Return Engagement td-71

by Warren Murphy

  "More goodies," Ilsa said brightly.

  She perched herself on the armrest of the wheelchair. Her perfume filled his nostrils.

  "From the members?"

  "Yes, this one is from St. Louis," she said, razoring the envelope open with a multiblade letter opener in the shape of a swastika. It spilled thin folded pages torn from a phone directory into her lap.

  "There are lots and lots of Harold Smiths on this page," Ilsa breathed happily.

  Konrad Blutsturz made a disgusted sound in his throat. "Why couldn't his name have been Zankowski or Boyington?" he said miserably.

  "It's not that bad. The over-sixties are circled. There's only . . . one-two-three . . . um, twelve of them. According to the letter, our man in St. Louis pretended to be a pollster and got their ages."

  "Twelve is too many, Ilsa. I am not voting, I cannot drive around this country killing Harold Smiths for the rest of my days."

  "Oh, but I'll be with you. You know that."

  Konrad Blutsturz patted Iisa's hand warmly. "I know that, liebchen, but look how few we have done in two months."

  "You're not giving Lip!" Ilsa said, jumping to her feet. There was fire in her eves. "I was counting on having his skin. I want to cover my diary with it. Don't you think that would be neat? On the last page I could write, 'We finally caught him and used his skin to cover this book.' "

  "No, Ilsa, I am not giving up. It is just that I have been thinking. This way is not working. instead of going to them, they should be coming to us."

  "How are we going to do that?'

  "We will invite them. We will send out invitations to every Harold Smith we can find."

  "You mean a party?"

  "No, I mean a massacre."

  Ilsa dropped to her knees before Konrad Blutsturz. "Tell me more."

  "No, it is just an idea forming. I must talk to Dr. Beflecken first. I am going to ask him to do more for me than just provide legs of titanium. Much more," he said, eyeing the gently rising valley of her cleavage. And he smiled.

  "Oooh, I can hardly wait. Does this mean that Boyce captured Ferris?"

  "No, he failed. He is a fool. But only a fool would have allowed me to gain so much control over so many blindly obedient followers so quickly."

  "Oh, poo. Can't we do something? You just have to have legs."

  "You are so eager, Ilsa. You have no patience. I admit my patience is wearing, as well. But our time is coming soon, I promise."

  "I was thinking," said Ilsa slowly. "After we get Harold Smith-the real one, I mean-do you think we could go after the Jews next?"

  "The Jews?"

  "I mean, really go after them. Not just picket them and insult them."

  "Why would you want to do that, my child?"

  "Don't you remember? They murdered my parents. You told me so."

  "Ach, I had forgotten. Yes, the Jews hacked them to pieces with machetes."

  "I thought they beat them to death," Ilsa said puzzledly.

  "They beat them first. Then they hacked them. I neglected to tell you the whole story. You were too young in those days to hear the whole story," said Konrad Blutsturz, gently stroking her blond hair. "But why do you wish to kill all Jews, when only a handful committed that heinous deed?"

  "To carry on, of course. Just because we lost the war doesn't mean we give up. You didn't give up. No matter what they did to you, you didn't give up."

  "I am after one man," said Konrad Blutsturz, flexing his steel claw.

  "What about after that? I mean, we'll have this wonderful organization and all these guns and bombs and soldiers. We have to do something with them. We just have to."

  "After Smith . . ." Konrad Blutsturz said. "After Smith we will discuss this. You are so young and trusting, Ilsa. That is what I like about you." And he gave her a squeeze that just happened to crush one breast. Ilsa didn't seem to notice. In fact, she smiled.

  Boyce Barlow took a last swig of breakfast, and crushing it, threw the Coors can into a ditch.

  "Paugh!" he said. "That's good."

  "You gonna call Hair Fairer now, Boyce? Are you?" asked Luke.

  "Yeah. There's a pay phone up the road. I'll walk."

  Boyce Barlow got the secretary at Fortress Purity on the second ring. He winced slightly at the sound of her voice. It was so thickly Germanic it bothered him. "Yes?" the secretary said.

  "Put me though to Hair Fairer," Boyce said.

  The line clicked and the dry voice of Konrad Blutsturz came on.

