The Arms of Kali td-59

by Warren Murphy

  "That your concession to your wife's death?" Remo asked, touching the tie.

  "I'd say that's my business, mister."

  "How about the yellow handkerchiefs all over the floor of this place? Is that your business too?"

  Baynes moved to the side so that Remo's body shielded him from the view of Ban Sar Din, and he pursed his lips and squinted, motioning Remo to be silent.

  "Come on in the office and we'll talk," he said. Loudly, over Remo's shoulder, he said, "You can go back to sleep, Sardine. I'll take care of our guest."

  "Good," the Indian said. "I was just in the middle of some very important paperwork."

  Remo followed Baynes out of the garage, and as the airline man led him back across the alley to the ashram, he whispered, "I couldn't say anything in front of the old fraud, but I'm here for a reason, you know."

  "I bet the reason has something to do with murder," Remo said.

  "Damn right. I've been weeks tracing down these bugbirds. They're behind the killings on the airplanes," Baynes said.

  "Odd you didn't think about going to the police or the FBI," Remo said. They were in Baynes's steel-walled office.

  "Don't tell me, pal," Baynes said. He sat heavily in a chair and dropped his head into his hands. "I wanted to get proof, and I waited too long. Now my wife is dead and my kids are missing." He looked up at Remo and there were tears in his eyes. "I swear to you, mister, I'm going to get these bastards. Every last one of them."

  "I'm sorry, Baynes," Remo said. "What do you know about the statue? Is it true, all that magic stuff?"

  Baynes shook his head, a sly insider's smile on his mouth. "Hah. I'll show you how true it is," he hissed. "Come on."

  He opened the door to the ashram, and the scent curled in, attacking Remo's nostrils, and he hung back. But in a sudden movement, A. H. Baynes grabbed his wrist and yanked him out into the ashram. Remo could not resist. The strength was gone from his body and he felt like a rag doll.

  Baynes, with no more effort than he would have used to steer a child around the aisles of a department store, tossed Remo onto the platform at the foot of the statue, leaned over close, and whispered, "It is true. It's true," he said. His eyes glistened with excitement. "She is Kali and She loves death."

  A small helpless cry escaped from Remo's lips. He could feel Her, close to him. She was suffocating him. "Baynes . . . Chiun . . . yellow cloth . . ." Remo mumbled, trying to preserve a part of his mind from the stupefying influence of the stone statue, but Her scent was filling his body, blocking out everything except a wild maniacal lust he felt swelling inside him.

  The room swirled. Nothing existed for him except the statue. She was the goddess Kali and She owned him.

  "Bring me death." He heard the voice again, but this time it did not seem to come from inside his own mind, but from the lips of the statue. And this time he knew he would obey Her.

  A. H. Baynes watched Remo move like a zombie toward the door to the street and then go outside. He waited. Then he took the miniature camera from inside his shirt pocket, extracted the tiny roll of film, and put it into his pocket.

  Inside his office, he made a telephone call. It was the first time he had ever used the number. The receiver on the other end was picked up but there was no greeting.

  "Hello? Hello?" Baynes said.

  "One favor you are allowed," the androgynous whisper said. "Then the statue is mine."

  "A deal," Baynes said. "I've got a man here. He's a fed and he's got to go."

  "I understand."

  "I don't care how you do it," Baynes said.

  "I will tell you how."

  A half-hour later, Baynes met his contact at the site of a condemned building. The person was swathed in cloaks and wore gloves. Baynes passed over the roll of film.

  "His name's Remo," he said to the invisible stranger. "This is what he looks like."

  The figure nodded.

  "I guess that's it, then," Baynes said.

  "Prepare the statue."

  "What if you fail?"

  "I will not fail."

  Baynes started to leave, then hesitated. "Will I see you again?"

  "Do you want to?"

  Baynes gulped and said, "Maybe not. Tell me, though. Why do you want that statue so badly? It's not worth a million dollars."

  "I want many things . . . including you." The figure's hands went to its cloaks and began to open them.

