Warren Murphy - The Last Alchemist

In less than a day, Consuelo and the two men registered behind the security desk of the NCA. Television monitors picked them up. Braun watched the trio from a safe room. The two men were not arguing as much but the Oriental was staying farther behind. Consuelo guided them from department to department, always putting her most adamant foot forward. "There's a cover-up going on here," said Consuelo. "I'm going to get to the bottom of it." Small chance of that, thought Braun. She hadn't even noticed the monitor. Only the Oriental seemed to give the cameras a second glance.

Braun had to admit the director was highly skilled. He did not stonewall. He did not hedge. Instead, he ordered assistance be given the security officer from McKeesport. Assistance meant four people at her beck and call, and access to all files.

For the four people she had to fill out administrative forms. And the files she got never stopped coming. The director inundated her with information.

The white male yawned. The Oriental became enraged at this. Braun, of course, did not see what Chiun saw. Nor did he understand the Korean.

"When was the last time you yawned?" asked Chiun.

"I'm not taking off the pendant," said Remo.

"It is cursed. It is killing you."

"I'm not dying," said Remo. "I am right here and very much alive."

Consuelo asked what they were arguing about. When Remo told her it was still the pendant, she told him to take it off if it bothered Chiun that much. But Remo refused. He had to live with Chiun, not her, and if he gave in now he would never hear the end of how he should live his life by the tales of the Masters of Sinanju.

The day wore on heavy for Remo. He felt the stuffiness of the room and noticed that his body was not making up for it. A fly alighted on his wrist, and he didn't notice until he saw it.

He hadn't eaten anything. He hadn't breathed anything. And yet his body felt bloated and slow. He was skilled enough now so that he could shield it somewhat from Chiun. He knew what the old man would be looking for, jerkier movements, lack of grace, breathing that was uneven. He could fake it for a while.

He knew that his body was so well tuned it could cleanse itself of anything. And it would do so a lot better without Chiun's harangue.

Chiun kept himself farther and farther away until he did not even go into a few rooms.

A door hit Remo's shoulder.

"Excuse me," said the guard, entering the room.

"That's okay," said Remo.

That was all Francisco Braun needed to know. He had seen this man move so slowly that he was unable to avoid a door. Whatever had made that man unkillable was not with him anymore. He could kill the white now. He would not need any weapon of distance, or an elevator careening to a floor fifty stories below. He could do it with a knife.

It was dusk, and most of Washington had gone home. When Consuelo, Remo, and Chiun left the NCA headquarters on foot, the old Oriental stayed several blocks behind.

Braun stayed far from the Oriental while slowly gaining on the white. It was easy to do now. The night was warm. The white slapped mosquitoes away from his arm. Braun eased a large bowie knife of black steel out of his jacket. It was an old friend, this knife. How many times early in his life had he felt the good warm blood of his victim spurt out over the handle? How many times had he felt the target shudder? Invasion by steel was always a surprise. There was always that grunt of surprise, even when they saw it coming. As he fell in behind the white and Consuelo, he could almost taste the good feel of a blade driven into a heart. Then, when the knife almost begged for a drink of the white's blood, Francisco stepped up to an arm's length away and caught the white's neck, dragging him backward. Remo felt himself tugged back, falling to the pavement. He saw the knife coming down at his throat, but could not catch the hand. Desperately he threw an arm at the blade.

But the arm did not move fast enough. It was like a terror of a dream where some big animal was chasing him and he could not move fast enough. Nothing had felt right for days, but he knew what to do, he knew what his body should do. Unfortunately all he had were leaden legs and arms.

Still, he could sense the movements, some training that could not be lost seemed to seize him, and a dull leg moved by itself into the knife. Remo fell back, hitting his head. Dull lights flashed in front of his eyes. The knife blade was coming down again.

"It's him," screamed Consuelo, falling on the knife hand. Remo kicked again, and then, using some long-forgotten muscle strength, threw a punch. And then threw another. And another, punching into the beautiful blond face, and finally getting the knife in his own hands and ramming it right into the chest bone.

Exhausted, Remo gasped for breath on the sidewalk. Chiun finally arrived.

"Disgraceful," he said. "I never thought I would see a day when you would ball your fist and hit someone with it."

"This man attacked us."

"And he almost lived to tell about it. I am through with you, Remo, unless you remove that cursed gold."

"It's not the gold, dammit."

"You will kill yourself. The body I trained, the mind I formed, the skills I gave will all be lost because of your stubbornness."

"Little father, I'm not feeling well. I don't know why. But one thing I do know. Your haranguing me doesn't help. Just give me a hand, help me up, and leave me alone. "

"I've told you what's wrong with you," said Chiun.

"C'mon. Give me a hand."

"You must discover for yourself that I am right."

"I feel like I'm dying, and you talk about silly curses."

"Why are you dying?"

"You probably know why I feel so bad, but you just want to prove a point."

Remo shook his head. The fall had hurt.

"Give me the pendant. I could take it now, but I want you to know why you give it to me."

"I know you're busting my chops."

"Then kill yourself by ignoring the warnings of the Masters of Sinanju," said Chiun, and with a sweep of his florid kimono, turned and walked away. Consuelo helped Remo to his feet.

"He's bluffing," said Remo. "He knows what's wrong with me, but he won't tell. He's like that."

"You do seem different," said Consuelo.

"In what way?" asked Remo.

"You're not so obnoxious anymore."

"You too?" asked Remo.

"C'mon. I'll help you get well."

"Yeah," said Remo. "I feel fifteen years younger."

"I thought you said you felt awful."

"That was how I used to feel."

She put an arm around his waist and helped him off the bridge. He advised her to leave the corpse there. "Once you get police involved, you've got problems."

"But we might be charged with murder."

"Trust me."

"I trusted him," said Consuelo. "He tried to get us killed."

"And I saved you, sweetheart. So who are you going to trust?"

"I hope you're right, Remo. But what's going to happen to the Nuclear Control Agency? We've got to report this to someone."

"I've got bad news for you," said Remo, steadying himself. "We are the someone."

"Who are you?"

"Never mind. Just take my word for it. Nothing else has worked so far."

"Why should I take your word for it?"

"Because everyone else has been trying to kill you," said Remo.

Harold W. Smith, through the organization's hidden contacts, had arranged for a special tally to be set up for calculating how much enriched uranium was being stolen. It was a rough estimate but reliable. All the enriched uranium used by legal sources was compared to all that was manufactured. The difference was how much was stolen.

The President had called this the first significant handle on the extent of the problem. But the day the President called the Folcroft Sanitarium to ask how many bombs could be made from the deficit uranium, Harold Smith gave him the most significant handle of all. "In tonnages?"