The Sky is Falling td-63

by Warren Murphy

  "Not surprising," said the detective, motioning for the others to get going. "No one else heard the machine, either. "

  "Because of the singing," said Chiun.

  Remo shook his head and was about to shut the door when he saw something he should not have seen. Walking through the police line into a murder scene in which Remo and Chiun might be connected was a man in a tight dark three-piece gray suit, with a parched lemony expression, gray hair parted with painful neatness, and steel-rimmed glasses.

  It was Harold W. Smith, and he should not have been there. The organization was set up to do the things that America didn't want to be associated with but that were necessary for survival. So secret was it that outside of Smith, only the President knew of its existence. So necessary was secrecy that a phony execution had been staged so that its one killer arm would have the fingerprints of a dead man, a dead man for an organization that could never be known to exist. The fact that Remo was an orphan and would not be missed was a significant factor in his selection. There had been another man who was almost, chosen, but he had a mother.

  Now here was Smith not even bothering to set up a cover meeting to protect the organization, walking right into the one sort of situation that could blow it all, walking very publicly up to the hotel suite of his secret killer arm, and making himself vulnerable to questioning by the droves of police roaming the halls on a matter of triple murder.

  "It doesn't matter," said Smith, entering the apartment.

  "I thought you would have phoned to have me meet you someplace," said Remo, closing the door on the sea of blue uniforms. "Something. Anything. Those cops are going to be questioning the cockroaches before they're through."

  "It doesn't matter," repeated Smith:

  "Hail, O Emperor Smith. Thy graciousness brings sunlight to darkness, glory to the mud of daily life. Our day is enhanced by your imperial presence. Name but the deed, and we fly to avenge wrongs done to your glorious name." Chiun had said hello.

  "Yes," said Smith, clearing his throat. He had said hello. Then he sat down.

  "Peasants in this very hotel have been defaming your glorious name during the time of transcendence itself. Lo, I heard them this very morning, loud as machines," said Chiun.

  In Korean, Remo told Chiun: "I don't think he cares about the three bodies, Little Father."

  Chiun's delicate fingers fluttered in the still air, his silk brocaded kimono rustling as he gave greetings. The Masters of Sinanju never bowed, but they did acknowledge others with a tipping of the body which resembled a bow. Remo knew what it was, but Smith couldn't tell the difference and always waited patiently until it was over. Smith had found he could no more stop this than he could convince Chiun that he was not an emperor and was never intended to be. Several times Smith had thought he'd explained the workings of America's constitutional government to the Master of Sinanju, and Chiun had exclaimed that he understood perfectly, even commenting on some of the passages Smith had read him. But always Remo would later tell him that Chiun thought the Constitution merely contained some beautiful sentiments that had little to do with daily life, like prayers or love poems. He was still puzzled as to why America should be afraid to violate its constitutions when any reasonable emperor would flaunt his power to have his enemies assassinated.

  "Gentlemen," began Smith. "What do you know about fluorocarbons?"

  "They are evil, O gracious Emperor, and were probably behind the desecrators of your glorious name, this very morning sent to their righteous doom," said Chiun.

  "They're the things in spray cans, aren't they?" Remo asked. "They make them work:"

  Smith nodded. "Fluorocarbons are a manmade chemical propellant. Their industrial use was severely restricted almost ten years ago."

  "He who would make noise during transcendence," observed Chiun, "would make a fluorocarbon that the whole world despises for its ugliness."

  "High in the stratosphere lies a layer of ozone gas. It's only about an eighth of an inch thick, but it performs the critical ecological function of filtering harmful solar radiation so it doesn't strike the planet's surface. Unfortunately, these fluorocarbons rose to the stratosphere and began to eat away at the ozone layer faster than new ozone was being produced up there."

  "Our gracious ozone," said Chiun. "The swine." And to Remo, in Korean:

  "What is this man ranting about? Is he afraid of hair sprays?"

  "Will you listen to him, Little Father? The man's talking," Remo whispered back in the Korean dialect of the northwest province in which the village of Sinanju, Chiun's village, was located.

