Dark Horse td-89

by Warren Murphy

  Smith grabbed the receiver, said, "Remo! Have you completed your mission?"

  "Yes and no," Remo said guardedly.

  "Please do not burden me with evasions. I want a direct answer. Did you terminate your target?"

  Remo's voice was abashed. "I'm sorry, Smitty. I kinda screwed it up."

  "Thank God," Smith said.

  "Huh?" Remo grunted.

  "Nogeira is alive then?"

  "Not exactly."

  "What do you mean?"

  "An alligator got him."

  "Got? By what do you mean, 'got'?"

  "Got, as in 'turned into a human Tootsie Pop,' " Remo said flatly. "What other kind of 'got' is there, where alligators are concerned?"

  "Then he is dead," Smith said woodenly.

  "I think his toes may still be twitching, but his head was definitely dead," Remo said dryly.

  "This is unfortunate. I very much wanted Nogeira alive."

  "Yeah? Then why'd you send me out to take him out? Was this some bullshit field test that I screwed up by not screwing up?"

  "No, Remo," said Smith in a tired tone. "In the last hour both the governor and lieutenant governor of California have been killed in a plane crash. According to my computers, they were on their way to a concert. The tickets-both airline and concert-were provided by Emmanuel Nogeira."

  "But he's been in prison for two years," Remo said.

  "A prison in which he had unlimited access to a telephone, and full use of his credit card," Smith pointed out.

  "Some prison," Remo remarked.

  "Remo, I need a full report on the assignment."

  "Okay," Remo said. "Put the scrambler on top speed. Here goes."

  Remo rattled off his report. At the end of it, he added, "There is one consolation."

  "And that is?"

  "Nogeira never did get baptized."

  Smith was silent a moment. "You say you are not clear on the identities of these assailants?"

  "Take your pick," Remo said. "Either they were Colombians out to kill him, Bananamanian Army forces out to kill him, or his own people out to kill him. Whoever they were, they were out to kill him. And they definitely contributed." "I think we can leave the Bananamanian Army out of this," Smith mused. "It was in their interest to let American justice run its course."

  "If that means they wanted to see Nogeira punished,"

  Remo inserted, "I'd say they go back to the top of the list. Because American justice was being run into the ground by this guy, not the other way around."

  "Point taken," said Smith, his voice losing its distant, reflective quality.

  "You think Nogeira was behind the plane crash?" Remo asked, after the pause on the line had grown lengthy.

  "I am certain of it."

  "Well, whatever he was up to, the secret died with him."

  "He may have had confederates."

  "The guys who wasted him?" Remo suggested.

  Smith's response was thin. "Perhaps."

  Remo asked, "What do you want me to do?"

  "Nothing. I will have Federal agents cover the airports, highways, and train stations."

  "I think you can save your breath."

  "Why is that?"

  "From the way those guys shot up the FBI down there, I think the word's already been put out."

  "Of course. Then I must confer with the President."

  "Before you do, do me a favor, Smitty?"

  "What is that?" Smith said, wincing at that bit of familiarity. He hated to be called "Smitty"-the more so because it usually meant Remo was about to ask a favor.

  "Call Chiun first and tell him that even though I didn't do the hit, I did right."

  "You did neither," said Harold Smith, who was too busy now to bother with trivial disputes between his field operatives.

  He hung up the phone without another word and took hold of the red telephone, wondering what the President's reaction to his discovery would be.

  Chapter 4

  In the lobby of the Fontainebleau Hotel overlooking the Miami waterfront, Remo hung up the pay phone.

  He glided to the bank of elevators. "Glided" was the perfect word to describe the way Remo moved. He wore a white T-shirt and tan chinos. His feet were encased in hand-made loafers of Italian leather. Quality shoes. Still, they should have left impressions in the deep nap of the lobby carpet. But they did not. His soles seemed just to caress the nap, like constantly moving brushes.

  Remo's casual attire should have gotten disapproving looks from the lobby staff. It did not. He might have been invisible. In a way, he was.

