Warren Murphy: Last Drop

Somebody knew about Remo.

And somebody knew about Smith, knew enough to shoot him at point-blank range and take his attaché case, which contained enough incriminating evidence to destroy the Constitution of the United States forever.

He had been waiting ever since Remo had called from Malagua. It was a strange phone call, to say the least. For one thing, Remo had spoken entirely in code.

It was as if he knew that CURE was on the verge of destruction. Smith had desperately wanted to know the extent of Remo's information in the matter, but he had to keep the call as short as possible. The fewer the words, the more difficulty the thieves would have in decoding the transmission.

Remo told, in the language the Folcroft computers had devised, about Arnold and the woman. He gave his location and requested transport to Rye.

"Done," Smith responded in the same language. "But don't come here. Get to the lobby of the Excelsior Hotel in Washington. Chiun will meet you there with further instructions."

The connection was terminated. It had taken less than one minute. Then he walked to a pay phone, made several calls, arranged for the F-16 to take Remo to Washington with no questions asked, and returned to the office.

Chiun was still waiting silently in the corner he had appropriated. Smith wrote a long message on a piece of paper and folded it.

"There's a private plane waiting for you at the local airport," he said.

Chiun beamed. "For me? Alone? I may sit wherever I wish?"

"Anywhere," Smith said. "You'll be met at the end of your journey by a driver who will escort you to a hotel. Wait in the lobby for Remo, and give him this." He handed him the message. "No one else may see this," he warned.

"You shall be obeyed," Chiun said solemnly, bowing low. "Your humble servant does not forget the kindness of his illustrious Emperor. In the twilight of my years—"

"Er... that's fine, Chiun," Smith said distractedly. Chiun slipped the note into his sleeve and left, exhibiting all the dignity of his station.

Smith walked over to the window. The waiting had begun.

That had been hours ago. Dawn coming, and the attaché case was still missing. CURE was still operating, exposing the country to irreparable damage with each passing minute. Had he been right in not destroying the organization at midnight? Remo had provided some information, but not enough. Had Smith risked the future of America just to save his own skin? He didn't know. He went over the questions again and again. He just didn't know. There was so much to think about, and he was so tired of thinking.

George Brown. Hugo Donnelly. Saxonburg, Indiana. Does not compute. Does not compute.

It was 6:14.

"Tomorrow will be too late," he remembered saying. The waves outside his window were dappled with morning light. It was tomorrow.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

A gray-gloved hand ...

Suddenly he started to attention, so fast that he choked and coughed. Holding his side, he made his way back to the computer console, keyed in "SAXONBURG, INDIANA," and followed a new line of questioning.

By 7:02 he knew the answer.

He took his extra suit from the closet in his office, got dressed slowly and painfully, and called a taxi.

Before he left, he set the self-destruct mechanism on the Folcroft computers to go off automatically at noon. He arranged it so that the destruction of CURE could only be aborted by his own voice print, issuing directly from the telephone inside his attaché case.

Because if he was right, he would be in possession of the case by noon.

And if he was wrong, noon would be well past his appointed hour to die.

?Chapter Nineteen

Chiun's gold brocade robe looked even more splendid than usual, surrounded as it was by the threadbare furniture of the Excelsior Hotel lobby.

"Hi, Little Father," Remo said.

"Look at you," Chiun whispered, casting embarrassed looks all around. "A disgrace. Your shirt is torn. There is blood all over your face, dried like paint. I have arrived here in a private airplane. Do you know what it will do to my image to be seen associating with such a person as you? And what is that rag on your hand?"

"A bandage. I was shot."

"You, too? Has no one in this oafish country a decent sense of balance?"

"Smith?" Remo said, his voice rising. "You were supposed to watch him. How bad was it?"

"I do not have to explain myself to you," Chiun snapped. "The Emperor is well, and most grateful to me. He knows how to show gratitude, which is more than I can say for some persons who cannot even arrive in time for dinner."

"I can't believe it. I asked you to do one thing....And here I am shot, for God's sake," he sputtered. "Well, we can argue later. Give me Smitty's message."

"You have no manners at all." Chiun's eyes glared as he shot the piece of paper into Remo's hand. "This I do for the Emperor alone, because I have promised him," he decreed. "Not for ill-mannered beings who do not know how to ask for a thing politely."

Remo read the note, frowning.

"What does it say?"

"He wants me to get a suit," Remo said.

"A man of excellent discernment," Chiun said, fingering the torn back of Remo's T-shirt.

"And then he wants me to withdraw a hundred thousand dollars from the bank across the street."

"In gold?" Chiun asked excitedly.

Remo shook his head.

"Then it does not count."

Donnelly's secretary, busily filing her nails, rose like a zephyr from behind a two-foot-high stack of papers.

"We have an appointment," Remo said.

The girl's face looked blank for a moment while her nail file slowed in concentration. "Oh, yeah," she said, a smile dawning. "I knew I remembered somebody calling. I even wrote it down. You're..." She rummaged through the papers on the desk, creating a small blizzard.

"I am Chiun," Chiun said, bowing politely.

"Chiun is one of the biggest businessmen in Korea," Remo explained. "He's here to see Mr. Donnelly about some exporting business."

"Yeah," the secretary said enthusiastically. "It's all coming back to me now. And you're his assistant, right?"

"Jackpot," Remo said. "I'm Remo. Remo—"

"Wang," Chiun finished.

Remo looked at him. "An appropriately common name," Chiun explained.

"Remo Wang," the secretary said. "Pleased to meetcha, Mr. Wang. I'm Darcy Devoe. It used to be Smith, but I changed it. I always say—"

"Is Mr. Donnelly in?" Chiun interrupted.

"Sure. I told him about you when you called. He can't wait to see you. His office is..." She turned in a slow circle, scanning the walls with bewildered eyes before they came to rest on the only inner door in the office. "Through there!" she said, pointing triumphantly.

"Thanks," Remo said. "That's got to be the ditziest broad in Washington," he added in Korean as they knocked on Donnelly's door.

Chiun shrugged. "She is white."

Donnelly was a broad man with heavy features and expansive gestures. "Mr. Williams?" he asked, smiling at Remo.

"Wang," Remo said.

"Wang? Oh, I beg your pardon. My secretary must have got the name wrong. She's a little disorganized at times."

"She is to be excused," Chiun said graciously. "She is—"

"And this is Chiun," Remo said loudly.

"Ah, yes." Donnelly managed an awkward bow in what he evidently believed to be an Oriental manner. "Mr. Chiun of..." He quickly pulled a note card out of his jacket. "Sinanju. Did I pronounce that right, Mr. Chiun?"

"Perfectly," Chiun said. "And 'Chiun' will suffice. As I am the Master of Sinanju, who rides in airplanes with no other passengers, no other title is necessary."

"The Master of... I see," Donnelly said. "Well, sit down, sit down. I'll get us all a drink."

Chiun folded his hands inside his sleeves. "That will not be necessary. And I prefer to stand. My associate will explain the purpose of our visit."