Warren Murphy: Shock Value

Smith breathed deeply. When he spoke, his voice was weighted with urgency. "Abraxas is planning to reveal himself on worldwide television. He's going to interrupt broadcasts all over the world to announce the Great Plan of Abraxas. If that happens, the people he's hypnotized will support the massive destruction he's going to suggest. It will be too late to stop him then."

Chiun thought. "But how can everyone see him at once? Half the world sleeps while the other half lives in daylight."

"He's projected a time when all the communications satellites orbiting above earth will be in optimum position to broadcast to their widest possible range." He toyed sheepishly with his shirt button. "I did it for him, actually, from the compound's computer center. I— er— wasn't quite myself."

"Perfectly understandable, o worthy emperor," Chiun said. "You were doused."

"Messages have been transmitted from individual satellites telling people when to tune in. He's expecting an audience of a half-billion."

"Interesting."

"A half-billion people is enough to begin a world revolution."

"I see. And when will this announcement occur?"

"On the twelfth. One minute after midnight on the twelfth. That's odd. On the island I seem to have lost all track of time. What date is it today?"

"The eleventh," Chiun said.

"The eleventh?" Smith checked his watch. The color drained from his face. "It's eleven-twenty," he said.

On the South Shore grounds, Chiun regarded the rambling old manor house. "A strange place," he said.

"I suppose so," Smith panted, already exhausted from rowing the rubber raft that brought them from the yacht. Scaling the high fence onto the grounds had not been easy, either. Smith marveled at the uncanny strength of the old Oriental, who must have passed his eightieth year. For him the fence had been a child's barricade, crossed without effort. But then Chiun, he remembered, was special, just as Remo was special. Among the three, Smith alone was vulnerable to fatigue and weakness.

He wanted to rest. His head was still swimming from the effects of the drinks. He would never be young again, and, unlike Chiun, age and mortality weighed heavily on him. "Let's go in," he said.

"Are there no guards?"

"Unnecessary. Everyone here is fanatically devoted to Abraxas, and outsiders don't come in. They claim the place holds evil spirits, or some such nonsense."

"It may not be nonsense," Chiun said quietly. "I do not like the feel of this house."

The interior of the mansion was a labyrinth of small rooms connected by obscure passageways. In the distance were the muffled sounds of voices.

"They all must be in the conference room," Smith said. He glanced at his watch again. "Waiting for the broadcast."

"We do not have enough time to search all the rooms," Chiun said.

"I don't think we have to. If I can get into the computer center, I might be able to stop him from there."

"A machine cannot stop a maniac," Chiun scoffed.

"I'm going to try to get the codes for transmission and scramble them," Smith whispered as they headed down a series of empty, twisting corridors. "You see, the transmissions are beamed off satellites using codes translated into microwave emissions..." He looked at Chiun, whose eyes were rolling. "Never mind," he said. "Follow me."

"As you wish."

The door to the computer room was locked. "Is this a problem?" Smith asked.

Chiun poked it with a fast jab of his index finger. The steel plate surrounding the knob shattered and fell to the floor like shards of glass. "No," Chiun answered.

There were only four items in the room: the computer console, a utilitarian chair placed behind it, a television monitor suspended from the ceiling, and the omnipresent camera. Smith sucked in his breath sharply at the sight of the camera. It was stationary. No hum issued from it. He waved his hand in front of it.

"It's not operating," he said finally. "Watch the door."

He sat down at the console. Then, his hands moving like a concert pianist's, he prepared the computer for conversation.

"GIVE PRESENT LOCATIONS OF COMMUNICATIONS SATELLITES," he keyed in.

The screen flashed with a series of coordinates in space. Smith picked the first and locked it into the mode he was using.

"GIVE CODE FOR TRANSMISSION."

"VOICE PRINT REQUIRED," the screen flashed back. "FOR ABRAXAS'S EYES ONLY."

Smith stared at it, feeling numb.

"Do you not like its answer?" Chiun asked solicitously.

"I should have known. The computer's been programmed to screen everyone but Abraxas himself from the data concerning the broadcast."

"Machines are never to be trusted," Chiun said. "We must seek out the false god ourselves."

"There isn't time. He could be broadcasting from anywhere on the grounds." He sat unmoving in front of the computer, his face a blank.

"I will go, emperor."

"Wait," Smith said. "Let me try something." He rearranged the mode on the computer keys.

"GIVE LOCATION OF TRANSMISSION CENTER," he typed.

A blueprint appeared.

"Now it draws pictures," Chiun said irritably.

"This is the layout of the house," Smith said, his eyes scanning the blueprint expertly. When he had memorized it, he turned off the machine and rose. "He's on this floor," he said.

?Chapter Sixteen

The trail of Circe's blood led Remo to the rear of the mansion on South Shore. The sea was visible here, roaring behind the deep shadows of the house. Two areas of the place were lit. One wing was bathed in light, and the dim sound of people talking emanated from the brightness. On the opposite end of the manor, a single light glowed from behind a pair of narrow French windows that opened onto the lawn. It was to these windows, directly, that the bloodstains led.

As he neared the source of light, he felt the shadows swallowing him. The place had an aura of perversion and monstrousness about it that made him shiver. It was as if the house itself were alive, infused with the evil of its owner.

Death, Remo was sure, had chosen this place to fold its wings.

The glass doors were open. Inside, Circe lay on a divan, her eyes closed, the front of her dress covered with blood. By her head was a wheelchair facing a paneled wall opposite the windows. Above its leather back Remo could see the top of a man's bald head.

Remo stepped in silently.

"Welcome," a deep voice called from the wheelchair. It was a strange voice, sounding as if it came from an electronic amplifier. A hand motioned toward the wall. "Your shadow gave you away. But then I was hoping you would come."

The wheelchair spun around at a touch from the man's hand to a panel of buttons on the chair's arm. At once Remo recognized the humming, electric sound he had heard in the cave.

The sight was shocking. Circe had told him about her employer's disfigurement, but nothing had prepared Remo for the creature who now stared at him from across the room. He was a man, or had been once. Both of his legs had been amputated at the hip. The trunk above them was strapped into the electric wheelchair by two long leather thongs. His arms were powerfully built. One of them looked normal, the only normal part of his body. The right arm ended in a two-pronged metal claw.

His face was a mass of scars and metal plates grafted over motley skin that had obviously been burned to the bone at one time. He possessed no hair, not even eyebrows. One eye stared roundly out of the lesions; the other was an empty socket discolored to a deep purple-red. His head sat immobile on his neck, which was collared by a thin band of steel. On the band, in the middle of where his throat would have been, protruded a small black box.

"I am Abraxas," he said. The black box vibrated. "I trust you will forgive my appearance. I do not entertain often."