  "Hair Fairer? It's Boyce."

  "They have moved Ferris D'Orr to a safe house, as I anticipated," Konrad Blutsturz said without preamble. "The news media have discovered the location. It is in Baltimore."

  "Where's that?"

  "In Maryland."

  "Never heard of it."

  "Get in your truck and drive north. Go through Washington, D.C."

  "I've heard of that one."

  "Good. Keep going through Washington and you will see the signs saying Baltimore. The address is 445 Lafayette Street. Ferris D'Orr is in the penthouse, the top floor."

  "Sounds simple enough," said Boyce Barlow.

  "It is simple. That is why I am trusting this important task to you."

  "On our way, then."

  "Don't forget the nebulizer."

  "I won't."

  "And throw away your wallets. Just in case."

  "Just in case of what?"

  "Capture," said honrad Blutsturz.

  "Shoot, Hair Fairer, there's three of us. I got a twelve-gauge shotgun and Luke and Bud got good mailorder rifles. Who's gonna capture us? We got just about everybody outgunned."

  "D'Orr will be protected. Go in shooting if you have to, but do not shoot him and do not get captured. If you are captured, say nothing. Tell the others to do the same. Keep your mouths shut like the proud Aryans that you are and we will take care of you. Now, do as I say. Get rid of everything in your wallets."

  "The money too?"

  "No, not the money. Just your personal papers."

  "Good. I figger we might need the money for gas."

  "Call me as soon as you have succeeded," said Konrad Blutsturz.

  Boyce Barlow trudged back to his truck, which was parked behind a massive stand of magnolia trees.

  "Hair Fairer says we gotta get rid of our personal papers," he told Luke and Bud.

  "Why?" Bud and Luke asked in unison.

  "In case we get captured, he said."

  Boyce got behind the wheel of the truck and turned the ignition.

  "Who's gonna try and capture us?" Luke said, climbing in beside him while Bud vaulted into the truck bed. "You got a double-barreled shotgun."

  "I tried tellin' the man that, but you know how he is-extra cautious."

  They dug out their wallets, tore their Social Security cards and the papers to tiny bits and, as Boyce Barlow set the pickup in motion, released them, piece by piece, down the highway, where they joined the lightly falling snow.

  At Fortress Purity, Herr Fuhrer Kanrad Blutsturz hung up the phone and turned to Ilsa.

  "They are trying again."

  "Think they'll get it right this time?"

  "No, I do not."

  Ilsa's face pouted. "Then why send them?"

  "Because they might. If they do, it will save us more exertion. If they do not, then the White Aryan League falls entirely into our hands, Ilsa."

  "Oooh, good thinking."

  "And then, Ilsa, you and I will get Ferris D'Orr."

  "And Harold Smith," said Ilsa. "Don't forget him."

  "I will never forget Harold Smith." said Konrad Blutsturz, his black button eyes reflecting the light of the fireplace. "Never."

  Chapter 17

  Remo Williams took the big automatic in one hand and shuttled the ejector slide with the other. The mechanism spewed shells like quarters from a slot machine.

  He tossed the empty gun onto the desk.

  "Remo," Dr. Harold Smith said, ashen-faced, "what on earth are y
ou doing here? You're supposed to be in Sinanju."

  "I'm delighted to see you too, Smitty," Remo replied sarcastically.

  Smith sank into his leather chair, threw his gray head back, and closed his eyes. A long sigh escaped his thin tips.

  "At this moment, even your flip remarks are welcome." Remo noticed Smith's corpselike face and detected the furious pounding of his heart, which, as Remo listened, slowly calmed.

  "What's going on, Smith? I'm gone a couple of months and this place is an armed camp."

  "I'm in trouble," Smith said, opening his eyes. "Serious trouble."

  "Is there any other kind?" Remo asked. And when Smith didn't react, he added: "The operation?"

  "CURE is secure-I think. I'm being stalked by a killer."

  "Anyone I know?" asked Remo coolly.

  "I don't know who he is. But I'm the target of an assassin. Your showing up now may be the solution to my problem."

  Remo's shoulders fell a little.

  "I guess that answers my next question," he said. "If Chiun were here you wouldn't need me. Funny, I figured Chiun would have come here first thing."

