Brain Storm td-112

by Warren Murphy

  "I'll just feel better once they're hooked back into the office system."

  "Don't worry. We'll be leaving in a minute."

  "Please get them back here soon, Lothar."

  "Just keep monitoring." Holz cut the signal and stuffed the phone back into his jacket pocket. "Will they be out long?" he asked.

  Remo and Chiun stood impassively above the prone bodies of the three United Nations delegates.

  The ambassadors were bound at the wrists and ankles in shiny copper wire.

  Remo and Chiun ignored Holz.

  "Blast that speech program," the PlattDeutsche vice president said with a chuckle. "You two look like a couple of cigar-store Indians. No matter. Newton will figure out a way to make you answer. Even when you don't want to."

  There was a groan from the floor. Holz shifted his attention away from the two men and looked down at the ambassadors.

  Helena Eckert's eyelids had fluttered open.

  "Where am I?" she asked. She looked around.

  The floor on which she lay was dirty concrete. High above her were exposed girders. A few feeble white rays filtered in through a single filthy skylight.

  As she blinked away the fog, she saw that she was in some kind of warehouse.

  Lothar Holz crouched down until his face was a foot above hers.

  "You have no idea, madam, but you are going to repay a very old debt."

  For the first time in her privileged life, Helena Eckert was scared. The fright registered in her voice.

  "Is this blackmail? I'll call my brother Rudolph.

  He'll pay you anything you want."

  He touched her gently on her chin. "I already have part of what I want, madam Secretary," he said softly. "The remainder will come from you." He stood up, brushing dirt off his trousers.

  "Gentlemen?" he said to Remo and Chiun. He made his confident way toward the warehouse door.

  A van was backed against the open doorway.

  As Holz walked, the PlattDeutsche satellite tracked his movements.

  Dr. Curt Newton, a state away, picked up the information on his computer in Edison and ordered the Dynamic Interface System signal to animate the men from Sinanju. Just as he had for the three kidnap-pings. The whole procedure took place in under one second.

  Remo and Chiun fell in step behind Lothar Holz like dutiful servants.

  Holz loaded the two Masters of Sinanju into the back of the waiting van. He had driven it there himself. They were like mannequins dumped in some dark storage space until further display. Though lights were available, Holz hadn't bothered to switch them on. There were no windows.

  The van was the same model as the one that housed the mobile Dynamic Interface System equipment, but the rear of this vehicle was empty save for two benches on either side.

  Remo and Chiun sat together on one of the

  benches.

  After a moment, they felt the motion of the wheels beneath them.

  "Little Father?" Remo asked. His eyes normally adjusted to the darkness, but Curt Newton obviously hadn't mastered that part of Remo's program. The van was black as a tomb.

  "I am still here if that is what you were wondering," Chiun's disembodied voice replied. The all-enveloping darkness made it seem tighter. A plucked violin string.

  "What are we going to do?"

  "For now we are going to sit."

  "I'm serious," Remo pressed. His own voice sounded anxious to him.

  "As am I, for at the moment it appears we have no choice."

  "That's a pretty damned defeated attitude, isn't it?" "I am not defeated. I am awaiting an opportunity."

  Remo didn't seem convinced. "Great. When do you think that'll be?"

  "I will know when it presents itself."

  "Hmm," Remo said, nodding. "Wait and see.

  Isn't that for people without options? I prefer to do something."

  "Then do this magical whatever-it-is. And when you initiate your daring escape, Remo, do not forget to bring me with you."

  "You're not making this easier, Chiun."

  "And you are?" In the dark, the old Korean's singsong was annoyed.

  Remo sighed. "I guess maybe not," he admitted.

  "It's just that I went though something like this with the Pythia just a couple of weeks ago. Even as helpless as I felt with that, there seemed to be some hope.

  A chance I could fight it. We can't do anything here unless Holz's damned machines break down."

  "Then that is what we must hope for."

  "It seems pretty thin, Little Father."

  "It is all we have," Chiun said matter-of-factly.

