The Seventh Stone td-62

by Warren Murphy

  Not that Chiun was complaining about that either. He didn't complain. Even if said government, like all typically white things, did not appreciate his work. How white. How American.

  "You did say American, didn't you?" said Reggie happily, and he got a nod.

  "I thought we heard you," he said.

  The next day, Remo had a phone call from Smith that there was urgent government business and when Remo left by car, Reginald Woburn III did a little joyous dance in what was left of the aloe bed.

  It was working.

  Chapter Five

  Smith was waiting at the airport with a valise and a wallet. His gaunt face was twisted with strain. "I'm sorry. I know you need a vacation desperately, but I had to put you on again," he said, and said nothing more until they reached his car, a gray Chevrolet compact. This man had millions at his disposal, Remo knew, and could fly about in his own jet if he wished. Yet he traveled economy class, used the least expensive car he could, and never wasted a penny even though no government oversight committee would ever get a chance to look at the organization's expenditures. They had chosen the right man when they had chosen Smith, thought Remo.

  He glanced at the wallet. It contained a press pass to the White House. Inside the valise were a white shirt, a suit the color of a nasal decongestant and a tie to match.

  "I take it the suit's for me," Remo said as the car left the parking lot.

  "Yes. You can't enter the White House press corps without it."

  "Why the color of medicine? Who would wear a suit this color?"

  "You've got to look like a reporter," Smith said. Remo looked at the suit again. A pinkish gray. It was really a pinkish gray.

  "Do they get special prices on these clothes?" he asked.

  "No. They like it. They choose colors like that. Not the television reporters. They're mostly actors and actresses and they know how to dress. Real reporters dress like that and you're going to be one. And I'm sorry I'm interrupting your vacation."

  "I was going crazy doing nothing," Rerno said.

  "Be careful," Smith said. "I mean it. Watch yourself."

  Remo reached over to the steering wheel, and putting the pads of his thumb and index finger around the plastic, caught the very movement of the material itself. Even before the world had known of atoms and molecules, Sinanju had known that everything was movement of particles that attracted and repelled.

  Sinanju knew that nothing was still; everything was movement. Remo felt the movement of the car and breathed in air more stale because of the closed windows. He could feel the warm smoothness of the gray plastic wheel and then the slight indentations and pits where the plastic had dried uneven, although it looked smooth to the eye. Through his fingers, he sensed the mass of the wheel, the sticky plasticness of it, the strain of the materials and then the movement of the cosmos on that scale too small for the eye to see, just as the universe was too large to see. In an instant, it was one and then he guided just one atom in one molecule into another orbit by the most minute charge, a thought transmitted through a fingertip, and the steering wheel had a three-quarterinch gap in it where his fingers had touched.

  To Smith, it looked as if Remo had reached over and made a section of the wheel disappear. It happened that quickly. He was sure Remo had broken it off somehow and hidden it somewhere. Magic.

  "So I need a rest. So I'm not up to my level. Who's going to be a danger to me?" asked Remo. "Who is a problem? I can take whoever we need in my sleep. Where is the problem?"

  "I guess for your continued health. Growth. I don't know. But I do know if we weren't desperate, I never would have gotten you back from your vacation."

  "I had a vacation. I've been down at that island forever. It must be going on, my God, four days," Remo said.

  "The President is going to be killed this afternoon at his news conference."

  "Who told you?" Remo asked.

  "The killer."

  "You mean it's a threat?"

  "No," Smith said. "Threats are just words. I wouldn't have called you up here for a threat. The President of the United States gets a hundred threats a week and the Secret Service investigates and puts the name in the file. If we didn't have it all on computers, we'd have to have a warehouse for the names."

  "How do you know he'll succeed, this killer?" Remo asked.

  "Because he's already had success," said Smith. He slipped a note out of his coat pocket and without taking his eyes off the road slipped it to Remo. It read:

  "Not now, but Thursday at two P.M."

  "So?" said Remo. "What's that all about?"

  "The note came wrapped around a little bomb the President found in his suit pocket. Now he was having lunch with an important fund-raiser in his election. A little private lunch with a Mr. Abner Wooster. He heard a ringing in his suit. He felt a bulge and then found the bomb. No larger than a little calculator but it had enough explosive to make him into coleslaw. The businessman was immediately ushered out by the Secret Service."

  "Okay, so he's your suspect."

  "Not so easy," Smith said. "That night, the President was brushing his teeth and he heard a ringing sound. This time inside his bathrobe." Smith again reached into his pocket and peeled off another note, same size, same lettering, same message.

  "So they got his valet, Robert Cawon, out of there. It didn't work." He peeled off yet another note from his pocket. He turned down a large boulevard. Remo just glanced at the note; it was the same as the other two.

  "Dale Freewo," said Smith. "Who was he?"

  "The new Secret Service agent assigned to protect the President," said Smith.

  "Another bomb?"

  "Right. Inside the new vest Freewo had brought him, the armored vest to protect him in case a bomb went off in his suit or bathrobe," Smith said.

