Warren Murphy - Line of Succession

Over and over the President chased the possibility around in his mind. The name that he kept coming back to was that of Dr. Harold W. Smith.

Perhaps that was why Smith had disappeared. He was the mastermind. Having failed, he had gone into hiding. Now, if only there was some way to prove it. . . .

Dr. Harold W. Smith breathed.

That was all. He took his food through a tube that ran into his discolored right forearm. His gray eyes were closed and for the fourth day there was no rapid eye movement to indicate a dream state or even minimal brain activity.

Dr. Martin Kimble checked the progress chart that was clipped to the foot of the hospital bed on which Smith lay. It was a flat horizontal line. There was no rise or fall. They had brought Smith in in this state. It was not a coma, because there were no obvious signs of brain activity. But Smith was not dead. His heart continued to beat-if the slow-motion gulp his vascular organ gave every twenty minutes could be called a beat. Perhaps the lungs worked too. It was impossible to tell. Dr. Kimble had ordered life-support systems hooked up to the man who had been found at his desk, inert, without any sign of trauma or violence or poison.

As Dr. Kimble had explained to Smith's frightened wife, "I don't have a firm prognosis. This could be a long vigil. You'd be better off at home. "

What he didn't say was that for all his vital signs, Dr. Harold W. Smith might have been a block of cheese carved to resemble a human being. He even had the same waxy, yellowish color to his skin.

A rush of ammonia-scented air came from the direction of the doorway, causing Dr. Kimble to turn. An elderly Oriental man in a teal-blue embroidered gown stepped in and, ignoring Dr. Kimble, floated over to Smith's bedside.

"Excuse me, but visiting hours are over," said Dr. Kimble stuffily.

"I am not visiting," said the old Oriental in a squeaky, querulous voice. "I am Smith's personal physician."

"Oh? Mrs. Smith never mentioned you, Dr.... "

"Dr. Chiun. I have just returned to this country from my native Korea, where I attended a serious burn patient."

"I assume you have some identification," prompted Dr. Kimble, who knew that there were a lot of foreign medical schools turning out third-rate doctors these days.

"I can vouch for him," said a cool voice from the door. Dr. Kimble saw a lean man in a white T-shirt and black slacks. "And who are you supposed to be?" he asked. "I'm Dr. Chiun's personal assistant. Call me Remo."

"I'm going to have to ask you both to come with me. We have procedures at this hospital regarding visiting doctors."

"No time," said Remo, taking Dr. Kimble by the arm. The man merely touched his funny bone, but the pins-and-needles feeling started immediately. It ran up his arm, over his chest, and up his neck. Dr. Kimble knew that it was impossible to feel pins and needles in the brain, but he felt them nonetheless. His vision started to cloud over.

When the man called Remo let go, Dr. Kimble found himself on his knees. He could see again.

"Tell us about Smith," said Remo.

Dr. Kimble started to speak but the little Oriental, who was fussing over the patient, cut him off.

"Forget that quack," said Dr. Chiun. "Look at what he has done to Smith. Jabbed him with needles and hooked him up to machines. Where are the leeches? I am surprised that he has not attached leeches to Smith's arm to suck out the rest of the vitality."

"Leeching hasn't been used in centuries, Little Father."

"Actually, it's coming back," said Dr. Kimble, groping to his feet. He felt woozy and began looking around for an oxygen tank. When he found one, he pushed the clear oxygen mask to his face and breathed deeply. As he inhaled, he watched and listened.

Dr. Chiun strode around the bed, examining Smith critically.

"He's been like that for four days," Dr. Kimble told him. Dr. Chiun nodded silently.

"There's no sign of injury," Dr. Kimble said.

"Wrong," said Chiun, pointing with an impossibly long fingernail at Smith's forehead. "What is this?"

Still clutching the oxygen mask, Dr. Kimble learned over. In the middle of Smith's forehead was a tiny purplish spot. "That's a liver spot," said Dr. Kimble. "Probably a birthmark. "

"You call yourself a physician and you do not recognize an inflamed third eye when you see it," snapped Chiun. He began probing Smith's temples.

"Third eye? That's New Age mumbo jumbo."

Chiun ignored him. He shifted his massaging fingers to Smith's waxy forehead. He closed his eyes in concentrations.

"What is he doing?" Dr. Kimble asked Remo.

"Search me."

"I thought you were his assistant."

"Mostly I watch and keep people like you from getting in his way."

"I am testing the kotdi," said Chiun, opening his eyes. He withdrew his hands from Smith's head.

"What's that?"

"The kotdi is like your television on-and-off switch. When it is correctly pressed, a person is shut off. Like Smith."

"Shut off! That's preposterous," sputtered Dr. Kimble.

"Remo will demonstrate for you."

Remo reached up and tapped Dr. Kimble's forehead in its exact geometrical center. Dr. Kimble's eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed like a sack of kitty litter. Remo caught him under the arms and asked Chiun, "What do I do with him?"

"Turn him back on, if you wish."

Remo felt for his forehead and tapped once. The doctor struggled to his feet and smoothed his doctor's smock. "Was I out?"

"Actually, you were off," Chiun told him absently.

Dr. Kimble said, "I don't believe it."

Remo shrugged. "Then don't." He joined Chiun. "How is he?"

"This is terrible. His inner harmony is totally gone. I fear permanent damage. "

"We can't let Smith die. You've got to do something."

"I am not talking about Smith," said Chiun, pulling an intravenous tube out of Smith's arm and unplugging electrodes from his head. "Smith will be fine. I was referring to the Dutchman. Look at the force he used to press the kotdi. "

"Too hard?"

"Not hard enough. He intended a death blow, merciful but final. I saw signs of this in Sinanju. Now I am certain. The blow with which he stole Mah-Li's life was also flawed. Remember the red tear? The Dutchman is losing control and this clumsy blow is the surest sign of it."

"Oh," said Remo. "What about Smith?"

Chiun set one finger so that it covered the purple bruise on Smith's brow and pressed lightly. As if triggered by rubber bands, Smith's eyes snapped open.

"Master of Sinanju?" he said clearly. He tried to sit up. Chiun pushed him back. "You are well, Emperor. Thanks to your faithful servant."

"The Dutchman!"

"We know, Smitty," Remo put in. "He was behind everything."

"Quiet!" Smith barked, indicating Dr. Kimble with his eyes.

In a corner, Dr. Kimble was feeling his forehead with both hands, pressing different spots experimentally.

"I think I understand," he said. "By disrupting a nerve center hitherto unknown to medical science, you shut off all electrical activity in the brain. The result is suspended animation with no tissue deterioration. But I can't seem to find the nerve."

"I'll help you," said Remo, taking the doctor's hand and making a fist. He straightened the index finger and placed it over the doctor's eyes, which rolled up in a ridiculous effort to watch his own forehead.

"You press there," Remo suggested, stepping back.

The doctor did. And fell onto the floor. "Works every time." Remo whistled airily.

"So the Dutchman was the mastermind behind the assassination attempts," said Smith, sitting up in bed. Color flooded back to his face like pale wine filling a glass. "Adonis and the ninja master were impostors."

"Had you listened carefully to my story of the thieving ninja," Chiun scolded, "this would not surprise you. Only Sinanju is true."