Lords of the Earth td-61

by Warren Murphy

  "Si?" she demanded with the air of one whose privacy had been violated.

  "I'm looking for a man," he tried to explain in Spanish. "An American-"

  "No men," she snapped in passable English. "Women only. You want?"

  "No. I don't want a woman."

  "Then go."

  "I am looking for a man."

  "Ten dollars."

  "I..."

  "Ten dollars," the woman repeated.

  Smith handed her a bill reluctantly, then followed the woman to a filthy kitchen in the back of the store. "I just want to talk," Smith said.

  "Follow me," the woman said. She led Smith up a rickety flight of stairs to the top landing. In the dim, roach-swarming corridor, she knocked brusquely on a door, then pushed it open. "You talk in here," she said, pushed Smith inside, and closed the door behind him.

  Smith's eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness of the room. When they did, they rested on a solitary figure, a young woman with a tumble of black curls falling over her shoulders. She was sitting cross-legged on a rumpled corner of the bed, wearing shorts and a tight cotton shirt whose three buttons barely contained the ample flesh of her bosom.

  Smith cleared his throat. "That's not necessary, Miss," he said, annoyed that his voice was barely audible. "Do you speak English? Habla usted ingles?"

  The girl untangled her long legs from beneath her and rose. Her shorts stretched across her hips tantalizingly. She walked toward him, wordlessly, the hint of a smile playing on her lips.

  Smith didn't know what gave her away. A glance of her eyes, perhaps, or a tension in her body as she snaked toward him. He did not know the reason but he was ready when he heard the first sound of the ambush.

  Smith was no longer a young man and his reflexes were slow compared with what they had been during his days as an active agent. But no one with his background ever lost the razor-sharp sting of fear or forgot what to do when he felt it. Crouching and whirling about abruptly, he connected an elbow with someone's midsection. The assailant staggered backward in the darkened room, air whooshing from his lungs.

  It gave Smith enough time to draw his automatic from the shoulder holster. He followed the man downward and planted one foot on the man's neck while he aimed the gun directly at the man's face.

  "You get back on the bed," Smith growled over his shoulder at the young woman. He heard her soft footsteps move away, and then the squeak of the bed springs.

  Smith recognized the man's face. It was the man who had led him from the bar.

  "Sal-moan," Smith said. It was not a question. The man grunted and Smith dug the heel of his shoe, into the flesh of the man's neck.

  "Are you Salmon?" Smith said. He pressed his foot down harder.

  With an effort, the Puerto Rican nodded, his eyes bulging.

  "Why did you set me up?" Smith ground his heel in harder. The barrel-chested man gestured helplessly and Smith lightened the pressure enough to allow the man to speak.

  "Not my idea," the man gasped. "It's not me you want."

  "I know who I want. Why did he send you to me?"

  "The book-"

  "Has he got it?" Salmon nodded. "I'm going to pay for it," Smith said. The Puerto Rican's eyes widened.

  "You don't think I will, because I have a gun?" Smith said. "I don't want to use the gun and I don't want you two to follow me. I want that book and I'll pay for it. You understand?"

  The man nodded.

  Keeping the barrel of the gun flush against Salmon's head, Smith stepped back. "Get up," he said.

  The man shambled to his feet, watching Smith carefully as the American picked up his leather attache case.

  "I want to see Keenan Mikulka," Smith said. Salmon drove Smith's car at gunpoint through the gently rolling tropical hills. The macadam roads became gravel, then dirt, then little more than trails with grassy strips between two rows of tire-worn earth. He stopped the car at the foot of a hill dense with scrub bush and giant tropical ferns.

  "Can't go no further," the Puerto Rican said. "Got to walk now."

  Smith leveled the gun at his face. "You first," he said.

  They trekked up the overgrown hill, following a snaking foot trail. Halfway up the slope, Smith spotted a roof of corrugated tin shining in the red light of the lowering sun.

  Salmon pointed. "He's in there," he said. "He's got a gun too."

  His eyes never leaving Salmon's, Smith shouted: "Mikulka. Keenan Mikulka."

  Silence.

