Blue Smoke and Mirrors td-78

by Warren Murphy

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  standard AT&T desk model, unusual only in that it had no dial or push buttons. But this wasn't the dialless telephone that was Smith's direct link to the White House. That phone was red. This one was gray. The gray telephone kept ringing. Smith ignored it and turned in his cracked leather swivel chair.

  He stooped at the baseboard where the ringing telephone connected to a wall jack. Smith took the round plug in his hands and pulled the prongs from the jack.

  Abruptly, the gray telephone stopped ringing.

  Smith returned to his desk, his thin lips quirked into a rare dry-as-dust smile.

  "You turkeys tricked me!" Robin Green repeated.

  "Hey, you had your chance," Remo told her defensively.

  "I almost didn't get out from behind my mirror. It was supposed to shatter at a single blow."

  "Gee, mine shattered the first time," Remo said in a dubious tone. "How about yours, Little Father?"

  "My mirror broke easily," Chiun said smugly.

  "I meant a normal blow!" Robin shouted, face flushed. "I kept pounding and pounding. Finally, I had to shoot my way out."

  "Everyone knows that women are weak," Chiun sniffed. "I am sure that had you been born a male, you would have had no trouble breaking your mirror."

  Robin Green looked at them with smoldering blue eyes. Her knuckles whitened on the butt of her automatic. Remo thought for a moment that she was going to open up on them. Instead, she sucked in a deep breath, as if to get control of herself. A button on her dress-blue uniform popped and hit the floor noisily.

  She looked down at it. "Oh, I give up," she said in a small defeated voice. She slumped up against the wall. "Just tell me what happened here, okay?"

  "You saw it through your two-way mirror," Remo said, returning the button, "just as we did. The

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  Krahseevah panicked. He thought the suit wasn't working, so we went for him while he was switching back and forth."

  "And you were too slow," Chiun said shortly.

  "Hey, I touched him. I hurt him," Remo retorted. "Which is more than I can say for some people around here."

  "If you are referring to me, my place of concealment was further away from that creature than yours. You had an unfair advantage. No doubt you were abetted by the whites who constructed this snare under Emperor Smith's direction."

  "Same distance. We measured them, remember? You insisted."

  Robin stamped her foot suddenly.

  "Will you two stop it!" she scolded. "We lost him. Probably for good, this time. All I want is something plausible to put into my report. Maybe I can still salvage what's left of my career."

  "Uh-uh, not for good," Remo said. "I'll admit I would have preferred to capture him with my bare hands, but Smith knew that that was an iffy proposition at best. So he had a backup plan in place."

  "Whoa, go back two squares. What about this?" Robin asked, pointing to the model.

  They crowded around the model aircraft.

  "Go ahead, touch it," Remo suggested.

  Her brows puckering, Robin Green reached out with both hands. They passed through the model as if it were a mirage.

  She looked at Remo in slack-jawed amazement. Remo indicated the ceiling lights with a finger.

  "It's a hologram," he explained. "A three-dimensional image projected by lasers. It's not real. Never was."

  "You could have told me that before you sealed me behind that chickshit mirror."

  Remo shrugged. "No time. Besides, you're still re-

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  covering from the car crash. We couldn't risk you getting hurt."

  "Hey. I'm as good as any man. I've proved that."

  The Master of Sinanju walked over to a corner where a little brass censer squatted. Stooping, he sprinkled white powder onto dimly smoldering coals. With a noxious puff of smoke, the coals went out.

  Chiun brought the censer back to the pedestal and presented it to Robin Green with a twinkle in his hazel eyes. She accepted it wordlessly.

  "What's this?" she asked at last. "I don't understand."

  "There was a little bit of a problem with the laser image," Remo explained. "We tested it before we brought it here and it flickered like film going through a bad projector. We didn't know what to do until Chiun came up with a solution."

  Chiun's papery lips broke into a satisfied smile.

  "Blue mirrors and smoke," he explained, gesturing through the haze to the shattered blue-tinted mirrors whose dangling shards framed closetlike wall recesses. "You had it backward, which is typical for someone who has had the misfortune to be born both white and female."