  And in his heart of hearts, Remo knew his teacher was right. One thing was certain. If the interface system did go down—if only for a moment—the final switch thrown would be that of Lothar Holz.

  The rest of their trip to Edison was tensely quiet.

  20

  Holz pulled into the PlattDeutsche America parking lot beside the battered interface van. It was the executive lot, and most of the other spots were empty this late in the day. He got out of the cab and went over to the other truck. He eyed the damage to the rear door critically.

  As if on cue, Remo and Chiun came around the rear of the van, guided by the interface signal. Their faces were bland reflections of one another.

  "Did you do that?" Holz demanded of Remo.

  Remo did not respond.

  "Your silence is getting very old, very quickly,"

  Holz said impatiently. "This equipment cost a fortune. I hope for your sake it is not damaged." He rattled the handle but found the door was sealed shut.

  "Splendid. I'm going to have to send this out for repairs," he said with a resigned sigh.

  The three of them left the truck and took the rear stairwell up to the lab.

  When they entered Newton's lab, the first thing Holz noticed was the man on the ceiling. He was crawling like a spider, as if his palms and toes were glue. He slipped across to the wall and climbed rapidly down to the laboratory floor.

  Von Breslau stood at the computer terminal near Newton, making little scratch marks in a yellow legal pad. Holz's assistant stood behind the two men. His arms were folded across his chest. His face held the same unreadable expression as always.

  "That was incredible!" the man who had just scaled the wall enthused. Holz knew him. His name was David Leib and he was a manager in the sales department. "Did you see that?" Leib asked excitedly. He looked up at the ceiling and then down at the palms of his hands. It was as if he were seeing them for the first time in his life.

  Von Breslau fixed his rheumy eyes on Holz. "We have had great success thus far, Lothar," the old man said. He made another mark on his paper.

  "I can see that," Holz said, nodding to the incredulous sales manager. "How many test subjects have you used so far?"

  "Eight so far, I believe. Eight?" Newton glanced at von Breslau for confirmation.

  The old man consulted the yellow legal pad, then nodded.

  "Yes, eight," Newton said.

  "Have there been any ill effects?"

  "None so far," Newton confirmed. Hesitant at first, he had thrown himself wholeheartedly into the experiments.

  "There appear to be no side effects on our subjects," von Breslau said. He was unhappy to have someone answer for him. His lips puckered unpleasantly as he glanced at Curt Newton.

  "Then it is obvious to me. Fischer moved too quickly with the first test subject."

  "I think that is pretty clear, Lothar. But remember, that's not the only thing to consider. The nervous systems are different. We are still only downloading very basic material. It would take some time for the new systems to adapt. Basically what we have is a new program overriding an old one."

  "But it is possible?"

  "Hey, they're living proof," Newton said, waving his hand toward Remo and Chiun. "I patched them back into the internal system once you were back on the grounds, by the way."

  Holz sloughed the words off as if t
hey were irrelevant. He was watching the sales manager, who had taken to the wall once again. The man climbed ef-fortlessly up and then back down again. The PlattDeutsche vice president's eyes held an envious gleam.

  "I think we can bring these tests into a new realm," Holz announced boldly.

  "That would be acceptable," von Breslau agreed.

  His tired eyes strayed to the EKG monitor.

  "Hold on, here." Curt Newton jumped in. "I think we should do some more tests. We have no idea what sort of long-term neural side effects there could be to the process."

  "That is the problem with scientists, my dear Curt.

  You people want to test and test and test, while the rest of us are looking for solutions today. And we have one, in your brilliant research. We also have our next volunteer." Holz snapped his fingers. Obediently his assistant stepped away from the two doctors. He hopped up onto the hospital gurney.

  "You will step up the process."

  "Agreed," von Breslau declared.

  "Are you sure?" Newton said. "I mean—" he pitched his voice low so that the sales manager could not hear "—does your assistant realize there are risks?" he asked. He nodded to the blond-haired man.

  "He was bred for risk, Doctor. By me." With a minimum of fuss, the old man proceeded to connect the electrodes from Newton's equipment. He worked with the confidence of a man who had been with the Dynamic Interface System program for months.