  "Why do I have to use a cover as a reporter?" Remo asked.

  "Because two P.M. Thursday, today, is the President's regularly scheduled new conference. The killer must have known that. You've got to protect him."

  "What am I supposed to do if the bombs are already planted on him?" Remo asked.

  "I'm not sure, Remo, but in the middle of the night, I saw the President of my country tremble and I just could not tell him that we would not be there, even at the risk of our exposure. They've had the Secret Service, the FBI, even the CIA looking into it and they've gotten nothing. It's you, Remo. Save him if you can. And get the killer."

  "You think he's got a chance to succeed, don't you?" Remo asked.

  "More than a chance," Smith said and then the car suddenly veered on its mushy American shock absorbers.

  "Can you replace the section you took out?" Smith asked.

  "I didn't take it out," Remo said.

  "What did you do then? I've got a hole in my steering wheel."

  "I don't know. I can't explain it. Do I have to wear this suit?"

  "It will make you inconspicuous," said Smith, who let him off several blocks from the White House.

  The press conference was in the Rose Garden. The President wanted to announce the best third quarter of business in the history of the country. The unemployment rate was down, inflation was down. Production was up. Poor Americans had more real dollars and were happily spending them, making other Americans better off. In fact, incredibly fewer than one-tenth of one percent of the population were in dire straits, an unheard-of broad range of prosperity never before achieved in any civilization.

  "Mr. President, what are you doing about the people in dire straits?" That was the first question. The second question was why was the President so callous toward the small minority of one-tenth of one percent. Was it because they were so small and therefore defenseless?

  The next question was if he felt that the tenth of a percent did not prove that reliance on free enterprise was too heartless and that major government programs were needed, lest America be revealed to the world as a heartless dictatorship.

  Had the President ever been in that one-tenth of one per
cent?

  For twenty minutes, there were nothing but questions about the tenth of a percent doing poorly until the President said he had a plan to eliminate that problem, whereupon the press corps moved to foreign policy. The President mentioned a new peace treaty America helped arrange to stop a thirty-year-old border war in Africa. There were no questions.

  Remo watched the President, watched everyone near him. He could sense the President was nervous. He looked at his watch a few times. That brought a question about whether the watch was broken and how had his presidency brought about its breakdown.

  Remo glanced at a watch next to him. Two P.M. came and two P.M. went. Nobody moved.

  Nothing went off and the President called the press conference over on the last question of did he think the tenth of one percent, the disregarded tenth of one percent, those dire-straits people having fallen through the safety net of human concern, did they come from the same failure of his government as his watch?

  "No," said the President with a smile, a little bit happier this moment because it was 2:05 P.M. As he turned, a man with straight black hair and Malaysian dark features ran from behind a camera with a sword, screaming.

  "Death to you. Death to you."

  The man's movements were so sudden and the Secret Service so stunned by a physical attack from the press section that Remo saw the man would make it to the podium in the Rose Garden with his sword before he could be stopped. From the front row, Remo flipped his cardboard notebook at the man.

  It looked merely as though he opened his hand but the notebook sailed out at such velocity that it tore through the sword hand and the man arrived at the podium with a limp wrist, a cry of death on his lips, and thrusting nothing into the President's chest because the sword was tumbling uselessly about the lawn.

  The Secret Service wrestled him to the ground, got the President out of the Rose Garden, and then an alarm went off on the man, followed by a pop. The pop was a red gushy thing blowing through the air. It was his heart. Something had blown it out of his chest cavity.

  After checking press credentials, the assailant was identified as Du Wok of the Indonesian Press Service. The man previously had been a solid newspaperman, was not open to bribes because he had an independent income and generally there was only mystery as to why he had attacked the President. He had no political affiliations whatsoever, which of course made him quite different from most Indonesians, who were either with the government or in hiding.

  That night, at Smith's request, Remo stayed with the President. No more notes were found nor were any bombs found. Remo stayed three days, wearing the medicine-colored suit. On the last day, he even stayed in a far wing of the White House.

  And still no notes, no reason why an Indonesian named Du Wok had attempted to kill the President. Even more puzzling was how he got the notes into the President's clothing. The best guess was that there was a network. But why did the network want to assassinate the President?

  Remo was on his way back to his vacation when his plane was turned around in flight for some federal emergency. The pilot banked toward Dulles International Airport and the passengers began grumbling. All the passengers were off loaded except Remo, who was signaled into a small booth.

  Smith waited inside the booth. Silently he handed Remo a piece of white paper. It was the same size as those that had wrapped the bombs found on the President.

  "Have they gotten into his clothes again?" asked Remo.

  "We should be so lucky," said Smith.

  "They killed him?"

  "We should be so lucky," Smith said. "A President's important but he's not Montana, Minnesota, Iowa and if the winds are wrong, the entire Midwest through to Chicago."

  "How are they going to blow up all of middle America? They're not the Russians," Remo said.

  "They don't have to be. Besides, some things could be worse than a few atomic bombs," Smith said.

