Warren Murphy: Judgment Day

A "protected" house is a relatively new innovation of the heroin trade. Instead of sending pushers out into the warring streets, where they can be ripped off by junkies, the junkies go to these houses to get a fix on the premises or to take out if they desire.

The houses are well supplied with weapons and even with what is called a hot needle—a syringe containing poison—should a buyer be suspected of being a narco cop. They have many fine locks, very thick doors and barred windows. In this respect they are not unlike the liquor stores in the same general neighborhoods.

For the fifty-five kilos, special precautions were taken. No small time customers were allowed; extra men with guns were placed inside the window openings. The front door was reinforced by plywood panels and two-by-fours that moved away so customers could be admitted. All the windows were nailed shut and the basement doors boarded and nailed.

It was the perfect defense. Against just about anything but a penny book of matches and a gallon of gasoline.

As Remo watched the front of the house flame up to become a funeral pyre for its inhabitants and an incinerator for the fifty-five kilos hidden inside the front door, he thought he heard the cab driver crying. But when he asked him, the driver said he was not crying. He was happy. He was happy because he loved his passenger with all his heart and soul.

"Lucky we're dealing with a slum neighborhood; although sometimes you get some good structures here that won't burn," said Remo.

Boy, did the cab driver think his passenger was right. Absolutely. Always thought that himself. Yes, sir. Was the passenger happy? Because the only thing the driver wanted was to keep his passenger happy. To the airport? Absolutely, sir.

At the airport, Remo discovered the IDC programmer was still waiting. Remo apologized for being late, said he would talk to the man in the men's lavatory. Remo left him in a pay toilet to be discovered only when the janitors realized the same still legs had been in the booth too long for even the most severe constipation.

"Rush, rush," muttered Remo as he quickly left the airport in another cab. If things had been properly assigned, he would not have had to run from an assignment so carelessly.

But strange things were coming from upstairs and Remo did not want to think about what they might mean. For as much as he often hated the parsimonious, bitter-faced, unredeemed-by-any-human-warmth Dr. Harold Smith, he did not want to have to exercise the final option against him.

CHAPTER THREE

The report was wrong. The old man had not broken in forty-eight hours. Oh, it looked like it, but all Corbish got was a very clever cover story about a gigantic undercover operation. A waste of precious time.

Why hadn't the report on interrogation told how hard it was to torture someone? Corbish felt the perspiration drip down the small of his back and the stethoscope was wet to his touch as he placed it over the white-haired chest and listened to the heartbeat. Good. The heartbeat was still good. Did this old fool wish to die? Corbish checked his watch again. He was well into the second day. The lead-lined cellar of the house near Bolinas had suffered a breakdown in one of the air ducts, so now it was not only incredibly hot but oxygen was getting scant. He removed the stethoscope from the chest and saw that the chest was now swelling in massive red welts where he had placed the electrodes. He had thought torture would be so easy, and now he realized he was outside the proper time projection for reasonable project success. Everything had worked so well until he had strapped Dr. Smith onto the table of the lead-lined room.

The meeting at Folcroft three days ago had gone perfectly. Corbish had set himself up as an informer who wished not to be seen lest he lose his job at IDC. Dr. Smith had gone for the story, agreeing to the late night meeting. Corbish had limited his externally observable acts to the time between his first contact with Smith, pretending to be an informer, and the night meeting. Like the Japanese beginning peace meetings with America before its fleet set off for Pearl Harbor to find the American navy berthed fat and lazy that sleepy Sunday morning.

Smith had greeted him somewhat cautiously that night, but not cautiously enough. He had kept the desk between them, and Corbish guessed that the office had a scanner at the door that would not have allowed him to bring in a weapon. At least, not a metal weapon. Thus, Smith considered himself safe.

"I suppose you're wondering why I, as a vice president of IDC, want to leave my job and work for you?" said Corbish.

"It had crossed my mind," said Smith, "especially since this is a social research center."

"Well, I know it isn't," Corbish said. He sat across the desk, more than an arm's length away from Smith. All the trinkets on the desk that could be used as weapons, the sharp-edged calendar, the heavy telephone, the pen set, were all on Smith's side of the desk. Even the picture of his wife, an incredibly unattractive woman, was on Smith's side instead of the visitor's, where it would ordinarily be placed so that Smith could see it better.

"You know Folcroft isn't a social research institute?" said Smith smiling, "Well, I know it isn't also. It's a country club for scientists, but I hope to change that."

"It's not that either," said Corbish, "and before I get into that I'd like to explain why I want to join."

Dr. Smith looked puzzled. Perfect acting, thought Corbish.

"Well, you're already here," said Smith. "I think you might be confusing us with someone else. But go ahead. I don't know what I can do for you though."

"I know what I can do for you, sir, and I think you'll agree with me when I outline these five points about what the International Data Corporation is doing."

Corbish asked for a piece of paper. Smith reached into the desk drawer and handed him a sheet of onionskin, Corbish took a small ballpoint pen out of his pocket. It was light blue with the IDC markings in white.

"Do you have something thicker? This paper rips if you write on it."

"Sanitarium stationery?" said Smith. "But frankly I'm not sure I want you writing crazy things on our letterhead. We're heavily government funded and any bad publicity…"

"I'll return the stationery to you. After all, it is for your eyes only."

Dr. Smith had nodded, shrugged, made a comment about not knowing what was going on. Before he could slide the sheet of paper across the desk, Corbish was up, politely reaching for it

"Thank you," he said and jammed the point of the pen into Smith's hand, drawing blood. For a middle-aged man, Smith moved quickly, which was just fine with Corbish. A man moving quickly made his heart move more quickly, and that moved the blood more quickly, and before Smith could reach for something underneath his desk, the blood had carried the drug through his system, and he collapsed in his chair.

It was then that Corbish noticed he had jammed the pen so deep into Smith's right hand that it was bloody up to the I in the IDC logo. Corbish had been more nervous that he had thought.

From his inside jacket pocket he took what appeared to be a portable raincoat, except that it was thinner and stronger and more opaque. When he unfolded it he had a large plastic bag. Into this bag he pushed the fallen Smith, careful to keep his head near the two small holes in the top. He inserted two tubes that looked like tiny pill bottles and wedged them tight into Smith's cheeks between teeth and gums. The body would have air.

On the way to his car, his theory about CURE proved correct. In an effort to maintain its cover as a harmless research center, there were no guards in the administration building. In an effort to maintain secrecy, CURE had no more protection and security than any other social sanitarium. A part-time guard was at the gate; he was probably a retired policeman. Corbish woke him up driving through. IDC would not keep a person like that. He did not even ask about the plastic bag in the backseat.