsible for the hundreds of thousands of blacks marching on Washington, D.C., right now. Was that part of some plan, to try to create such chaos and confusion in Washington that the nation's defenses might somehow be slackened? And what was the map that Barney Daniels had been talking about?
The CURE director sighed. So many questions; so few answers.
He would just have to wait for Remo to come back with some answers.
It did not occur to Smith to worry that while he was waiting, plans might be moving along to blow up a piece of the United States. Waiting was the correct thing to do. Therefore he would wait. And he would tell no one because the burden of responsi-
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bility was his and no one else's. So he put the problem out of his mind, turned back to his desk, and began to look through the month's vouchers for Folcroft Sanitarium.
He shook his head in annoyance. For the second straight month, the bill for bread had gone up and he was getting pretty sure that one of the kitchen workers was stealing some of those food supplies. Something would have to be done.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The big mosque on 114th Street was closed. Two black-suited guards watched the entrance, which was chained and padlocked.
Whistling, Remo strolled over to the chain and snapped it as though it were a peppermint stick.
"Wuffo you doing that shit," one of the Peaches of Mecca said as Remo walked through the gates toward the mosque. "I mean halt, man. Halt in the name of the Afro-Muslim Brotherhood."
"No time, boys," Remo called over his shoulder. "Catch you later."
"You gonna catch us right now," the other Peach said, and the two of them executed a flying tackle at Remo's knees.
He caught them in mid-air. Using one of them as a club, he twirled the man high overhead and
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smacked him into his companion's midsection with a thud. Two pairs of dazed brown eyes shone, unfocused, beneath their sweat-glistening shaved heads.
"You one mean mother," one of them said. The other shook the fuzz out of his brain and staggered to his feet.
' "In the name of Allah," he said as he pulled a blue-tinged knife out of his inside coat pocket, his eyes locked into Remo's.
Remo kicked. With one stroke the knife was lodged into the guard's throat, a stream of red trickling onto his white shirt collar and spreading. The man stiffened and trembled. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, but no sound came out.
He wobbled a few paces in a zigzag line toward Remo, then reeled and stumbled. His mouth formed half a word: "Mother ..."
Remo blew, and the small gust of air sent the man careening downward with a crash. "That's the biz, sweetheart," he said.
"Holy shit," the other Peach gasped as Remo turned to face him. "Look, man, I ain't got no knife, see?" Shaking, he opened his jacket. "No knives, no zip guns, not even a pea shooter. Just a country boy up here visiting my aunt Minnie, yes suh." He backed away. "Me, I'm strictly for nonviolence. Amen. Free at last." He took off at a brisk trot, peering behind him to see if Remo was following.
He wasn't. He didn't have any time to lose. He paused at the heavy double doors leading to the interior of the mosque just long enough to be impressed with the precision of their construction. It was airtight in there, and the doors must have weighed a half ton apiece. Whoever designed these doors was building a fortress, and preparing for siege.
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Using a thrust from the elbow, he wedged his hand into the hairline crack between the two doors. It was solid steel, more than two inches thick. Feeling with his fingertips, he located the locking mechanism and jammed three fingers into it, releasing the lock with a deep pop, like a small explosion oc-curing far underground. Then he pushed with his shoulder to dislodge the interior bolt.
Inside, the mosque was as cold and silent as a cave. He passed room after empty room as he strode silently down the vast network of hallways and stairways, his feet barely touching the gleaming polished floors. He tapped on one of the walls. Steel. In a corner of the building, he felt with the balls of his feet for the underlying structure beneath the tile flooring. Again steel.
At the base of a small white metal stairwell, he saw the only other people in the mosque: two black-suited young men, their faces expressionless, their heads shaved and gleaming blue-black under the dun lighting. They appraised Remo coolly, acknowledging his presence by no more than a cold glance from heavy-lidded eyes.
They moved toward him like two panthers, silent, deadly. They were the best of the lot, thought Remo as he watched them move. Obviously trained to stay with Gloria as her personal guard.
Without a word, one of them snaked toward Remo in a flying arc, legs tucked tightly to his chest. Remo stood still, waiting for the inevitable foot to come jutting out at his solar plexis. When it did, Remo caught the heel of the man's foot and swept it upward to lock the knee. Then, with the leg straight and locked, he pressed the foot with his palm in a small, potent move that dislocated the man's hip and sent him howling down the length of
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the corridor as fast as a bowling ball, until he came to rest with a splat on the far wall.
The other man moved, never taking his eyes from Remo, his face registering nothing.
He was fast. As he prepared his blow-a shoulder spin designed for use with a weapon-Remo noticed the man had good balance. "Not bad," Remo said. "Shame to have to kill you just to get to that white kitty in there."
The man began the spin, as evenly weighted as a cat.
