Warren Murphy: Deadly Seeds

"It is enough that they know you."

"Maybe it's you they're after," said Remo. "Maybe they came looking for a pool game."

Chiun's answer was interrupted by a roar from the crowd, which surged forward toward the locked guarded gates, Remo saw that Fielding had just driven up in a pickup truck.

Reporters pressed toward him as he stepped down from the driver's seat.

"Well, Mr. Fielding, what about it? We going to see anything today?"

"Just a few minutes. Then you can see to your heart's content."

Fielding signaled for the uniformed guards to open the gates and as they did, he turned toward the crowd.

"I'd appreciate it if you would move inside and take seats on the benches," he said. "That way everyone will be able to see."

Escorted by the three guards, Fielding walked to the black pastic sunscreen and turned to face the rows of benches which were filling rapidly. The last arrivals were Remo and Chiun and the delegate from India who had found a tray of delicious canapes and had tarried for just a few more. He finally entered through the open gates, walked to the front bench, and forced his way onto it between two men, while mumbling about American inconsiderateness.

Remo and Chiun stood behind the last bench. Chiun's eyes ignored Fielding to rove the compound.

"It was in here," he whispered softly, "that Fielding disappeared?"

"Yes," said Remo.

"Very strange," said Chiun. Almost as strange, he thought, as the six men holding cardboard tubes who had taken up positions outside the chain-link fence and were looking in. And almost as strange as the Korean and the seven other Orientals who now stood together in a corner of the compound, their eyes fixed on Remo. For a moment, the eyes of the younger Korean met Chiun's but the younger man looked quickly away.

Fielding cleared his throat, looked over the crowd, and intoned: "Ladies and gentlemen, I believe this may be one of the greatest days in the history of civilized man."

The Indian delegate snickered, while sucking a small lump of caviar from between his front teeth.

Fielding turned and with a wave of his hand signaled to the guards. They lifted the front edge of the plastic sunscreen, pulled it up, and then began hauling it toward the back of the planting area.

As the dying afternoon sun hit and glinted gold on the high healthy field of wheat, the crowd released one large collective breath. "Ooooooooh."

And there in the back was rice and barley and next to the wheat were soybeans.

"The fruits of my miracle process," Fielding shouted, waving a hand dramatically toward the field of food.

The audience applauded. There were cheers. The Indian delegate used the edge of his right thumbnail to pick a piece of cracker from between two back teeth.

The applause continued and swelled and it took

Fielding repeated shouts of "gentlemen" to quiet down the audience.

"It is my intention that this process will be used-virtually at cost-in any country which desires it. Wondergrain will be provided on a first-come, first-served basis. I have warehouses now filled with seed and it will be available for the nations of the world." He glanced at his watch. "It is now twenty after seven. I would suggest that you gentlemen inspect this crop. Take samples if you wish, but, please, only small samples since there are many of you and this is, after all, only a small field. In thirty minutes, let us reassemble inside the tents. I have representatives there who will meet with those delegates of any nations wishing to sign up for the Wondergrain process, and I will also be able to answer any press questions too. Please keep to the walkways through the field so the crop is not trampled underfoot. Thank you."

Fielding nodded and the reporters sprinted for the wooden walkways that divided the field into four sections. They grabbed up small handfuls of samples. Behind them, the other delegates began lining up to walk through the fields. The Indian delegate walked straight ahead, ignoring the wooden walkway, through the waist-high wheat, trampling it underfoot, grabbing samples to stuff into his briefcase. He turned and smiled. Back in the rear of the line he saw the French ambassador. How pleasant. The French ambassador was a Parisian, someone with whom he could honestly discuss the crassness and crudity of Americans.

Remo and Chiun watched and were watched.

"What do you think, Chiun?" asked Remo.

"I think there is a strange smell in this place. It smells like a factory."

Remo sniffed the air. The faint smell from before was there again. He was able to pin it down closer now; it was the scent of machine oil.

"I think you're right," said Remo.

"I know I am right," said Chiun. "I also know something else."

"What's that?"

"You are going to be attacked."

Remo looked down at Chiun, then his eye caught a motion off to the side. He saw a lone Cadillac limousine, tooling its way down through the sand toward the front of the line. Behind the wheel was a face Remo recognized, even though the man now wore dark glasses and a hat, and the last time Remo had seen him he was wearing a toilet bowl. Johnny Deuce. Now what was he doing here?

Remo looked back on Chiun.

"An attack? On us?" said Remo.

"On you," corrected Chiun. "The Korean and the others. Those men outside the fence with their little cardboard tubes. Their eyes have all been on you and they are moving leadenly, like men on their way to deal with death."

"Hmmm," said Remo. "What should we do?"

Chiun shrugged. "Do what you like. It is no concern of mine."

"I thought we were coequal partners."

"Ah, yes. But that is in official assignments. If you go getting yourself into trouble on your own, you can't keep expecting me to help you."

"How many are there?" asked Remo.

"Fourteen. The eight Orientals. The six with the tubes."

"For fourteen, I don't need you."

"I certainly hope not."

Fielding was now leading the way to the twin tents outside the gates and the crowd was falling in line behind him, slowing down, unable to fit all at once through the gates.

As the Indian ambassador passed Chum, he nodded curtly to the old man. "Gross, these Americans, what? How like them to try to sell this process which should rightly belong to all mankind."

"They pay their bills on time. They manage to feed themselves," said Chiun. "But don't worry. Wait long enough and they will give you this seed for free as they always do. They have a large stake in keeping you people alive."

"Oh," sniffed the Indian. "And what might that be?"

"You make them look good," said Chiun. The Indian snorted and moved away from Chiun. Remo was thinking about the smell of oil, fainter now with the powdered sand kicked up by so many feet, drifting through the air. The compound was almost empty. The fields of grain had been denuded by the sample pickers and had returned to the bare sand it had been only weeks before. The sunscreen was rolled up against the back fence and looking in over it, at Remo, was a hard-faced man carrying his cardboard tube. The man glanced at his watch.

"What do you think they've got in those tubes?" asked Remo.

"I do not think they are carrying flutes to play the music for the party."

Remo and Chiun turned toward the tents. The last of the crowd was disappearing through the door openings in the canvas, and now standing before them, blocking their way through the gates, were the eight Orientals.

They stood in a line across the gate and at a signal from the one with hazel eyes, they began to peel off their suits to reveal Ninja black combat suits.

"They are going to attack you with Ninja and the men with guns are going to attack you Western," said Chiun.

"Don't tell me your problems," said Remo. "You already said you were out of it."