  The elevator door dinged and opened. Remo stepped aboard, punched the seventh-floor button, and folded his lean arms. His deep-set brown eyes were clouded with worry.

  Maybe Chiun won't ask me how it went, Remo thought.

  Yeah, and maybe he'll have cooked dinner for us both.

  Neither was very likely, Remo knew.

  He came off the elevator with his hands in his pockets and his mouth an unhappy downward curl on his face.

  He pushed open the door to his room.

  Instantly, his nostrils were greeted by the fresh, sweet smell of boiled white rice-his favorite-and the tang of baked fish.

  Remo grinned. Maybe the day would be saved, after all. Something had caused Chiun to break down and cook dinner.

  He started toward the kitchenette of their suite of rooms.

  "I smell good eating," Remo said.

  "And I smell failure," came a squeaky, querulous voice.

  "Uh-oh," Remo muttered. In a brighter voice he said aloud, "Do I smell dinner?"

  "No, you do not."

  "No? Why?"

  "Because I smell failure."

  This time, Remo's "Uh-oh" was audible.

  He paused on the threshold of the kitchenette. The Master of Sinanju was in the act of pouring the contents of a stainless-steel pot into the sink. He reached down and touched the garbage-disposal button. It rumbled. The steam emanating from the sink was quickly drawn from sight. The fresh smell of steamed rice went away with it.

  "You're throwing away perfectly good rice," Remo pointed out.

  "I am no longer hungry," said Chiun, next taking a tray of baked fish from the oven.

  This, too, was consumed by the garbage disposal.

  Remo could only watch helplessly, his saliva glands-just about the only physical part of him he did not fully control-working overtime.

  "Who said I failed?" Remo asked unhappily.

  "Your feet."

  Remo looked down. His feet looked like they always did. His shoes shone. Not that he ever bothered to shine them. Whenever they got dirty or picked up a scuff, he simply threw them away and bought new ones. Sometimes in that order.

  "What about my feet?"

  "They stink of failure."

  Remo sniffed the air. "I don't smell anything."

  "This odor is not smelt, but heard," Chiun said, thin-voiced. "Your every footfall reeks of shame, and failure."

  "I did not fail," Remo said stubbornly.

  "You did not accomplish your mission?" asked Chiun, turning to face him for the first time.

  Chiun, Reigning Master of Sinanju, stood no more than five feet tall. In his kimono, he resembled a frail cone of scarlet. The front was a swirl of calla lilies, stitched in silvery thread.

  Eyes the color of steel regarded Remo, giving off cold, brittle sparks. They were set in a face that might have been a resin mask, yellow and lined with age. The bald head shone under the overhead light. Over each ear, wispy white hair made a gentle puff. His chin, resolute despite its unquestionable frailty, boasted a curl of a beard that was like smoke frozen in eternity.

  Slowly, long-nailed hands rose and the fingers, thin and the color of eagle talons, came together. Fingers grasped the opposite wrist and the scarlet sleeves came together then, hiding the old Korean's hands.

  "Speak," he intoned.

  "Okay," Remo said quickly. "I didn't complete my mission. "

 
; "Then you failed."

  "I did not fail," Remo repeated.

  "You lie. This was the most important mission Emperor Smith has given you, and you botched it like the clod-footed amateur that you are."

  "Who said it was so important?"

  "I do. Smith asked you to do a simple thing: to dispatch a former head of state. A minor thing-for Sinanju. A major thing, in our Emperor's eyes."

  "Smith said nothing of the sort."

  Chiun cocked his head. "You did not kill this man?"

  "No. But he is dead."

  "Aiiee!" Chiun wailed, his hands springing into view. They took hold of the puffs over his ears and tugged in consternation. He did a little circle dance in his sandaled feet. "You let competition steal the food from our babies' mouths!"

  The reference was to the children in Sinanju-who were fed by the work of the Master, as they had been for five thousand years. It was the reason the men of Sinanju had first hired out their services to the emperors of ancient Asia.

  "Actually, an alligator got him," Remo admitted, folding his lean arms.

  "Who saw this?" Chiun asked quickly.

  "No one, as far as I know."

