Warren Murphy: Deadly Seeds

"You know what I want," said Deussio to them. "One man. I want him dead."

"Just one?" It was the Korean, speaking in a neat, flavored English.

"That's all. But an exceptional man."

"Still. Eight exceptional men to bring him down seems excessive," the Korean said.

Deussio nodded. "Maybe after you see this, you won't think so."

He nodded to Sally who flipped out the room lights and turned on the movie projector. Deussio had cut the film and this part included only Remo dodging the bullets, climbing the drainpipe, and disposing of the marksman.

The lights came back on. Some of the men, Deussio noticed, licked their lips nervously. The Korean, the one with the hazel eyes, smiled.

"Very interesting technique," he allowed. "But a direct Ninja attack. Very easy to handle. Eight men for this job is precisely seven too many."

Deussio smiled. "Just call it my way of insuring success. Now that you've seen the film, are you all still in?" He looked around the room. Eight heads nodded in agreement. By God, they did all look alike, he decided.

"All right then. Five thousand dollars will be deposited in each of your accounts tomorrow morning. Another five thousand dollars each will be deposited upon successful completion of the… er, mission."

They nodded again, simultaneously, like little plaster dolls with heads that bobbed on springs.

The Korean said, "Where will we find this man? Who is he?"

"I don't know much about him. His name is Remo. He will be at this place tomorrow." He gave them Xerox copies of news clippings about Fielding's Wondergrain and its unveiling in the Mojave.

He gave them a moment to look at the clippings.

"When do we attack? Is that left to our discretion?" asked the Korean.

"The demonstration is set for seven p.m. The attack must begin precisely at eight P.M. Precisely," said Deussio. "Not one minute early, not one minute late."

The Korean stood up. "He is as good as dead."

"Since you are so sure of that," said Deussio, "I want you to head this team. That is not making judgments on any of you others; it's just that everything works more smoothly if one man is in charge."

The Korean nodded and looked around the room. There were no dissenters. Just seven inscrutable masks.

Deussio gave them airline tickets and watched them leave his study. He was satisfied.

Just as he had been satisfied the night before when he had met with six snipers who had been recruited from the ranks of mobdom and had showed them the film of Remo wiping out the three Ninja in the alley.

He had promised them each ten thousand dollars, appointed a leader, and stressed the necessity that the attack begin at eight p.m.

"Exactly eight o'clock. Exactly. You got that?"

Nods. Agreement. At least he could tell the men apart.

He did not tell the snipers that the Ninja would also be attacking Remo, just as he had not told the Ninja about the marksmen. Their minds should be on only one thing. Remo, their target, and that target was as good as dead.

If he went straight-line attack against the Ninja, the rifles would take him out. And if he went Eastern-style against the rifles, Deussio's eight Ninja men would get him.

And if some of the snipers or Ninja got wasted… well that was part of the risk in a high-risk business.

The important thing was this Remo dead. And after him the rest of Force X. High probability, Folcroft Sanitarium, Rye, New York.

But as the next day dawned, Deussio remembered his head in the toilet and decided that it would not do just to stay home and wait for the good news. He wanted to be in at the kill.

"Sally," he ordered, "we're going on a trip."

"Where we going?"

"The Mojave Desert. I hear it's swinging this time of year."

"Huh?"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Mojave.

The sun and heat, like hammers to the head, numbed the senses. People stood around, eyes baked dry, seeing everything through shimmering waves of heat. At night, the same people would still see everything through wavering lines, but they would not even notice it, so quickly did the human body and brain adjust to its environment.

The two large tents had again been erected outside the chain-link fencing that surrounded the experimental planting area, and both tents were crowded now in early evening with press men, with agricultural representatives of foreign countries, and with just the merely curious.

No one paid particular attention to six men who seemed to lurk about the scene in a group, each carrying a cardboard tube that looked as if it might hold a chart or a map. When a reporter with too much to drink tried to engage one of the men in conversation, he was brushed off with: "Get out of here before I shove my foot up your ass."

People peered through the fence of the still-locked compound, hoping for a glimpse of what Fielding might have produced. But the sunscreen filter still stood over the planting area and nothing inside was visible except seating benches.

A string of limousines, Cadillacs and Lincolns, were parked in a long line leading to the tents, along with one Rolls-Royce which belonged to the delegate from India, who was complaining that parts of America were so beastly hot, what, that it was no wonder the national character was so defective.

"We understand, sir," said a reporter, "that your country is the only one which has made no effort to sign up for Mr. Fielding's miracle grain, if it is successful."

"That is correct," said the delegate smoothly. "We will first examine the results and then we will plan our future policy accordingly."

"It would have seemed," said the reporter, "that with your chronic food problem, your nation would have been first in line."

"We will not have policy dictated to us by imperialists. If we have a food problem, it is our own."

"It seems strange then," said the reporter who was very young, "that America is continually asked to supply your nation with food."

The Indian delegate turned and walked away haughtily. He did not have to be insulted.

The reporter looked after him, then saw standing next to him an aged Oriental, resplendent in a blue robe.

"Do not be confused, young man," said Chiun. "Indians are that way. Greedy and unappreciative."

"And your nation, sir?" asked the reporter, gently prying.

"His nation," said Remo quickly, "is America. Come, Little Father."

Out of hearing of the reporter, Chiun spat upon the sand floor of the tent. "Why did you tell that awful lie?"

"Because North Korea, where Sinanju is, is a Communist country. We don't have diplomatic relations with them. Tell that reporter you're from North Korea and your picture'll be on every front page tomorrow. Every reporter will want to know what you're doing here."

"And I will tell them. I am interested in the onward march of science."

"Fine," said Remo.

"And I am employed in a secret capacity by the United State government…"

"Great," said Remo.

"To train assassins and to kill the enemies of the Great Emperor Smith, thus preserving the Constitution."

"Do that and Smith'll cut off the funds for Sinanju."

"Against my better judgment," said Chiun, "I will remain silent."

Chiun seemed to stop in mid-sentence. He was looking through the opening of the tent at a group of men,

"Those men have been watching you," said Chiun.

"What men?"

"The men you are going to alert by turning around like a weathervane, shouting 'what men?' The Korean and the other nondescripts inside the tent."

Remo moved casually around Chiun and took in the men at a glance. Eight of them, Orientals, in their thirties and forties. They seemed ill at ease as if the business suits they wore did not really belong to them.

"I don't know them," Remo said.