Warren Murphy: Blood Ties

"How?" the public-relations man said.

"First of all, when Mangan got shot, the directors of his company started reaching out for me to take over their company and consolidate it with the Dynacar production. Right?"

"Right."

"And that story you planted yesterday about American Autos reaching out for me to do the same thing is going to work. They'll be on the telephone before the morning's over. "

"How does that explain why you're not building Dynacars?" the P.R. man said.

"Wait. I'm not done. Now we all know that Revell from General Autos has gone on vacation because he's scared for his life. What we want to do is to plant some stories; get General Autos to ask for me too."

"To run their company?" the P. R. man asked.

"Exactly."

"You mean, you want to run all three big auto companies as well as Dynacar?"

"Now you've got it," Lavallette said.

"Nobody's ever done that before."

"There's never been a Lyle Lavallette before. And that explains why we're not doing production here. If I'm going to merge my company with the Big Three, I'll use their production facilities to build Dynacars. That way, in a year, I'll be able to do what it'd take me a century to do here by myself. I'll have a Dynacar in every garage. You understand now?"

"Perfectly," the P.R. man said. What he understood was that Lyle Lavallette, the Maverick Genius of the Auto Industry, was as loose as ashes. Who would believe that the Big Three of the auto business, who lived to compete among each other, would all turn to the same man to head their companies? It sounded like something that might be considered in Russia, but not in the United States. "Good," Lavallette said. "So keep planting stories about mergers. How with the new Dynacar, only I can save the Big Three. Maybe you can call me the Maverick Savior. That might be good."

"Okay," the P.R. man said. Why not? The money was good.

"And one important thing." Lavallette said.

"Yes, sir."

"Try always to photograph my left side. That's my best side. "

"You got it, Mr. Lavallette. Does this car really run on garbage?"

Lavallette shook his head. "Refuse. Not garbage. We always say 'refuse' around here. If we get this thing tagged as the garbagemobile, we could run into a lot of public resistance. Refuse." He smoothed a hand over his hair. Good. Everything was in place. "And to answer your question, it runs like a charm and it's the greatest discovery in automobiles, maybe since the wheel. Try to get that printed somewhere. The greatest thing since the wheel."

"You got it, Mr. Lavallette," the P.R. man said.

In the White House, the President of the United States was sipping coffee in his bedroom when an aide came in holding a scroll of paper that contained a brief report on the overnight news events.

The top item reported that Hubert Millis, president of American Automobiles, had succumbed at 1:32 A.M. in Detroit.

The President excused his aide, opened the drawer of the nightstand, and picked up the receiver of a dialless phone that was hidden beneath two hot-water bottles and a copy of Playboy.

He waited for the voice of Harold Smith to come on the line. The President had decided, and it was time-time to order the dismantling of America's ultimate shield against chaos.

He was going to tell Smith that CURE must disband. The agency had failed and it was time to go back to more traditional law-enforcement agencies, like the FBI. He had always liked the FBI, especially since he had once played an FBI man in a movie.

But no one answered the phone.

The President remained on the line. From past experience, he knew that Smith was seldom away from his headquarters and when he was, he carried a portable radiophone in his briefcase, hooked up to the private line in his office.

He waited five minutes but there was still no answer. The President hung up. He decided he could give the order after lunch as easily as before lunch. A few hours' difference wouldn't matter.

It wouldn't matter at all.

Chapter 26

Chiun, Master of Sinanju, allowed the doorman of the Detroit Plaza Hotel to summon his conveyance.

When the taxi pulled up, the doorman, wearing a uniform that reminded Chiun of those worn by the courtiers to the throne of France's Sun King, opened the door for him, then closed it gently after Chiun was seated in the rear.

Then the doorman leaned into the cab window with an expectant smile.

"You have done well," Chiun said. "Now remove yourself from my field of vision."

"You must be new to our country, sir," the doorman replied, still smiling. "In America, good service is usually rewarded with a tip."

"Very well," said Chiun. "Here is a tip. Do not have children. Their ingratitude will only cause you sorrow in your declining years."

"That wasn't the kind of tip I had in mind," the doorman said.

"Then here is another," Chiun said. "People who delay other people who must be off on important business often have their windpipes ripped from their throats. Onward, driver. "

The cabby pulled into traffic and said, "Where are you going, buddy?"

"To the place of the carriagemaker. Lavallette."

"Oh. The Dynacar guy. Sure. Hang on."

"In what direction is his place?" Chiun demanded.

"Direction? Oh, I'd say west."

"Then why are you driving north?"

"Because I have to drive north to catch the interstate that goes west," the cabby replied good-naturedly.

"I am familiar with the tricks of your trade," Chiun said. "Do not drive north. Drive west."

"I can't do that."

"You can. Simply point your wheels west and proceed."

"In a straight line?"

"I am paying only for the miles driven to our destination. The west miles," Chiun said. "I will not pay for unnecessary deviations from our route."

"I can't drive in a straight line. There are little things in the way like skyscrapers and trees."

"You have my permission to drive around such obstacles. But west, always west. I will keep track of the west miles for you," said Chiun, resting his eyes on the clicking digital meter.

The driver shrugged and said, "You're the boss, buddy."

"No," said Chiun. "I am the Master."

"Just as long as I'm still the driver."

As they drove, Chiun kept his eyes on the meter but his mind was on Remo.

He had not lied when he had told Smith that Remo was lost to Sinanju. The appearance of the older Remo Williams-Remo's natural father-had torn Chiun's pupil in another direction, away from Sinanju. Chiun had hoped to prevent this difficulty by killing the gunman before Remo had ever known of his existence. But it did not work that way.

However, Chiun had lied when he told Smith that Remo was dead. In a sense, it was true. Without Chiun to guide him, without someone to keep him on the path of proper breathing and correctness, Remo's powers would atrophy and perhaps fade entirely. It had happened to Remo before without Chiun and it would probably happen again. Remo would cease to be Sinanju.

But what Chiun had feared more was that if Smith knew that Remo was still alive, no longer under Chiun's control, Smith would order Remo's death and Chiun would be bound by contracts to obey that order.

It was not time for that. There was still a chance to bring Remo back into the care of Sinanju.

Which was why Chiun journeyed through the cool dawn to the place of the carriagemaker. Not for the carriagemaker and not for Smith and not for a moment to benefit this stupid land of white people who were all ingrates.

Chiun traveled in the hope that if there were another attempt on the life of Lyle Lavallette, his would-be assassin would not come alone. He would bring Remo.

Then, Chiun knew, this matter would be resolved. Forever.

The taxi arrived at the Dynacar Industries plant forty minutes later.