Warren Murphy: Dark Horse

It was during this scanning that his computer had beeped an alert. Key buzzwords were routinely input into the system on a regular basis, and the CURE mainframes constantly scanned all databases within their telephonic outreach for new information on those mission-sensitive key words.

Smith pressed a key. In the corner, the screen displayed: TRACEWORD: NOGEIRA.

Smith called up the new data.

It was off an FBI mainframe. The final autopsy report of General Nogeira had been input into the FBI mainframes, making it available to Smith's roving data search. It was flagged TOP SECRET.

Smith scanned the report, first with curiosity, then with growing horror.

The official FBI autopsy on the body pulled from the Florida Everglades had reached an inescapable conclusion. A conclusion that sent Harold Smith scrambling for his green wastebasket and fumbling to his desktop an assortment of aspirins, antacids and other remedies. As he read along, he began unscrewing childproof caps and extracting pills. He didn't bother to identify them before they entered his mouth.

He popped an aspirin as he read that the body had lacked certain distinguishing marks known to have marred the real body of General Nogeira, dictator of Bananama.

One was that the dictator was known to have had five general's stars tattooed to his naked shoulders, so that even in disguise he would be identifiable to his allies.

The Everglades body had only four such stars on each shoulder.

"Tattoos can be chemically removed," Smith said, ingesting a Dramamine.

There were other discrepancies. Body weight, height, and an appendectomy scar that should not have been there.

"Inconsequential," Smith said, popping an antacid.

In the third paragraph, the report noted that fingerprints taken from the skin glove did not match those of Nogeira.

"Easily explained," Smith told himself. "The skin glove was from a drowning victim. Someone not connected with this."

The FBI report concluded in the final paragraph that the body believed to be that of Nogeira was in fact that of another person entirely.

"Premature," Smith scoffed, taking another aspirin.

At the bottom of the report was a notation that the FBI had run the fingerprints through its extensive files and produced no positive match.

Harold Smith logged over to the computerized FBI fingerprint records and brought up a digitized copy of the skin glove prints. They looked like ordinary fingerprints. He initiated a cross-match program that ran those prints through various other files at his disposal.

It took an hour, but in the end Harold Smith had a perfect match.

A second row of fingerprints showed beneath the first. They were labeled. The name of the individual to whom those fingerprints belonged made Smith blink wildly, as if his eyes sought to reject the indisputable facts before them.

The name was that of Enrique Espiritu Esperanza.

"Oh my God," croaked Harold W. Smith, his stomach, head, and eyes one great throbbing network of pain. "I have instructed them to install the most brutal dictator in this hemisphere as governor of California, and I have no way to reach Remo and Chiun."

Chapter 33

In the guest house of the Esperanza vineyard, Remo Williams frowned at the strange piece of furniture behind which he had pushed Esperanza to safety.

"It looks like an altar," Remo said, eyeing the assortment of statuary, portraits, and knickknacks. There was a wooden gourd set in the center of the feather-bedecked altar, and its bowl was dark with a brownish-red crust that could only be blood.

"Yes," said Esperanza. "One of my servants, he is from the Caribbean. An island man. You know, they practice strange beliefs on those islands."

"Looks like Voodoo stuff," Remo remarked.

"Santeria. Not Voodoo, but very much like it."

"This servant of yours," Chiun asked slowly. "Does he know of love potions?"

Esperanza blinked rapidly.

"Love potions?"

"Yes. I have a . . . friend who has need of such a thing." Chiun looked at Remo out of the corner of his eye. Remo looked away. Esperanza looked at them both and smiled with veiled understanding.

"Ah, I see," he said, gesturing. "Come, come. I will talk to him on your behalf. It may be that I can do something for this . . . friend."

As they were leaving the room, Remo said, "Cashman was hit this afternoon."

Esperanza laid a broad brown hand on his white-suited chest and turned, his face aghast. "No! Not Harmon!"

"He's not dead. The doctor says he'll recover."

"Ah, good," said Esperanza.

"Once he kicks his cocaine habit," Remo added.

Esperanza stopped again. "Harmon? Not Harmon."

Remo nodded. "The doctor confirmed it."

"How strange. You know, I have never known him to speak of drugs."

"Yeah, all you ever saw him do was wolf down Oreo cookies by the fistful."

"I understand those addicted ones often experience strange pangs and hungers," said Esperanza sadly.

They resumed walking down the stairs.

"What is that smell?" Chiun asked, sniffing the air doubtfully.

Remo answered. "Smells like Oreos."

"I keep a goodly supply here," explained Esperanza. "Once the election is over, I will donate the remainder to charity."

"Yeah," Remo said sourly. "A lot of starving people want nothing better than to sit down to a heaping bowl full of chocolate cookies."

"Remo!" Chiun admonished. "Watch your tone. This man is our patron."

"Sorry," Remo said, frowning. Something was bothering him. Something that danced along the edges of his memory. He couldn't think what it was.

Down in the parlor, Enrique Esperanza said, "My servant is away. Why do you not take this fine house for the duration of your stay with me?"

"Suits me," said Remo.

"A protector should always be at his patron's side," said Chiun flatly.

Esperanza considered. "I know: You may come with me, and your friend may remain here."

"It is proper," said Chiun.

"Okay," said Remo.

At that, the face of Enrique Espiritu Esperanza broke into a broad smile. It was a benevolent, almost angelic smile. His large teeth glowed like luminous pearls.

And then it hit Remo. Suddenly. The man had smiled just moments before, but quietly. Still, the way his mouth muscles had quirked tripped a dormant memory.

Now, with the radiance of that hauntingly familiar smile washing over him, Remo knew where he had seen it before. In the Florida Everglades. On an entirely different face. Not the smooth brown face of Enrique Espiritu Esperanza, but the ugly, reptilian, acne-cratered face of General Emmanuel Alejandro Nogeira.

As this was just sinking in, Esperanza and Chiun turned to go.

"Chiun, wait," Remo called.

The Master of Sinanju paused. "What is it?"

"I gotta speak to you." Remo eyed Esperanza. "Alone."

Chiun touched his wispy beard thoughtfully. "I have no secrets from my patron. Speak freely, Remo."

"Never mind," Remo said unhappily. "It can wait."

Chiun frowned. Esperanza's face was placid.

"Then let us go," he said.

They left. At the open door, Remo watched them start up to the big hacienda-style mansion.

Esperanza was saying, "I am certain we can concoct for your friend a suitable potion. I will call my servant. He will not mind a small interruption of his vacation."

"My friend will only need a weak dosage," Chiun put in. "His attractive powers are quite strong, it is just that the woman in question is very stubborn of will."

"Damn," Remo said after they'd disappeared into the house. "This can't be happening. I gotta call Smith."

He went in search of a phone. There was one on the kitchen wall. But when he picked it up, the line was dead.

Remo went through the house. He found no other phones. The smell of Oreo cookies was strong. It seemed to be coming, not from within the house, but through an open kitchen window.