Warren Murphy: Look Into My Eyes

And Mr. Diaz was still laughing.

"I like the way you do things. I will tell you what, my friend. We will talk while I arrange another plane. We must bring one in. I never allow two of my planes to be in the same airport at the same time."

"Why's that?" asked Remo. "In case someone rides in on the top of one, tears it up, and needs another to get out?"

Diaz laughed.

"No. You see, one way to ensure the loyalty of your people is to keep them out of contact with others. Contact creates danger. Come, we will get out of this bloody mess and get some fresh air, a shower, dinner while the plane is on its way from another base of mine. And then, if you must, kill away. Agreed?"

Remo shrugged. It was better than walking through jungles. Diaz was a lion among his sheep. While his soldiers and bodyguards and ground personnel cringed or kept sweaty palms near their weapons, Diaz coolly ordered another jet into the airport.

And then he ordered a repast set before them, great shiny mounds of delicacies set on white Irish linen in the still; pure air at the foot of the Andes.

Amid shellfish, meats, and champagne, Remo ate only a few grains of rice.

"Are you afraid of being poisoned?" asked Diaz.

"All of that's poison," said Remo. "You eat that junk and you need to burn up oxygen just to get it into your system, and then your system closes down."

"Ah, so you have special eating techniques."

"No. I just don't kill myself with my mouth. How long is that jet going to take?"

"Shortly, shortly," said Diaz. He lifted a glass of champagne and savored it a moment. "You work for the government, I take it, the American government. That is why you want to stop an evil man like myself."

"You got it, Diaz."

"Call me Guenther, Remo," said Diaz with a gentle gesture of a palm. The smile never left his eyes, as though he was as amused by his death as threatened by it. "You know I am not the big shot who escapes. I am more a very rich middleman."

"Yeah? Who're the big shots?"

"Certain very rich and established banks. They are the ones who make my dollars usable."

"You mean certain banks in Miami?"

"Small-time. I mean a very big bank in Boston, owned by an old, establishment family which regularly allows us to bring the money back into America and buy very safe American property, and very safe American stocks, and very safe American havens for the American dollar. And yet, who ever hears of them?"

"Your water's good, too."

"I take it you don't care about that?"

"Matter of fact, I do. Very much. It's in my bones. I hate to see the big shots get away with it."

"I thought that might be the case," Diaz raised a finger. The smile now disappeared from his eyes. His voice was low and intense. He spoke slowly. "I will make you this deal. I will give you the big shots."

"And let you go?"

"Would you?"

"Probably not."

"Then considering that life is but one day after another, why don't I offer you this. Let me live as long as I give you the big shots in your own country. Unless of course you are here just to kill Latinos. In which case, I will finish my champagne, and you may finish me. The plane will be over the mountains shortly."

Remo thought about the deal. Somehow, this cool, cunning man had found the one price Remo might accept. "Can you get me a phone link-up to the States?"

"Of course, I have everything your Central Intelligence Agency has in the way of electronics."

"It's a very private call, so you'll have to keep your distance. "

"Any call can be listened to without standing nearby, you know," said Diaz.

"Yeah I know," said Remo. "But it's form."

The telephone Diaz gave him was hardly bigger than a coffee cup. It was shiny aluminum and had a speaker at the bottom and a receiver at the top, and a dial pad.

"That is about as safe as you can get, but I wouldn't guarantee anything," said Diaz. "No matter how it is scrambled, someone will pick up the message."

"Will they be able to read it?"

"Probably not. But they will know it has been sent."

"That's good enough," said Remo.

"It may not be for your organization."

"I don't know what is good enough for them," said Remo. He called for another glass of water as he dialed. There was no such thing as pure water. All water really carried elements of something else. But when you got it from the runoffs of the snows of the Andes you did not get the chemical wastes of poisonous factories which was known as pollution.

As soon as the phone rang, another strange ringing occurred. And a computer voice said:

"This is an open line. Use another. Use another. Use another. "

"No," said Remo.

"This is an open line. Disconnect. Disconnect immediately," came the computer voice.

"C'mon, willya, Smitty, just talk for a minute."

And then a screeching interruption. And the voice of Harold W. Smith himself.

"Remo, hang up and reach me on another line."

"I don't have one."

"This is important."

"It's always important."

"There is a national emergency regarding Russia. Now will you get to another phone before someone gets a fix on us?"

"Can we get another line?" Remo called out to Diaz, who was, out of courtesy, standing away from the table, leaning against an elegant carved stone railing looking at his mountains.

"I think so," said Diaz. "Yes, I see the problem. They're picking up certain waves. Yes, I could have assured you there would be a problem."

"You did," said Remo.

"Who is that?" asked Smith. The voice was horrified.

"Diaz," said Remo, hanging up.

"I think your commander will not like the fact that I heard things."

"Yeah. He'll hate it," said Remo, smiling.

Diaz called an aide and was very specific about the type of telephone he wanted. This one would use a different transmission system, which Remo did not understand in the least.

He did understand Smith, however. Smitty's normal, taciturn, dry behavior had turned hysterical. He spent three minutes explaining the dangers of letting the organization be compromised. Even more important than the success of any mission, Remo had been made to understand, was that the organization never be made known to the public.

For its purpose was to do outside the law what America could not do inside. It was to carry out the survival missions of the nation that the nation could no longer perform. It was an admission in its basest form that America did not work within the Constitution.

"All right. All right. I understand, Smitty. But first, I'll be killing Diaz, so that information, whatever it is, will die with him, and second, he has a wonderful idea. I like it."

"Remo, do you understand that Diaz is so dangerous precisely because he offers people wonderful ideas? That's how he ruined the narcotics squads of three police departments. "

"Yeah, but we're missing the big guys. There's this bank in Boston that-"

"Remo, neither the bank nor Mr. Diaz matters. There is something coming in from Russia that may be the most dangerous threat to our country ever."

Remo put a hand over the receiver.

"I think you've been dropped to second place, Diaz," said Remo.

"In these circumstances it might be welcome," said Diaz, toasting Remo again.

Remo took his hand off the speaker.

"You're already having conversations with Guenther Largos Diaz that you're not sharing with me. If that doesn't tell you something, Remo, nothing will."

"What is this big deal from Russia?"

"We don't know. But something big is happening."

"When you find out, let me know, Smitty. In the meantime, Guenther and I are going to Boston," said Remo, and he hung up.

"Shall we take a slow boat?" asked Diaz.

"Nah. You bought yourself a day at most," said Remo.