Warren Murphy: Fool's Gold

"You are a disrespectful galoot," Chiun said.

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This was a new word he had learned only a few weeks before watching a cowboy movie and he was practicing using it on Remo. "Yes," he said. "Heh, heh. Just a galoot."

Suddenly, they heard the whistle of an approaching shell, and then felt a shudder as the shell hit and exploded near the mountain's base. Then they heard Moombasa's voice, shouting out over the loudspeaker.

"Fire. Destroy the British devil. Level that mountain. Not a stone left."

"We'd better get out of here before they get the range," Terri said.

"That probably gives us till next month," Remo said.

Chiun pointed toward the helicopter. "There is that whirly thing. Can you fly it?"

"If it's got wings, I can fly it," Remo said.

"Actually, it does not have wings," Chiun said.

"Actually, I can't fly it," said Remo.

"I can," Terri said.

"Thank God for liberated women," Remo said.

The shell bombardment was slowly getting closer and as the three clambered into the helicopter, a shell exploded only 20 yards from them on the hilltop.

Quickly and competently, Terri started the helicopter's motor and turned on the craft's lights. She looked outside at the hill, then jumped from the pilot's seat and ran back onto the hilltop.

"Remo, Chiun. Come quick," she called.

When they got to her, she was kneeling over the shell hole. At the bottom of the hole, the ground

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was glittering. Chiun reached in and pulled out a small pellet.

"Gold," he said.

"It's the mountain! The gold mountain. This is it. Yahooooo," Terri yelled.

They heard the whistle of another shell. It hit only 25 feet away and the concussion of the explosion pitched Terri onto her back.

She scrambled to her feet and shook her fist in Moombasa's direction.

"It's the gold mountain, you imbecile!"

From his vantage point below, Moombasa saw only a figure on the edge of the hill shaking a fist at him.

He picked up his loudspeaker and bellowed, "Taunt me, Englishman? We will destroy you. Fire. Fire. Fire. Bury that hill in the dirt."

Remo and Chiun helped Terri Pomfret back into the helicopter and she lifted the craft. It hovered for a moment, and then swooped down along the far side of the mountain, out of sight of Moombasa's artillery.

"The idiot's going to bury the hill," Remo said.

"Good. Then he'll never know the gold was there."

"And maybe our guys can sneak in some time and take it out and nobody'll be the wiser."

Chiun was silent and Remo asked him, "Something on your mind, Little Father?"

"Yes."

"What?"

"The House of Sinanju owes an apology."

"To whom?" asked Remo.

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"To Puk. No more can he be called Puk the Liar. He told the truth."

"Good old Puk," said Remo.

"You know what must have happened?" Terri said. She was flying the copter low now, barely skimming tree tops, on her way toward the ocean. "When the Spanish came, the Hamidians brought their gold out here and built that hill around it. Then they told the Spanish that the gold had been sent all over the world. And nobody ever knew. The Spanish massacred the Hamidians and the secret died with them. It's been sitting here all that time."

"Until now," Remo said. "When that nutcake is done, it won't even be a smear."

"Maybe it's best," Terri said. "Let the Hamidian legend die with them."

"I guess so," Remo said.

"It's a lot of gold," Chiun said.

Eighteen

Sometimes things just seemed to work right, even when they started out wrong.

That thought occurred to Barry Schweid, after he received the telephone call from the mysterious producer, Mr. Smith, to meet him right away at the offices of Universal Bindle Marmelstein Mammoth Global Magnificent Productions Inc.

But when Barry went outside, all four tires were flat on his 1971 Volkswagen.

But the bad luck turned good right away because, just by chance, there was a cab parked in front of his house.

The cabbie was a dark-haired young man who didn't talk much. From the back seat, Schweid noticed that the driver had very thick wrists.

He also noticed that the driver didn't seem to know his way around Los Angeles too well, because he couldn't ever seen to find Wilshire Boulevard.

"Can't you get me there?" Barry Schweid said. "This is an important meeting."

"Don't worry," the driver said. "He'll wait."

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Inside Barry Schweid's home, Dr. Harold W. Smith had the telephone hookup in place. He had learned a lesson from the last fiasco of trying to move CURE's records to St. Martin Island. Never again would he put all his eggs in one basket.

He listened over the telephone for the signals that indicated both receivers were ready.

Then he pressed the transmit switches on Schweid's word processor computer, and listened as the tapes began to whir.

It took seventeen minutes for all CURE's records to be transmitted across telephone lines to St. Martin. And back to CURE headquarters at Folcroft. From here on in, CURE would maintain double files.

As the computer continued to whir, Smith allowed himself a small smile. CURE was still operating; the battle against America's enemies had not yet been lost.

Twenty-seven minutes later, the taxicab pulled up to the curb.

Schweid looked out the window and squawked, "Hey. This is my house again. What are you doing?"

The driver ignored him. He rolled down the front passenger window and called out: "Got him, Smitty."

As Schweid watched, a thin man in a three-piece gray suit stepped from the bushes alongside his front entrance, walked quickly to the taxi, and got into the backseat alongside Schweid.

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"You want me to drive, Smitty?" the cabby said.

"No. Just stay here." The gray-suited man turned to Schweid. "I'm Mr. Smith."

"Well, I'm really glad to " But before he

could extend his hand, Schweid was cut off by Smith.

"You should know this," Smith said. "Bindle and Marmelstein are planning to steal your screenplay. They've already tried to sell it to me."

"My assassin movie?" asked Schweid.

"Right," Smith said. "According to them, they've got it tied up tight."

"I'll burn it before I let it be stolen," Schweid said.

"That's just what I want you to do," Smith said. "I want you to go inside your house and erase that screenplay from your computer. Wipe the tapes clean. And there'll be a check for you in the mail tomorrow."

"I knew it was too good to be true," Schweid said. "I just knew that movie would never be made. I'm going to destroy the screenplay right now. And all that other stuff I've got in my machine."

"Good," said Smith.

Schweid started out of the cab. "It didn't have a chance," he said. "I knew that."

The cabdriver said, "What do you mean? It didn't have a chance?"

"It was just too farfetched and too unbelievable," Schweid said. "A superkiller working for the government. No one would buy that."

"I guess you're right," said Remo Williams as Schweid left the cab and walked toward his house.

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After he had gone inside, Remo turned around from the driver's seat and said to Smith, "Suppose he doesn't wipe his tapes clean?"

"It doesn't matter," Smith said. "I already did. There's nothing left on them. And he just didn't have any idea of what the information was. He's harmless."

"Good," said Remo. "Where to?"

"Let's go see Bindle and Marmelstein," Smith said.

Hank Bindle and Bruce Marmelstein smiled in unison as Mr. Smith walked into the office, followed by a dark-haired young man in a black t-shirt and chinos.

"Mr. Smith, I presume," said Marmelstein, extending a hand in greeting.

"I want Schweid's screenplays," Smith said coldly.

"Which one?" said Marmelstein.