  Chapter Twenty

  Remo careened crazily down the darkened street. The only sound he heard from the sleeping city was the insistent thrum of his heartbeat, and it seemed to be speaking to him, saying, "Kill for me, kill for me, kill for me."

  His hands hung rigid at his sides. He staggered up the street like a man dancing with death, insensate, drunk with a lust he did not understand. Don't listen, a smaller voice inside him said, but it was too faint to hear now. And then it was stilled.

  A pigeon startled him as it flew off its perch on a telephone line and fluttered to the ground in front of him. It walked in jerky circles, unused to the night.

  Bring me death, Kali's unspoken voice called to him. The pigeon stopped and cocked its head to one side, then the other.

  Bring me death.

  Remo closed his eyes and said, "Yes."

  The pigeon, only amused by the sound, looked at him quizzically as Remo crouched. Then, seeming to sense the power of the human who moved without sound, who could hold a position as still as a stone, the pigeon panicked and flapped its wings to soar upward.

  Remo sprang then, leaping into a perfect spiral in the manner he had learned from Chiun, a way to cut through the air without creating countercurrents that pressed back against one's body, forcing it downward. It was pure Sinanju, the effortless bound, the muscles pulling in flawless synchronization as the body turned in the air, the hands reaching up to halt the pigeon in flight, the sharp snap that broke the tiny creature's neck.

  Remo held the limp, still-warm body in his hands, and the sound of his heartbeat seemed to explode in his ears. "Oh, God, why?" he whispered, and fell to his knees on the oil-slick street. A car blared its horn as it swerved past him, setting his ears to ringing from the shock of the sound. Then it settled and his heartbeat slowed. The night was silent again and he still held the dead bird softly in his hands.

  Run, he thought. He could run away again as he had before.

  But he had come back before, and he knew he would again.

  Kali was too strong.

  He stood up, his knees weak, and walked back to the ashram. With each step, he realized he had disgraced Sinanju, had trivialized it by using its techniques to snuff out the life of a poor harmless creature whose only sin was getting in his way. Chiun had called him Master of Sinanju, the avatar of the god Shiva. But he was nothing. He was less than nothing. He belonged to Kali.

  Inside the ashram, which still hissed with the sounds of the sleeping members, he placed his offering at the foot of the statue.

  She smiled at him. She seemed to caress him, sending out unseen tendrils of passion to this man who gave Her his strength and had brought Her the bloodless death She craved.

  He moved closer to the statue, and Her scent, like the fragrance of evil flowers, filled him with a blinding desire. For a moment the other face he had seen before hovered behind the statue's. Who was she? A crying woman, a real woman, and yet, the image of the weeping woman was not real. But somehow it made him ache in pain and loss. And the statue itself reached out toward him with Her strangling hand, and on his lips he felt Her cold kiss and he heard Her voice say, "My husband," and he was weakening, suffocating, giving in....

  With a violent wrench he pulled his arm back and struck one of the statue's arms. As it fell to the floor with a shattering clatter, a horrible pain welled up inside him. He doubled over, sinking to his knees. The statue's hand leapt upward and fastened itself around his throat. He yanked it loose and turned, running toward the door of the ashram.

  The devotees had been awa
kened by the noise, but he was out onto the street before they could react.

  By instinct, he ran blindly across the street to the shabby motel. It was only when he was in his room, safely behind a locked door, that he realized he still held the hand of the statue. In revulsion he threw it across the room. He heard it hit and skitter along the floor. And then the room was still.

  He should do something, but he didn't know what. Maybe he should call Smith, but he couldn't remember why. Maybe he should find Chiun, but it would do no good. He should do many things; instead, he collapsed on the bed and slept.

  He was asleep in seconds, but his sleep was not peaceful. He dreamed of the beautiful face he had seen behind the statue's face, the weeping woman whose mouth had parted to kiss him. But before they touched, the face vanished and there was Kali's garish face and Her words, Her voice, saying: "Bring me death."