  "Hair sprays today, poems about people's rights yesterday. What will it be tomorrow? I say now, as I have said before, let us leave this lunatic's service. The world has never had more despots and tyrants, rulers who would not only pay more, but would properly honor a professional assassin with correct employment." This from Chiun, also in Korean.

  "Will you listen?" said Remo.

  "Yes," continued Smith. "It is a major problem once more because someone, some lunatic, is shooting holes in the ozone layer on purpose."

  "What can you expect from violators of transcendence?" said Chiun. Remo gave him a dirty look. Chiun ignored it. If Remo had a flaw, Chiun knew that it was his lack of expertise in dealing with emperors. Remo followed this Smith, still not realizing that emperors came and went, but the House of Sinanju, of which he was now a part, went on forever. To avoid being an emperor's tool, one should never let him know that he, the emperor, was the tool. One did this by pretending loyalty beyond loyalty.

  Smith, who had never looked excessively healthy, appeared even more haggard now. His words were heavy as he spoke, almost as if he had given up hope. And Remo did not know why.

  "We have not determined who is doing this, but NASA satellites have detected a stream of concentrated fluorocarbons, obviously manmade, collecting through the atmosphere above the Atlantic Ocean. This stream appeared to open an ozone window above central Russia. We are not sure where it originated but we believe it came from somewhere on this side of the Atlantic. Maybe North America. Maybe South America. In any case it opened up that window."

  "Of course," cried Chiun. "This is your chance to destroy your archenemy. Find the wicked fluorocarbons, place them in righteous hands, and then conquer the world. Your wisdom transcends Genghis Khan, O Emperor. They will sing of you as they have sung of the great Attila. Praise be that we are at the birthing of this glorious day. 'Sack Moscow!' is the people's cry."

  Smith cleared his throat before continuing. "There are two reasons we must locate that fluorocarbon source. One, it may ultimately rupture the ozone shield. Ground radiation levels under the Russian window indicate that the shield closed itself off in less than a day. Provided that atmospheric ozone levels haven't been seriousiy strained, it will probably be replenished."

  Chuin raised a single finger to his wisp of a white beard and nodded sagely. Remo wondered what he was thinking about.

  "The second reason is that when we offered to help the Soviets analyze the damage to the ozone over their country, they acted like nothing had happened. And then we picked up the strangest sort of activity. The building of an entire separate missile command. These missiles are unlike anything we have seen before. And we are afraid these new missiles have only one purpose. A first strike."

  "How do you know? I mean, how can you tell what's going on in their minds?" asked Remo.

  "Our satellites have photographed the new missile bases, so we know they exist. But we haven't picked up any trace of a response mechanism. That's a system that has several layers of checks and counterchecks built into it, so that the missiles are fired only after certain preconditions are met, including a determination that the country has been attacked. It's fairly easy to read from outer space. All we have to do is pick up the electronic signals created by the response mechanism. But this new command doesn't have any of that. They have one phone line and a backup. It's what we call a raw button."

&
nbsp; "A what?"

  "The only thing you can do with those damned missiles is launch them. There is no waiting for confirmation, no protection against incoming missiles, no launch codes. Nothing. They are already aimed and await the press of a single button. All they need to start World War III is one phone call, and dammit, the way their phones work, a thunderstorm could set off that call."

  "We burn either slow from the sun or fast from the Russians," said Remo.

  "Exactly," said Smith.

  "So what do we do? Where do you want us to go?"

  "You wait. Both of you. The entire world is watching the skies for those crazies to try streaming fluorocarbons again. If they do, we'll get a fix on them, and then you two move in. No holds barred. Don't wait for anything. There aren't two people I would rather have between the human race and extinction than you. The President feels the same way. I just hope another incident won't set the Russians off. I never have understood them, and I understand them even less now."

  "Of course," said Chiun. He always understood the calculated moves of the Russians, but could never remotely fathom Smith and his democracy.

