Warren Murphy: Shock Value

"How did you find that out?" Smith asked irritably.

"My employer has many resources at his disposal. Not the least of them is a tremendous supply of funds for research into our delegates' pasts."

Smith shifted uneasily in his seat. "That was a long time ago," he said, adding, "it was never my field in the first place."

She smiled. "Yes, of course. Your name has not come up in the literature of computer technology for more than a decade. You have never been employed as a computer analyst. You work as the director of Folcroft Sanitarium. Sure. And Bobby Fischer is a beach bum."

"What?"

She regarded him levelly. "The way one lives does not alter one's ability, Dr. Smith. Your ability with computers is what matters, not your job."

"You've got the wrong man," Smith said gruffly.

"We would if we hadn't traced you through a computer."

Smith stiffened.

"There's no need for paranoia. We assumed that if you were still active in the field, a computer would be near you. It was the best way to reach you. Your information banks weren't tapped, if that's what you're afraid of."

He felt as if he were going to lose control of his bladder. The information banks weren't pirated. He said only, "I don't believe you."

Circe shrugged. "That makes no difference to me. I just thought it would set your mind at rest to know that whatever arcane project you were working on wasn't snooped on. Not that we didn't try. Your circuitry is too complex. That was when we knew you were our man."

"But the messages..."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Think about it, Dr. Smith. The telephone."

His mouth opened as the realization hit him. "The phones were dead," he said in wonder.

"A general short-circuit. The emergency generator kept the lights and whatever hospital machinery you have operating automatically. The phones and the computer are linked, of course. They usually are."

"But the message."

"A special hookup into your phone system. Temporary. It's gone by now."

"And the recorded instructions to meet you?"

"A one-time routing. That line no longer exists."

He looked at her for a long moment. "You people are certainly going to a lot of trouble," he said.

"There's a lot at stake."

She didn't speak again until they touched down on a small runway on what appeared to be a deserted island. Tropical plants and exotic flowering trees grew along the strip in primitive abandon. But somehow the atmosphere of the place was strangely oppressive. The air was heavy with the moisture of salt spray. Overhead, a cloud blotted out the small, high sun, making Smith feel as if he were in an enclosed box.

Circe turned off the engine and motioned for him to leave the craft. As he rose, she folded her hand over the handle of his attaché case.

"You can't have that," Smith said.

"No?" She drew a pistol from under the seat and held it steady inches from his face. The gun was only a .22 caliber, but at point-blank range would have turned his face into a rosette garnish of flesh.

With a hiss of disgust, he left the case with her. "One more thing," he said. "When I asked you if you were behind this, you said, 'Not exactly.' Just who is your employer? Exactly."

She reached across him and flung open his door. The damp air rushed in and surrounded him like sticky hands.

"A name you may have heard of, Dr. Smith," she said, smiling slowly. "Welcome to the realm of Abraxas."

?Chapter Five

"Abraxas, Abraxas."

Chiun stood on the small terrace of the motel in West Mahomset, a half-mile from the Peabody house, and muttered into the wind. His almond eyes were narrowed in concentration. His hands with their long taloned fingernails lay folded inside the sleeves of his long green satin robe. The breeze was high, causing the white wisps of hair on his head and chin to billow gently. "Abraxas," he repeated. "I am sure that is what it was."

"What'd you say, Little Father?" Remo shouted from inside. When the old man didn't answer, Remo peered out, stuffing the photograph of Orville Peabody into an envelope. "What's that?"

"Hmmmm? A name, I think. It is confusing." He shook his head. Long tendrils of mustache swayed from side to side.

"Tell me. Maybe I can help."

"Help? You?"

"Stranger things have happened," Remo said jauntily. "All right, then. Don't tell me."

"Abraxas," Chiun said, his face solemn.

"Abraxas?"

"That is the word. I do not yet know what it means."

Remo smiled. "Case solved, Chiun. 'Abraxas' is what this Peabody guy said before he died. You must have heard it on Cheeta Ching's Left Wing Propaganda Update."

"The news? You think so?"

"Of course. What else could it be? Smitty told me about it over the phone."

Chiun looked at once thoughtful and worried. "There is something strange about the name. I have difficulty banishing it from my thoughts. It seems to follow me, even in sleep."

"Abraxas? I never heard it before Smitty called."

"Is that so unusual?" Chiun snapped. "Most thoughts pass by your mind with no more impression than a butterfly's breath."

"That's Korean gratitude for you," Remo said. "I help you out, and you insult me."

"Another thing," the old Oriental said hesitantly, his pensive frown returning.

"About Abraxas? Or my feeble mind?"

"I see the name, rather than hear it. It is like a vision. And when I see it, the vision appears in both English and Korean."

"A vision with subtitles," Remo mused.

"Idiot. The name is the vision, the name itself! Oh, why was it my fate to teach a brainless white boy with the sensitivity of a buffalo?" He jumped up and down, the ancient eyes glinting with anger. "The name Abraxas is the vision. It appears in bold characters, strung on a webbing of fine gray lines—"

"Calm down, Little Father. I understand," Remo said softly.

"You do not understand. You are humoring me because you think I am an old man losing my grasp on reality. That is what the ignorant young always think of their elders when confronted with something beyond their knowledge."

Remo took a step backward. "Whatever you say."

"Silence! I should never have mentioned it to you. Go on about your business."

"Look, uh... I don't think my meeting with Mrs. Peabody is going to take long. Why don't you just wait here for me till I come back?"

"I shall do as I please," the old man said stubbornly.

"Sure, Chiun. I want you to. Really. It's just—"

Chiun clenched his jaw in exasperation. "I am not crazed, Remo."

"Okay, okay." He held the envelope in front of him like a shield.

"So? Will you please go? Or do you think that this doddering maniac will leap to the street to molest infants in your absence?"

"Aw, don't be antsy." He caught his breath. "I mean... I mean..."

"Never mind," Chiun said. "I am going to the library. When I return, you will see that the Master of Sinanju is still in full possession of his faculties and that you, once again, are wrong."

"What's at the library?"

"Knowledge," Chiun said flatly. "I intend to search out the lesser writings of Ung the poet and Wang the Greater, most important Master of Sinanju. If the name 'Abraxas' is of any importance, it will be found in their sublime thoughts."

"I don't know how many sublime thoughts are floating around the West Mahomset Public Library," Remo said.

"If it is a true vision, then it will be made clear to me."

Remo waited a moment longer, watching the old man. At last he said, "Okay, Chiun. I'll see you later," and left.

But the thought of his old teacher chasing after wild hallucinations frightened him and made him sad. He decided to call Smith as soon as he was through with Mrs. Peabody and request a leave for himself and Chiun in Sinanju. Seeing his home again would make the old man happy.