Waste Not, Want Not td-130

by Warren Murphy

Frowning at what he hoped was not the start of a trend for which he would have to discipline his normally punctual secretary, he turned his attention to his desk's surface.

  The gleaming onyx desk was a high-tech departure from the rest of the decidedly low-tech office. Beneath the surface was a computer monitor, canted so that it was visible only to whoever sat behind the desk.

  With eyes of flint gray, Harold Smith watched the monitor. Every now and then, long fingers swollen at the joints with arthritis tapped at the edge of the desk. Where fingertips pressed, luminescent keys of a touch-sensitive keyboard lit like sparks of amber lightning.

  Relentless streams of data rolled past, reflected in the owlish glasses perched on Smith's patrician nose. Though Smith had been in this same position since coming to work at 6:00 a.m., there was no strain in his back or on his face. He had spent the better part of his life like this, staring into the electronic abyss. The information that rolled past had nothing to do with operating a small, private hospital.

  Here there was a report of a corrupt judge in Ohio; there was damning data on a crooked mayor in Massachusetts. A major drug shipment was due in the country that night, flying from Haiti into Louisiana.

  In each of these cases, Smith merely watched. A program he had written took the necessary action. State police and the FBI were informed of the problems in Ohio and Massachusetts. The DEA was told about the drugs. Orders were issued surreptitiously. Through untraceable means they were sent back along invisible tendrils to the persons and agencies who would need to look into each event.

  It was all handled in seconds. Quietly and efficiently, and in such a way that no one would know of the involvement of the dull little man in a drab, three-piece gray suit sitting in a sedate, ivy-covered brick building on the shores of Long Island Sound. Such was the life's work of Harold Smith.

  Eileen Mikulka knew her employer only as Dr. Harold W. Smith, director of Folcroft Sanitarium for the past forty years, and her employer for just over thirty of those years. She and the rest of the regular sanitarium staff would have been surprised to find that penny-pinching and time-clock-watching Dr. Smith held another post, vastly more powerful than that of Folcroft's director.

  Harold Smith was also secret director of CURE. CURE was the dream of an American President, long dead. The agency was created to work outside the Constitution in order to preserve that most sacred document. Harold Smith was CURE's first and only director. For forty years he had come to that same office every day, doing his small part to see to it that the greatest experiment in democracy survived for another generation of Americans.

  So engrossed was he in his work, Smith scarcely noticed the toast and coffee Mrs. Mikulka had brought him.

  An electronic beep sounded from within his desk. As it did so, a new window opened on his monitor. It was an interoffice communication. There was only one other person on Earth with access to the CURE system.

  Smith scanned the information forwarded him by Mark Howard-his assistant both at Folcroft and with CURE.

  It was the latest information on the expanding list of dignitaries who intended to visit the small nation of Mayana for the Globe Summit later in the week. Smith frowned when he saw additions to the Cuban and Iraqi delegations.

  Mark had denoted each of the add-ons. With no trouble Smith was able to find summaries of all available background information on each of the men. None were diplomats. Most were members of security or armed forces.

  Smith shook his head. "It would be safer for him to not attend," he muttered to his empty office. Worry etched deep in his frown lines, he closed out the window and returned to his other work.

  He didn't realize he had worked for nearly a full hour until there came a knock on his door.

  "Come in," he called tartly.

  As Mark Howard entered the office, Smith noted the time. Precisely 9:00 a.m. The CURE director met with his assistant at the same time every morning. This day as every day, Smith was quietly pleased that good fortune had blessed him with such a conscientious young man for an assistant.

  "Did you have a chance to read the stuff I sent you?" Howard asked as he took his familiar plain wooden seat before the CURE director's desk.

  "Yes," Smith said. "And there is virtually no way the Secret Service or FBI can weed through all of the data. Not on this timetable. It's a security nightmare. And I have just read an account of an incident in the Caribbean. Apparently two garbage scows have sunk."

  "I saw that," Mark Howard said. "There was an open radio. They heard the captain yell something about a torpedo before the boat went down. Mayana's dismissing it all as an accident. You think the guy was for real?"