  He turned in his sleep. He imagined someone entering and leaving his room. He tried not to dream, but always there was Kali's face, and suddenly he sat bolt upright in bed, his body drenched with sweat, his heart pounding. He couldn't allow himself to sleep again. He had to leave this place now. Go anywhere, he told himself, sitting up, holding his throbbing head. If It catches you again, you're lost. Go.

  He stumbled toward the door and stopped short. He turned and saw the hand of the statue on the floor, but there was something in its fingers.

  Frightened, Remo went to it and cautiously plucked the piece of paper from the shattered hand. In the hallway he looked at it.

  It was an airline ticket. To Seoul, Korea.

  Korea. That's where he would find Chiun. He knew he must go.

  "It doesn't matter if it's a trick," he said. He had to get to Chiun. No one else could help.

  Once more he walked out into the darkness. This time he could breathe.

  Inside the ashram office, A. H. Baynes lit a cigar. The smoke burned his eyes and tasted good.

  It was almost time to pack it in, he told himself. He had accomplished everything he'd set out to do, and then some.

  All he had to do now was to wait for the final report on the thick-wristed federal agent, and then get rid of the statue.

  Maybe someday in the future he would do the whole operation all over again. But not just now, not just yet. There was a faint tapping at the door, and he said, "Enter."

  Holly Rodan stepped inside.

  "Chief Phansigar," she said, and bowed.

  "What is it?"

  "Your children have arrived back safely." She stepped aside, and Joshua and Kimberly Baynes walked into the office.

  "Nice to see you home, kids," Baynes said. They smiled at him.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The face was what stopped him.

  Remo was at the airport, standing among the crowd ready to board the flight for Seoul, when he saw her. And as soon as he did, he knew he had not made a mistake by planning to go to Korea to find Chiun.

  She was tall and slim, dressed in a white linen suit. Her dark hair was pulled under a small hat with a veil that partially covered her face, but nothing could hide her beauty. Her skin was pale and translucent, like the petals of a flower. She had full lips that looked as if they were unaccustomed to smiling; a narrow, highbridged nose; and eyes like a deer's, wide-set and soft.

  She looked like no other human being Remo had ever seen. There were no traces of any racial ancestry in that face. She looked as if she had been created, apart from the evolution of the planet earth.

  Without realizing it, Remo was moving out of the throng of passengers waiting to board and was working his way through the press of people around her. "Excuse me ... Miss ... Miss . . ."

  She looked up, registering mild alarm. "Yes?" Remo swallowed, unable to speak.

  "Did you call me?"

  He nodded, and she nodded back.

  He tried to think of something to say to her, but his mind had voided all the words in his vocabulary. Looking at her, all he could think of was the sound of a choir singing in church on Christmas Eve.

  "I'm sorry," he said lamely. "I guess I just wanted to look at you."

  She picked up her suitcase and turned away.

  "No," he said. He took her arm, and her eyes widened in fright. "No. Don't be scared," he said. "Honest, I'm not a nut. My name's Remo and-"

  She wrenched herself free of him and scurried into the crowd. Remo sat back against a railing, ashamed of himself. Whatever had possessed him to approach a perfect stranger while a wave of killings was frightening airline passengers all over the world? And then he had behaved like some lunatic wand-waver. He was lucky she hadn't called the police.

  Maybe there was something wrong with him. Maybe Sinanju started to play tricks on you after a while. Nothing like this had ever happened to Chiun, but Chiun was Korean. Maybe the old man had been right when he had said, all those thousands of times, that the knowledge of Sinanju was not meant for white men. Maybe there was something in Western genes that couldn't tolerate the training and caused insanity.

  Oh, Chiun, he thought. Be there when I come. The woman had been right to run away from him. He shouldn't even be permitted to walk among normal people. If he ever saw her again, he resolved, he would ignore her. It was a good thing he would never see her again. Damned good, because he would cut her dead. Besides, she probably wasn't as beautiful as he had thought. He would ignore her. Too bad he would never get the chance again, because he would ignore her to the point of insult.

  She was on the plane, and Remo bodily ejected the man who was seated next to her.

