Warren Murphy: Created, The Destroyer

"You know why we never had this type of personnel before. Upstairs was afraid. They're still afraid. But they figure one man can't do much harm and if he does, he's easily removable."

"They're damned right he won't do much harm. He won't do much good either. He won't make enough of a splash to wipe up. And when he gets it?"

"You recruit another."

"You mean we don't even have one on standby? We assume our man's indestructible?"

"We assume nothing."

"You don't need a man for that job," MacCleary snarled. "You need Captain Marvel. Dammit, Smitty." MacCleary picked up the bottle and then threw it against the wall. It hit something and did not break, only increasing his anger. "Dammit, Smitty. Do you know anything about killing? Do you?"

"I've been associated with these projects before."

"Do you know that out of fifty men, you might get one halfway competent agent for this type of work? One out of fifty. And I've got to get one out of one."

"Make sure you get a good one," was Smith's calm reply.

"Good? Oh, he'll have to be good. He'll have to be a gem."

"You'll have the finest training facilities for him. Your personnel budget is unlimited. You can have five... six instructors."

MacCleary propped himself on the couch, right on Smith's jacket. "Couldn't do it with less than twenty."

"Eight," Smith said.

"Fifteen."

"Nine."

"Eleven."

"Ten."

"Eleven," MacCleary insisted. "Body contact, motions, locks, armaments, conditions, codes, language, psychology. Couldn't do it with less than eleven instructors. All full time and then it would take at least six months."

"Eleven instructors and three months."

"Five months."

"All right, eleven men and five months," Smith said. "Do you know of any agent who would be suited for this? Anybody in the CIA?"

"Not the superman you want."

"How long to find one?"

"May never find one," MacCleary said, rummaging in the liquor cabinet. "Killers aren't made, they're born."

"Rubbish. Lots of men, clerks, shopkeepers, anybody turn into killers in war."

"They don't turn into killers, Smitty. They find out that they were killers. They were born that way. And what makes this damned thing so tough is that you don't always find them wearing guns. Sometimes, the really good ones have an aversion to violence. They avoid it. They know in their hearts, what they are, like the alky who takes one drink. They know what that drink means. It's the same with killing."

MacCleary stretched out on the couch and began opening a new bottle. He waved at Smith as if to dismiss him. "I'll try to find one."

The next morning, Smith was in his office drinking his fourth alka seltzer to wash down his third aspirin, when MacCleary entered with a bounce. He walked to the picture window and stared at the sound.

"What do you want?" Smith growled.

"I think I know our man."

"Who is he? What does he do?"

"I don't know. I saw him once in Vietnam."

"Get him," Smith said. "And you get out of here," he added as he popped another aspirin into his mouth. He called casually after MacCleary's back as he headed for the door: "Oh, there's a new wrinkle. One more little thing upstairs wants from your man." He spun toward the window. "The man we get cannot exist," he said.

MacCleary's grin evaporated into astonishment.

"He cannot exist," Smith repeated. "No one anyone can trace. He has to be a man who doesn't exist, for a job that doesn't exist, in an organization that doesn't exist."

He finally looked up. "Any questions?"

MacCleary started to say something, changed his mind, turned around and walked out.

It had taken four months. And now CURE had its man who didn't exist. He had died the night before in an electric chair.

CHAPTER TEN

The first thing Remo Williams saw was the grinning face of the monk looking down at him. Over the face glared a white light. Remo blinked. The face was still there, still grinning down at him.

"Looks like our baby's going to make it," said the monk-face.

Remo groaned. His limbs felt cold and leaden as though asleep for a thousand years. His wrists and ankles burned with pain where the electric straps had seared his flesh. His mouth was dry, his tongue like a sponge. Nausea swept up from his stomach and enveloped his brain. He thought he was vomiting but nothing came out.

The air smelled of ether. He was lying on some sort of a table. He turned his head to see where he was, then stifled a scream. His head felt nailed to the board and he had just ripped out part of his skull. Slowly he let his head return to the position where it had seemed to be punctured. Something yelled in his brain. His scorched temples screamed.

Kaboom. Kaboom. Kaboom. He shut his eyes and groaned again. He was breathing. Thank God, he was breathing. He was alive.

"We'll give him a sedative to ease the after effect," came another voice. "He'll be as good as new in a few days."

"And with no sedative, how long?" came the monk's voice.

"Five, six hours. But he's going to be in agony. With a sedative, he'll be able to..."

"No sedative." It was the monk's voice.

The puncture started moving around his skull, like a barber's hair massage with ten penny nails and kettle drums. Kaboom. Kaboom. Kaboom. Remo groaned again.

It seemed like years. But the nurse told him it had been only six hours since he had regained consciousness. His breathing was easy. His arms and legs felt warm and vibrant. The pain had begun to dull at his temples and wrists and ankles. He lay on a soft bed in a white room. The afternoon sun was coming through the one large window to his right. Outside a soft breeze rocked the colour-gloried autumn trees. A chipmunk scampered across a wide, gravel path that no one seemed to use. Remo was hungry. He was alive, thank God, and he was hungry.

He rubbed his wrists, then turned to the stone-faced nurse sitting in a chair at the foot of his bed and said: "Do I get fed?"

"Not for forty-five minutes."

The nurse was about forty-five. Her face was hard and lined. She wore no wedding band on her man-like hands. But her breasts nicely filled out the white uniform. Her legs, crossed above the knee, could have belonged to a sixteen-year-old. Her firm backside, Remo thought, was just a hop out of bed away.

The nurse picked up a fashion magazine on her lap and began to read it in such a way that it hid her face. She fidgeted in the seat and uncrossed her legs. Then she crossed them again. Then she put down the magazine and stared out the window.

Remo adjusted his white night shirt and sat up in bed. He flexed his shoulders. It was the usual hospital room, white, one bed, one chair, one nurse, one bureau, one window. But the nurse wore no hat he recognized and the window was just one sheet of wired glass.

He twisted his right arm behind his neck and brought the back of his night shirt over his left shoulder. There was no label. He leaned back in bed to wait for food. He closed his eyes. The bed was soft. It was good to be alive. To be alive, to hear, to breathe, to feel, to smell. It was the only purpose of life: to live.

He was awakened by an argument. It was the monk with a hook versus the nurse and two men who appeared to be doctors.

"And I will not be responsible for this man's health if he eats anything but bland foods for two days," squealed one of the doctors. The nurse and the other doctor nodded approval in support of their colleague.

The monk was out of cowl. He wore a maroon sweater and brown chinos. The yelling seemed to bounce off him. He rested his hook on the edge of the metal bed. "And I say I'm not asking you to be responsible. I'm responsible. He'll eat like a human being."

"And die like a dog," the nurse interjected. The priest grinned and chucked her under the chin with his hook. "You're cute, Rocky," he said. She whipped her face violently away.