  "I'm not sure," Smith said. "If so, it is something outside the ordinary purview of the Secret Service." An uncomfortable expression passed over his gray face. "Mark, you have no, er, sense that something is wrong, do you?"

  Howard shook his head. "Sorry, no."

  It was a subject neither man was comfortable discussing. Mark Howard's unexplained sixth sense for danger had come in handy for CURE in the past.

  Wordlessly Smith pursed his lips, lost in thought. "If you're worried, Dr. Smith, you should talk to the President again," Mark suggested.

  Smith shook his head. "It would do no good. The President has stated in no uncertain terms publicly and privately his intention to attend the Globe Summit."

  "But doesn't that vaporizing thing of theirs change things? In the past three days, the Caribbean has been piling up with garbage scows. They're leaking oil, trailing trash in the water. There are a half-dozen countries in the region with environmental complaints already. It's a bigger zoo down there than anyone thought it would be, even for an environmental conference the size of the Globe Summit."

  "Yes," Smith agreed, his voice grave. "And perhaps someone sees Mayana's new technology as a threat. Or views the Globe Summit itself as an inviting target."

  "You think there's really a sub loose down there?"

  "Perhaps," Smith said. Tapping a finger on his desk, he considered for a thoughtful moment. "If someone is creating mischief, the risk is greater than to just the President of the United States. By week's end, most of the other leaders of the world will be there, as well. It might be wise to investigate."

  "In that case, I might have some good news," the assistant CURE director said. "I've had the mainframes checking the Sinanju 800 line repeatedly for the past few months, like you asked. It's working again."

  Smith's eyes widened slightly behind his rimless glasses. "When?" he asked with more interest than he normally would exhibit.

  "Just before I came up here. They've gotten it working a couple of times before, but it's fritzed out. But it looks like it's going to hold this time. If you think you need them, you can call Remo and Chiun back to work."

  Smith's frown deepened.

  The phone line to Sinanju had been cut months earlier. Threats from Chiun had encouraged the North Korean government to make repairs a priority. Unfortunately the Communist government's talent for dispatching telephone linemen was on a par with its skills at solving the perpetual famine that plagued their country. During the previous winter, under the watchful eye of the People's government, North Korea's population had continued to starve and the phone line to Sinanju had persisted in stubbornly not working.

  "Very well," Smith said. "I'll recall Remo. His injuries should be healed by this time. Knowing the way he feels about Sinanju, he is probably anxious to leave by now. However, I'm still not certain how Master Chiun sees his status with us. The last contract we signed was hastily drawn up before Remo took over officially as Reigning Master. It is possible that Chiun may decide to remain in Sinanju."

  "You think he'd do that?"

  "I'm not sure. This is unprecedented for us. Technically Remo has always been CURE's lone enforcement arm. The Master of Sinanju only ever accompanied him on assignments to protect the investment he had made in Remo's training. But now that Remo is Reigning Master, Chiun is officially r
etired. He could opt to stay home. The contract does provide such an escape clause."

  Smith and his assistant had been present in Sinanju for the ceremony that had seen Remo elevated to Reigning Master and Chiun step down from the post that he had held for the better part of a century. Briefly Smith wondered if CURE had lost one of its most valuable assets.

  "I will not press the issue," the older man decided finally. "Not now. Besides, this might be nothing. And we don't need both of them for such a simple matter. I will phone once we are finished here."

  The decision was made. Putting thoughts of Mayana from their minds for the moment, the two CURE men turned their attention to the other problems of the day that might require the intervention of America's best-kept secret.

  Chapter 5

  After breakfast, the former Reigning Master of Sinanju padded off to a back room in the House of Many Woods.

  Most of the Master's House was crammed full of treasure-generations of tribute to the Korean assassins. For years this back room alone had been kept bare. With just a few candles and reed mats scattered on the wooden floor, it was traditionally a place of spiritual contemplation.