  Reginald Woburn III wore shorts, a white T-shirt and sandals, and happily hummed to himself. He was watching a film. There was Du Wok with a sword. There was the notebook. Reggie ran it backward and the notebook went from the sword hand back to the thrower. The film had been taken with an incredibly highspeed camera. If it hadn't, it would not have caught the motion of the man in the pink-gray suit. One of the problems was, there were seventeen suits just like it. But this was one of the only three in the front row. And the film he had was the only one shot with enough frames per second to capture the movement of the notebook. Indeed, the book had been moving so fast it was shredding because the air acted like sandpaper against its pages.

  Reggie recognized the man. The American. The second plum. It was all so clear it was almost easy. First the eavesdropping devices that did not work. That showed what they did professionally, because only professionals would be used to being bugged. If indeed this American was somehow from the family of the old Korean, they would be working for only the highest power in the land. And the old one had mentioned something about the government when he was talking to Reggie. So it had been natural: threaten the President and they would have to come to his aid. When Remo left the Del Ray condominium suddenly after the notes to the President, Reggie was sure that he had found his men. Or more accurately, that they had come to him, for the great secret of the seventh stone was that they themselves were going to show him how to kill them.

  Reginald watched the high-speed camera catch the action again. It was a white wrist and a white hand. It was indeed the second plum. Reggie had set the stage and there was the actor. He ran the film again and calculated the force of the notebook. And the wrist had hardly moved in throwing it. Phenomenal.

  They were the ones he sought, Reginald knew. He had expected them both to be Koreans with Korean features, but he was sure that the white one was somehow related to the old one, and he knew the old one must be just as awesome as the white. He could see how one of these would be able to chase a prince and his army across the world and off the maps of the world. They were frightening. He watched the movement of the wrist again. It was so natural, so economical. He knew others might be impressed with the result, but he was looking at the source. If he had not been searching for this, if he had not known it was there, he never would have seen it in the one true way of seeing anything. Understanding it. But there it was, more frightening and somehow more desirable than even that first bull elephant he had killed.

  And the two of them had looked like only human beings at first. Reggie found himself humming an old prayer and then he realized it was in the language his father had taught him for gods long dead in lands not even remembered. The kingdom Prince Wo had ruled was gone. But the power of the Korean was not. It had been worth the wait.

  His telephone was ringing. It was his father. The Woks from Djakarta, Indonesia, were complaining to his father that Reggie had killed their blessed son Du and that while they recognized the first son of the first son as the true lord by right, this did not include getting killed. "Father," said Reginald. "it does."

  "How do you expect to keep the line of the family together if you get them killed?"

  "We'll take care of that," said Reggie.

  "Do you have others with you?"

  "No, we don't," said Reginald. "But we will take care of it."

  As he hung up the telephone, Reggie thought that while he might have people working for him, he had no one with him. Princes never did. They were always alone.

  In Djakarta, the family of Wok received a special silver-and-jade platter sent by the firstborn of the firstborn in the direct line of Prince Wo.

  In the center covered by fine silks was the special surprise. Of such wonder was it, such grandness were the jewels under the silk, that Reginald Woburn III had one request. He wanted the children of the Wok family present for the unveiling of the gift. He was truly repentant for the loss of one of their members serving him and while the gift could never compensate for a life, it most certainly would show his feelings.

  It had one warning. They
could not remove the silk hastily because it would ruin the fine lacquers and spun gold. It had to be unwrapped under precise instructions and for that they would have to be talked through it on the telephone. Considering that the outside corners each held gems worth over a hundred thousand dollars, the Woks could only imagine what the value of the center would be.

  "Are the babies there? I want the babies, no matter how young, to be there," said Reggie. "They must remember this day."

  "Yes, everyone."

  "Everyone?" Reggie asked. There was a long pause.

  "Why would you not think everyone is here?"

  "Because we suspect that Ree Wok is disloyal. We do not wish for him to share in this treasure if he is not there," Reggie said.

  "Reginald, you really do have eyes across seas for thousands of miles. The one of whom you speak was reluctant. How did you see that?"

  "We will start without him," Reggie said, "because we see greater things. We see into your hearts. Now, is the platter on the floor?"

  "Yes."

  "There are no tables or chairs there?"

  "No."

  "Everybody gather round," said Reggie. "Now place the youngest child directly over the silk pile. Is it there?"

  "Yes, yes. My arms are getting tired holding him."

  "Just put him down."

  "Feetfirst?"

  "Any way," said Reggie. Suddenly there was a clicking on the line and all he could hear was transoceanic interference, a crackling and then the line was dead.

  "Hello," he said and no one answered.

  Within the hour, Ree Wok, the man who was not at the family gathering, telephoned.

  "Thank you," he said. "Thank you for saving me."

  "Did any escape?" Reggie asked.

  "None. The entire house collapsed. Pieces were found a half-mile away, I have heard."

  "Ree Wok, we declare you now head of the Wok clan."

  "Yes, great Prince. But there are no Woks left."

  "Take a wife," said Reggie. "We command it."

  "Yes, great Prince."