  "My name is Smith. I've got your friend. We're alone. Come down here. I want to talk."

  After a moment, Smith heard the rustling of leaves near the shack, then a voice calling back:

  "What do you want to talk about?"

  "Business. I'll buy the telephone book from you."

  "Who says I even know what you're talking about?" Smith poked Salmon with the gun.

  "It's okay. He knows," the Puerto Rican yelled. "He's got money."

  "How much?" the voice answered.

  "We'll talk when I see you," Smith called out. Footsteps sounded through the undergrowth. Finally a young man stepped into the clearing, across from Smith and Salmon.

  Mikulka appeared to be in his late twenties with the seedy look of a man who had given up hoping or dreaming. An Army-regulation Colt was in his right hand, its barrel aimed directly at Smith.

  "Suppose you put down that itty-bitty gun of yours," Mikulka said, smiling crookedly.

  "It won't take a very big bullet to blow out your friend's brains," Smith said. The Puerto Rican was sweating profusely. "Let's go up to where you're staying. I want to deal."

  "Suppose I don't?" Mikulka said.

  Smith shrugged, a small economical gesture. "I've got the money," he said. "And more than one bullet." The young man snorted derisively, but started to back up the hill.

  Smith pushed Salmon forward, so that the Puerto Rican was sandwiched between the two guns.

  The tin-roofed shack was sweltering and dark. Inside were a rumpled cot, a table and a small kerosene cookstove.

  "Where's the money?" Mikulka demanded.

  Smith tossed the attache case onto the dirty table, then snapped it open with one hand. The interior of the case was lined, corner to corner and as deep as the case, with United States currency. Old bills in stacks, encircled by rubber bands.

  "How much is there?" Mikulka's voice betrayed his astonishment.

  "A hundred thousand in unmarked twenties," Smith said.

  "Dios," Salmon breathed softly.

  Smith placed his weapon on the table. Warily, Mikulka did the same.

  "What's the deal?" the young man asked.

  "I should think that's obvious," Smith said with some distaste. "You get the money and I get back the book you stole from me."

  Mikulka chewed his lip. "Suppose I got other takers?" he taunted. "That ain't no list of call-Florrie-for-a-good-time. I think maybe some foreign countries might be willing to put up more than a hundred grand to find out just what you do all alone in that big office by yourself."

  Salmon started to speak but Mikulka silenced him with a violent gesture.

  "You haven't had time to make any contacts," Smith said evenly. "You probably haven't even broken the code and when you do, what'll you find? Seventeen-year-old phone numbers."

  "I think I've got as much time as I want," Mikulka said. He lit a cigarette, holding it between his teeth.

  "You're wrong, Mikulka. The information in that book is old material. No government will want it. It's old material."

  "Then why do you want it so bad?" Salmon broke in.

  "Sentimental value," Smith said. He turned back to Mikulka. "At any rate, no foreign agent is going to pay you and let it go at that. You're in over your head, son."

  "You don't know what you're talking about," Mikulka snapped.

  "Sorry, but I do," Smith said. "First thing I know is that you're a cheap, unimportant nobody with a police record."

  "Hey, wait a minute-"

&nbs
p; Smith waved him down. "No intelligence service in the world is going to let you live for five minutes after they buy that document from you. If they did buy it. Don't you understand? You'll be killed. That's a guarantee."

  The cigarette dangled nonchalantly from Mikulka's lips but his Adam's apple wobbled. He was frightened: Good, Smith thought. The young man didn't know anything. It apparently had never occurred to him that the United States government would be as interested in the phone book as any foreign government. He had just stolen without thinking. But Smith had told him one great truth. No agent worth anything would let Mikulka or Salmon live for five minutes after getting the coded address book.

  "Decision time," Smith said. "Will you take the money or not? I've got a plane to catch."

  Mikulka hesitated, then motioned for Salmon to come closer. They exchanged whispers with their gazes riveted on Smith. -

  The CURE director did not have to hear them to know what was being said. They would sell him the book, take the money, then kill him, and resell the document to another buyer. It was the way it was always done in movies and it was the logic of the thief, to take and to take again. Thieves always thought like thieves; trained agents didn't.