  There had been a recent addition to the room, a gift from North Korean Premier Kim Jung-Il. Chiun sat cross-legged on a simple mat before a magnificent, fifty-one-inch high-definition Panasonic television. The set was turned up full blast. Speakers from the new Sony surround sound system, which had been placed carefully around the room, rattled the rafters.

  The new satellite dish on the roof picked up shows from all over the world. When Remo entered the room he found Chiun watching a Mexican soap opera. Women with too much makeup and men with too-white teeth squinted and sneered at one another in extreme close-ups, just like their American counterparts. It occurred to Remo recently that soap operas might be the first hint that world peace was just around the corner. If-thanks to modern technology-lousy entertainment was proving to people across borders that things weren't so different on the other side, surely peace, love and understanding among all nations couldn't be far behind.

  This day, Remo wasn't thinking about world peace.

  Chiun had the volume turned up so loud the house shook.

  "I think you're causing structural damage with that thing," Remo said, eyeing the ceiling worriedly.

  "Repairs are no longer my problem," Chiun replied, eyes glued to the set. On the screen, a man who was evil because the music said he was squinted in extreme close-up. Thanks to the big screen, his nostrils looked like open manholes.

  Remo tore his eyes from the rattling ceiling. The old Korean was still staring in rapt attention at the TV.

  "You sit too close to that thing. You're probably getting dosed by a trillion rads of radiation. And you don't have to listen to it so loud. There's nothing wrong with your hearing. I wanted to call Smith."

  "Do your complaints never end? Can you not just go outside and enjoy the beauty of spring in Sinanju?"

  "What spring? There's two seasons in Sinanju, winter and mud."

  "You are the American Reigning Master. If I bother you so much, do what Americans do. Build an apartment for your unwanted father and his meager belongings over the garage. Do not trust the Carthaginians for the labor, however. They pad their bills."

  "A, we don't have a garage. B, that junk must've cost more than four bills. It's not meager. And not to split hairs, but it's mine, not yours. Kim sent all this garbage to me as a Reigning Master coming-out present. "

  "Do you want it?"

  "You know I don't watch much TV."

  "Then I lay claim to it. Now leave an old man in peace and answer the phone."

  Remo hadn't heard it ring. He was surprised when it suddenly jangled to life. When he glanced at his teacher, there was a look of soft satisfaction on the old man's face.

  Eyes narrowing, Remo scooped up the phone. "Captain Clyde's Clam Shack," he announced. "All-you-can-eat buffet now guaranteed eighty percent ptomaine-free."

  "Remo, Smith."

  Remo was surprised how good it was to hear the CURE director's lemony voice. From what he could hear of it. The music from the TV had risen to earsplitting levels.

  "Hey, Smitty. I was just gonna call you. Just a sec."

  He held the phone to his chest. "Chiun, could you, please?"

  The old man's show had come to an end. As the music fed into a commercial, a bony hand reached for the remote. The screen collapsed to a dot and the walls stopped shaking.

  "Thanks, Little Father," Remo said, turning back to the phone.

  "I'm glad you called, Srnitty. I'm ready to get back to work. I've cooled my heels here for so long I've got moss growing on my rust."

  "If Chiun thinks you are ready, I may have an assignment for you," Smith said.

  "My opinion no longer matters, Emperor Smith," Chiun called. "Remo is now Reigning Master of Sinanju. Ask him if he is ready, not me. Go ahead, ask him."

  "Er, are you well enough, Remo?" Smith asked.

  "I'm all healed up, Smitty," Remo promised.

  "See?" Chiun called. "He can speak for himself. And it is important that Remo feel fine, for he is Reigning Master. You do not have to waste breath to ask how I am, Emperor. I am only the one who has taken mud and transformed it into diamonds, who has made a thing of greatness from a pale piece of a pig's ear. I am Chiun, the human alchemist who raised a worthless white foundling to the loftiest peak of perfection. Do not ask me how I am, for I am but a servant. And a retired one at that."

  "I think he wants you to ask him how he's doing, Smitty," Remo said.

  Smith had gotten the hint. "How are you, Master Chiun?"

  "Don't ask," Chiun replied.