"Beautiful," Remo said, as he pulled a packet of matches from his pants pocket and tossed them to the floor. They slid precisely between the tiles on the floor and the man's shoe. It threw his balance totally, so that when he came out of the spin all his energy had spun into his feet to stay upright. The man twirled to a stop, momentarily drained. Remo stepped in close to the man.
"Hold it, sweetheart," Gloria called from the landing. She was dressed in a diaphanous white sari that only partly concealed her body, and she carried a revolver.
Remo stopped. "At your service," he said with a bow.
"That's better," she said, and squeezed the trigger.
As Remo saw the tension in her hand, the small muscles of her index finger beginning to contract over the trigger, he collared the remaining guard. In a motion too swift for the guard to resist or Gloria to see,
he put the man's body between himself and the bullet, and before the guard could register surprise, he was dead and Remo was up the stairs, the gun crumbling to pieces in his hands.
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"Get in," he said to Gloria, shoving her inside her apartment.
"What for? There's nobody else around," she said disgustedly. "You knew that."
"I want to see the map . . . Miss Sweeney."
"Map?" She laughed. "Sure. Help yourself." She threw out her arm in a Bette Davis gesture to indicate the map on the wall. "Have an eyeful, sugar."
It was an ordinary world map. A little old, maybe, Remo thought as he scanned its worn folds, but nothing special.
"Barney Daniels is alive and talking, I suppose," Gloria said, a look of resignation settling over her features and rendering them haggard as she slumped into an overstuffed white chair.
"That's right. His memory's back."
She lifted a weary eyebrow. "It was bound to happen. Care for a drink?" She cocked a frosty glass in his direction.
"No thanks."
"It's only mineral water. Here. Try some." She eased herself out of the chair and poured a tall tumbler for Remo at the bar.
The glass felt cold in his hand. The moisture on the outside of the glass wet his skin. "I guess water wouldn't hurt," he said.
Then he smelled it. It was faint, almost nonexistent, just a tinge. "Ethyl chloride," he said, bewildered. "And something else. Something common."
"Don't be silly. That's just plain old H2O, straight from the hidden springs of New Yrok City. Now bottoms up." She drained her own glass in one nervous gulp.
"And what was that?" Remo asked.
"Gin. I'm tapering off water," she said with a smile.
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Remo smiled, too. He held his glass toward her. "Go on. Have a taste."
"No, thanks."
"Come on," Remo said. "You only live once." He squeezed her jaw open and poured the liquid down her throat.
"Ethyl chloride and mesquite," Remo said. "Mesquite like in tequila. That's what you hooked Daniels on, wasn't it? The mesquite. First, you fudged up his brain with ethyl chloride, then hooked him on the mesquite. And he kept getting enough of it in his tequila to keep the chloride pumping in his tissues, keeping him under. Until he dried out in the clinic."
Gloria sputtered and coughed. Remo squeezed the junctions of her jaws harder. Her mouth popped open wider. "Let's try this all one more time," Remo said and poured the rest of the decanter into Gloria's mouth. "Let's see what's in your system."
The liquid bubbled over her teeth. It sprayed. It dribbled down her chin and plastered her gauze drape to her breasts.
Abruptly, the woman stopped struggling. As Remo watched, a wild, happy glint lit her eyes. He released her jaw and she winked and smiled at him. She seemed unaware of the spittle running down her face.
"It good," she said, clapping her hands together.
"The ethyl chloride's in you too," Remo said. "Is that why you're involved in this? They got you with drugs?"
"Just a little drinkie now and then," Gloria said.
"Want to talk now?" Remo asked.
"Rather play feelies," she said. She raised her breasts toward Remo.
"Where is everybody?"
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Coyly, she waggled a finger at Remo. Her face was twisted in a leer that she must have thought was a smile. "No, no, never tell." She giggled, then said, "All the niggies gone. Niggies, niggies, niggles. All gone to Washington to get blown up."
"Who's going to blow them up?"
Her face lit up. "Me. Gloria. And Robar."
"Estomago?"
She nodded. "The one with the big hose." She rolled her eyes appreciatively.
"Why do you want to blow them up?" Remo asked.
"Not just them. Everybody. All in Washington."
"I thought you loved the Afro-Muslim Brotherhood," Remo said.
She blurted a raspberry. "A game. Niggies got me sent to jail. Robar got me out."
"What'd you do to go to jail?"
She bent her neck down, then peered up at Remo as if she were looking over a fence. "Shot me a nig-gie and they sent me to jail."
"Poor little thing," Remo said.
"Poor Gloria," she said. She sniffed eloquently. Suddenly a tear blossomed from the corner of her eye. "Gonna blow them up; gonna blow everybody up."
"How are you going to blow them up?"
Gloria giggled. "With bombs, silly, Robar's got bombs. Lots of bombs. Let's play ficky-fick. Too much talk."
"First talk," Remo said, "then ficky-fick. Are the bombs in Hispania?"
She nodded. "At the installation. The girls put them together. Built the camp too."
"What girls?"