  "Then you will tell Smith that you dispatched this evil warlord yourself," Chiun snapped. "Use flowery phrases. He will not detect the deceit in your tones."

  "I think that when the autopsy results come in and show that Nogeira died from having his head chewed off his shoulders, we'll have a hard time keeping that story alive."

  "I will inform Emperor Smith that you are employing a new technique-designed to fool the gullible into believing wild alligators were at fault. We will tell him that this was done in Egyptian times."

  "They have alligators back then?"

  Chiun gestured with a lifted finger. "Crocodiles. A minor difference no one will discover, if we keep our wits about us."

  "I can't lie."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I already reported to Smith."

  Chiun's slit eyes widened in shock. "Before conferring with me? Who did you think you work for?"

  "Smith."

  "No! A thousand times, no! You work for the village. Smith is merely a middleman. The emperor is not important, only the emperor's gold."

  Remo smiled thinly. "I'll tell Smith that next time I see him."

  "Don't you dare!"

  "Fine. Then get off my back."

  "Never. Through you, my House survives. I will never get off your back until you are perfection."

  "Never happen," said Remo, going to the cabinet over the stove. He began rummaging for something to eat. A feast awaited him-if a rice smorgasbord was his idea of sumptuous dining. Virtually every kind of rice was available to him, from domestic whites to exotic browns that smelled like popcorn.

  He pulled off the shelf a clear plastic bag, heavy with hard, white grains, and grabbed up the still warm pot.

  The Master of Sinanju watched this with grim mien.

  "What did Smith say when you broke the terrible news of your abysmal failure?"

  "He said he didn't want me to kill Nogeira, after all. So there."

  Chiun's pale eyebrows drew together. "He changed his mind?"

  "It was changed for him."

  "Ah. The so-called 'President,' exerting his will. Perhaps this will impell Smith to see the light."

  "If by 'light' you mean overthrow the President, I doubt it."

  "What exactly did Smith say? We may yet salvage our honor in this-sordid matter."

  "I forget," Remo said cagily, drawing tap water and filling the pot.

  "Come! Speak! You are hiding something."

  "Okay," said Remo. "Turns out he wanted Nogeira alive. "

  "Unbelievable!" cried Chiun. The single word was a keen of anguish. "Even in your failure, you have failed."

  Remo looked up from the sink. "How's that again?"

  "You failed to eliminate your target," Chiun spat. "That is one thing. Your emperor changed his mind and desired that the evil one survive. You had a golden opportunity to demonstrate that you anticipated your emperor's unspoken wishes, and you allowed a mere alligator to come between you and glory."

  "Since when is Smith my emperor?"

  "Since you have piled failure upon failure."

  "The way I see it," Remo retorted, going to the tabletop refrigerator, "I'm a victim of Smith's not knowing what he wants."

  Chiun nodded vigorously. "Yes. Good. Now you are thinking. We will blame Smith."

  Remo looked back. "We will?"

  "In our histories, of course. This way our ancestors will understand that no blame will attach itself to us, and become something they will be forced to live down in later times."

  "Now might be a good time to get it down in the scrolls," Remo suggested. "While it's still fresh in your mind."

  "You begin to show glimmerings of intelligence," said Chiun, who then swept away in a flourish of Christmas-red kimono skirts.

  Remo returned to picking through the refrigerator, his unhappy mouth brightening into a self-satisfied grin.

  With luck, Chiun would spend the next hour telling his future descendants how Mad Harold, the Emperor of America, had blown the mission. That would be plenty of time for Remo to cook up a mess of rice and fish.

  His grin went away by degrees, when he discovered that there was no more fish to be had. There was plenty of duck, though. All kinds.

  The trouble was, it took a lot longer than an hour to cook a duck properly.

  Remo hurriedly pushed the smallest duck he could find into the oven and turned on the burner. With luck, it would be ready before Chiun was finished.

  Just to be safe, he turned the heat up as high as it would go. After all, luck was something Remo had encountered little of today.

  The oven started smoking immediately, but smoky duck would be a hell of a lot better than no duck at all, Remo reasoned. And who knew? He might discover that he liked smoked duck.

