Warren Murphy: The Last Alchemist

The Islamic Knights of Boston, heretofore a police problem, became martyrs, the Boston Six. They died, according to the newspapers, because they tried to make America a better place to live. No one bothered to interview official Islamic groups, which had never even heard of the Six.

In the flurry of advertising and publicity, Harrison Caldwell got exactly what he wanted. Extracting bits of information from the masses of useless data and hearsay, the workers in Caldwell's building put together a pattern of exceptional violence by extraordinary means. Places that had been presumed secure from any human entrance had mysteriously been entered, their occupants often killed, or threatened in such a way as to turn state's evidence and testify against even the most powerful crime lords or conspiracies.

The toughest, most ruthless hoodlums and enemy agents had been killed coast to coast by blows that could not have been delivered by humans, but only by machines. Yet mysteriously, there were no traces of machines.

Almost all of these exceptional killings had been reported to that special joint commission of the FBI and Secret Service. And none of the killers had ever been caught.

Harrison Caldwell was definitely on the trail of his enemy's home. Find out who was behind that joint commission that did nothing and he would find out, he was sure, who was behind the pair who were after him.

And for that, he needed a search through the vast maze of America's telecommunications, hundreds of detectives, computer experts, and telephone engineers. It would be the most concerted technological effort since the Space Shuttle.

It was not a major problem. All it would take would be money.

Harold W. Smith saw it coming, saw the vast number of technological experts being brought from different areas, all pouring into his project searching out who received the data on the deaths, almost all of which had been done by Remo and Chiun.

Smith was not sure if it could be traced back to him. Electronics never failed to amaze him. There were machines that could tell if a person had been in a room by the amount of heat let off. Were there devices to trace who had access? He thought he had taken advanced precautions to establish blocks. But with all electronic barriers, there was always an electronic solution.

He felt very vulnerable and very alone in the office watching a giant thing out there ready to come after him.

And the Goliath behind it was Harrison Caldwell, a man not noticeably distinguished by civic virtue until this campaign. Whether Caldwell had evil purposes or not, Smith could not tell. But he had to be stopped. He had to be reasoned with. Remo could do that best.

Remo had not checked in for the last few days. On a chance, Smith reached out for him at the same motel. He was in luck. Remo was still there.

The bad news was that Remo was dead. "What?"

"He's just stopped breathing. He didn't want a doctor. He didn't want help. He refused it, right up until the end." This from the woman who was living with him in that room.

"Does he have a pulse?"

"I don't know how to take a pulse."

"Do you have a mirror?" said Smith.

"What do you want me to do with a mirror?"

"Do you have one?"

"A pocket mirror?"

"Exactly."

"Yes. I have one in my purse."

"Take the mirror and put it to his nose and mouth."

"To see if it collects moisture. That means he's breathing."

"Yes," said Smith.

He waited in the office, drumming his fingers against the tabletop, wondering what they all had run into, wondering if what some people said about the stars were true. This was too much bad luck not to be caused by some other power.

It seemed to take forever for her to get back. Finally she was on the phone.

"He's dead," she sobbed.

Chapter 11

Smith of course was insane. Chiun had always known that but he tried to reason with him.

"Yes, you have told me that he is dead. And what can I say but that when one refuses to honor the ancestors properly, one pays the price."

"The whole organization is in trouble. You're our last resort."

"It is the lack of respect for ancestors that is the problem in the world. Respect the ancestors, and you respect what is good and decent in all civilizations."

"Can you help?"

"The power, strength, dignity, and honor of the House of Sinanju are eternally at the call of your hand, to render glory," said Ghiun. Then he hung up. It was time to see Remo.

He heard the phone ringing as he prepared to leave the room he had rented but he did not answer it. He was sure it was Smith again.

At the entrance of the hotel, one of the servants of the building beckoned Chiun. He said there was someone trying to reach him desperately.

On the chance that it was the girl Remo was staying with, Chiun picked up the telephone. But it was Smith. "I think we may have been cut off, and I phoned the lobby to see if you were in. They said you were on your way out. Look, we have a problem. I can't talk on this phone. Can you make a phone contact again?"

"With praise for your glory on my lips forever," said Chiun, and hung up, heading for the door.

Remo's motel was not far away. It had happened sooner than he had expected; but then Remo had advanced so much in Sinanju that it was difficult to tell where Sinanju left off and Remo began until he became insulting. Then of course, he was white.

The woman in Remo's motel room was distraught. A doctor sat by the bed. He shook his head as he removed the stethoscope from Remo's chest.

Remo lay still on the bed, his eyes shut, his chest bare, wearing only boxer shorts. His body was still. The pendant hung by the chain from his neck but now rested by his ear.

"I'm afraid it is too late," said the doctor.

"Get this white out of here," Chiun told Remo's woman, Consuelo.

"He's the doctor."

"He is not a doctor. He knows neither yin nor yang. Where are his herbs? Where is the age to show wisdom? He is only forty years old at most."

"Remo is dead," said Consuelo.

"Get him out," said Chiun. Did he have to do everything himself?

"Your friend is dead," said the doctor.

"You know nothing of death. What do you know of death? Who have you killed on purpose?"

"Well, I am going to have to file a report."

Chiun dismissed that with a hand. If the boyish doctor wished his own authorities to know how big a fool he was, this was not Chiun's problem.

When the doctor had left, Chiun told Consuelo Remo was not dead.

"Then if he is not dead, what is his problem? He sure as hell looks dead. He has no pulse. He does not breathe. The doctor says he's dead."

"His problem is stubbornness," said Chiun. He pointed to the pendant lying beside Remo's ear. "Remove that," he said.

"What good will removing a curse do now?" asked Consuelo. It was too late. Didn't this old Oriental know that?

"Remove it," said Chiun.

"All right. It doesn't matter anymore. He was a nice guy," said Consuelo. She felt an urge to kiss Remo's forehead as a way of saying good-bye, perhaps cover him, as a fitting way to let a corpse rest. Instead she eased the chain of the pendant up over his chin and then over his head, until she had it in her hands. She offered it to the Oriental, who stepped quickly away in horror. It was faster than a step. It was a movement away to the other side of the room, and the shuffle seemed to follow him.

"Don't bring it near me. Move it away. It's cursed."

"Oh, c'mon," said Consuelo.

"Out of here. Out. Get it out."

"What am I going to do? Walk up to some stranger and say here, have a gold pendant?"

"Away."

"It must be worth several hundred dollars."

"Out of the room."

"I can't believe it," said Consuelo. "Your friend is dead and you're more worried about a piece of gold."