'The girls Robar got from the prisons. Like me.
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Only I didn't have to work at the camp 'cause I'm so pretty." She patted her platinum hair.
"When are you going to explode the bombs?"
"Maybe next week. Maybe never. Whenever the Russians say so."
"What's going to happen to Hispania?" Remo asked.
Gloria shrugged. "Who cares? Robar and me, we going away. El Presidente, he going to Switzerland. Who cares? We got lots of money and we get lots more when the Russians come into Hispania and take the island over."
"Where are the girls now?"
"All dead. We shot 'em. Bang. I like shooting."
"Then why didn't you shoot Barney Daniels?"
Her eyes opened wide. "Cause he got away and came to America. So we sent him a bomb, but he didn't blow up. And then we made him kill Calder Raisin so he would go to jail and rile up the niggles. But he didn't kill Calder Raisin. He can't do anything right."
"Just a deadbeat, I guess," Remo said.
"Good ficky-fick though," Gloria said.
Remo walked once around the room. "I only want to ask one more thing," he said. "What's so important about that map on the wall?"
"Dopey," she said, fluttering over to the map. "It's a bomb map." She pressed a tiny button on the desk below the map and an overhead track light came on, illuminating the map with an eerie green light
As the light glowed stronger, lines on the map began to emerge. Blue lines. Red lines. Dotted lines. And a thick, wobbling stroke from a jungle border of Hispania to Washington, D.C.
"El Presidente had it coated, so that you can't see
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the lines without this special light." She smiled. "He's so smart."
"A real whip," Remo said.
Gloria seated herself on the window sill. "You gonna stay and play with me?"
"No."
"Aw, c'mon," she teased, unfastening the top of her sari and letting the gauzy fabric unravel and flutter in the breeze outside the open window. "Nice jugs, huh?" she asked.
"Good enough for government work," Remo said.
She unravelled more of her sari, until a long stream of fabric floated in the wind like a white river. She stood up on the window sill and lifted her arms to her sides.
"Look, I'm a flag," she squealed, stretching out her arms to grasp the billowing sheath. "I'm an angel! I'm flying! Death to the niggies!" she shouted. "The angel of death is flying! Death to America! Ficky-fick forever."
Then her feet left the floor and she soared downward, down the sheer face of the building, her garment unwinding behind her in brilliant white streamers as she fell naked to the ground below.
Remo shook his head. "Freaking nutcase," he said. "Everybody in this deal is a nutcase."
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Barney Daniels sat up in bed, rubbing the sore spot where the intravenous feeding needle had been taken out.
"Just a couple more days, Mr. Daniels," said the black nurse. "Then you'll be out of here. Can't happen too soon, either. If some of our regulars found out we had a white man here, I don't know what'd happen." She smiled at him.
"No," said Barney, shaking himself to life. "Now."
"Now,
now . . ." the nurse began.
"Just once," Barney said. "Now. I'm going. Get Doc."
"Doctor Jackson is busy at the-"
"Get him in here." Barney's voice reverberated through the small private room. "Otherwise I'll run out front and tell the whole neighborhood that you're treating white folks. You'll never live it down."
"Just you calm down," the nurse said. "I'll get the doctor."
Jackson was harried and tired looking and Barney realized he could not remember a time when Jackson hadn't been overworked, overtired and underappreciated.
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"What is it now, you honkey pain in the ass?" Jackson said.
"Sit down, Doc."
"C'mon, I'm busy."
Barney sat up and cleared a space on his bed. "Talk to me for a minute. We both need it."
Doc Jackson sat, his knees creaking as he bent them.
"Bad one?" Barney asked.
Jackson nodded. "Bullet wound. Some asshole went on a toot and shot his girlfriend in the face. I thought I could save her." He closed his eyes, the lids weighted by decades of sleepless nights and lost causes.
"Ever hear from your wife?" Barney asked.
"Sure." His grim black face cracked into a semblance of a smile. "When she wants more money."
"Your kid?"
"Ivy League. Majoring in revolution, relevance and hate. I'm not one of her favorite people. What's this all about anyway?"
Barney shifted on the bed. "No reason. I've just been thinking. Wondering how things might have turned out, you know, if Denise-"
"Stop it. Now. All the what if s and what-might-have-beens in the world aren't going to bring her back, no matter how bad you want her."
"I remembered, Doc. I remembered everything." There was such pain on his friend's face that Jackson could not ease it. All he could do was to spend this moment with Barney and listen to him.
"I remembered when things used to be important. Ordinary things, just living. Every day when I'd wake up, I'd be glad that I made it through again. Do you remember?"
"Me?" Jackson thought. "I don't know. I guess
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so. But everybody gets over being young. That's all it is. You get older, you see things differently. You expect less." He shrugged.
"Bullshit," Barney said. "There's not a day goes by that you -you personally, Robert Hanson Jackson-don't wonder what the hell you're doing here."
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