The Golden Kill

by Marc Olden

  Smearing his blood-covered hand on the wall, Reiss turned, his mouth open and loudly taking in air. “Money … I’ll give you …”

  Sand was near him now, the bloody edge of the sword pressed down on the fat man’s forehead and frighteningly near his eyes. Pushing the blade hard into his flesh, Sand said, “Andrea Naiss. Did you do it alone, or did you have help?”

  Reiss rolled his eyes from side to side, moaning and breathing through his open mouth.

  With a small, almost gentle sawing motion, Sand drew blood from the fat man’s forehead, the warm red liquid creeping down along the bridge of his nose and into the corner of his eyes. “Next time, your eyes,” said Sand.

  Maynard Reiss wept, his tears mingling with the blood in his eyes.

  Sand wanted both of the men to come to the house. Whatever happened there would be Reiss’s responsibility to cover up. Reiss had done exactly what the black man had asked him to do. He had given him the two names, and he had made one phone call. The call had been to Simon, the one Sand’s observations told him was the easiest one to convince, the one who took orders and never questioned.

  Simon had been ordered to get Dietrich. The Black Samurai had figured swiftly but carefully. A call from Simon made voluntarily would not arouse Dietrich’s suspicions. And Reiss was now so terrified that he could not be trusted to make more than one short phone call. He had. Fearful for his life and eyesight, he had done what Sand ordered him to do.

  A short phone call. Summoning Andrea’s killers to an emergency session. “The black man,” Reiss had said to Simon. “Got a make on him. Get Dietrich, you’re hitting him tonight. Talon’s orders. Get here fast, and pick up photos of him, both of you.”

  The line had gone dead, because the Black Samurai had slashed the telephone cord. Looking at Reiss, he said, “When they come, tell them the door’s open, and nothing else. Try to warn them, and I’ll kill you. I’ll get them too, sooner or later, so there’s no sense in your dying tonight. It would be for nothing. Nod your head if you understand.”

  The fat man nodded, his bloodstained chins and jowls moving with a life of their own.

  Sand told him where to sit, got him a wet rag to wipe his face, and a dark-green dressing gown to wear. Twenty minutes later, Sand, looking through the front window, saw the car slow down, then pass the house, and a minute later come by again, disappearing into the night. Careful, he thought. A CCE trademark.

  Minutes later, they walked along the sidewalk, talking low to each other, then turned and came up the walk leading to Reiss’s home. Seconds later the bell rang, and Sand turned to the fat man sitting upright on a brown velvet couch, nervously licking his lips, dabbing his face with a bloodstained handkerchief.

  He sat in half-light, and for a few seconds there would be no way anyone looking at him would know what had happened to him. Sand nodded his head at him once, and he yelled, “Door’s open, fellas, ya’ll come on in.”

  The door pushed open, and the Black Samurai heard the two men in the foyer shouting, “Hey, Reiss, how about that? You got a line on that coon already, huh?”

  Their footsteps drew nearer; then they were in the living room, walking past him as he flattened himself against the wall. In the low light, they squinted, moving their heads from side to side to focus on the fat man. Dietrich grinned, fingering a torn toothpick still in his mouth. “Hey, Reiss, sure wish this one was a gal, too. Man, that one was somethin’ else, lemme tell you.”

  Both men had their backs to Sand. He rushed them.

  Two feet away from them, the Black Samurai dropped to both knees, at the same time raising the sword high overhead; then, in a swift, savage backhand stroke he brought it down and across the Achilles tendon of both of Simon’s legs, the steel slicing through cloth into flesh.

  Simon squealed, falling forward, then drawing both knees to his chest, his hands grasping his ankles and filling with blood. Again and again he squealed.

  Dietrich turned in time to see the Black Samurai wheel and face him. Still on his knees, Sand quickly brought the blood-covered cutting edge of the blade up between Dietrich’s legs until it met his crotch, then sliced the entire blade into the softness there.

  Doubling over, Dietrich screamed, then whirled around, knocking a table and lamp to the carpet. He fell to his left side, rolled over, continuing to scream, then rolled from right to left.