  Remo never found out. When the smoke got thick enough to attract the Master of Sinanju's attention, Chiun swept in, and threw open the kitchen window to let in fresh air.

  He also threw the smoking duck out the open window. Without a word, he tossed the boiling rice water after it, and returned to his labors.

  Remo settled for yesterday's cold rice.

  Chapter 5

  Harmon Cashman had hope in his heart. For the first time in almost four years, since the last presidential election, he had hope in his heart.

  Back in those halcyon days, Harmon Cashman had been chief advance man for the then Vice-President and now current President of the United States. He had served the man well. Got him through the minefield of the Iowa Caucuses. Helped shape his presidential image. Distanced him from his predecessor, the incumbent President.

  It was true that they had come to New Hampshire trailing in the polls. The campaign was on the ropes. No other way to describe it. There, the governor of the state had stepped in. A real bulldog. No finesse about him at all. But he had single-handedly turned the New Hampshire primary and the fortunes of the Vice-President around.

  Harmon Cashman had to hand it to the New Hampshire governor. Even now. Never said any different.

  What Harmon Cashman had never understood was how the governor had ended up White House Chief of Staff. That job was supposed to have gone to Harmon Cashman. True, there had been no such agreement, written or oral. But it was understood. At least, it had been understood by Harmon Cashman.

  After the election, the President-elect had broken the news to Harmon Cash, gentle but direct. He explained that he owed his office to the governor, who had turned everything around for him. Snatched victory out of the jaws of defeat, the man had. Harmon Cashman took it hard. He declined any lesser appointment. It was Chief of Staff or nothing.

  It ended up nothing. To be more precise, a handwritten thank-you note from the new president was forthcoming. A two-pager. Believing himself humiliated, Harmon Cashman, the most seasoned advance man in national politics,
withdrew from electioneering, telling himself there would be other elections, other candidates.

  Now, four years later, with the presidential primaries in full cry, he found this was true. But not for Harmon Cashman. No one liked a sore loser. The GOP shunned him. The Democrats, who this year more than ever all looked and sounded alike, like some extended family with matching hair, wouldn't have him on their teams. They figured he was some kind of Republican Trojan horse.

  Harmon Cashman had made overtures to certain state campaigns, but in every case the boat had already left the dock. There was no place on any campaign-unless he wanted to stuff envelopes in some stuffy storefront campaign headquarters in East Treestump, Nebraska.

  This all changed the day hope came into Harmon Cashman's life.

  Hope came up to the front door of Harmon Cashman's Manassas townhouse, carrying a paper sack and bearing a beatific smile that made Harmon Cashman instantly want to help the face behind the smile.

  "I am called Esperanza," said the smile.

  Harmon Cashman understood the name to be Spanish. He frowned. "I had a maid named Esperanza once," he muttered, looking over the face behind the dazzling smile.

  It was a round, cherubic face, the color of toffee. The skin was as smooth as molasses, as if poured into a mold; perfect and without blemish.

  The eyes were a liquid, like melting licorice. They gleamed with a I-want-you-to-like-me gleam.

  The man was some kind of ethnic. But he had such a nice face that Harmon Cashman was instantly lulled into swallowing his surprise.

  "Esperanza," the man said, "is my last name." His voice reminded Harmon of honey, sweet, and golden clear. It was the perfect radio voice. An alto. With a trace of fire under it. "Esperanza means 'Hope.' " He lifted the paper sack. "I bring you hope."

  Brown fingers pulled open the bag. Harmon Cashman looked inside. He saw vaguely familiar hard, black, round shapes mixed with curls of white. Like thin smiles. They seemed to be smiling at him, those round black shapes. The smiles were familiar. They reminded him somehow of Virginia, where he had grown up. And Grandma Cashman's kitchen.

  He reached in and pulled one of the hauntingly familiar smiles out of the bag. It was sandwiched between two serrated wafers of black chocolate.

  He sniffed it. The odor brought back powerful childhood memories.

  "This is an Oreo cookie," he said, blank-voiced.