  "He was here," Smith admitted.

  "Yeah? What did he say? Did he tell you where he was going? I'm trying to catch up with him."

  "Is there a problem between the two of you?" Smith asked.

  "Nothing I can't handle. So where is he?"

  "In Baltimore. On assignment."

  Remo's eyes narrowed. "For who?"

  "Whom. For whom," Smith corrected absently.

  "I asked a question, Smitty. I don't think I'm going to like the answer, but let's just get it over with, shall we?"

  Smith sighed. "All right. I've rehired him."

  "Unhire him."

  "Believe me, I wish I could. I had no desire to see either of you ever again. Life has been peaceful these last weeks. Then this Harold Smith killer business, and then-"

  "The which killer?"

  "Let me rephrase that. Someone is killing men named Harold Smith all over the country. I believe he's after me."

  "What is he doing, saving you for dessert?"

  "Don't be smart, Remo. This is serious. I don't have many facts. Thirteen men named Harold Smith have been murdered since last November. All were over sixty years old. I have reason to suspect their killer is an old enemy from my past apparently someone who knows my name, my age, but not my current whereabouts. He is therefore attempting to kill every Harold Smith in my age group he can locate. It's only a matter of time before I'm next."

  "Only you, Smitty, could upset someone so much he'd go to all this trouble to settle a score."

  "Remo," Smith said levelly, "I could use your help."

  "If you think I'm hiring back on, forget it. I'm back in town to find Chiun. Period. He's a big enough problem without my adding another."

  "Then there is a problem," Smith said.

  "I don't know," Remo admitted. "He's been acting strange, more so than usual. The other night he walked off. Left his steamer trunks and a note. Something about being an old sandal. I figured he had to come here. You mean he actually volunteered for work?"

  "He didn't put it that way exactly, Remo. He said he owed me a year's service to replace the gold prepayment from last year."

  "I'll give it back," Remo said hastily. "With interest."

  "I suggested that, believe me. Chiun refused. He claimed he couldn't do it. He had to repay in services. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't hear of it. If you want my opinion, Remo, he sounded lonely."

  "Great. Well, tell me where he is and I'll try to talk some sense into him. When we come back, I'll see what I can do about your problem. For old times' sake."

  "Go to Baltimore, the penthouse of the Lafayette Building. He's guarding a metallurgist named Ferris D'Orr. It's too complicated to explain now, but it's important to America that D'Orr and his titanium nebulizer do not fall into unfriendly hands."

  "Titanium nebulizer?" said Remo. Then he held up his hands. "Forget I asked. I don't want to know. I just want to find Chiun and talk sense into him.

  "Were you happy in Sinanju, Remo?"

  Remo paused. "Yeah, kinda. I wasn't unhappy. I was still settling in. It takes some getting used to."

  "Married yet?"

  "No, that's another problem I'm having. Chiun is trying to stall the wedding.

  "Marriage is a wonderful thing, Remo. I recommend it. "

  "How is Mrs. Smith?"

  "She's fine. Lonely. I haven't been home in a week. If this killer finds me, I want him to find me at Folcroft, not at home where my wife could be hurt."

  "Sounds like you're hurting too, Smitty."

  "I am, Remo. I feel like a big piece of my life was replaced, only to be ripped out just when I was adjusting to being whole."

  "Yeah. I feel that way about Mah-Li. Funny how that is. What do you want me to do about these guards?"

  "They're not dead?"

  "No, I just put them to sleep. They'll recover."

  "I'll handle this as an internal problem. I must keep the police out of this. Entirely."

  "Your call, Smitty. Catch you later."

  The flight from New York's La Guardia Airport to Baltimore, Maryland, was advertised as fifty-five rninutes. It was accurate if you didn't include the thirty-six-minute boarding delay, the approximately two hours in which the plane sat on the runway with its air conditioner off to save fuel and increase passenger irritability, and the forty-two minutes stacked up over Baltimore-Washington Airport.

  It was dawn before Remo Williams found himself in downtown Baltimore, and he considered himself lucky. The other passengers were delayed another five hours while their luggage was rerouted from Atlanta, where it had accidentally been sent. Remo had no luggage.