  Reiss watched in silent horror. Ignoring both men now writhing and moaning on the blood-flecked gold carpet, the Black Samurai stood for a few seconds looking at Reiss. Then, turning, he walked into the foyer, opened the door, and shut it behind him,

  Maynard Reiss looked at the two mutilated men on the floor of his living room and said nothing. He sat that way for three minutes before he had the courage to stand up.

  “I’ve got two of my men down on the hotel switchboard,” said Clarke. “They take over from the operator when I get my party. Discourages eavesdroppin’. Some of what we talked about is already in the works, but it’s gonna take me a day or so to get it all rollin’. Even then, there’ll be no time to check anything out. You’ll go in … well, what can I tell you, son? Watch your ass is all.”

  Sand stood in front of the window watching the dawn creep up over the city. As he talked, his back was to Clarke. “Just keep at it. Who’s my London contact?”

  “Phil Taper. English newspaperman, which gives him a license to snoop around without people getting too upset. He’s mine, so whatever you want, he’ll jump to it. He’s paid sixty thousand dollars a year to march to my drumbeat, and he’s a good one. Snotty at times, like the English can be, but smart as a whip, and he knows everything,”

  “What’s he doing about the cover for Lisa Warren?”

  “Just what you wanted done,” said Clarke. “He’s contacted the lawyer, and he’ll get back to me about the details. He’ll also have something to do with the competitor business you wanted set up, but I’m bringing in somebody else on that too.”

  Turning to face Clarke, Sand said, “I won’t be around when Taper calls. I’m leaving.” Behind Clarke, he saw Frank Pines on the phone—as always, doing what The Baron wanted done and not asking why.

  “Where you goin’?”

  “London,” said Sand. “Book me on a flight in, say, three hours. Let Taper know I’m coming. I’m getting out of Washington before they seal this town off and it really gets tough for me. After tonight …” His voice trailed off, his eyes still on Clarke’s face.

  Clarke looked down at the carpet, then back at Sand. “Guess you did what you thought was right.”

  Sand shrugged, then turned back to the window, his eyes on the yellow-and-light-blue sky inching up under the still-black night. “She wanted dignity,” he said softly. “And a few minutes with me got her killed.”

  Clarke said softly. “That’s what you and I are trying to do—to see that the top in this world lets the bottom breathe a little, even if we have to tear down the top.”

  Sand murmured, “Even if we have to tear it down …” Louder he said, “Make sure you set up Reiss like I told you.”

  Clarke looked mildly surprised, saying. “I was kinda thinkin’ he might be with the angels by now.” Grinning, he added, “Don’t ask me why.”

  The Black Samurai turned to face him. “He will be, but not just yet. He knows where the virus is; he may even have it. He had to live so he could turn it over to Drewcolt. Talon failed the last time, so bet he’ll either come over and pick it up or he’ll throw the most elaborate security around it you’ve ever seen. No, Mr. Reiss’s life was spared. As a matter of fact, the other two are alive, too.”

  The Baron looked puzzled. “I thought—”

  Sand interrupted in a quiet voice. “I said they were alive. I said nothing else.”

  The tall Texan nodded his head once. “I see,” he said quietly.

  Behind him, Frank Pines, his hand over the receiver, said, “Mr. President, they want to speak to you. A slight problem.”

  “There won�
��t be when I get there,” he said. To Sand he said, “Sorry about the woman.”

  “Three other men are sorry too,” he said, and turned to look out the window.

  Chapter XIV

  LACK OF SLEEP HAD made William Baron Clarke’s face puffy, his voice husky. He had been on the telephone for almost five hours, calling England, Europe, and a few numbers in Washington, D.C. When he had left the White House a few years ago, the boredom and emptiness of retirement had frightened him. Having nothing to do was totally foreign to him. Now it was different, and he loved it.

  The change began when he had decided to “pay back”—to use his power, money, and influence to strike down people in power anywhere in the world using muscle against those with none. “Buying your way into heaven,” Sand had said.