  "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," Remo said.

  The woman reached for the stewardess call button. "No. Don't do that," Remo said. "Please. I won't say another word to you for the entire flight. I'll just look."

  She stared at him blankly for several moments, and finally said, "Is that all?"

  Remo nodded, unwilling to break his promise so quickly by saying even a single word.

  "In that case, my name is Ivory." She extended a small white hand, manicured and sporting a large diamond ring on its index finger. She smiled and Remo wanted to curl up inside that smile like a cat.

  He smiled back. "Can I talk now?"

  "Try. I will let you know when to stop," she said.

  "Where are you from?"

  "Sri Lanka," she said.

  "I don't even know where that is," he said.

  "It is an old, small country with a new, large name," she said.

  "Is that where you're going now?"

  "In a roundabout way. Mostly I'm going to travel the Orient, shopping."

  "Tough life," Remo said.

  "At times," she said. "It's my job, you see, not my hobby. I buy antiquities for collectors. Some might call me a glorified errand boy."

  Remo thought that no one would ever call her any kind of boy, but he simply asked, "Antiquities? Are they like antiques?"

  She nodded. "Only older. My clients want Greek wall friezes, lintels from Egyptian temples, things like that."

  "Like old statues," Remo said softly, thinking of something else.

  "Sometimes. As a matter of fact, I was looking for one in America and traced it all the way to New Orleans. But I lost it. The one who owned it sold it, then died, and no one knows who bought it."

  "Was it valuable?"

  "Very old, worth perhaps a quarter of a million dollars," Ivory said. "The owner's landlady said he sold it for forty dollars."

  "Must be a beautiful statue to be worth that much," Remo said.

  She shrugged. "I've never seen it myself, but I've seen replicas. A stone goddess with several arms. The exact number differs in the catalogs."

  "Kali," Remo said, closing his eyes.

  "I beg your pardon."

  "Nothing. Never mind. Maybe you weren't meant to find it. Maybe it would have been bad luck or something."

  "If I worried about curses or luck," she said, "I'd probably never buy anything more than a week old. But this statue might ha
ve been special."

  Remo grunted. He didn't want to be reminded of the statue. It made him nervous. He imagined he could smell the scent of Kali on the airplane. But it would be gone soon. And perhaps Chiun could rid him of it forever.

  He caught her staring at him. For a moment their eyes locked and a terrible sadness came over him. "You look so familiar," he said, his voice almost a whisper.

  "I was just thinking the same thing about you."

  As the engines began to rev up, he kissed her. He couldn't explain why, but he saw the haunting, longing look in Ivory's eyes and knew if he couldn't touch her, couldn't have her, his heart might as well be torn out of him. As his mouth touched hers, she accepted him with a hungry urgency. Time vanished. In the woman's embrace, he no longer felt like Remo Williams, assassin, running away from his fear. Instead, he was only The Man and Ivory was The Woman and they were in a place far removed from the noise of a twentieth-century jet engine.

  "Oh, no," she said, pulling away abruptly.

  "What's wrong?"

  "My gifts." She rose hurriedly, squeezing past Remo's knees. Her face was suddenly lined with worry. "I bought some presents and left them at the check-in counter. I'll be right back."

  "Hurry," he said.

  Ivory argued for a few seconds with the stewardesses at the front of the plane before they let her leave. When she rushed down the steps, the two attendants looked at each other and shrugged. One of them picked up a microphone.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, we are ready for departure. Please take your seats and observe the seat-belt sign." Remo looked at the small bag Ivory had left behind in front of her seat. He strained to see through the tinted glass of the airport. A woman's figure was running, stopping, fidgeting with something, running back.

  The plane began to move.

  "Hey, stop this," Remo yelled. "A passenger's coming."

  Several of the other passengers looked over at him, but the stewardesses pointedly ignored him and went to the front of the plane. Remo pushed all the lights and buzzers he could find as he saw Ivory step out of the airport building. "Hey. Stop the plane. The lady wants to get on."