Warren Murphy: Hostile Takeover

"Green tea," Chiun replied smugly. "The British may be uncouth, but their royalty continue to uphold certain meager standards-un-Korean as they are."

Chapter 32

The next morning, Remo Williams walked into the Lippincott Mercantile Bank. He wore a fresh black T-shirt and a businesslike expression on his high-cheekboned face.

He went directly to Douglas Lippincott's office and breezed past his secretary with such feline fluidity of movement that she never noticed him, not even when Lippincott's door opened and closed behind Remo.

Douglas Lippincott looked up from his hand mirror with a startled expression. He had been caught trimming his nostril hair with a sterling-silver rotary-blade tool.

"I beg your pardon," he sniffed, shoving the tool-and-mirror set into a drawer. "Are you my eleven o'clock?"

"More like your high noon," Remo said, coming around the desk.

Lippincott looked at Remo with sudden recognition. "Do I know you?"

"Not unless you read the National Enquirer."

" I should say not."

"Then you don't know me," Remo said casually, looking at a desktop computer whose plug dangled loose. "I hear you took a big beating in yesterday's stock market."

"I do not discuss matters of business with persons I do not know socially. Please leave."

"I will." Remo said. "After you."

"Why should I leave?" Douglas Lippincott demanded, following Remo with his eyes.

Remo went to one of the office windows. He attempted to throw the sash up, which made Lippincott smirk to himself. Who was this ruffian? Everyone knew that modern office windows did not open. It was a design element that had come into popularity after the 1929 stock-market crash, when, but for the convenience of an open window, many fewer panicked investors might have committed suicide by defenestration than had happened.

When Remo realized the sill was locked in place, he blew on his right index fingernail and used it to score a rough oval in the glass. It screeched. He tapped the glass with a knuckle. It popped from its pane. Remo grabbed it before it could fall, and pulled the crystal oval inside.

He dropped it on Douglas Lippincott's desk, where it broke into triangular pieces.

"My word," Douglas Lippincott gasped.

"I hear you took such a big beating in the market that you're beside yourself," Remo went on in a cheerful voice. "Can't cover your margins and all that investor kind of stuff. "

"I will say it again. That is not your concern." He reached for his intercom. Too late.

Douglas Lippincott stood up, his face quirking in sudden surprise. He had not given his legs the command to stand. But there he was standing nevertheless. And then he was walking. He felt the tightness at his shirt collar and the thick wad of his full-Windsor necktie knot pressing his Adam's apple, and realized that he was being led to the portholelike window opening by the scruff of his neck.

"Any last words before you throw yourself into instant and permanent bankruptcy?" Remo asked nonchalantly.

" I fancy 'God Save the Queen' is appropriate."

"Not in this country," Remo Williams said, arranging Douglas Lippincott's limbs in preparation for throwing him through the hole.

Lippincott didn't quite fit. He took most of the remaining glass with him on the way down. It made Remo glad he had checked for passersby first. Falling glass was dangerous.

DeGoone Slickens wet his lips. His typing fingers-the right index and the left middle finger-were poised over his office computer terminal. There had been no word from P. M. Looncraft since he had rushed off to England. Doug Lippincott had sounded like a broken man over the phone. That meant it was up to DeGoone Slickens to pull it all together.

If only the danged computer would work. Settling himself, he hit the "On" switch.

The amber lines were slow to appear, like a TV set warming up.

Slickens leaned forward, squinting.

The message read:

***WARNING!!!***

TUBE IMPLOSION IMMINENT!!

STAND CLEAR!

***DANGER***

"Dang!" Slickens said, ducking to escape the flying glass that never came.

When he felt it was safe, he lifted his head to read the screen again. He was no computer expert, but when a computer warned that it was about to go berserk, he took the threat seriously.

But this computer didn't look like it was going to do anything but scream its silent warning.

Slickens started to pick himself up from the floor when something changed. The warning still glowed in smoldering amber letters, but a shadow had crossed the glareproof screen. It was a face, dark, ghostly, with hollow skull-like eyes and a cruel mouth under high cheekbones.

Steeling himself, DeGoone Slickens lifted his face to the screen to see the face more clearly. His face kept on going, propelled by a hand he neither saw nor felt, because it was moving faster than his nervous system could react to it.

The screen accepted his face with unqualified hostility. The tube imploded, swallowing DeGoone Slickens' head. Sparks flew like electric spittle, and something inside the housing buzzed like a dying cicada.

As DeGoone Slickens' soft organic brain matter mingled with the terminal's hard-wired brain matter, Remo Williams unplugged the device. He didn't want to start a fire.

An hour later Remo showed up at Faith Davenport's apartment lobby. The blue-blazered security guard was only too happy to fax the joyous news of his arrival.

Under his arm Remo carried the thick paper-wrapped bundle he had brought from the car to the elevator and up several flights to Faith's door.

"Remo, lover!" Faith said excitedly. "I was so worried about you."

Remo stepped in, his face screwed into glum lines. He willed his facial muscles to hold that expression, hoping for the best. This wasn't going to be easy, he knew.

Faith threw her arms around his neck the moment the door was closed. "I missed you so much!" she exclaimed. Her nose touched his; her eyes were practically mating with his own.

Gently, with one hand, Remo unlocked her embrace. Faith's hands went to his thick right wrist, and, moving slowly, began to caress his index finger.

" I can't stay," Remo said seriously, pulling his finger away.

Faith's face went into shock. "No?"

"No," Remo echoed. "This is good-bye. I don't know how to tell you this, but we can't see each other anymore. "

"But . . . but I love you."

"No," Remo said, paraphrasing Australian soap-opera dialogue he had heard in London. "You don't love me. You only love my index finger. Admit it."

Faith's expression broke like a mirror. "It's true!" she sobbed. "But we can work it out. I know! We can go into counseling."

Remo shook his head sadly.

"Give me one reason," Faith demanded, hurt.

"Here," Remo said, handing her the paper-wrapped bundle.

Faith carried it to the sofa, where she began unwrapping it. The rolled-up pelt of Bear-Man came forth.

She looked at it, at Remo, and at the suit again. "You!..

"Now you know my secret," Remo said, solemn-voiced. "Now you know why our love can never be. I am needed elsewhere." He took her trembling hand in his. "You're the only person I've told my secret to. Promise me that you'll keep it."

Faith's lower lip trembled. Her chin joined in. Her eyes began to well up and overflow.

"Y-yes," she said. "Of course. I'm so . . . honored you told me. I feel just like Kim Basinger."

"-my life is too dangerous to share it with anyone. You know how financial crime-fighting is."

"Oh, I know! I know!"

"Well," Remo said, thankful his facial muscles were holding together. "I gotta go now. Duty calls. Someone has to protect the market from the greedy."

He gathered up the Bear-Man suit and stuffed it under one arm and started for the door.