Warren Murphy: Shock Value

God only knows what he's going to do to the rest of us.

?Chapter Six

He owed Chiun an apology.

Remo walked back slowly, trying to make sense of the strange trail where Smith's simple assignment had led him. So far, he knew next to nothing: A man named Orville Peabody had disappeared from his home to emerge three weeks later as an international assassin. Judging from his tanned skin, Peabody had probably spent those weeks in a warm climate. But doing what? And for whom? What had accounted for the drastic change in his personality shown by the photographs?

Then there was the Abraxas connection. That was the most puzzling part of the whole business. A man's dying word, seen before the fact by his wife and mentioned again by his child. Abraxas is going to make it all better, the kid had said, if Remo was to believe Mrs. Peabody.

And he did believe her. What she had told him was too close to Chiun's description of his own visions to be tossed aside as lunacy.

It had been a mistake not to trust Chiun. Abraxas was the key to the riddle that had been woven like a net around the murders of the three terrorists, and Chiun was one of the people who held it.

"Little Father, I'm sorry," Remo began as he entered the motel room, but the words stuck in his throat at the sight that confronted him.

In the middle of the room stood a black lacquer edifice of some kind, trimmed in gold and reaching as high as the ceiling. It resembled a miniature stepped pyramid, like photographs Remo had seen of the ancient Aztec tombs at Chichen Itza. At each of its many levels burned long fragrant ivory-colored tapers that made the pryamid shimmer with bright flame.

"What the hell is that?" Remo asked, incredulous.

"A shrine," Chiun said blandly.

"Where'd you get it? It looks like a model of something."

"It was. I removed it from the library."

"You stole it?"

Chiun clucked. "How crass you are. The Master of Sinanju has no need to steal. I told them you would pay for it."

"Great. That's just great." Remo paced around the room. "What'd you take it for, anyway?"

"It was not being put to proper use. Some fool had covered it with signs calling it a tomb."

"Oh," Remo said. "And of course, anyone can see what this splendid object's real use is."

"Of course."

Remo exploded. "Then would you mind letting me in on the secret? Because it sure looks like a model of a tomb to me."

"Lout." The old man sniffed. "It is an object of worship. Obviously."

"To what?"

"To Abraxas." The old man's eyes sparkled.

"Oh, no."

"I have found the knowledge I was seeking." He floated into a full lotus in front of the pyramid.

Remo sat down beside him. "Okay, who's Abraxas?"

"I thought I was a madman in your estimation."

"I was wrong."

"Naturally."

"Other people have been seeing the same thing. I've got to know, Chiun."

The old Oriental smiled smugly. "Very well. I'll tell you. Abraxas was a deity worshipped by the ancient Chaldeans from between 1000 and 600 B.C., according to your calendar. His followers proclaimed him to be a god of both good and evil, light and darkness. Hence the white candles upon the black shrine."

"600 B.C.," Remo reflected, wondering how a forgotten god from a lost civilization could possibly figure into a ring of modern-day assassins. "That's old."

"Old enough to be of merit," Chiun said, conferring his highest praise upon the deity. "Perhaps Abraxas was an acquaintance of the great Wang himself."

"Did Wang say so?"

Chiun snorted in contempt. "Not one of the greatest Master's writings was included in the inferior collection of worthless books at the library," he said. "I had to command the librarian to seek the information about Abraxas through lesser channels."

"I can't figure this out."

Chiun patted his head sympathetically. "It is not the place of white men to understand." With a quick look to the balcony, the old man rose from the floor and dashed out. "It is time," he said hurriedly, checking the position of the sun.

"For what?"

"The Noon News, featuring the lovely Cheeta Ching."

"Come on," Remo whined. "This is serious. Can't you put off watching that fly-eating armadillo until the next newscast?"

"If you cannot bear the sight of such beauty as Cheeta Ching's, then leave. Go stare at ox-teated white women." He switched on the set.

With a sigh, Remo watched the screen dissolve onto the pancake-faced, fang-toothed visage of the Channel 3 anchorwoman.

"Good afternoon," Cheeta said through snarling lips. "There's a new wrinkle in the international fracas involving the assassination of three terrorists earlier this week. Small but vocal groups around the world are calling for the posthumous pardon of the three assassins who lost their lives after eliminating the known terrorists."

"Assassins," Chiun said with disgust. "They use the word to mean any bumbling fool with a weapon. Even Mr. Pea Shooter."

"Peabody," Remo muttered.

"In Washington this morning, demonstrators rallied in front of the White House to demand that the government extend a formal apology and full restitution to the widow of Orville Peabody, who killed terrorist Franco Abbrodani in Rome last Monday. The demonstrators, calling the assassination an act of heroism, are being dispersed by Washington police for assembling without a permit."

The image shifted to a group of people picketing outside the White House gates as police attempted to break up the crowd.

"What is the purpose of this gathering?" an unseen reporter asked a burly working man in his forties.

"We want to clear the memory of Orville Peabody," he said. "Peabody was an agent of God. When he killed that Eyetalian troublemaker, he made the world better for all of us." Cheers went up behind him.

The screen switched back to Cheeta Ching. "What marks these worldwide demonstrations is a seeming lack of organizational leadership. When asked by authorities to produce their assembly permit, the Washington demonstrators stated that they were called together by an invisible force named Abraxas. Whether or not this is related to Mr. Peabody's famous last word is not known. Nor is the fascist Washington government's reaction to the demand. This is Cheeta Ching, the voice of truth. More news at six o'clock."

"Oh, God," Remo said. "I've got to call Smitty."

"A fine idea," Chiun said patronizingly, turning off the television. "Emperor Smith's mind is even weaker than your own. It will make you feel better."

"I keep telling you he's not an emperor, and besides— oh, never mind." He waited for a long time with the telephone receiver against his ear. He dialed again. Once again the direct line to Smith rang. And rang.

"What's going on?" Remo said aloud. The direct line was accessible to Smith anywhere. It connected with his desk at Folcroft, with Smith's home, in a room where Mrs. Smith was not permitted, even with the portable phone Smith carried in his attaché case. Just about the only place in the world the direct line didn't go was to Smith's secretary's desk. It was for Harold Smith alone, and Harold Smith always answered it. Always.

"Something's wrong," Remo said, slamming down the receiver. "We've got to get to Folcroft."

'They chartered a helicopter on the roof of the Pan Am building. Smith was good about keeping Remo in ready cash. The money came in handy for emergencies, even though he had to explain the expenditures to the penurious Smith later.

Well, this was one expense even Smitty wasn't going to complain about, he thought as he climbed out of the helicopter. He made his way from the roof down the walls of Folcroft Sanitarium. Chiun was ahead of him, easing down the sheet-faced building as if it were a stepladder. Hand under hand, the old man crawled deftly toward the reflecting glass windows of Smith's inner office. With the long, iron-hard nail of his index finger, he outlined the window and pushed at it gently until it gave. He caught the glass as it fell and set it on the floor inside the office before he slipped silently in. Remo followed, acknowledging Chiun's work with a brief nod.