  "I do. You know," Remo said slowly, "sometimes I think what we do doesn't matter. Not as much as I'd like it to matter. But this does. You know, it makes me glad to be alive to do this. It's saving the world, I guess."

  "Don't guess," said Smith. "It is."

  "And it shall be recorded that the great Emperor Harold Smith did perform the wondrous act of saving the world through a trainee of the House of Sinanju."

  "I am glad you feel that way, Master of Sinanju," said Smith. "By the way, there was a small problem with your gold tribute. But we will reship it."

  "What? What problem?" asked Chiun. His delicate head cocked so suddenly that the wisps of white hair at his ears and chin quivered.

  "The submarine carrying your gold surfaced five miles off Sinanju, in the West Korean Bay, as always. On the same day and at the appointed hour, as always. In agreement with the North Korean government, as always."

  "Yes, yes," said Chiun eagerly.

  "Would you like some water, Smitty?" asked Remo. He looked as though he could use some. The tribute to Sinanju would only pile up in that house above the village, so it was not of great importance to Remo that there was a delay of sorts. Smith did look especially worried by this, but they would be able to reship, of course.

  "Shhh, fool." Chiun to Remo. Smith said he didn't need the water. "The gold. The gold," said Chiun.

  "We have tea," suggested Remo.

  "The gold."

  "Well, it's nothing serious," said Smith. "Usually someone from your village rows out to meet the sub and collect our yearly tribute to the House of Sinanju which pays for your services as Remo's trainer. This time no one came."

  "They must," cried Chiun. "They have always done it."

  "This time, they didn't. But we will reship."

  "Reship? My loyal villagers did not appear to claim the tribute that has sustained Sinanju for centuries, and you will reship?"

  "What's the big deal, Chiun?" said Remo. "You've got so much tribute in that place that one year's gold isn't going to make much difference."

  "The village starves without the tributes earned by the Master of Sinanju. The babies will have to be sent home to the sea by their weeping mothers, as it was done in the days before the Masters of Sinanju hired themselves out as assassins to prevent that very thing."

  "That hasn't happened since the House worked for the Ming Dynasty in China. They can live off that treasure alone for a thousand years."

  "We'll reship a double payment," said Smith in an uncharacteristic gesture of generosity. That told Remo more than anything else that Smith really feared for the survival of the planet.

  Chiun rose in a single smooth movement, entering the bedroom like the wind.

  "What happened? What's gotten into him?" asked Smith.

  "I think he may be upset. That treasure is kinda important to him," Remo said. "I've seen it. Some of it is priceless. Mint coins from Alexander the Great. Rubies. Emeralds. Ivory. Gorgeous stuff. And a lot of it's junk, too. Things they used to think of as precious that aren't anymore. Like aluminum, when it first came out, centuries ago before it could be manufactured. They have gobs of aluminum. I've seen it right there beside a case of diamonds. Really. The diamonds are off to the side."

  "It's all right that we're going to double the shipment, isn't it? I mean, how could he object?" asked Smith.

  Remo shrugged. "Some things even I don't understand yet."

  But when Chiun reappeared in a dark gray flecked robe, his face grave as a statue, hands folded within his sleeves and thick-soled sandals on his feet, Remo Williams knew that the Master of Sinanju was leaving. This was his traveling robe. But his trunks were not packed.

  "Little Father, you can't leave now," Remo said in Korean. "The world may go up."

  "The world is always being destroyed. Look at Nineveh. Look at Pompeii. Look at the Great Flood. The world is always destroyed, but gold goes on forever. And the ancient treasure of the House of Sinanju, which has survived catastrophes without number, may well be in danger."

  "I can't go with you, Chiun," said Remo. "I have to stay here."

  "And betray your responsibility as the next Master of Sinanju? A Master must protect the treasure."

  "If there is no world left, where are you going to spend it?"

  "One can always spend gold," said Chiun. "I have taught you strokes, Remo. I have trained you to fulfill the potential of your mind and of your body. I have made you strong, and I have made you quick. Most of all I have made you an assassin, one of a long line of honorable assassins. I have taught you all these things when I should have taught you wisdom. I have bequeathed the power of Sinanju to a fool." This in Korean. This said with rage.

