Warren Murphy - Voodoo Die

"We stand ready to execute your orders," said Chiun.

"You stand ready," Remo called out. "I've quit."

"What did he say?" Smith asked.

"Nothing. He is just talking to himself. And since he cannot get an intelligent answer, he has taken to bothering us in our conversation."

"All right," Smith said. "The first and primary obligation is still the machine. We have to get it before anyone else does."

"We will do it."

"And there is an American agent in jail."

"And you want her killed?"

"No, no. She is in prison. Corazon put her there. We want her released."

"And you want the jailer killed? So he will take no such liberties again?"

"No, no. I don't want anybody killed. Just free this agent. Her name is Ruby Jackson Gonzalez."

"That is all?"

"Yes. Can you do it?"

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"Before the setting of another sun," Chiun promised.

"Thank you."

"Such excellence of service is only your due, Emperor," Chiun said before hanging up. He told Remo, "I can't wait until my President decides to get rid of Smith. The man is a lunatic."

"Your President?" asked Remo.

"The House of Sinanju has a saying: 'Whose bread I eat, his song I sing.' My President."

"What does Smitty want you to do?"

"That machine again. Always everybody is worried about some machine. Now I ask you, how can they have an important machine in this country, which cannot even keep a hotel room clean?"

"You knew the machine was your assignment when you took this job," Remo said.

"And there is someone in jail whom Smith wants freed."

"How are you going to do that?" asked Remo.

"There is no way to do anything in this country. One cannot get clean towels or running water or decent food. I am going to the President, this Cortisone, and tell him what I want done."

"You think he'll listen to you? His name's Corazon."

"He will listen."

"When are you going?"

"The best time for the doing of a task is the moment of realizing the task exists. I am going now," Chiun said.

"I'm going with you," said Remo. "I haven't had a laugh all week."

Chiun went to the drapeless window of the room and as Remo watched he waved his arms and pointed

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in elaborate gestures. He finally turned away with a satisfied nod.

"What was that all about?"

"The President, Corazon, was there. He looks in our window all day long. I told him I am coming."

"He's the President?" Remo asked. "I thought he was a Peeping Tom."

"He is Corazon."

"He's probably running like hell right now," said Remo.

"He will wait," Chiun said as he went to the door.

"What's the name of this agent you're supposed to get free?" Remo asked.

"Who knows? A woman. Ruby or something. I did not hear the rest. All American names sound alike."

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CHAPTER SEVEN

Both the lieutenant of the guard and the sergeant of the guard had decided they were going to have their way with Ruby Gonzalez, rape being allowed when the prisoner involved was a political enemy, had offended the sainted person of El Presidente, and was good-looking enough to make the effort worthwhile.

Neither of them had scored because Ruby, out of the goodness of her heart, had warned each of them of the other's plan to put him out of the way-the sergeant wanting to do the lieutenant in so he could be promoted to the lieutenant's job, the lieutenant wanting to get rid of the sergeant so his undeserving brother-in-law could buy himself the sergeant's commission.

Ruby sat on the floor in her cell. There was a stuffed bag on legs that was supposed to be a mattress but she knew, without ever having been in

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jail that women prisoners who spent time lying or sitting on their beds asked for trouble.

Sooner or later, she knew, the sergeant or the lieutenant would be back with a gun for her. She had promised each of them that she would use the gun on his enemy, thus ensuring her benefactor's life and success. After the murder, she would be allowed to escape and no one would ever hear from her again and the Washington government would put $73 million in a Swiss bank account for the one who helped her.

The hardest part of the whole concoction had been deciding on the amount of money the U.S. would pay for her ransom. She figured she could probably get $5,000 out of the CIA. But thousands, she knew, wouldn't impress a Baqian. It sounded too much like hundreds. A million was right, but an even million sounded like a made-up number, like a fake. So she settled on $73 million. The seventy-three had the undeniable ring of truth, aided along by the fact that most Baqians couldn't calculate up to seventy-three.

It would work, she decided. Particularly since she had decided, from the time she met the first guard at the jail, that she could buy the entire Baqian civil service for the price of a three-pound can of decaffeinated coffee.

AH she could do was wait for whichever guard was fool enough to give her a gun.

She didn't like waiting, doing nothing. So while she sat on the floor of the jail cell she began planning how she was going to expand her wig store. Financing would be no trouble. That problem had been resolved two years ago.

When she had first wanted to start her business, she had gone to the bank for a loan and the banker had

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laughed at her. The idea of a woman, twenty-one years old, black to boot, asking for a business loan without any collateral, well, it was just ridiculous and they weren't in the business of throwing away depositors' money, after all.

His high humor had lasted four hours after Ruby had left. Then the first pickets showed up in front of his bank, carrying signs advising black depositors that a new black-owned and operated bank was opening soon that would value their business and treat them like people. The sandwich boards they were carrying had a telephone number to call for information. The banker called the number.

Ruby answered.

The next day, she had her loan.

She had paid off the five-year note in two years, and her credit was now solid gold. She scratched numbers in the dust on the concrete floor of her cell. Twenty thousand dollars, that's what it would take to expand her buying system, so she had something more reliable than sailors carrying bags of smuggled hair. It would be easy.

They did not look like much. The American was skinny and had only thick wrists to indicate that he might have some power in his body. Corazon had thought the Oriental to be old. But he was more than old. He was aged and so frail that Corazon knew women from his mountain village who could fall on him and crush him.

But there was the evidence of the past two days. The dead British, the dead Russians. Corazon would be cautious.

"The people of Baqia welcome you visitors to our

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beautiful island," he said. "We have always loved Americans."

Chiun waved away the small talk with a bony hand that protruded from the sleeve, of his orange kimono.

Corazon would not be discouraged.

"If there is anything-"

"Towels," Chiun said, "dean towels. Clean sheets. Anything else, Remo?"

"For openers, that's all right," Remo said.

"Done," said Corazon, although he could not understand why someone would want clean sheets and towels. "You will be happy to know that we have reinstituted the relations with your country."

Chiun turned to Remo. "What is he talking about?"

"Who knows?" Remo said.

"Does he think I'm an American?" asked Chiun.

"Probably. AH you patriots look alike," Remo said.

"Generalissimo Corazon was talking about the bonds stronger than blood, the bonds of friendship and love that traditionally united Baqia and America.

"Enough," said Chiun. "We do not care about that. We care about towels and sheets."