Warren Murphy: Death Sentence

Ransome hesitated outside Smith's door. What if this was a lure of some kind? Physical danger was not one of Norvell Ransome's loves in life. It was the reason why, when the government combed Ivy League universities in the 1960's for members of prominent old-line families, Norvell Ransome of the Virginia Ransomes opted for the NSA and not the CIA. Guns were the first resort of the intellectually limited.

Taking a deep breath, Ransome pushed open the door. Smith lay inert, apparently unchanged from hours before. He approached the bedside cautiously, noticing the absence of blue from Smith's lips and nails. They gave him a deathlier cast, but a glance at the heart monitor oscilloscope indicated a steady heartbeat. Smith's sunken chest continued to rise and fall with his faint breathing.

No, Norvell Ransome decided, Dr. Harold W. Smith had not been the interloper. It was not his nature to boldly proclaim his return with the childish statement "I am back."

Ransome hurried from the room, thinking: Who? Only four persons were supposed to know of CURE's existence. Its three operatives were contained. That left only the President, but he was hardly a likely candidate. Yet someone with knowledge of CURE was prowling Folcroft. It must be one of the secrets in the hidden files, along with the meaning of the acronym CURE.

This time Ransome impatiently suffered through the elevator descent. There was nothing to make the blood course through the body like a good mystery.

Dr. Alan Dooley was surprised when at last the door to Room 55 opened and he found two individuals on the floor. They lay there like grotesque discarded mannequins. The walls radiated a strong warmth. Dooley had noticed the hand wheel marked "Liquid Nitrogen" and understood. These men had been quick-frozen by the only substance known to do it safely without cellular damage. They probably never knew what hit them. Dooley shivered in the warmth as he knelt and raised their eyelids. He passed a hand over their pupils, intercepting the light. He got reactions from both men. Good.

"Wake up," Dooley hissed, slapping the white man. "Come on," he urged. The white man did not respond, but the Asian began to stir on his own. He sat up suddenly, his eyes fierce.

"I'm Dr. Dooley. Smith sent me."

"I am interested in the one called Ransome," the Asian said coldly. Then he noticed the other man. "Remo!" he said, shocked.

"He's okay. It's just taking him longer to come around. You were quick-frozen."

As the Asian ministered to the other man, he said, "And I promise you that the fate that awaits that elephant will not be quick, but infinitely slow."

Faster than Dooley thought was possible, the Asian brought the man he called Remo around. Remo sat up, blinking dully.

"What happened?" Remo demanded. "I remember a kind of fog, then nothing."

"I will explain later. We must go with this man. Come."

They made their way up the stairwell to Smith's bedside.

Smith didn't react until Dooley rustled the oxygen tent. Only then did his eyes snap open.

"Master Chiun," he said. Then, startled: "Remo! What are you doing here?"

"I broke jail," Remo said coldly. "Chiun explained who you really are. I work for you, he says. But I remember you as the guy who sent me to death row. "

"There will be time enough for explanations later," Smith said uncomfortably.

"Not for me. I've had enough of this craziness. I hereby give my notice. See you in the want ads." Remo started for the door. He found himself on his stomach instead, the old Oriental standing on his solar plexus. He bounced slightly, forcing air in and out of Remo's lungs. It hurt, but surprisingly, his brain began to clear. He decided he liked breathing through the stomach.

"Do not listen to Remo, Emperor," Chiun was saying. "He has not been himself since he was nearly executed again."

"Again?" Smith asked, looking toward Dooley. The doctor's brow furrowed.

"The pretender called Ransome arranged for Remo to be executed in my absence," Chiun explained.

"Then he is a rogue element," Smith muttered. "Sanctioned or not, he must be stopped."

"I will be happy to attend to that detail," Chiun said.

"No!" Smith hissed. "He is still the President's man. Eliminating him would only create problems. It must appear to be an accident."

"I have many excellent accidents in my repertoire," Chiun said, beaming.

"No. I have a contingency plan for this situation, as well. I want one of you to penetrate my office while the other distracts Ransome. Lift the blue telephone and push the loudness lever underneath to the highest position."

"Remo can do that. It is simple enough," Chiun said quickly. He looked down. "Is that all right with you, Remo?"

"It is if someone will get off my stomach," Remo replied.

The Master of Sinanju stepped off and Remo got to his feet. His eyes were clearer.

"I meant what I said about quitting," Remo told Smith. "Judge."

Smith ignored him and addressed Chiun. "I am told there are special guards now attached to Folcroft."

"I have already dealt with the worst of them."

"Kill them all," Smith croaked.

"Good God," Dr. Dooley blurted. "What is this all about?"

"We cannot take a chance that Ransome has allowed them to know too much," Smith added.

"How much is too much?" Dr. Dooley said hoarsely, looking from face to face. He stopped and did a double-take on Remo. "Have I seen you before?" he asked. "Your face looks familiar."

"Ever read the National Enquirer?" Remo asked.

"Of course not!"

"Liar," Remo snapped.

"Dr. Dooley," Smith interrupted, "I will require a telephone and a wheelchair."

"I'm sorry. As your physician, I strongly advise against exerting yourself."

"You are an employee of this facility," Smith said coldly. "And I am its director. You will do as I say."

The force in Smith's voice stopped Dr. Dooley's next words. The long fingernails of the Asian called Chiun suddenly floating up to his face helped too. Dooley left hurriedly.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Smith asked Remo.

"Directions. How the hell would I know where your office is?"

"Oh," Smith said. "I had forgotten. Master Chiun, will you direct him, please?"

"Yes. We will return shortly," Chiun said, bowing. Remo and Chiun left. After the door closed, Dr. Harold W. Smith closed his eyes. It was a strain to speak, but despite the expenditure of effort, he was feeling better.

From the corridor, Remo's voice drifted back. "Explain something to me, will you? If you work for Smith, why does he call you master?"

Norvell Ransome ignored the beeping lights on his computer, warning of developing national-security and domestic concerns. Time enough for those matters later. There must be a hidden file in the Folcroft database. He brought up the system's diagnostic program and began scanning the dump. Lines of raw data sped by his eager eyes, showing a mixture of hexidecimal codes and plain ASCII-readable text.

To his befuddlement, he found no hidden files, no breath of a clue to the identity of the mysterious interloper. And worst of all to his inquisitive mind, the riddle of the CURE acronym remained unexplained.

The intercom buzzed. Annoyance on his face, Ransome reached for the button.

"What is it, Mrs. Mikulka?" he asked petutantly. And then it hit him. Eileen Mikulka, Smith's secretary. Perhaps she ...

But all such suspicions fled his mind when Mrs. Mikulka said breathlessly, "The captain of the guards is reporting a disturbance in the gym, Mr. Ransome."

"Order all security personnel to deal with it," he barked.

"That's the problem. The guard force are already in the gym. And they're requesting reinforcements. Should I call the police?"

"Absolutely not! What is the nature of the disturbance?"