  "He's teasing you," Remo told Robin.

  "About what? Being female or the other nonsense? And why are you grinning?" Robin demanded, looking for a place to put the censer down. She tried to set it to one side of the aircraft model, but there was no room. Finally she muttered, "Oh, the hell with it," and set it squarely atop the hologram aircraft. The combined object looked like a brass bowl with glass wings.

  "Because it's all over," Remo said pleasantly.

  "What do you mean, all over? He got away. Again."

  "Nope," Remo said, escorting her to the wall telephone.

  "Did you ever hear of a telephone being installed in a nuclear-weapons storage bunker?" Remo asked.

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  "No. I may be a service brat, but I didn't exactly grow up in one of these things."

  " 'Brat' is the word," Chiun sniffed.

  "Another piece of Smith's handiwork," Remo said, picking up the receiver. "No matter which number you dial"-he demonstrated by hitting several keys at random-"it's programmed to ring only one phone in the entire world. A special one on Smith's desk."

  "Oh, he has a desk, does he?" Robin said sarcastically. "And here I thought he lived in a padded room with all the other lunatics who think they're Napoleon. Don't think I missed Charlie Chan here calling him emperor. Or you calling him Little Father. I must have been crazy to try to work with you two. No, I take that back. I must be the only sane one around here. Just give me that."

  Robin took the receiver. Brushing away a bit of hair, she put it to her ear.

  "I don't hear anything," she said.

  "That's good," Remo said. "It means Smith disconnected the phone at the other end."

  Robin blinked as the significance of Remo's words penetrated.

  "Disconnected?"

  "Yep," Remo said with a self-satisfied grin.

  "So where's the Krahseevah?'' Robin asked uncertainly.

  "Got me," Remo said casually, hanging up the phone. "But he didn't come out on Smith's end. He didn't come back. My guess is that he's somewhere in the coils of Ma Bell. You know, I once saw a commercial that claimed there are billions and billions of miles of cable in our telephone system. I think our Krahseevah's in for a long, long roller-coaster ride."

  "And just to make certain . . ." Chiun said, stepping up to the phone. He took the device in one hand and began squeezing. The edges of the phone wavered and

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  collapsed. Tiny jets of smoke spurted from the rupturing seams.

  When the Master of Sinanju extracted the phone from the wall, it was a blob of plastic. He slapped it into Robin Green's hands. She said "Ouch!" and tossed it from hand to hand like a hot potato.

  "What's the idea?"

  "A souvenir," Chiun told her. "For your grandchildren."

  "I don't have any grandchildren. Hell, I don't even have children."

  "Ah, but you will," Chiun said, indicating her cleavage, which strained at her remaining buttons. "For you carry your destiny proudly before you."

  Robin turned to Remo. "Is that Korean for 'barefoot and pregnant'?" she asked.

  "He's teasing you again," Remo assured her.

  "How about it, buster?" Robin asked Chiun. "Are you pulling my leg?"

  "No. I leave the pulling of your legs to the future father of your children." Chiun bowed. "May you bear many squalling infants," he inton
ed.

  "Well, that's it," Remo said quickly, edging for the door.

  "That's it?" Robin said shakily.

  "What else is there? We bagged him."

  "It is not as good as a bird in the hand," Chiun told Robin solemnly. "But neither is it two in the bush."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  Chiun shrugged. "I thought you would know. You who are so fond of sayings concerning birds."

  "Is he kidding me? He is kidding, isn't he?"

  "Don't worry about it," Remo told her. "We gotta go now. Been nice working with you."

  Robin blocked his way. "Go! You just hold your horses. What about me? I got you onto this base. You can't leave me hanging out to dry. For a third time."

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  Remo picked Robin up bodily and set her aside like a coat rack.

  "You won't be," he said. "And you didn't help get us onto the base. We only let you think that. Once you baited the trap, you were just window dressing."

  "But what about me? What about my career?" Robin demanded, following them out of the bunker.

