Warren Murphy - Lost Yesterday

Remo knocked.

“We are inside as ordered,” said a pleasant British voice.

“We're not the occupiers,” said Remo.

“Then please leave. We don't want to be caught talking to you.”

“You won't be caught.”

“You can't assure us of that,” replied the very British voice.

“Yes I can,” said Remo.

The door opened and a black face appeared.

“Are you from the press?”

“No,” Remo admitted.

“Please do come in, then,” said the man with the British accent.

He shut the door behind Remo and Chiun. The parlor was pleasantly furnished with white wicker furniture. African designs covered the walls, and prominent over an artificial fireplace which never needed use was a lithograph of a very white, almost blond Jesus.

“I will not talk to another American reporter. They came around here asking if we wanted American planes to bomb our homes, and when we all said 'of course not,' they went on to report we were afraid of an American invasion. If we didn't know the British newspapers were worse, we would be outlandishly offended.”

“We're here to get the bad guys.”

“At last, somebody is capable of making a moral distinction. What I don't understand is how so many can say they are for these Powies but against the hijacking. They are the hijacking. They are putting alligators in people's swimming pools. They made the attempt on your President's life. That is who they are.”

“Couldn't agree more,” said Remo.

“And they have bad manners. And they pass out these ridiculous leaflets on their fake cult.”

“Couldn't agree more,” said Remo.

“Then let's have a spot of tea, and you let me know how I can help you. I am simply outraged that every time somebody takes over a place with force, your press calls it liberation and then blithely goes on to the next free country reporting its ills until it too is liberated. Do you know what 'liberated' has come to mean? Any country which will shoot you if you leave.”

“Couldn't agree more,” said Remo. “But I'm afraid we're going to pass on the tea. We're looking for something these people have. It's a formula, a liquid, they're making here. It makes people forget.”

“I wish I could take some now,” joked their host. “I don't know of such a thing, but my children might.”

The man introduced Remo to a boy and girl about ten years old. They were bright, intelligent, neat, and polite.

“I didn't know they made polite children anymore,” said Remo.

“Certainly not in America,” said Chiun, alluding to his problems with Remo.

Remo explained what he was looking for.

“I don't know if it will be any help, but these bad people are making some stuff, like water, that makes people forget. Even if you touch it, you can be affected just as if you drank it. It goes through the skin.”

“Like interferon,” said the boy.

“What?” said Remo.

“It's a drug. Many drugs can be transferred through the pores, you know. They do breathe.”

“I know that,” said Remo.

“That explains what they're doing under the north end of Pink Beach,” said the boy.

“The big rubber bags,” said the girl.

“The big rubber room.”

“Rubber would do it. They'd have to seal it in something,” said Remo.

“And to think the House of Sinanju used to serve czars,” said Chiun. “By all means explain to us about rubber bags. That is what we are here for. Rubber bags for garbage.”

“The first thing they did was to dig a giant hole in the north end of Pink Beach. They have those silly Americans working for nothing. They're part of the cult. Once it was dug, they built a concrete foundation with a concrete roof,” said the boy.

“Yes, my friend Sally heard them saying an airplane would have to be able to land on it without disturbing it. That was before the hijacked plane arrived,” said the girl.

“And then they built rubber rooms inside it, and I remember seeing them bring in rubber bags.”

“How many?” asked Remo.

“We counted fifteen. We thought it was strange. Then they covered up everything with the sand.”

“And then of course the plane landed.”

Remo reported all of this to Smith and got the order he expected:

“Get the rubber bags.”

He promised the family that he would personally remove the Powies from their island, even if the U.S. government didn't.

“I see that you've got an idiot box,” said the boy.

“You mean the communicator?” asked Remo.

“I don't know what it does,” said the boy. “But when you have to have something run by backward people you reduce it to two buttons. That way they have to be able to work it. It could be anything.”

“Sometimes I have difficulty with mechanical objects,” admitted Remo.

“They built it just for you, Remo,” said Chiun.

The north end of Pink Beach was guarded by three Powies using their positive thoughts to ward off painful sunburn. They were in a great deal of pain from red, peeling skin.

One of them was talking about returning to group therapy instead of Poweressence. She was called a traitor.

Remo examined Pink Beach. They had done a good job of covering up the concrete. But it was easy to sense its location. The mass virtually breathed its presence under the pink sand.

The three Powie guards tried to stop Remo. With a flick of his wrist he caught their oncoming bodies and flung them into the sea. Just at the horizon was the American aircraft carrier sending off another flight of planes.

Chiun watched the wrist action as Remo propelled the charging Powies into the gently rolling waves off Pink Beach. It was hard for him to tell how much Remo was regaining of his functions by so simple a move. He could have done that while totally under the influence of the solution.

“You should have saved them to dig our way in,” said Chiun.

But he knew moving through sand was only slightly more difficult that moving through water and even people without Sinanju could do that.

They got into the room easily. Chiun pushed Remo back so that he would not step on an almost invisible spot of moisture on the rubber floor.

Remo recognized the onion-and-garlic smell. It was the formula.

Inside the room was a small glass chamber outfitted with rubber arms. A person could work with the material inside that capsule and then climb through the trapdoor underneath and come out at the entrance.

A spout and a conveyor belt were within easy reach of the arms. Apparently the rubber bags moved along the belt and were filled. A heating iron at the end of the belt probably sealed the bags.

And at the end were fifteen racks under shower heads. Apparently that was where the rubber bags were washed off and stored. But only one rubber bag remained.

“Chiun, you search for the rubber bags while I get away from here.”

“I am not a treasure hunter, I am an assassin.”

“Then I'll do it,” said Remo.

“You know you don't have your breathing correct yet,” said Chiun.

Remo went out through the sand to the fresh air and waited for Chiun. It was not a long wait.

“There is only one bag left,” said Chiun.

Remo fumbled with the communicator and finally got Smith.

“Fourteen bags are missing.”

“That's unfortunate. Move on the Dolomos now. Find out what they've done with the solution. Find out who has the formula. Find out everything.”

“And the hostages?”

“Later. I'm sorry, but it's necessary.”

“Maybe I can get to the Dolomos easiest by springing the hostages,” said Remo.

“But remember, they are secondary,” said Smith.

“Right,” lied Remo.

Remo found the hostages were being kept at the hotels on the harbor and being moved to whichever news organization paid the highest price for an interview. As it turned out, the spokesman for the group who had such profound sympathy for their cause also sold printing to Poweressence. He had profound sympathy for them even when they put alligators into people's swimming pools.