  A cab deposited Remo in front of the Lafayette Building. He tried to pay the driver.

  "What's this?" the cabby demanded.

  "Look, I don't have any American money on me, all right? Don't give me a hard time."

  "Don't give ine a hard time. The fare is twenty-three eighty-seven. Pay up."

  "This is a genuine gold coin. It's worth over four hundred dollars."

  The cabby took the coin in his hand and hefted it. "It's heavy like real gold," he said slowly.

  "It is real gold," said Remo wearily, wishing he had thought to ask Smith for a cash loan. Remo had made his way from Seoul, South Korea, to the United States on a handful of ounce-weight gold ingots he had taken from the treasure house of Sinanju. He overpaid outrageously for every fare, but because he paid in gold, the true item of value behind the world's paper-money supply, he had received nothing but a hard time. People were willing to accept cash, checks, or credit cards, but not gold. Not the one thing that was of true value in the world.

  "If it's real gold, why are you overpaying me by over three hundred and fifty dollars?" the cabdriver wanted to know.

  "I'd appreciate change," Remo said sweetly, and he smiled.

  "Nothing doing," said the cabby, who was beginning to suspect the gold was genuine. Especially after he bit into the yellow ingot and saw toothmarks. A get cash or I keep the whole thing."

  "Then keep the whole thing," Remo said in a pleasant tone while he rubbed a finger against the lock on the driver's side. A wisp of smoke came out of the lock aperture. When the driver next tried to open the door, he would find he couldn't. He would learn that the door would have to be replaced, but that it could not be removed for replacement without dismantling the taxi.

  It wasn't as good as exact change, Remo thought as he took the elevator to the penthouse, but true satisfaction is without price. He decided to write that down somewhere. It would be the first thing he wrote in his histories of Sinanju when he got around to writing them.

  The elevator took Remo to the penthouse floor. When the doors opened, he found himself confronted by an unusual sight.

  A man stood facing the elevator, as if he had expected visitors. The man was short, very short. He wore sunglass
es. A bowler hat sat on his head, canted at a rakish angle. The hat was green, Christmas-package green. So was the tiny man's neat jacket. The pants, however; were canary yellow, as was the man's shirt. He wore a purple tie. Silk.

  "Excuse me, I'm looking for Ferris Wheel."

  "D'Orr," the voice said, pitched very low.

  "Which door?" asked Remo, looking around. The little man followed him.

  "Not door. Not wheel. D'Orr. Ferris D'Orr," the little man said, his voice rising to a squeaky pitch. "Honestly, Remo, have you so soon lost command of your native tongue?"

  Remo spun as if on a pivot. He looked closer. The little man beamed, and Remo noticed for the first time the wisps of white hair on the little man's face and the Korean sandals peeping out from the trouser cuffs.

  Remo lifted the green hat and exposed a balding head with tufts of white hair over the ears.

  "Chiun?"

  The Master of Sinanju removed his sunglasses and did a delicate pirouette to show off his new American attire.

  "Brooks Brothers," said Chiun happily. "Only the best. How do I look?"

  "Like a lemon-lime sherbet," Remo said, hardly believing his eyes.

  "You must have searched far and wide to find me," said Chiun with satisfaction. "You must have covered all of Asia before you knew I was not there. Africa's sands must have known your implacable step before that continent, too, was eliminated from your arduous search. Lo, in the generations to come, future Masters will sing of how Remo the Unfair shunned his bride, telling her she was no longer important, bade his villagers a tearful farewell, and said to the heavens, 'I must go, though it take me to the end of my days, and seek out the Master who made me whole, and throw myself at his feet to beg his forgiveness. Though it take me decades, and Chiun the Great spit upon me when I find him, I will do this gladly, for I owe him everything.' "

  The Master of Sinanju stepped back a pace to allow his pupil groveling room.

  Remo frowned, putting his hands on his hips.

  "You left a trail a pig could follow. A blind pig," he said.

  The countenance of the Master of Sinanju assumed a hurt expression.

  "You are not here to grovel?"

  "I'm here to take you back. To Sinanju."

  "Impossible," said the Master of Sinanju, turning on his beef. "I am under contract."

  "We'll break it. You've done it before."