Warren Murphy: Look Into My Eyes

Maybe it was too much to expect Remo to keep his head after so many years. All the man had wanted was a home and a place in the world, and these were the last things he could have. He had to remain the man who didn't exist, serving the organization that didn't exist. And so it was hotel room to hotel room, for years now. And how much had his mind changed under the tutelage of Chiun, the Master of Sinanju?

That one was stranger still. Smith toyed with the Phi Beta Kappa key from Dartmouth stuck into his gray vest. He looked out the one-way windows of his office on the darkening clouds over Long Island Sound.

The President's line was ringing again. What could he tell him?

Perhaps he could tell him that it was time to close down the killer arm of CURE, that it had become too unreliable. And that was the reason he had not been answering the telephone. Because the moment the President asked for their services, Harold W. Smith, sixty-seven, was honor-bound to tell him the truth. The organization now had to be considered unreliable.

Harold W. Smith picked up the telephone, knowing that all his years of service might now be over. What was it about time? It seemed like yesterday when a now dead President had commissioned CURE for an interim job, just to help the country through the crisis ahead, and then disband. It was supposed to be a five-year assignment. And it had become decades. And now the decades might be coming to an end.

"Sir," said Smith, picking up the red phone in the right-hand drawer of his wooden desk.

"Is everything all right? You're usually there at this time," said the President. "I phoned before."

"I know," said Smith. "No sir, everything is not all right. I regret to inform you that I believe the organization is out of control and it has to be shut down now."

"Doesn't matter. The whole shooting match may be out of control now. What do you have left?"

"We only have one in the enforcement area. The other is his trainer."

"His trainer is even better than he is. And he's older, too. Older than me: Not too many people can make that statement in this government. He's wonderful."

"Sir, the Master of Sinanju is not exactly the congenial sort of fellow he makes himself out to be."

"I know that. They're an ancient house of assassins. The glorious House of Sinanju. I know all the talk Chiun makes is just buttering up clients. I wasn't born yesterday. But we need him or his pupil now. The whole Russian spy system is going crazy. Joint Chiefs, CIA, NSA, they all say Russia is activating its whole network. We are seeing activity from moles who would only be called on in case of war."

"So are they getting into position for a war? What about their missiles and submarines?"

"No. That's just it. It may not be a war, but the KGB is acting as though there is a war."

"Just what can we do that isn't being done already?"

"About time you asked it, Smith," said the President. On television talking to the nation, he appeared to be a sweet, reasonable man. But underneath he was all cold logic and finely honed executive skills, a lot harder than most reporters could perceive. But reporters rarely knew what was going on. They only knew what appeared to be going on.

"We want," said the President, "to stop the unstoppable."

"And what is that?"

"That," said the President, "is a special-force team from the Soviet Union. And they're headed toward America to get something. Now our FBI can handle everything else within our borders. But they can't handle this team of men."

"Can they get Army backup?"

"They have, and did. Twice. And twice that team came into our borders and got out again. Once they managed to take a missile warhead with them."

"So I heard. The CIA seems to be trying to work through a few solutions, but I don't think they'll come up with anything," said Smith.

"You're not alone. We only found out about these boys after they got out of the country. They could have been in here three or four times for all we know. We know we've had them at least twice."

"How do you know they're coming in again?"

"Because Russia is sending in everything. We can handle all the other stuff. Can your people handle their special team?"

"We'll have to," said Smith. "What else do you know about them? Any identification? The big thing is going to be finding them."

"We'll have the CIA feed you."

"That's all right. I'd rather tap into their lines. Any idea if it's something we have that they are afraid we'll use to start a war?"

"Doubtful. All we know is that it has a code name, Rabinowitz. "

"Strange code name. Sounds like a person."

"I would have thought so too. But can you imagine any single person who is so valuable as to put Russia's entire spy network on virtual war alert?"

"No, sir. I can't. We'll do what we can."

In a time of crisis, Smith, perhaps the most perfect organizer ever to come out of the old OSS, always got a pad and pencil. For some reason a computer was not good for flat-out reasoning. The pencil and paper somehow made it real. And within a few lines he set a parameter. If Remo did not check in by noon that day, he would enlist Chiun. He had time. The CIA still did not know who had to be stopped as Russia searched for this code name Rabinowitz.

And Smith did not want to deal with Chiun now if he did not have to.

Remo checked in by eleven A.M. and he was gleeful. "Guess where I am, Smitty."

"Remo, your country needs you."

"And it's getting me. I'm here at the Chicago Board of Trade, and guess who is not going to be able to use narcotics money anymore to manipulate the grain market."

"I could tell you in five minutes, if we had five minutes. Remo, this is a national emergency."

"So is a bunch of farmers going bankrupt."

"Has Mr. Diaz convinced you that you're saving farmers by eliminating a corrupt broker?"

"At least I know I'm getting the bad guys."

"Who made you a judge?"

"All those judges who let these bastards off."

"Remo," said Smith, looking at the instruments attached to the line in use, "this is not a secure line. I have very important information. Get to any land line phone. Stop using that damned gadget Diaz must have given you. "

"Smitty, there's always a crisis. And you know what comes after one crisis? Another crisis. At least I know now I'm doing some good. And I'll tell you something. I've never felt better in my life."

"Good, because you're in the wrong place, idiot, if you want to help farmers. Their problem is that oil prices have made food more expensive while their own technical ability to produce more drives down prices. They've been caught in the middle. It has nothing to do with the Chicago Board of Trade one way or the other."

"Never felt better in my life, Smitty," said Remo, and the phone went dead. There was no choice but to contact the Master of Sinanju. If Remo was an unguided missile, Chiun, his mentor, was an explosion. This latest Master of the most deadly house of assassins in all history would do absolutely unfathomable things. Even if he had an assignment from Smith, which he usually did, he might end up at the other end of the world eliminating an entire royal court for some reason entirely his own.

Using Chiun always had the element of throwing a bomb into a crowded theater hoping the person you had to get might be inside. But Smith had no choice. The deadly killer had to be ready to be unleashed. He dialed.

In New Hope, Pennsylvania, among the apple blossoms of spring and the gentle green hills of Bucks County, a ringing telephone interrupted the placid perfection of what had to be the most gentle mind at a gentle time of year.

So kind and perfect was this mind, so innocent in its love of simple beauty, that to interrupt its serenity had to be a crime worthy of immediate and final punishment.