Warren Murphy: Lords of the Earth

Was it possible? Had those two killed them? Just who were this Dr. Remo and Dr. Chiun?

"Hello," came a sleepy voice at the other end of the phone line.

"Anselmo?"

"Yeah. Zat you, boss?"

"I'm at the Plaza Hotel in Room 1505. Come over here immediately and come right up. Don't ask for me because I'm registered under a different name."

"Right now?" Anselmo said.

"Right now."

"Ah, jeez, boss."

"Right now. And bring Myron with you."

When the two thugs arrived, Perriweather handed them a clear plastic container. In it were a few grains of sugar and a fly with red wings.

"I want you to take this to the IHAEO labs," Perriweather said. "Get in a room with two scientists named Remo and Chiun, then release the fly."

"That's it?" Anselmo said with some bewilderment. "You want we should deliver a fly?"

"That is correct."

"Like should we bash in their heads or something too?" Myron said. "I mean, we want you should get your money's worth."

"That won't be necessary. Just deliver the fly."

"Do we have to catch it and bring it back?" Anselmo asked.

"No. I've got many more," Perriweather said and began to giggle. The sound was so eerie and frightening that Myron nudged Anselmo in the ribs and pushed him toward the door.

Perriweather stared at the door as it closed behind the two men. It was time, he thought, to rid himself of Anselmo and Myron. If this Remo and Chiun had eliminated the Muswassers, the two brainless thugs should be no problem.

And Remo and Chiun would be no problem for Musca perriweatheralis. The container holding the fly was made of spun sugar and within six hours, the fly would eat its way out. If Remo and Chiun were near, they were dead.

He stroked the dead insect's back and then closed the jeweled casket.

"One of our children has already left the nest, Mother," he said. "Its work has begun."

An airline shuttle and a cab brought Anselmo and Myron to the parking lot of the IHAEO laboratories. As they stepped from the taxicab, they shielded their faces from the bright summer sun. "Wish I could be swimming today," Anselmo said.

"Tomorrow you can swim," Myron said. "Tomorrow it'll probably rain. I should be swimming today, not delivering flies."

"We've had worse jobs," Myron said.

"But not stupider ones," Anselmo said. He held the tiny transparent cube up to the sunlight. "Kitchee koo," he said, scratching his finger tightly on the cube. "Hey, it looks like there's some kind of hole here."

"Where?" Myron said, squinting at the cube. "Here on the side."

"That's all we need," Myron said. "Get a job to deliver a fly and lose the frigging fly. Put your finger over it or something till we drop it off inside."

"I guess so," Anselmo said. He took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and placed it over the pin-sized hale.

"What's that for? You afraid of disease?"

"Maybe," Anselmo said.

"Stupid, that fly's been raised in a lab, probably. It don't have no germs."

"It still craps," Anselmo said.

Anselmo hoisted Myron up to the level of the window.

"They in there?"

"A young scrawny guy and an old gook, right?"

"That's what he said," Anselmo said.

"They're in there. But they don't look like no scientists to me," Myron said.

He saw the old Oriental, dressed in a tangerine-colored robe, sitting quietly in a corner of the room, scratching on a rolled-up piece of parchment with a quill pen. The young man was vaulting in a series of somersaults across the room, then hit the wall, did another loop, and landed on his feet soundlessly. Without hesitation, he did the same maneuver backward across the room.

Anselmo let Myron down to the ground.

"One guy's writing on wallpaper and the other guy's jumping around like a chimpanzee," Myron said. "They ain't no scientists."

"What do you know?" Anselmo said. "Let's get into the place, do what we gotta do, and leave."

"I'd still like to beat them up a little bit, to make sure Perriweather gets his money's worth," Myron said.

"No freebies," Anselmo said. "Paid for delivery, that's all we do is deliver. Nothing else. Like the Bible says, 'The workman is worth whatever you pay him.' "

The conversation was too deep for Myron, who walked away from Anselmo and began to jimmy the window of the room next to Remo and Chiun's lab. "We'll sneak in this way," he said.

"Chiun," Remo said.

"Leave me in peace. Can you not see I am busy?"

"What are you doing?"

"I am writing a beautiful tender epic poem about the ingratitude of a worthless pupil for his teacher."

"Well, this worthless pupil hears two goons outside the window."

"Yes," Chiun said. "And would you ask them to please restrain the noise? They make enough noise for ten."

"What do you think we should do about it?" Remo asked.

Chiun snorted. "I think," he said, narrowing his eyes, "that there are some details which even a worthless pupil can attend to without constantly annoying the Master of Sinanju."

"Sorry, just checking."

"Check in silence," Chiun said, going back to his poem.

Remo went out into the corridor to walk next door to the room the two men were entering.

As he did, Anselmo and Myron threw their bulk against the connecting door between the offices and with a crash of splintering wood staggered into the room.

Chiun rolled his eyes and set down his quill deliberately.

Anselmo roared at him, "Where's the other one?"

"God only knows," Chiun said with disgust. "Probably at the front doorway inviting passersby to come in and disturb me."

"This is the one that was writing on the wallpaper," Myron said. "See? There." He pointed to the parchment.

"Hi, guys," said Remo as he bounded back into the room through the hole they had just made in the wall.

"And this is the one that was jumping around like an acreebat," Myron said.

"What can we do for you?" Remo asked pleasantly.

"Nothing," Anselmo said. "We brung you a present." He put the cube covered by the handkerchief down on the laboratory table.

"Good, a present. I love presents," Remo said.

"A fagola," Anselmo said to Myron.

"Can I peek?" Remo asked.

"Definitely a fagola," Myron said.

Remo lifted the handkerchief's corner and peeked inside.

"How sweet of you. It's a fly. Chiun, it's a fly. I never got a fly before."

"You got one now," Anselmo said.

"Anything else you need from us?" Remo asked.

"No. That was it."

"Good," Chiun said. "Then remove your big hulks from this room so I may continue my work."

"Hey, who pulled his chain?" Anselmo said.

"He's writing a poem," Remo explained. "He doesn't like to be disturbed."

"He doesn't, huh? Well, let's see how he likes this." Anselmo stomped across the room, then planted a huge foot atop Chiun's parchment scroll and flattened it, leaving a tread mark.

"You've made him mad now," Remo said. He mumbled to Chiun in Korean.

"Hey. What'd you say to him?" Anselmo asked.

"I asked him not to kill you yet."

"Hahahahaha," Anselmo chuckled. "That's a rich one. Why not yet?"

"Because I want to ask you some questions first," Remo said.

"Oh, no," Myron interrupted. "No questions."

"You mean you were just told to deliver the fly and then leave?" Remo asked.

"That's right," Anselmo said.

"Don't go telling him stuff like that," Myron said. "It ain't none of his business."

"You weren't told to kill us?" Remo said. "Perriweather didn't tell you to kill us?"

"No. Just deliver the fly," Anselmo said.

"Boy, are you stupid," Myron said. "He was just guessing that it was Perriweather and now you told him it was."

"You're pretty smart for a dumbbell," Remo told Myron. "You've got real promise. Where's Perriweather now?"