  "Everything's been taken care of. Don't sweat it."

  "Taken care of-by whom?"

  "Smith, of course. He's fixed your files. You're not AWOL, and all is forgiven. In fact, there's a pretty good chance that you're going to be offered an Air Force commission. But there's a catch. You can't mention me or Chiun or Smith in your report. Otherwise not only will there be no commission, but your goose- if you'll pardon the expression-will be cooked."

  "What! That's impossible. You're lying to me again. Smith couldn't possibly do all that. He's a civilian. Even my father couldn't pull that many strings."

  "Hey, don't thank us. We're just doing our job."

  "If you're lying to me," Robin shouted after them, "I won't let you get away with this. Do you hear me?"

  "Do I hear her?" Remo muttered as they hurried away. "Smith can probably hear her clear down to Folcroft."

  "True," Chiun said. "She has an amazing set of lungs-for a woman."

  "Oh, really." Remo smiled. "And how, exactly, do you mean that, Little Father?"

  "In the spirit it is intended, of course."

  "Of course."

  A week later, Remo was in his kitchen boiling rice. A familiar knock sounded at the back door, and before Remo could say, "Come in," Harold W. Smith did.

  "You're getting to be a pretty casual neighbor,"

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  Remo told him. "Maybe we should get you your own key."

  "Er, sorry, Remo," Smith mumbled, adjusting his glasses. "I have only a moment."

  "Then you won't mind if I don't ask you to sit down and join us?" Remo returned as he poured the rice into a woven rattan colander. He shook it to drain away the last steaming water.

  "Of course not," Smith said, standing in the doorway as if unwilling to trespass further.

  Remo tapped a small brass gong over the stove. It reverberated solemnly. "Good," he said. "I only cooked for two."

  Chiun swept into the door, saw the rice, and then saw Smith. His placid expression flickered into momentary annoyance. Then, like the sun breaking through clouds, a smile beamed from his pleasantly wrinkled face.

  "Ah, Emperor," he said. "You are just in time to join us in a simple repast."

  "There's only enough for us," Remo put in quickly.

  "Nonsense," Chiun replied. "Remo will have his meal later."

  "Chiun . . ." Remo warned.

  "It is all right, Remo," Chiun said, pulling out a chair for Smith. "Come, Emperor. I insist."

  "Actually, I've eaten," Smith told him, accepting the seat. "I merely wanted to brief you on the aftermath of the Krahseevah matter."

  "Then you may do so and observe how the Sinanju assassin ekes out his pitiful existence. Remo, serve, please."

  As Remo ladled out helpings of unseasoned brown rice onto two china plates, Chiun launched into a running commentary.

  "Notice the simple fare," he told Smith. "Rice. Only rice."

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  "I understand that rice is the staple of the Sinanju diet," Smith said uncomfortably.

  "Ah, but we are also allowed to eat duck, and certain fish. Do you see any fish on this meager table?"

  "No," Smith admitted.

  "I am certain that the Boston Red Sox are eating fish even as we speak. Even the lowliest of them. The ones who are so poorly paid that they earn as much as other menials. Like atomic scientists, brain surgeons, and that underappreciated but necessary minority, the assassin."

  "Master of Sinanju, I must tell you in all frankness that you are exceedingly well-paid for your work."

  "True," Chiun said simply as Remo sat down and dug into his rice. "I am better paid than the Master who came before me. But he lived in evil times. I am privileged to live in an era when riches are bestowed on persons in all manner of ridiculous professions. I read only the other day that that talk-show woman, Copra Inisfree, is paid millions for her services. Have you ever watched her program, Emperor?"

  "No, not really."

  Chiun leaned closer. "Most of the time she just sits," he said in a hushed voice. "I would like an assignment where I might simply sit and speak with boon companions, basking in the applause of others."

  "I don't think you quite grasp the complex economics here, Master Chiun. As with baseball games, The Copra Inisfree Show is sponsored by commercial firms. They pay her fabulous sums because of the audience she attracts, which in turn purchase their products."