  "Yes or no?" Smith snapped the attache case shut: As he did, his thumb broke a small piece of black metal off the right-hand clasp.

  Five minutes, he thought.

  "Suppose we want more time?" Mikulka suggested, his eyes mocking.

  "I'm afraid you're out of time."

  Mikulka and Salmon exchanged glances. From beneath the cot, Mikulka picked up a battered black leather address book and tossed it to Smith. "When you're out of time, you're out of time," he said with a halfhearted attempt at a grin.

  Smith gave a polite nod, then picked his gun up from the table. Mikulka also retrieved his Colt. Another standoff.

  "I think I ought to count that money," Mikulka said. "A hundred thousand, you said?"

  "Right. Count it," Smith said. "I'm going to wait outside. With the book."

  Four minutes.

  He tucked the book into his jacket pocket and backed out of the shack. They were cowards, he knew, and would wait for him to turn his back. And he was counting on their trying to hide behind the walls of the shack while they picked him off.

  As he moved outside, he saw the two men's eyes following him. Their faces wore the self-satisfied expressions of muggers cornering an old lady on an empty street.

  Mikulka sat behind the table, opened the case and began to riffle through the money. - Smith backed away, twenty yards from the shack, standing there, looking at the rickety building. Thirty seconds. He began to count down.

  He heard movement from inside. Fifteen seconds.

  Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve ... "It's all here," Mikulka called out.

  "Good. Good-bye, then," Smith yelled. Three seconds.

  He turned his back, offering himself as a target. Then he threw himself on the ground a split second before the report of the gun sounded through the woods. He half-rolled toward the cover of a termiteeaten log.

  And then there was another sound.

  The explosion tore the roof off the shack, sending ribbons of metal raining over the forest in a light show of orange sparks. A wall of dirt and rotted vegetation shot upward in a circle, then plummeted down. Smith covered his head. A rock fell painfully onto his thigh but he did not move. Overhead, a thousand tropical birds screeched as a stand of bamboos toppled and crashed like toothpicks.

  And then it was silent.

  Smith dusted himself off and walked back to the ruins of the shack. Mikulka lay faceup in the debris. His features were unrecognizable. He had no eyes and his hands seemed to have been shredded by the blast. He must have been holding the case of money even as he was firing at Smith. Salmon's body was ripped into three fat parts.

  In the dust and smoke, a piece of paper drifted. Smith caught it. It was part of a counterfeit twenty-dollar bill, one of five thousand identical bills Smith had carried in the exploding suitcase.

  Smith felt the texture of the bill. It was a good copy. Nearby, several small fires smoldered. He kicked one to life and when the flames were high enough, he took the address book from his pocket and threw it into the blaze. He waited until there was nothing left of the book except white ashes.

  Then he stomped on the ashes and left.

  Back in San Juan, he stopped at the Western Union office and sent a telegram to Mrs. Eileen Mikulka, care of Folcroft Sanitarium, Rye, New York:

  DEAR MOTHER SORRY I CAUSED YOU SUCH GRIEF STOP AM SHIPPING OUT TODAY ON MERCHANT SHIP BOUND FOR SOUTH PACIFIC STOP NOT COMING BACK STOP I LOVE YOU STOP KEENAN.

  Thirty words exactly. Smith thought about things like that.

  Chapter 16

  Waldron Perriweather III strode easily into the office of Dara Worthington at IHAEO labs and handed the woman his card.

  "I'm here to see Dr. Remo and Dr. Chiun," he said.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Periwinkle, but they are not available right now," Dara said, handing him his card back.

  "It's Perriweather, not Periwinkle, you egg-layer," he said acidly. "Surely you've heard of me."

  "What did you call me?"

  "I called you an egg-layer."

  "I know who you are," Dara said suddenly. "You're the lunatic who's always making excuses for violence."

  "And you belong in a nest," Perriweather said. "Get those two scientists out here."

  "You are the crudest-"

  "In a nest with orange peels and coffee grounds on the bottom. Get them, I said."

  Dara pressed an intercom button that made her voice reverberate around the IHAEO complex.

