Warren Murphy - Hostile Takeover

"This is your computer," Smith said. It was not a question.

"Yes," Sir Quincy admitted. "How did you know about that by the way?"

" I inserted a worm into the Mayflower Descendants network. It enabled me to trace this address."

"Jove! It must be a talented worm to do all that."

"A worm is akin to a computer virus," Smith explained, turning on the machine. "I designed it to follow the audit trail and replicate at every relay point, which I see it has."

On the screen appeared amber letters:

***WARNING!!!***

TUBE IMPLOSION IMMINENT!

STAND CLEAR!

***DANGER***

"Good God," Sir Quincy gasped. "It is about to explode." "No," Smith said. "The message is harmless. It's designed to prevent anyone from attempting to rid his system of my virus worm. And without their computers, no further stock transactions can be consummated by your people. They are effectively frozen out of the market, which is now rebounding."

"Dammit, man!" Sir Quincy said furiously. "You are one of us. Why would you do a dastardly thing such as that?"

"To save the world from a lunatic scheme hatched for an eighteenth-century political situation. You see, the British government knows nothing of this so-called Grand Plan."

"Rubbish! They have in their possession a copy of the Royal Reclamation Charter."

"Which was misfiled in 1877 and forgotten by successive governments," Smith snapped. "The signal you thought you received was just a coincidence. In a sad way, it was almost inevitable that this would happen. It was fortunate that it did on my watch. You see, Sir Quincy, the royal family has repudiated the charter."

"The deuce you say!" Sir Quincy Chiswick said in astonishment. "This would explain why the queen did not answer my letters. I was reduced to writing to the chancellor of the exchequer, who also does not bother to read his mail, it seems. This is a most unlikely turn of events, if true. "

"I have one more question for you, Sir Quincy. Then I must go. Of the people who have carried the torch over these last two centuries, who are the leaders?"

"Why, Percy is paramount. I have no idea whom he has selected as his lieutenants. Those decisions were made in 1776 by H. P. Looncraft, his great-great-great-"

"Never mind," Smith said. "I know all I need to know. Good-bye, Sir Quincy."

"Good luck, chap," Sir Quincy said. "But where are you off to?"

"America. There is work for me there."

"Glad to hear it. For a moment, I was fearful that you were not loyal."

"I have always been loyal to my country," Smith said coldly. He turned to Remo. "You know what to do. Meet me outside when you are finished with him."

"Now, just a moment, Smith," Sir Quincy said. "You can't leave me here with this . . . this Mediterranean type. As one Englishman to another, I implore you. What would your father say to this? Think on that, Smith. Listen to your heritage. It is calling you."

Dr. Harold W. Smith went out the door without a backward glance.

"Wait a minute," Remo called after him. "You can't stick me with the dirty work just like that."

Smith's leaden footsteps were heavy on the staircase. Down below, a door clicked open and then shut heavily.

Remo turned to Sir Quincy Chiswick.

"What happens if I don't kill you?" Remo asked.

"I do not die," said Sir Quincy as if speaking to an idiot.

That almost made up Remo's mind for him. "No, I meant now that this squirrely scheme has gone south, are you going to try it again?"

"Of course. I have received the signal-regardless of what your misguided friend believes."

"Smith's not my friend," Remo said coldly. "And neither are you." He took a fistful of Sir Quincy's gown front and pulled him to his feet.

"Unhand me, you . . . you rebel!"

"I'm an American," Remo said firmly. "Just like Smith. It's the one thing we have in common."

Sir Quincy sneered. " 'Common' is precisely the word for it. You are both commoners. Not a drop of Anglo-Saxon blood in either of you, you Yankee Doodle traitors."

"A lot of innocent people were massacred by your Cornwallis Guard," Remo said slowly, his eyes hard. "People I knew. What do you say to that?"

"Were any of them of British descent?"

"It never occurred to me to ask," Remo said bitterly. His mind was made up now. He led Sir Quincy Chiswick over to one of his dingy beds and asked, "Any last words?"

"God Save the Queen! Rule Britannia! For as long as one of us upholds crown and country, the English shall ever be free."

"That's enough," Remo said. He punched Sir Quincy in the exact center of his chest, stepping back.

For a moment Sir Quincy teetered on his heels. His eyes rolled up into his head and his face acquired a faint blue tinge at his jowls.

Remo decided it was taking too long, so he pushed the teetering corpse of Sir Quincy Chiswick onto the bed.

Remo took a moment to lift his feet onto the bed and tuck him in, where, when he was eventually found, his death would be taken for simple heart failure.

On his way out of the flat, Remo took a moment to type the word "CHECKMATE" onto the silent computer screen.

Out on the sidewalk, Dr. Harold W. Smith waited impatiently.

"Is it done?" he asked tonelessly when Remo emerged from the row house.

"Yeah," Remo said unhappily. "I've got a few bones to pick with you. First it's kill him. Then don't kill him, and then it's go ahead and kill him. And you walk out. Not wheel out, but walk out. And I'm still waiting for an explanation on that one."

"My country means everything to me," Harold Smith said, tight-lipped. "More than my heritage, more than the memory of a father who disinherited me because I dared to choose my own path in life. It's what I sacrificed for all my adult life. I do not like to lie. I abhor killing. And I did not ask for the responsibility that forces me to do one and order you to do the other. But it was thrust upon me and I accepted. I have had to live with that choice for many years, and I do not regret it. Not a bit. There will be no other Harold Smiths to take my place when I die, in the family business or in government service. I must do as much as I can while I'm alive, because after I am gone there will be no one to take my place. Lying to you, even eliminating you if it serves the national interest, does not seem too high a price to pay for freedom."

Remo Williams stared at the man he had known for nearly twenty years. A cold rain began falling on Oxford's benighted spires.

"Sometimes I hate you, you bloodless son of a bitch," Remo said.

"But you understand me?"

"Too much."

"You were chosen for this work because your patriotic quotient was extremely high, you know."

"I like to think I just love my country."

"Many people love their country. You're privileged to serve it in a way no one has since the Founding Fathers."

"I never thought of it that way before," Remo admitted.

Smith opened his briefcase and logged onto his computer.

"The stock-market crisis seems to be over," he said absently. "The Far Eastern markets have opened up. Investor confidence should stay high. There will be some sorting-out to do, but that is the SEC's responsibility. If we eliminate Douglas Lippincott and DeGoone Slickens, the rest do not matter. Without leaders, they will revert to their sleeper status, passing their heritage on to the next generation, who will wait for a signal that will never come. You see, Remo, like myself, Sir Quincy is the last of his line. His landlady told me that. There will be no more Chiswicks to activate the Loyalists."

"You want me to take out Lippincott and Slickens?"

"It's your choice."

Remo considered. "Why not?" he said at last. "I'll do it for the Nostrum employees who died. What about Looncraft?"

"He should be arriving in London for what he thinks is to be a royal audience. The British are very unhappy with him and he will be dealt with severely, rest assured." Smith snapped his briefcase shut. "Then you are back with the organization?"