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Warren Murphy: Killing Time

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Killing Time: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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America's beautiful people are playing follow-the-leader with their latest guru, diet doctor Felix Foxx. As Foxx's disciples are dropping pounds, however, U.S. military leaders are dropping like flies. Coincidence? Maybe. But CURE's been counting causalities, and Remo and Chiun are being dispatched to muscle in and settle the score. They arrive too late at Foxx's fat farm - a fool's paradise where the wealthy go to buy time. And where, it appears, the smart set are losing a lot more than cellulite . . . Our heroes stumble onto an insidious plot - one that's eating away at the very core of Western civilization. And even racing against time, they've got a slim chance of stopping it . . .

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Shorty lumbered around until he faced Remo. "That leaves him," he said with conviction. He pulled back his oaken arm and blasted it forward.

"Right," said Boneili.

"Wrong," said Remo. He flicked out two fingers to deflect the blow. Shorty's arm kept going, swing­ing around in a circle and finally landing in the mid­dle of his own face, causing his oft-broken nose to dis­appear entirely. He fell forward with a deafening thud.

"So much for Shorty," Remo said as he lifted Bon­elli again, this time by his belt, and carried him through the wrecked wall, dangling at his side.

"The belt, watch the belt," Bonelli said. "It's Pierre Cardin."

Remo began scaling the sheer wall of the ware-

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house. Bonelli looked down once and screamed. "Holy freaking shit," he yelled. "Where are you taking me?"

"Up." Remo climbed the wall methodically, his toes catching on the bricks of the building, his free hand gently guiding ahead and working with gravity to pull him upward.

"May the saints curse you," Giuseppe "Bones" Bonelli sobbed. "May your days be filled with suffer­ing and hardship. May your mother's lasagne be laced with cow turds. May your children and your children's children-"

"Hey, zip it up, will you? I'm trying to kill somebody. You're wrecking my concentration."

"Always with the smart shit. May your grandchil­dren be smitten with boils. May your wife lie with lepers."

"Look, if you don't stop hurting my feelings, I'm going to forget about you and leave," Remo said.

"That's the idea. May your uncles choke on chicken bones."

"Just a second," Remo said, stopping. "Now that's getting personal. You don't mess with a guy's uncles. I'm leaving." He tossed Bonelli into the air. Bonelli shrieked, his voice growing small as he catapulted up­wards.

"Take that back," Remo said.

"I take it back," Bonelli howled.

"How much?"

"All of it. Everything." He paused in midair for a mo­ment, then began his screaming descent. "Help!"

"Will you shut up?"

"Yes. Yes. Forever. Silence."

"You'll let me concentrate?"

"Do anything you want. Jest catch me." As he ap-

17

preached eye-level with Remo, Remo reached out and clasped Bonelli by his belt. With a whoosh of air and frantic movements of a drowning man, Bonelli whin­nied once, then opened his eyes a crack and discov­ered he was still alive.

"Smart-"

"Ah-ah-ah," Remo cautioned.

Boneili was silent.

The rest of the six-story climb was peaceful. Remo whistled an ancient Korean tune he'd learned from Chiun. The melody was haunting and lovely, and the sound it made in the crisp winter air made it even more beautiful. In the background, birds were singing. Remo half forgot about the narcotics king dangling from his right arm as he made his way up the building.

Sometimes Remo almost enjoyed his job. He sup­posed that made him a pervert. Assassins weren't generally happy people, and Remo guessed that he was probably no happier than most people who killed other people for a living. But at least he killed people who deserved to be killed. He didn't hire himself out to greedy landlords who had stubborn tenants put away because those tenants didn't have the good grace to die quickly in their rent-controlled apartments. He didn't shoot foreign students because a thrill-crazed dictator decreed it. He killed when there was killing to be done. When there was nothing else that could be done.

Like all professional assassins, Remo did not de­cide whose souls would be liberated from their bodies. That was done for him by an organization developed by a president of the United States long ago as a last-ditch emergency measure to control crime. Only the emergency never passed, and the president was him­self murdered, and so the organization continued.

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It was called CURE. CURE was possibly the most highly illegal instrument America had ever devised to combat crime. Unknown to ali but three people on earth, CURE worked outside the Constitution-utterly outside. CURE had no rules, and only one objective: to control crime when every other method of con­trolling it had failed.

Of the three people who knew about CURE, the president of the United States was the least important. It was his option either to use the special red phone in a bedroom of the White House or not. The red phone was a direct line to CURE'S headquarters in Rye, New York. Almost every president, upon learning from his predecessor about the red phone, swore that CURE would never be used. The existence of an organiza­tion like CURE was an admission that America's legal system had failed miserably, and no new president would admit that. And so the red phone would rest, forgotten, for months at a time at the beginning of each new administration. But eventually it was used. It was always used.

And when that red phone was picked up, it was an­swered immediately by a lemony-voiced man, the sec-, ond person who knew of CURE'S existence. That man was Dr. Harold W. Smith.

Smith was as unlikely a personality to run an illegal organization as could be found on the face of the earth. His principal interest lay in computer informa­tion analysis. He was precise, fastidious, methodical, and law-abiding by nature.

His job, as director of CURE, brought him into daily contact with murder, arson, treason, blackmail, and other forms of man-made catastrophe. The long-dead president who had begun CURE had hand-picked Smith, knowing that illegal work would be difficult for

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him. Smith had been chosen because he possessed one quality, which the president knew would override all possible objections Smith could have about the na­ture of his work: Harold W. Smith loved his country more than anything else. He would see to it that the job got done. Or didn't get done, according to the best interests of the country. Even the president himself could do no more than suggest assignments to Harold W. Smith. CURE obeyed no one.

The third person who knew about CURE was the en­forcement arm of the organization. One man, trained in an ancient form of defense and attack developed millennia ago in the small Korean village of Sinanju. One man who could perform the impossible.

That man was Remo Williams.

He had scaled all six stories of the warehouse now, the silent but pained-looking Giuseppe "Bones" Bonelli in tow. Below, the two dock workers were once again loading the crates full of white death into the parked truck. As he tossed Bonelli onto the flat, snow-covered roof, the small man grimaced and ciutched at his side.

"What's the matter?" Remo asked dubiously.

"It's just that song."

What song?"

"The one you kept whistling. You know, over and over, over and over."

"What about it?"

Bonelli doubled over. "It gave me gas," he said. "I didn't want to say nothing over there"-he gestured vaguely over the side-"but, I mean, like if you've got to sing, couldn't you do 'My Way' or 'I Left My Heart in San Francisco'?" Not that" weird shit. Gives me a pocket, right here." He pointed to a region of his intes­tines.

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"You've just got no taste," Remo said. Chiun was getting to him, he knew. He was even beginning to re­mind himself of Chiun.

But he wouldn't worry about that, he decided. He wouldn't worry because at the moment there were other things to worry about. Like the fact that Giu­seppe "Bones" Bonelli had reached into his inside coat pocket and was unfolding something metallic with a black handle. It was a hatchet. Chortling with glee, Bonelli swung it in Remo's direction, the blade singing.

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