Warren Murphy: Rain of Terror

"Prepare for excruciating pain," he was told.

"Oh, God."

Then he felt those delicate fingers take him by the right earlobe. That was all. He cringed from the touch.

"I wish the truth," the Oriental commanded.

"I know nothing."

The fingers squeezed the earlobe. The pain shot all the way down to his toes. His toes curled as if shriveling in flames. The fire ran through his veins. His brain was on fire. It seemed to explode in a red starburst of agony, erasing all coherent thought.

Through the electrical short-circuiting of his nervous system, one word struggled from brain to mouth.

"Stop!"

"Truth!"

"I know nothing!"

"Truth!" The pressure increased. Major General Rolfe curled up into a fetal position. He bit his tongue until his mouth filled with blood. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. He wished for only one thing now. Death. Merciful death to end the pain.

"Final chance."

"I ... know ... nothing." He wasn't sure the old Oriental heard him through his clenched teeth. He felt an incisor break under the pressure of his own clamped jaw. He spit it out.

Suddenly the pressure was gone.

"You have spoken the truth as you know it," the old Oriental said. A note of puzzlement made his voice light.

"Yes, yes. I did."

"You know nothing of locomotives, of KKV's?"

"No. Now, leave me alone. I beg you."

The fingers touched his earlobe again and Major General Rolfe screamed. But even as he screamed, his body felt relief. The pain was suddenly gone.

He opened his eyes.

"It may be that I have made a mistake," the old Oriental said stiffly.

"Then be so good as to leave my home," Major General Rolfe said shakily.

"But do not be haughty with me, white thing. You may be innocent of one matter, but your land's guilt to Sinanju is known. Tell your current ruler that his failure to consider Sinanju for his security needs may go against him one day. For whomever Sinanju does not serve, Sinanju may work against. I have spoken."

Major General Gunnar Rolfe watched the old man float from the room. He wondered what Sinan'u was. He decided he would find out as soon as possible. It sounded important. But first he was anxious to discover if his legs would support him when he stood up.

Chapter 27

At Number Ten Downing Street, they told Remo that he had just missed the director of the Source.

"That's what they told me at his office," Remo complained. The secretary raised an eyebrow.

"I should be very much surprised if they told a person like yourself any such thing."

Remo removed the brass door knocker with a savage wrench.

"Souvenir-taking is not allowed," the secretary said, repressing his horror.

Remo took the knocker between his strong white teeth and yanked again. He held up a tangle of brass in his hand. Another tangle gleamed between his teeth. He spit it at the secretary's injured face.

"Don't take me lightly," Remo warned. "I'm not in the mood."

"So I gather."

"Now, once again. Where did he go?"

"I haven't the foggiest. But I can tell you he was driving a black Citroen."

"I wouldn't know a Citroen if it joined me in the tub."

"Yes, of course. How silly of me."

"Any distinguishing marks?"

"Tallish. Hair sandyish. Eyes bluish."

"Rubbish. That describes half the inhabitants of this wet rock." Remo squeezed the remaining tangle of brass into a lump and placed it in the secretary's hand.

"Ouch!" he said, dropping the brass. It was very hot. Friction.

"Well?" Remo prompted, tapping an impatient foot.

"He did have a pipe. A meerschaum. I believe the bowl was modeled after Anne Boleyn."

"Who's Anne Boleyn?" Remo asked.

"I take it you are an American."

"Jolly right," Remo said. "Is she a famous British actress? Maybe I saw one of her movies."

"I rather doubt it," said the secretary, suddenly shutting the door in Remo's face.

Remo reached for the doorknob but had second thoughts. "Ah, the hell with it."

He took off into traffic. He started with the black cars. How many drivers of black cars would be smoking a pipe that looked like some frigging British actress? he reasoned.

After several minutes of knocking on the windshields of small cars to attract the attention of the drivers, Remo found exactly none.

"Damn." As he stood on a cobbled street corner, a double-decker bus prowled past. It was starting to rain again. It had rained three times in the few hours since Remo had arrived in London, and he was sick of getting wet no matter where he went and what he did, so he hitched a ride on the back of the bus, the way he used to back in Newark when he was a kid and didn't have a quarter for bus fare.

The top of the double decker was empty so he had it to himself. He had chosen the bus because it was traveling in the general direction of the Source office.

"When in doubt, reverse direction," he said as he blew cold rain off his lips.

The office of the Source was above an apothecary shop near Trafalgar Square. It was a well-kept secret within Britain, but virtually every other intelligence service knew what it concealed. Even Remo, who never paid attention to such details, knew about it.

They were waiting for Remo when he walked up the dingy stairs to the second floor.

"He's back. The cheeky blighter's come back!"

Remo looked over his shoulder before realizing they meant him.

The man who had spoken hit a desk buzzer and Remo folded his arms while he waited for the inevitable rush of armed guards.

The men all wore Bond Street. Their pistols were Berettas. James Bond fans, probably.

Remo didn't resist. Instead, he asked coolly, "Remember me?"

The pointing Berettas trembled. One man involuntarily reached for a bruise under one eye. Another turned green. A third started to back away carefully.

"I'll take that as a yes," Remo said. "Now, if no one wants a repetition of the rather frightful row that happened last time, I think we can come to an accommodation."

The man at the desk said in a hesitant voice, "What, precisely, do you have in mind?"

"Lord Guy what's-his-face. Five minutes with him."

"He's not here," one of the others said quickly.

A tallish, sandyish chap with blue eyes and a woman's face on his pipe poked his head out of an office door marked "Private" and demanded, "What are you chaps temporizing for? Capture that man at once. At once, do you hear!"

Remo pointed to the man who had told him that Lord Guy was not on the premises.

"You lied."

"Not my fault. Orders," he said in a feeble voice.

"Tell you what, I'll overlook it if you go home. It's probably teatime."

The man quietly left the room.

"Accommodating sort," Remo remarked. "Now, how about the rest of you?"

"Only five minutes?" one asked.

"Maybe six," Remo replied.

"What are you saying?" exclaimed Lord Guy Phiiliston. "That bugger is dangerous. I can't see him."

"We cannot stop him, sir."

"How do you know? You haven't even tried."

"We did, sir. The first time. They say Fotheringay may walk in two or three years. You remember Fotheringay, sir. Large bloke. Weighed more than fifteen stone."

"I'll just be six minutes," Remo promised. "Maybe seven."

"You can kiss my ruddy bum," said Lord Guy Philliston, slamming the door.

"That man is giving me no choice," Remo warned.

"We have our duty."

"I'll try to be gentle," Remo said. He clapped his hands. Everyone blinked. Then he was suddenly no longer there.

The two armed Source agents looked up at the ceiling. The American with the thick wrists and the cocky manner was not clinging to the ceiling like a spider. Nor had he slipped into a side door. That left only the stairwell.

As they approached the stairwell, the two agents thought that it looked very dark and very foreboding. It was quite strange. Only minutes before, it had been an ordinary stairwell. One they had walked up and down countless times.