  When finished, he stepped over to the computer and proceeded to study the commands Newton gave to the machine. He had done this for the bulk of the day. For his part, the young man sat on the bench, silent. His eyes were blue stone.

  It was all so surreal to Curt Newton. Holz. The infamous Dr. Erich von Breslau. Now this young man's ready acceptance of the danger posed by the Dynamic Interface System.

  Newton had become used to the blond man's silent, subservient attitude over the years. He had been with Holz since Newton first arrived at PlattDeutsche. But Newton was amazed that his pliancy extended to acting as a human guinea pig simply because his employer wished him to do so.

  Behind Newton, von Breslau cleared his throat impatiently. He was surprising for a man of his advanced years. He had asked Newton pointed questions concerning the operation of the Dynamic Interface System all afternoon, and the scientist was amazed at the old man's ability to grasp the minutiae of the complex operating system. He remained, however, ill-tempered and impatient.

  Taking a deep breath, Curt Newton initiated the procedure that would download the Sinanju information into his latest test subject.

  It was after dark. The waning sunlight had ceased shining through the spaces around the damaged door nearly an hour before.

  He used the tiny penlight on his key chain to check the time.

  His Timex read 9:18 p.m. It was nearly time.

  Harold W. Smith had sat patiently in the back of the interface van for most of the day. Of course, there was no guarantee that anyone would return for the vehicle. It was logical to assume, though, that if Remo and Chiun had failed, Holz would come back to reclaim his expensive equipment. He would know full well that there was nothing to prevent Smith from giving the PlattDeutsche vice president whatever he wanted.

  Smith had opted not to struggle when Holz returned. Using a strategy that dated back to the Trojan War, Smith had stowed away in the rear of the van, waiting. He knew the back door was solid, though it didn't appear to be. Remo had seen to that.

  Smith had blocked the door from the cab, hoping that whoever collected the vehicle would assume that it had been damaged in the fight.

  Smith's assumption had been a good one. He heard the cab door open at about one-thirty.

  There was one tense moment when the handle rattled. Smith held his breath, hoping his barricade would hold. It had. An hour and a half later he was driven safely through the gates of PlattDeutsche America. And he had waited in anxious silence the rest of the afternoon.

  He heard Holz arrive about an hour before dusk.

  From the way he spoke, Smith knew Remo must be with him. But Holz never even checked the cab door.

  He had left the truck and gone inside the nearest building. After he had disappeared, more silence.

  That had been several hours before.

  Nine twenty-two. Almost time.

  The feeble light from his key chain fell upon the glassy-eyed face of one of the men sent to Folcroft the previous night. The man was dead, as were the others in the back of the truck. Smith had been unable to dispose of them in broad daylight at Folcroft and so had sat in the seat next to the corpses for the past nine hours.

  Nine twenty-three.

  Smith clicked off the light and replaced his key chain in his pocket. A few rays of yellow, washed-out light spilled into the back of the truck around the spaces in the rear door. Feeling around in the semi-darkness, Smith found the flat metal bar he had propped up against the cab door. It was jammed solidly beneath the door handle, its far end butted up against one of the computer tables.

  With the heel of his right hand, he knocked the bar loose. It held for a moment, as if it could not be budged. With a second shove, it popped free. He caught it in his left hand and set it quietly to the floor.

  Hoping the door didn't squeak on its hinges, Smith pulled it open. He checked his watch again. 9:25.

  Five minutes more.

  He opened the cab door a crack and glanced around the immediate area. The lot was devoid of cars save for a few stragglers.

  Hoping that he had not waited too long, Smith climbed down into the empty parking lot.

  "We're going too fast." Newton said suddenly.

  "His vital signs are perfect," von Breslau countered.

  "We didn't download at this rate with any of the others."

  "He is different. They were tainted specimens. His physiology is as flawless as is scientifically possible."

  Lothar Holz watched the entire procedure delight-edly. "The information? He's absorbing it?" He nodded toward the blond man who sat rigidly on the gurney.