  The Black Samurai, Robert Sand, had been the perfect answer. An ideal combination of mind and body, totally dedicated to a purpose beyond himself, and when necessary, strong enough to stand up to The Baron. Perfect. Black, therefore invisible in the white world. Perfect.

  A modern Samurai serving a modern warlord. A twentieth-century knight serving a twentieth-century baron.

  There would be no more long afternoon naps or rides across his 1,250,000-acre ranch. No more staring at the horizon from his ranch-house window. The hell of retirement had ended when he had found the Black Samurai.

  There was hard work again. Wheeling and dealing, scheming, infighting, long hours, conflicts, and trying to hold twelve strings in his hands at once and make them all pull in the direction he wanted. It meant pressure and tough, tight deadlines. It meant using his power once more instead of watching it die along with him.

  I meant life. The Black Samurai had made it possible for him to live again.

  Yes, he was tired now, exhausted, and he still had an important, meeting before grabbing what sleep he could get. The lines at the corners of his eyes seemed to multiply, and he yawned as though he were back in Congress listening to freshman lawmakers give their first speeches.

  But a closer look showed his eyes were alert and strong.

  “Frank,” he drawled. “Black coffee. Bring it in the bathroom. I wanna shave before he gets here. Oh, and send somebody downstairs for all the newspapers.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

  He looked at Pines. The blond Secret Service agent was unshaven, tieless, and rubbing the corners of both eyes with his fingertips. “Get some sleep, Frank. Soon as he gets here, go somewhere and lie down for a while.”

  Hiding a yawn, Pines then swallowed and said, “If you don’t mind, Mr. President, I’d like to be around while Canning’s here.”

  Smiling at him, The Baron rubbed his own unshaven tan face and nodded yes. “Have ’em send you up what you need—razor, clean shirt, anything at all. Charge it to the room.”

  “Thanks, Mr. President, but I keep a few things on hand all the time, extra shirt, razor. Thank you anyway.” He didn’t add that he kept an extra .357 Magnum on hand, too. That was part of his job.

  Clarke grinned. “You’re a good old boy, Frank. Yes sir, you are that.”

  Canning was on time. Who wouldn’t be? Meetings at seven in the morning were nothing new in Washington, and a private meeting with William Baron Clarke was a damn good reason for being where you were supposed to be.

  Clarke had sent a limousine to Canning’s house—he had insisted on it—and on the way over, when Canning had asked, “Know what this is about?” the driver had slowly moved his head from side to side, never saying a word, not taking his eyes from the road.

  Could be an offer of some kind, Canning told himself. That’s something else you could depend on in this town. Offers. Plenty of them. Just watch which ones you accept, because as he was learning lately, getting in was easy. Getting out was a ball-buster.

  Now he sat in William Baron Clarke’s suite, his lips dry, his heart beating fast, excited as always whenever he was near men of proven power. And make no mistake about it. The Baron still had muscle, even if he was no longer sitting in that very special chair on Pennsylvania Avenue.

  The bedroom door opened, and the tall Texan came through it in long strides, black leather boots freshly polished, gray pants with knifelike creases, and a white silk shirt open at the throat.

  A wide grin split his tan face, and he drawled, “Harley. Nice of you to drop by on your way to work.”

  Favoring his right leg, Canning stood up, saying, “Mr. President,” licking his thin lips, and trying to smile. “Nice seeing you again, sir.”

  The Baron grinned, saying nothing. As far as he could recall, they had never met, but he was used to people who insisted on knowing everyone and being everywhere when in truth they knew no one and went nowhere. He found it pitiful and amusing. But in Washington, he had long ago learned that it was often who you could convince others you knew that really mattered.

  “Harley,” he said, “don’t want to take up too much of your time. Sit down, boy, go on, sit down. No reason for you to stand. Me, I been sitting for hours, so standin’s a relief. Now, where was I? Oh, yeah.” Turning his head over his left shoulder. The Baron called out, “Frank. Frank, bring that thing on in here, son.”

  A door opened, and Frank Pines pushed a drink cart into the living room, toward Clarke and Harley Canning. Quickly glancing from the silver champagne bucket to The Baron, Canning smiled and said, “Some kind of celebration, huh, Mr. President?”

