Warren Murphy: Death Therapy

"I wish I could offer you the protection of the White House, but as you know that may not be worth all that much anymore. It's probably the worst place. Do you have any money for travel?"

"I have credit cards."

"I wouldn't use them if I were you. Wait a minute. I haven't carried cash for years. A strange job." The President rose from his seat and went to an outer office. He was back in a few minutes with an envelope.

"There's a few thousand in there. It should last you for a couple of months. And by then you'll know if you can surface again."

"Probably never, sir. It looks pretty bleak."

"Miss Wilkens, we're not out of the box yet. Not by a long shot. We're going to win."

And he ushered the surprised woman to the door and wished her good luck. She was surprised because of his confidence, and in her Iowa farmer's way, she wondered if he were not just acting for her benefit.

But what she could not know was that someone's brilliant, perfect and thorough plan had a flaw. Precautions had been taken to prevent every existing American agency that could stand in the way of success from even reaching the President's office. But the plan could not take into account an organization that did not exist—and a man who was officially dead.

And now, if the President faced danger from unknown quarters and was unable to trust anyone, let his enemies be blissfully unaware. Because he was still able to unleash upon them the most awesome human force in the nation's arsenal.

The President bounded from his office with new energy and soaring confidence. He went to his bedroom but instead of getting undressed for bed, he took a red telephone from a drawer in his dresser. He dialed a seven-digit number, just as if it were an ordinary telephone.

"Doctor Smith here."

"It's me," the President said.

"I assumed as much."

"You must see me as soon as possible here. I will leave word that you are to be brought in to me as soon as you arrive."

"I don't think that's wise, sir. We could eventually be compromised and knowledge of us could compromise the government."

"That might not matter very much anymore," the President said. "You must see me immediately. Your group may be the last hope of this government."

"I see."

"I guess you'll be putting that person on alert, Dr. Smith?"

"I'll have to see what we're dealing with first, sir."

"This is the greatest national emergency we have ever faced. You will find that out as soon as you arrive. Now, put that man on alert."

"You are talking to me, sir, as if I work for you. I don't. And in the agreement that established us and the ensuing modifications, you cannot order the use of that person."

"I know you will agree," the President said.

"We'll see in a few hours. I will leave immediately. Is there anything else?"

"No," said the President.

There was a click on the other end of the phone. The man had hung up his receiver. And the President was sure that when that man discovered what had happened to the government of the United States and what was in the process of happening, he would unleash that person.

The President returned the phone to the drawer and then from his pocket took the ten sloppy pages of typing given by Miss Wilkens before. He again read the entire contents. "Well, all right," he said softly to himself.

"They asked for it. Now they're going to get him."

CHAPTER TWO

His name was Remo.

And when he stepped up to the first tee of the Silver Creek Country Club in Miami Beach, he was mad. Not a raging anger, but a solid, definite annoyance that would not leave.

It was 5:30 a.m., and the reddening dawn sky was just breaking into light as he whacked his drive down the empty fairway and handed the driver to the bushy-haired caddy in the bell bottoms. The caddy was still rubbing his eyes, apparently not planning to wake up until noon.

He did not speak to the caddy as he marched toward the ball. He did not really even need a caddy, but if golf was his relaxation before his morning exercises, then, by god, he was going to enjoy it like a normal human being.

He had some rights after all, even if normal procedure was violated at will every time upstairs got a hair up its ass.

He took the next club from the caddy and, barely setting himself, popped the ball toward the hole. Then he exchanged the club for the putter, walked to the green, banged in the ball and took his driver again.

One would think, what with the awesome resources, the massive computers, the far-ranging network, that upstairs would once, just once, come into something not as a loosey-goosey, the world's going to end, top maximum priority, be ready by tomorrow—screwball pack of squawking geese. The man named Remo slammed the drive to the green. When he walked, he seemed to float. His movements were smooth and his golf swing was smooth, the club moving with what he had been told was incredible slowness.

He was about six feet tall and average in build. Only the extraordinarily thick wrists set him apart from other men. His face was healing from his last operation and now, with his angular cheekbones and cruel, self-indulgent smile, he looked like an up-and-coming Mafia underboss.

It was the new face after each assignment that got to him. He didn't even have a choice. He would go to a small hospital outside Phoenix, leave with bandages, and then two weeks later, eyes blackened from the operation, facial muscles sore, he would see what sort of face upstairs had decided to give him. Or maybe it was just left to the whim of the doctor. It was anyone's choice but his.

The putter was in his hands; feeling the roll of the green, he sent the ball on its way toward the cup. Before he heard the plunk, he was on his way to the next tee.

Whack. Remo drove the ball down the fairway, hooking it from the long dog leg left. He flipped the driver behind him and heard the caddy catch it.

It was truly the new faces that bothered him. But dead men can't be choosers, can they, Remo, he told himself. He waited by the ball as the caddy puffed his long way from the tee. The caddy's breathless plodding rush toward Remo should have told him something, but he ignored it. The green rose 170 yards ahead. When the caddy reached him, Remo said: "Check out the flag placement, will you?"

The caddy trudged off toward the green. Remo whistled softly to himself. The caddy seemed to take forever.

Why was upstairs always in a rush? His shoulder hadn't even healed yet from that scrawny mobster in Hudson, New Jersey, who had passed out before Remo's floater punch could land. Remo's hand kept going and so did his shoulder. Now it was just completing its healing. Upstairs must have known that.

The night before, when he had made his evening check from his hotel room, he had dialled the correct number on the scrambler attachment after hearing the first ring, and then he heard something that sounded as if the line were still scrambled.

"Remo. Be at peak by tomorrow afternoon. I'll meet you at 10 p.m., main restaurant, Dulles Airport in Washington. No time for new identity. Come as you are."

"What?" said Remo, checking the scrambler dial again.

"You heard me. Ten p.m. tomorrow night. Dulles Airport." Remo looked at the phone again. It was working.

He stood, clad only in his undershorts, by the bed in his hotel suite. In the next room, he could hear the television blaring. Chiun was still in his third hour of soap operas. The air conditioner hummed almost noiselessly.

"Doctor Smith, I presume," Remo said.

"Yes, of course. Who the hell else would answer this number?"

"I had cause for wonder," said Remo. "For one, I don't peak, not even fast peak, in less than two weeks. And you haven't even put me on alert yet. Two, you yourself arranged the Mickey Mouse switching of identities every time I go to the John. Three, if we're going to run pell mell into everything, why do we have to bother with the plastic surgery? And four, the next operation I get returns me to something like what I looked like before I got suckered into this lashup. And that's the last one."