  "It looks that way," Newton admitted.

  "It does not look' any way, Doctor. It is," said the Nazi doctor. His usually dour expression had given way to one of rare satisfaction.

  Newton could only grudgingly agree.

  A minute later, von Breslau had the scientist shut down the interface. The flood of information ceased.

  Holz's assistant showed no reaction.

  Muttering happily to himself, von Breslau bustled over to the table and began examining the young man.

  Holz turned to Remo and Chiun. "It seems the vaunted men of Sinanju are no longer unique." He indicated his assistant. "In an hour, he has captured your essence. So much for all your years of training, hmm?"

  "Release me, thief, and I will test the effectiveness of your device on that one," Chiun said coldly. Von Breslau looked up as Chiun spoke. Sneering at the Master of Sinanju, he continued to administer his tests to the blond-haired man.

  Holz smiled broadly. "Aren't you a little concerned?"

  Chiun's eyes were as level as a hawk's. And promised far more peril.

  "Your servant does not merit Sinanju. Therefore he possesses it not. What you have given him is but a pale reflection of the original glorious light That light resides in me and my son."

  "Are you willing to stake your life on it?"

  4 if »t

  1 am.

  Holz's confident smile broadened. "A fine attempt, Master of Sinanju," he said. "But only a fool would release you. And I, if you had not noticed, am not a fool."

  "You're doing a damned good impersonation,"

  Remo offered tightly.

  Holz looked at Remo. "I would not be so confident if I were either of you," he said, raising an admonishing finger. He whispered something to Curt Newton. The scientist nodded and punched a few brief instructions into his computer.

  Chiun immediately sprang to life. The old man's back arched, and he flung himself toward the center of the room.
He landed flat on the soles of both sandals.

  Holz put on his best Western accent. "Dance, pardner," he drawled. He bowed to Newton and the scientist reluctantly began entering commands.

  Chiun's pipe-stem legs began stomping the floor of the lab. He twisted his reed-thin arms wildly around, his kimono sleeves flapping like wind socks in a gale. It was like a strange, computer-generated form of the Twist.

  Newton chuckled in spite of himself as he watched the sharp contortions of the desperately gyrating old man. Holz clapped his hands and tapped his foot, keeping time with a noiseless band.

  Remo watched the entire proceedings stoically, but inside him a hot, roiling pool of anger began to swell.

  His eyes burned with tears of impotent rage. He knew it was wrong. He knew that Chiun would have told him that it was unprofessional for an assassin to feel such visceral fury. But as he watched the man he had come to love as a father humiliated for sport, he couldn't stop the emotion.

  He hated Lothar Holz. And in that moment more than any other since these days of torment had begun, he vowed that he would destroy Holz.

  All at once, Chiun stopped his strange cavorting.

  His twisting arms fell to his sides, and he began to wobble slowly in place. For a moment, Remo thought it was part of their sick show. But all at once, Chiun's legs seemed to roll up inside the skirt of his kimono. Like an aluminum lawn chair, the Master of Sinanju folded in half and fell to the cold laboratory floor. He didn't move again.

  Holz stopped clapping. He screwed his face up, angry to have his fun interrupted.

  "Why did you stop?" he demanded of Newton.

  The scientist was tapping rapidly at his computer keyboard. "I didn't," he said nervously.

  Holz looked beyond the Master of Sinanju. He was shocked to find that Remo had dropped to the floor, as well.

  "What's going on?" Holz demanded, wheeling.

  Newton seemed hopelessly confused. "I have no idea," he replied desperately. "They're both off-line."

  Holz eyed Remo and Chiun. The color drained from his face. "So you can't control them?" he hissed.

  Newton ignored him. He banged furiously away at the keyboard. "Satellite's gone, too," he announced anxiously.

  Chiun lay motionless on the floor. He would not be an immediate problem. But as Holz watched in growing horror, he saw Remo's legs begin to kick feebly. A second later, the young Sinanju Master lifted himself to his elbows.