Warren Murphy: The Last Alchemist

Since it was midday, he turned on the television. Ordinarily he did not watch advertisements between the daytime dramas. But this day he saw an advertisement that moved him. Someone had finally woken up to the trouble America was in.

An American businessman was addressing the nation. He called for an end to random violence. He called upon America to make its streets safe. He called upon every citizen to report horrendous acts of unpunished crimes to his clearinghouse. The man had a proud high-bridged Spanish face. He spoke with haughty grandeur. There was something nice about the man.

With an American writing implement of crude blue ink, Chiun sat down to write a letter to this man on motel stationery. It began:

Mr Dear Mr. Harrison Caldwell:

You have finally come to save this wretched country from its excesses. Too long has America suffered from the amateur assassin violating the standards of the noblest profession, throwing the streets into chaos ...

If Consuelo Bonner had any thought about trying to get help, she gave it up as soon as she checked with her McKeesport plant.

"Better not come back here, Ms. Bonner," said her secretary. "They're looking for you."

"Who?"

"Everyone. Police, federal authorities, NCA. You're listed as a fugitive."

"I wasn't running from anything, I was chasing something."

"I told them, Ms. Bonner. I told them you were the best security chief this plant ever had. I told them you were better than any man. All they said was that I had to let them know if I heard from you. Or I'd face federal charges."

"I'll get this straightened out myself. I just need my records."

"We don't have them anymore. All the files were seized. They're evidence."

"I see," said Consuelo.

She could turn herself in and explain everything. But would they believe her? Only if she had the files she had left at headquarters, the ones leading to the man who contacted James Brewster. Maybe Brewster didn't know who had reached out for him, but there couldn't be too many people at headquarters who knew a lowly dispatcher outside of the plant.

She would have to break in herself. If she had Remo, he could get in any number of ways. The man could probably break through a wall when he was well.

She had one thing going for her. She was one of the security people who set up the original procedures to protect vital NCA files. She knew what guards would look for and what they would not look for. Such as a clearance badge. They never cross-checked the names, or even compared faces. What they did look for was the number.

Consuelo Bonner carefully cut her badge out of its laminated container, painted in new numbers that looked original, gave herself the name Barbara Gleason, and then resealed it all. Then, at midday, she marched into the vast concrete buildings of NCA as though she belonged there.

Expecting to be arrested any moment, she was almost horrified at how easy it was to get into the records center.

After a short time in front of a microfilm machine she nearly forgot there was any danger at all.

She got Brewster's file easily, saw his date of employment, his early retirement. She even saw some of her queries about him. She had sought background checks on everyone who had anything to do with the missing uranium. But on Brewster, the queries just sat in the file. A note was attached to them. It was dated the moment they came in. The memo said: "Brewster okay."

It seemed to have the highest authority. She checked out the authorization code. When she saw who it was, she couldn't believe it. It was Bennett Wilson himself. The director of the whole shebang.

He was the man she was intending to report to when she unraveled everything.

She closed the file. A guard was looking at her. Something puzzled him about her. She had seen him a few days before when she was here with Remo and Chiun.

She pretended she was busy in the file. She reread Brewster's early application for government employment as though it were a best-selling novel.

What did Brewster want to do with his life? "Retire," was his answer.

If Brewster saw a mother and child drowning and he still had an envelope to lick for a magazine subscription, would he:

A. Save the mother and child, forgetting about everything else?

B. Put down the letter and then save the mother and child, leaving the letter for later? or

C. Make sure he had the correct postage and leave the fate of the mother and child to those who might be qualified to help?

Brewster chose C.

Consuelo glanced up. The guard was still looking. She went back to Brewster's entrance test.

The next question was another multiple choice. Which of the following would he prefer to watch?

A. The last minutes of a Super Bowl game tied 48 to 48.

B. Swan Lake performed by the Royal Ballet.

C. Rembrandt at work.

D. The clock.

Brewster had chosen D, for one of the highest scores ever recorded for a federal job, so high the examiner said that if there was a person born for government service, it was James Brewster.

"You."

It was the guard. Consuelo looked up. "Yes?" said Consuelo.

"Let me see your identification badge."

Consuelo handed it to him, making sure the ends of the laminate she had just glued got one last pressing together.

"Didn't I see you here the other day?"

"You may have, I don't know."

"I have a photographic memory."

"Then you must have."

"You weren't named Barbara Gleason then. Consuelo Bonner? Right. Consuelo Bonner, McKeesport security. Right? Right?"

Consuelo swallowed.

"Right," she said. It was all over.

"I knew it. I have a photographic memory."

"What are you going to do?" said Consuelo. It was over. Having been caught, her accusations now would only look like trying to protect herself.

"What do you mean, what am I going to do?"

"You've found me with questionable identification."

"Right. But this ain't my floor. I just came here to get a look at my own file. I legally have a half day's vacation due from my 87-35 revolving vacation leave, 803967 transfer code."

"So you are going to do nothing."

"This is the last part of my lunch hour. I am not going to cut into my lunch hour for this. I don't know that I'd get it back. Could you guarantee me compensatory time for my lunch break?"

"No," said Consuelo.

"Then forget it. I just wanted to see if I was right." Almost sadly she returned the folder to the file she had gotten it from. She hated the idea that it could be so easy to break in here, even if she had done the breaking. She had tried to change things at the McKeesport plant and felt to a large degree that she had succeeded, except for the thefts. But what could she have done when they were masterminded by the very head of the agency?

As she was about to leave, she saw an "all-staff memo" posted on a wall. It was from the new chairman of the NCA. It was a notice of regrets for absence of Director Bennett Wilson, and assuring everyone NCA would run even better while they looked for his replacement. Until then the chairman would personally run everything.

But it also added that things would now be changed. Too many employees were just waiting around until retirement. Too many ignored their duty because they felt their jobs were guaranteed safe. Well, said the new chairman of NCA, he was going to appoint someone soon who felt nuclear materials were too important for a nine-to-five attitude. Heads were going to roll. People were going to do more than what they could be blamed for or he personally would shut down the entire system himself and start from scratch.

The warning was that the job endangered was yours. And until he got a replacement for Wilson who felt the same way, he would run things himself.