Warren Murphy: Dark Horse

"I am not convinced of that," he said. "There is nothing we can do at the moment. The election must go ahead as scheduled."

"You think this can be contained?"

"I do," Smith said crisply. "Now if you will excuse me, I must look into this further."

Harold Smith hung up. Going to the blue contact telephone, he attempted to reach Remo. None of the numbers brought results.

Smith, feeling his stomach rumble in complaint, brought his system back online.

Out in California, he discovered, Harmon Cashman lay recovering from surgery. His condition was described as "stable." Details were sketchy, but it appeared that the most recent political attack had been directed at him. Smith frowned. Was someone trying to nullify the election? If so, why?

He settled back in his chair, massaging his tired eyes, as he attempted to put the pieces together.

It was known that the late General Emmanuel Nogeira was almost unquestionably behind these attacks. It was also known that some of the attackers were tools of the Medellin Cartel. Nogeira and the cartel had past history together. Sometimes troubled history, but history nonetheless.

The most likely candidate behind these events is Rona Ripper, Smith reasoned. Black was a notorious but harmless flake. Ripper, however, was out there building concentration camps. There had already been violence, when the one Remo had discovered was destroyed to conceal its discovery.

It kept coming back to Nogeira. Had he been funding the Ripper campaign? What would Nogeira want with a vehement no-smoking candidate?

Then it hit Smith. "Outlaw tobacco! Stimulate cocaine sales!"

It fit. It made perfect sense.

All Harold Smith had to do was prove it before election day.

He began inputting the name "Emmanuel Alejandro Nogeira" into his terminal. Somewhere, he knew, there would be a kernel of datum that would connect the two. He just hoped he could find it in time to send Remo and Chiun in the right direction.

Chapter 31

It was growing dark by the time Remo reached Napa Valley. On either side of the undulating road, tractors were pulling yellow gondolas through the grape vines. Migrant workers paused in the act of dumping crates of champagne grapes into the gondolas to wave greetings. All around them, brown hills enclosed the lushness of the valley in a protective ring.

"You really plan to take this treasurer's job?" Remo asked after a period of protracted silence.

"Lord Treasurer," Chiun said. "And I have not yet decided. I have many things on my mind."

"Well, I hope you don't," Remo said quietly.

Chiun turned, his eyes interested. "Yes?"

"But I'll understand if you do."

"You will, Remo?"

"Of course," Remo added. "I expect you to understand if I ever do anything you don't like."

"What have you done to displease me now?" Chiun snapped.

"Who says I have?"

"A father can tell," Chiun sniffed. "It is about Cheeta, is it not?"

Remo swallowed. There was never going to be a good time to break the news, but it seemed unavoidable now.

Remo opened his mouth as the car rounded a hill and the Esperanza mansion came into view. It was breathtaking, a Spanish-style hacienda perched on a verdant hill.

"We will discuss this later," Chiun said aridly.

"Deal," Remo said, relieved. "I'm going to pull off the road."

"Why?"

"We might as well test Esperanza's security while we're barging in," Remo said, easing the car to a stop.

"An excellent idea," said Chiun. "We will show him once again that he needs no others than us at his side."

They got out of the car and walked along, the heavy smell of grapes in their nostrils. The air was good here.

From the other direction, a car slithered up to the open gate, and through it unchallenged.

"Did you see that?" Remo said. "There's no one at the gate!"

"And I recognized the man who was driving," Chiun said, low-voiced.

"Yeah?"

"He is a member of a rival camp."

"Yeah? Whose?"

"The loud fat woman."

"I knew it!" Remo said, breaking into a floating run. "I knew it!" Chiun followed, his pipe-stem arms pumping.

They entered the grounds, which were lavish. An arbor-shaded circular driveway wound up to the looming mansion.

The car had pulled into the shadow of a guest house in the shadow of the great hacienda, and two men got out. They slipped up to the guest house door.

"Recognize the other one?" Remo asked.

"No," said Chiun.

They reached the house and found a window that was spilling light.

Remo snapped the driver's-side mirror off the car and, hunkering down under the window, used it to spy on the house's interior.

"Saw this in a movie once," Remo said, grinning.

"What do you see?" asked Chiun, standing off to one side.

"The other guy," Remo said. "Hey! I know him! He was a Black campaign aide. I saw him at debate."

Remo and Chiun exchanged dumbfounded glances.

"They're both in it together!" Remo hissed in surprise.

The Master of Sinanju frowned. "In political intrigues," he said slowly, "one plus one does not always equal two."

"Let's take them, and they can run the numbers for us," Remo suggested, dropping the mirror.

They slipped around to the front. Remo knocked the door off its hinges with a simultaneous kick to the lower hinge and a hard bat to the upper one. The door ripped free of its deadbolt lock.

"Tremble, amateur assassins!" Chiun shouted. "Your betters have come for your worthless heads!"

Feet scrambled up a flight of steps. Chiun surged in, Remo following.

They came around the bannister in time to see a pair of feet disappearing from view. Upstairs, a door slammed loudly. They went up the stairs, making virtually no sound at all.

"We were followed!" a frightened voice called out.

At the top of the stairs, Remo and Chiun hesitated. Remo's eyes raced along a row of closed doors. One still vibrated infinitesimally, from having been slammed shut.

"That one," Chiun hissed, pointing.

They hit the door running. It popped inward.

Inside, three startled faces looked in their direction.

Two were brown faces. Hispanic. Their eyes were widely luminous, and frightened.

The third face was also Hispanic in complexion.

"You are just in time!" cried the owner of the third face, Enrique Espiritu Esperanza. "These men are attempting to assassinate me!"

"No we're not!" protested the other two, fumbling machine pistols from under their clothing.

It was the last words they were destined to speak.

Remo and Chiun moved in on them. Remo shot between the pair, took Enrique Esperanza by his terrycloth robe and pushed him behind a long, low item of furniture that was awash in bric-a-brac.

Remo turned, saying, "Don't kill-"

The sound of two grinding spinal columns cut off the rest. The two Hispanics fell from the Master of Sinanju's inexorable grip, their heads lolling crazily, their eyes bulging and glassy.

They gurgled once after they collapsed on the rug. That was all.

"Nice going, Little Father," Remo complained. "They could have told us something."

"Their faces told all," Chiun said coldly. "They were conspirators. In league with our political enemies."

Enrique Esperanza stepped up, adjusting his disordered robe on his broad shoulders. "You did well to come here," he said softly, "for you were just in time to save me from certain death."

Chiun bowed. "When you have Sinanju, you need nothing more."

Looking around the room, Remo asked, "What kind of setup is this?"

Chapter 32

Harold W. Smith stared at the computer screen. It was dark now. It was very dark.

Smith had searched his database all night for any connection between Nogeira and Rona Ripper. He had found none. Not one.