  "Okay, that was fun," Remo said. "Now, where's this assignment? Preferably it's someplace where I can get a really bad sunburn."

  "Then this is an ideal situation," Smith replied. He spoke too quickly for Remo's liking.

  "What do you mean?" Remo asked, suddenly suspicious.

  "I realize you are isolated, but have you heard any press reports out of Mayana?"

  "Just on CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN, MSNBC, Fox, Lifetime, Telemundo and the freaking Food Network. That Don King-headed dipweed Kim Jong-Il wired up Chiun's house for cable."

  "It is not my home any longer," Chiun interjected. "I abide here only through the kindness of the Reigning Master."

  Remo cupped the mouthpiece. "Knock that off, will you?" To Smith he said, "Mayana. They've got some newfangled garbage disposal or something, right?"

  "If they are to be believed, it is much more than that," Smith replied. "It is an amazing technology. According to Mayanan government fact sheets, it was developed by one Mike Sears, who until 1991 was a developmental scientist with the aerospace industry in California."

  "So this guy sold American technology to another country and you want me to zap him."

  "No," Smith replied. "Actually the device is a distraction in what might be a larger problem. In fact, it might be the greatest contribution to modern civilization since the start of the Industrial Age."

  "The Industrial Age is overrated. The Han Dynasty in China, now that was a good age. Profitable for the House. We hooked them up for trade with the Roman Empire, you know."

  Across the room, Chiun gave a faint smile of approval.

  "Be that as it may," Smith said, steering them back to the topic at hand. "Everything is composed of atoms. Atomic mass gives density to all matter. The Mayana device allegedly breaks the bond at the atomic level. Substantive objects are broken up into their most elemental forms. They are literally disintegrated."

  "Okay, I'm no good with this science mumbo jumbo. Are you saying it turns something into nothing?"

  "Not exactly," Smith said. "More accurately, it transforms something you can see into something too minute to see. Allegedly," he added.

  "There's that skepticism again," Remo said. "It sounds like you don't believe them."

  "I have my reasons to doubt their claims," Smith said. "Dr. Sears has had an u
nremarkable career. It is unlikely in the extreme that he could have developed the device on his own, as they claim. Mayana's own scientific community is unspectacular at best. He did not receive help there. It is almost a certainty that aid in development came from outside the country. That is, assuming it works at all."

  "I saw it on TV, Smitty. It looked real to me."

  "Much can be rigged these days. I am having Mark delve more deeply into the matter. If there is something amiss here, I have confidence he will find it."

  Remo grunted acceptance.

  When Mark Howard first came aboard CURE, Remo was skeptical of the young man's worth to the organization. The assistant CURE director had drained little of that doubt away as time wore on. But the bulk of Remo's disapproval had gone out the window four months before when Mark Howard had proved brave and selfless in a crisis, aiding Remo during battle with his greatest adversary. Remo hated to admit it, but the kid had something.

  "So you don't want me to knock off the guy who built it," he said. "It sounds like you don't want me to pull the plug. What is it you want me to do?"

  "That is the thing. This so-called Vaporizer of theirs has complicated an existing problem. You have heard of the Globe Summit later this week?"

  "Sure," Remo said. "That's when the world gets together in the nicest slum of some stink-ass rathole of a country and berates the United States for drilling holes in the ozone, torching the polar ice caps and leaving the rest of the environmental toilet seat up so the rest of the planet falls in when it has to take a whiz in the middle of the night."

  "Yes," Smith said slowly, not disagreeing. "The President has confirmed that he will be attending."

  "Brilliant," Remo said. "No fun flinging mud at America if you can't get some in the top dog's eye. Doesn't he know the bad guys are trying to kill us more than usual lately?"

  "Which is one of my concerns," Smith said.

  "There is a troubling report that two of the garbage scows waiting to be brought into Briton Bay may have been sunk by torpedo."

  "Why would someone want to do that?"

  "I don't know for certain. To foment chaos and fear, perhaps." Smith sighed. "Not that there is not already a large enough problem to worry about. Heaven only knows what is being shipped in on those scows."