  So angered was he that the Master of Sinanju left the suite without giving a formal bow to his emperor. "Where did he go?" asked Smith, who did not understand Korean.

  "Did you notice that he didn't give you a proper farewell?"

  "Yes, I thought it seemed briefer than usual. Does that mean anything?"

  "He just said good-bye," Remo said quietly. Without thinking, he dropped to a lotus position on the floor, easily and smoothly with the legs joining like petals as he had been taught so many years before.

  "I am sorry. I had hoped to use him, too, in this crisis. Well, we still have you and that's the important thing. When he comes back, we'll use him."

  "I don't know if he is coming back," said Remo. "You just got a good-bye."

  "And you? Did he say good-bye to you?"

  "I hope not. I really want to believe not," said Remo. And with soft, cutting motions, he tore up pieces of the thick pile carpet, not even noticing what his hands were doing.

  "I am sure Chiun will return," said Smith. "There is an emotional bond between you two. Like a father and son."

  "That treasure is pretty important to him. I don't think it can be that important, because nobody ever spends it. But then again, I am white."

  Chapter 3

  Champagne corks popped. Noisemakers shrilled. Balloons clustered against the soundproofed ceiling like frightened owls. A gigantic white cake with the blue Chemical Concepts logo was wheeled into the main lab room on Route 128 as some of the technicians passed around freshly rolled joints. Bubbling laughter shook the room, seeming to set the bright-colored balloons in motion.

  Reemer Bolt jumped up on a lab stool and yelled for silence. He got it.

  "We thought it was marketable," he howled. "But before we could sell it, we needed a final test. And you delivered! So here is a toast to the great technical staff of Chemical Concepts who made it possible and kept their mouths shut. I promise to make all of us rich. Very rich." Reemer Bolt shook up a jeroboam of Dom Perignon and let the sudsy foam spurt over the screaming crowd in the laboratory. This wonderful crew had taken the wild, improbable concept of the fluorocarbon beam and not only made it work, but made it as
directional as an attack plane. On this very day they had proved that they could fire the beam and make it strike any point in the atmosphere. Any point. They had harnessed it. They could control it.

  They had aimed the beam at Malden, a village eighty miles from London, England. Like a high-pressure jet of water through cigarette smoke, it poked a hole in the ozone above that town, showering it with the full force of the mighty sun. Their control was absolute. They had focused the beam across an entire ocean and hit an area no larger than forty feet by forty feet.

  "I love you, Kathleen O'Donnell," Bolt screamed into the open transatlantic line.

  On the other end, in a field in Malden, England, Dr. O'Donnell simply hung up. She had work to do. Forty-seven precise experiments were laid on the field that they had prepared in advance for the great test. This had to be done in secret, because if the British government learned that a United States chemical company was conducting scientific tests involving banned fluorocarbons on their royal soil, it could trigger an international incident. Worse, the British might sue Chemical Concepts of Massachusetts into bankruptcy. The British were touchy that way.

  So Dr. O'Donnell had disguised the nature of the experiment. To help with that disguise she had hired a British testing firm, and simply misinformed them about a thing here and a thing there. All she needed them for was to calibrate and quantify what was happening there in the little village north of London.

  She walked among the experiments, the dead grass crunching under her feet. The cages, beakers, and vials were receiving the attention of white-coated technicians. The major experiment, of course, was already a smashing success. They could not only direct the fluorocarbon stream thousands of miles, but they could control the size and duration of the window with a small tolerance.

  As she went from table to table, Dr. Kathleen O'Donnell realized that she was walking among the gravy. The meat had already been cooked. Perhaps that was what made her feel this sort of tight giddiness. Then again, there were so many sounds of pain among the dying animals.

  A cluster of rosebushes caught her attention. Beautiful black roses. She looked at her small chart. They had been yellow before the experiment. A kiss of a breeze shattered a few petals, and the buds fell like ashes.