  Still grinning, Clarke said, “Look again, Harley.”

  Canning’s eyes switched back to the silver champagne bucket now rolling closer to him. Then his eyes grew wider, his mouth dropped open, and for a few seconds he felt as if all the breath had been sucked from his body.

  A virus canister was pushed down into the champagne bucket of crushed ice. Two inches of the shining metal container could still be seen, covered with flecks of melting ice and beads of water. When the cart was in front of Canning’s knees, Frank Pines stopped, straightened up, unbuttoned his jacket, and stepped to Canning’s right.

  Canning never saw the brown strap of the shoulder holster across the chest of the slim blond man. Nor did he see Pines’ cold, alert eyes focus on him.

  Breathing loudly, Canning kept his eyes on the metal container, all the time moving his head slowly from side to side as if denying its existence. His mouth was open, as though in shock, and he moved his jaw as if to speak, but no sound passed his lips. Shock and fear squeezed him tightly, and he felt as though he had just been kicked in the heart.

  The Baron let the devastating reality sink in for almost a full minute before he spoke. Then his words were brisk, his voice harsh and terrifying. “I’ll be direct with you, Mr. Canning. In forty-eight hours, this bit of frozen metal in front of you is going to be returned to where you stole it. As I see it, that’s gonna give the government one more than they now think they own. That’s gonna raise questions. Oh, yes, I know about your little removal and substitution. Now, when this thing is returned, your name is gonna come up a helluva lot, along with the date of your most recent visit to that little place over in Maryland. Please don’t waste my time with bullshit denials. You took it, I’m putting it back. That is, unless you resign sometime within those forty-eight hours.”

  “Mr. President, I—”

  “Shut the hell up, you dumb bastard!” Clarke’s voice ripped through the room like a down-home tornado. “When you sold your bony ass for a buck, you sold out this country as well! I don’t want to hear shit, you understand? Frank!”

  Spinning on his heels, Pines ran to a desk, picked up an envelope, and jogged back, handing it to The Baron.

  Taking out the photographs, Clarke tossed them at Canning, still staring in silence at the champagne bucket. Some of the black-and-white pictures fell to the floor. Two landed on Canning’s lap. “Harley!” Clarke’s shout slapped the thin-lipped man’s brain like an iron pipe across the face. “Damn you, look at them. I say, look, at them!”

  His lips moving and nothing coming from his mouth,
Canning jerked his eyes from the canister down to the photographs. They were clear, in focus, and damaging. Canning’s limousine at the front gate of the Maryland storage depot; Canning outside the car talking to a guard; close-up of the license plate on his car parked near an official sign listing the name of the Maryland storage depot; a shot of him entering the building where the virus was stored, shaking hands with an Army colonel before moving through the door. There were more, the most dangerous one of all being a shot of Canning bending over his gas tank.

  “The noose is around you neck, and I’m about ready to kick the box from under your stupid feet.” Clarke was standing over him now, every word pounding on Canning’s brain with the force of an ax. “Forty-eight hours. Then the virus goes back, along with copies of these pictures. A set of these pictures is also going to every Washington newspaper, along with a small anonymous note, and you know what that means. Those fuckers will pluck out your eyeballs with pliers if they think anybody’s interested in readin’ about it. And last and probably least, some of these here pictures is going to that sumbitch called your commander-in-chief. At the moment he can’t afford to have any of his accomplices caught with their hand in the cookie jar, any more than they’ve already been caught. Forty-eight hours, Harley. You jump, or ah’m gonna shove!”

  Turning, The Baron walked toward the bedroom, and without turning around, he said, “Frank, get that out of here!”

  Pines looked down at Canning. “You heard the man. Let’s move!”

  Maynard Reiss’s fat fingers lightly brushed the bandage across his forehead. “I followed your instructions. It’s packed in ice in a wall safe, eight men on guard twenty-four hours a day. No way in that room except through the front door, and like you told me, I gave them the word: anybody but me comes in the room, and they shoot. No questions, just shoot.”