  "Then I will attract an audience!" Chiun cried. "It will be the biggest audience the world has ever seen! We will sell their products and we will all become rich men."

  Smith looked to Remo helplessly.

  Remo took a sip of mineral water in an effort to keep a straight face.

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  "Our work is secret," Smith said stiffly. "You know that."

  "But our sponsor is the greatest sponsor in the land. The President of the United States. Surely his coffers can spare a few more gold ingots."

  "Please, Master of Sinanju. I have only a few minutes. We can discuss this later. After all, your current contract has nearly another year to run."

  "Perhaps you are right. Excuse me while I allow myself a sip of purified water, for it is the only beverage I can afford on my present salary."

  Smith sighed. When Chiun put down the glass, he resumed speaking.

  "I have been reviewing CIA intercepts of message traffic out of the Soviet embassy down in Washington," he said. "The post is in an uproar. They have not heard from their agent at all."

  "That means we've seen the last of the Krahseevah, right?" Remo said through a mouthful of rice.

  "So it would seem. They've given up on him and recalled their charge d'affaires to Moscow. Evidently, as his case officer, he will bear the brunt of the responsibility and the punishment for what happened."

  "So what did happen to the Krahseevahl Is he dead?"

  "I don't really know," Smith admitted. "Going on the assumption that his nuclear constituents were being carried by electrical impulse through the phone system to my telephone, the act of unplugging it before the connection was made could have caused any number of consequences. Perhaps his atoms are still racing through the system. Perhaps they've been scattered or destroyed. When dealing with experimental technology such as this, it's impossible to say. The bottom line is that he's no longer a threat and the Soviets have lost their unrestricted access to U.S. technology. Just in time, too. They may have plundered key parts of our Stealth technology, but without sample RAM tiles

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  to replicate, they might as well be trying to build an operational plane from a child's plastic model kit."

  "You know, I just realized something," Remo said. "Except for the Krahseevah-and you actually took care of him-we didn't have to kill anyone this time out."

  Hearing this, Chiun dropped a forkful of rice.

  "Do not hold this against us, Emperor," he said loudly. "I promise you that this
will never happen again. You will have bodies in plenty during our next assignment. For an assassin's worth is truly measured by the blood he spills, and I promise you that soon your swimming pool will brim with the blood of America's enemies."

  "But I don't own a swimming pool," Smith protested.

  "Have one built. Remo and I will supply the blood."

  "Please," Smith said. "I'm just as happy that this assignment produced no unnecessary casualties. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must be going."

  "Let me see you to the door," Chiun said, getting up.

  Smith looked at the dozen or so feet that separated him from the back door. The distance suddenly looked to be a mile long. "As you wish," he said unhappily.

  Guiding Smith by the elbow, Chiun escorted him to the door.

  "I have been watching these baseball games with Remo. It is always the same. Boston beats Detroit and then Detroit savagely attacks Chicago. This is exactly the kind of intercity warfare that brought down the Greek Empire. Let me suggest that Remo and I pay secret visits to the rulers of these recalcitrant city-states. We will force them to mend their ways. Perhaps in this way the union may endure another two hundred brief years and the President will be so grateful that he will offer to raise your salary, and you in turn might see fit to increase the tribute paid to my house." Chiun paused to stroke his facial hair thought-

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  fully. He measured Smith's aghast expression out of the corner of his eye and went on.

  "Of course, it is only a suggestion," he said dismissively. "But I know you will see the wisdom of not allowing America to tear itself apart in such an unseemly and public fashion."

  Smith nodded mutely. Just two more steps ... he thought numbly. It was like walking the last mile.

  "You perhaps do not realize that this baseball warfare has spread beyond your shores," Chiun went on. "The Japanese have fallen into settling their differences in this manner as well. It is a plague. But if we work together on this, we will both profit."

  Remo's uncontrollable laughter followed them out into the backyard.

  Epilogue

  Crackle.

  ". . . So, Cinzia. Wanna whoosh tonight?"

  "I don't crackle know. Will you respect me in the morning?"