Warren Murphy: Lost Yesterday

“In what place that won't be near a water system?

“We’ve got the situation at the Dolomo estate contained, but it is a nightmare if ever they start mass-producing the stuff.”

“So we should get the stuff first?”

“I don't know. That's why we want you with the communicator,” said Smith.

Before they left, Smith wanted to see the President and personally assure him they were going through with this.

“He's been attacked all over the country. Only the people are with him. He's a stand-up guy and he should know that he's got help.”

“And of course, while we are there, if he should fall and suffer an accident...?” suggested Chiun.

“No,” said Smith.

“Not now, then,” said Chiun.

In the Oval Office, Remo Williams promised his President that nothing would stop him.

“I'm an American,” said Remo. “And I don't like to see my country trashed.”

“No. Just the Dolomos. Don't do anything to the press,” said the President.

The President kept avoiding Chiun's eyes. Remo guessed that he knew it had been Chiun who was supposed to kill him.

Chiun saw the President's reaction. This could mean that the lunatic Smith had actually told the current emperor of his plans. Nothing was beyond the insanity of these whites whom Remo continued beyond all reason to serve.

“For the first time I feel like we are in control of the situation,” said the President.

“Whites are never in control of the situation. They are the situation.” This, of course, in Korean.

* * *

Remo and Chiun entered Harbor Island, now being openly talked of as Alarkin or Free Alarkin or Liberated Alarkin. The people doing the talking were newsmen. Some of them were reporting right from the boat. Remo and Chiun avoided the cameras.

One announcer talked of how weak Alarkin had made America, how it had exposed not only America's weakness but also America's intolerance of religious minorities to the world.

“The feeling of many of the hijacked passengers is that while they disagree with hijacking, they have come to learn the pain and persecution suffered by the Powies. They have seen American ships and American guns surround the tiny nation of Alarkin, once Harbor Island. They understand how Poweressence devotees can find themselves in American jails, and they have no wonder that America is a target for those who do not have aircraft carriers or nuclear bombs, but only their own lives. These lives the Powies used in what some in the West might call terrorism. But to the weak and oppressed it is a chance to risk everything against the powerful for the sake of loved ones in American jails. After all, they ask, why not trade one innocent captive for another, and they refer to Kathy Bowen, seized by armed American law-enforcement officers and put behind bars.”

When the announcer finished, he took off his makeup and looked around for applause.

Remo looked to Chiun. “That's not reporting, that's propaganda.”

“Why do you care? I don't understand anything about the crazy whites of your country.”

“Somebody is supposed to try to tell the truth. These guys color everything.”

“Who doesn't?” asked Chiun. “If you are dissatisfied with these, hire your own.”

Even before they reached the dock, two other reporters gave reports to their television cameras on whether the press was a factor in the story. Their conclusion was that the press, considering its handicaps, was doing as well as it could. There was a reporter on the boat who was doing a story for a journalism magazine on criticism of the media, and he was coming to a conclusion that the critics were biased and narrow-minded and that the press had done an outstanding job.

“Am I wrong?” he asked the television newsmen and the reporters.

They all thought he was basically right.

“Good, because I am going back with the boat. I don't have to actually go onto the island to get the story if I have it now.”

“Why are you bothered by such silly things?” asked Chiun. “What is this thing about truth? That you know what is so is the only matter of importance.”

“But these guys are heard by millions.”

“Then it is the problem of the millions. You may not remember, but I once told you that to know the truth is enough for any one person. What another knows is his problem.”

“I don't like to see my country get trashed by its own,” said Remo.

“I do,” said Chiun. “Your country deserves it. Now, if they were to defame Sinanju, the glorious gem of civilization on the West Korea Bay, then we might take proper action.”

“Forget it, Little Father. I am well enough that I remember Sinanju. It's a mudhole of a fishing village. I remember now. We had a big fight there once.”

“You had a fight, I had a glorious homecoming,” said Chiun.

The boat landed and about twenty young men and women with whips met the American newsmen. Some were herded to the old cow barns. Others were taken to the sheep pasture before they were allowed to interview the hijackers.

Remo turned on his communicator.

It was half the size of a loaf of bread and had been designed for absolute simplicity. There were only two buttons to push. Somehow Remo managed to push them four times in combinations that failed to work. He thought that should be impossible. He banged it once. He banged it twice, gently.

“Working,” came Smith's voice.

“What do you want first?”

“Locate that liquid but keep Chiun with you. You know what happened to you last time.”

“When I do that, what should I do then?”

“Probably move on the Dolomos and then on the Powies, and that should take care of the hijacked passengers. Let the Marines rescue them.”

“How does this thing work? I got it going by accident.”

“You press the button on the right to turn it on and the one on the left to turn it off.”

“Oh,” said Remo, and was cut off when he pressed the wrong button.

Chiun was outraged again that they were following a typical Smith insanity. A professional assassin should remove great leaders, he pointed out, not go shopping for formulas. Let his chemist take care of that, not his assassins, Chiun said. None of this would happen if they worked for a legitimate emperor instead of the lunatic.

It was not easy getting out of the corrals set up for the reporters. Remo opened the gate using a Powie head as a battering ram. The reporters did not escape but waited for other Powie guards to return to tell them where to go and what to report.

At the harbor facing the neighboring Bahamian island of Eleuthera, Remo saw that many of the houses were boarded shut. These were pleasant houses, many with pink shutters and pastel walls, with red and yellow flowers growing in abundance over white picket fences. The British had been here and left their influence.

There was a sense of civility about these houses that surpassed anything in Great Britain, however. The homes were warm, welcoming, and open. And yet all the doors were shut.

“Now,” said Chiun, “in an occupied land, to whom do you go to find out what the occupants are doing?”

“I remember that one, Little Father,” said Remo. “You go to the occupiers second.”

“Because?”

“Because while only a top few of the occupiers know what they are doing, almost every one of the occupied knows,” said Remo.

“Correct,” said Chiun.

The thing that hit Remo hardest, while walking these pleasant stone streets amid pleasant bungalows and cottages, was the silence. No one was in the streets. The houses talked of liveliness and the streets talked ominously of silence.

“They're all inside,” said Remo. He entered a pleasant pink bungalow with white shutters bordered by an expanse of bougainvillea over a manicured white picket fence. The air smelled of sea and flowers and it was good.