  "I think you are a matter for security, Mr. Perriweather: You understand? Security."

  "I have no intention of discussing anything with a breeder. Bring on your scientists."

  Inside the main lab, Remo heard Dara's voice. "Security," he said. "I think that's us."

  Chiun unfolded himself from a lotus position atop one of the tables.

  "About time," he grumbled. "No wonder scientists are always being given prizes. They deserve medals for their ability to endure boredom."

  "I think some of them do more than sit on tables," Remo said.

  "If they were afflicted with ungrateful pupils the way I am, they would be under the tables, not on them," Chiun said.

  "Why don't we go see what Dara wants?" Remo said.

  "If you wish. But if the two of you start noisily coupling in her office, I do not know if I will be able to control myself."

  "I'll keep a lid on it, Little Father."

  "See that you do."

  "Ah. Drs. Remo and Chiun," Perriweather said. He handed his card toward Remo, who ignored it. He shoved it into Chiun's hand. Chiun tore it up.

  "What seems to be the trouble, Dara?" Remo asked.

  "This one called me an egg-layer."

  Chiun chuckled. "An egg-layer," he snorted. "What a wonderful term for the white female."

  Dara threw her hands up over her head in exasperation and stormed from the office.

  "I am Chiun," the Korean said to Perriweather, nodding slightly.

  "And you must be Dr. Remo?" Perriweather said.

  "Just Remo will do."

  Perriweather thrust his hand forward toward Remo, who ignored it. In a quick glance, Perriweather appraised the young man with the thick wrists. He didn't look much like a scientist. He looked more like a security man, probably around to protect the old Oriental. He smiled involuntarily. The late Dr. Ravits could tell them a thing or two about the value of security men, he thought.

  But no matter. It just made his work easier than he had expected it to be.

  "I greatly admired your work on eradicating the Ung beetle from Uwenda," he said.

  Remo had appraised Perriweather too. The man was too smooth, too well dressed and too polished to be a scientist. But his fingernails were dirty.

  "You read about it in the papers?"

  "Yes," Perriweather said.
"You see, I have some interest in entomology myself. Have a very sophisticated lab in my home. You should see it."

  "Why?" Remo said coldly.

  "Because as the two foremost entomologists at IHAEO, your opinions on an experiment of mine would be really useful."

  "His opinion would not be useful at all," Chiun said, glancing at Remo. "He does not even know the correct clothing to wear. How could you expect him to appreciate science?"

  Perriweather looked at Chiun, then in confusion glanced at Remo.

  "My opinion's as good as anybody else's," Remo said testily. "What kind of bug work do you do, Periwinkle?"

  "Perriweather," the man corrected. "And please, say 'insect.' 'Bug' is a term . . ." He stopped and took a couple of deep breaths to calm himself. "They are not bugs. They are insects," he finally said. "And because of your magnificent work on the Ung beetle, I came to alert you to an even greater danger which I have managed to isolate in my laboratory."

  "What is it?" Remo said.

  "I'd rather show you," Perriweather said. He moved closer and Remo could smell the scent of decay and rotting food on the man's skin. "I know you people have had trouble here with terrorists. Well, since I have been working on this project, I've gotten threats. I expect an attack tonight on my laboratory."

  "You've got to tell me something about what your work is about," Remo told Perriweather. "And please stand downwind."

  "Don't tell him anything," Chiun told Perriweather. "He'll forget it in two minutes. He remembers nothing, that one."

  There was something going on between these two that Perriweather did not understand, so he elected to talk only to Remo.

  "There is a new strain of insect," Perriweather said. "If proliferates very quickly and if my guess is correct, it could rule the earth within weeks."

  "Then why are you smiling?" Remo said.

  "Just nerves, I guess," Perriweather said. He clasped a hand over his mouth. Remo noticed that the man's fingers were long and thin and sharply angled at the joints, like the legs of a spider.

  "We'd better go see this thing," Remo said.

  "I think it's important," Perriweather said. "I have a private plane waiting."

  Remo took Chiun aside. "Talk to him for a few minutes. I want to call Smitty and check him out."