Warren Murphy: Death Therapy

Rentzel shrugged and smiled. "As you would have it. Shall I go back in and tell them the auction is over?"

"No," Remo said. "Some pleasures I reserve for myself." Suddenly, his hand darted out. The knuckle of a bent thumb tapped lightly against Rentzel's temple; the Swiss banker fell back heavily on the desk, unconscious.

Remo eased the envelopes from Rentzel's hand and left the office. He walked down the hall, pushed open the door, then walked into a large walnut-panelled conference room.

Seven pairs of eyes tamed to meet him as he entered and when they saw it was not Rentzel, there was a murmured buzz of conversation. An Oriental said, "Where is Mr. Rentzel?"

"He is out for awhile," Remo said as he walked to the head of the table. "I am empowered to complete his business."

He stood at the head of the long glass-topped table, meeting the eyes individually, one after another, of the men who sat along the sides of the table.

"Before I announce the successful bidder," he said, "I would like to make several points pertaining to this auction."

He leaned forward on the table with his fists, one hand still holding the batch of envelopes he had taken from Rentzel.

"It was announced that the initial bid would be in gold," Remo said. "But the successful bidder has bid more than gold. He has also bid in courage and in blood and in dedication. In the courage to stand against the forces of evil; in the blood spilled to open a new land; in the dedication to endure and to be true to the ideals of freedom and liberty for all men.

"Gentlemen, the successful bidder is the United States of America."

There were shouts of protest and outrage around the table. Men looked at other men. A man who had to be a Russian, because no one else would wear such a suit, stood up and pounded on the table. "We will double our bid."

"So will we," said the Oriental. "Anything to prevent control of the United States from passing into the hands of these revisionist pigs," he said, staring at the Russian across the table.

Another babble of angry voices broke out and Remo halted it by pounding on the table. "The bidding is closed, gentlemen," he said coldly, "and all of you have lost."

He looked around at each in turn. "Now I would suggest you all return where you came from because in five minutes I am going to call the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

"If you are still here when they arrive, it might be embarrassing for your nations. And when you return home, tell your governments that the United States will never be for sale. If they want the United States, they must come bearing arms."

Remo stood back and waved his envelope-laden hand toward the door. "Leave now, gentlemen, while you're still able to. I will hold these bids for whatever use they will be to the government of the United States, Now leave."

Grumbling, but defeated, they got slowly to their feet and talking angrily with each other, passed through the door and began to leave the office.

Remo sat back down at the table, looking at the envelopes in his hands. How much was the United States worth to its enemies? Or to its friends? He tore the corner off one of the envelopes, then shook his head. One more thing he was better off not knowing. Smith could take care of it.

The sounds had died down and the office of Villebrook Equity Associates was silent.

Remo stood up and walked out into the hallway. As he passed the small office, he saw Amadeus Rentzel still on the desk. He would be coming to shortly.

And in the outer office, the Villebrook man was stirring. Remo smiled. The man had kids. He was happy he hadn't had to kill him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

It was after 2 o'clock when Remo returned to his hotel room. Chiun was fussing with his tape recorder when Remo entered, but Chiun turned and greeted him with warmth. The papers Remo had entrusted to his care were still on the floor where Remo had placed them.

"Why all the pleasantness?" Remo asked suspiciously.

"You had the look in your eyes today of a man with an awful mission. I am glad you have returned safe, full of accomplishment and nastiness."

"We're not out of the woods yet," Remo said.

He lifted the phone and got a local dial tone from the operator and dialed the toll-free number that from anywhere would reach Smith's desk.

The phone was picked up on the first ring.

"Smith."

"Remo. Someday I'm going to call and you're not going to be at your desk and I'm going to tell the Bureau of Antiquities—or whoever's payroll you're on—to dock you for the time."

"Save the chatter," Smith said. "What happened?"

"The auction's over. We won."

"Thank God." He paused, then asked: "Were there any… er, personal loses?"

"No," Remo said.

"Good," Smith said, his mind relieved because there would, be no international incident.

"Just a minute," Remo said, then called out: "Chiun, what time are you going to be done doing these?"

Chiun said: "Three thirty. I have had trouble with this apparatus."

Remo turned back to the phone. "Chiun will be at your headquarters by 4:30. By cab. Have someone meet him to pay the cabbie."

"Give him the money yourself," Smith said. "God knows you draw enough of it."

"Won't work," Remo said. "He won't hand the money through those money slots. Says it makes him feel like a criminal. Just have someone there to pay the cabbie. Chiun will have the lists from our lady friend. They're something to see. Cabinet officers, department directors, senators, congressmen, a Presidential assistant. Oh, and a communications specialist. I'll bet that's how we were compromised. I just hope the list's complete."

"How did the thing work?" Smith said.

"Drugs and hypnosis. They were triggered to go off when they heard a certain word. With the lists and the instructions, you should be able to put them back under and bring them back to normal."

Smith thought a moment before answering. "Yes, I suppose so. Although I guess they can never be trusted again in sensitive jobs. We can't just go firing the Congressmen, though." He paused. "Maybe they'll accept a suggestion to announce their retirements."

"Anyway you want to work it," Remo said. "Chiun'll have the lists. He'll also have the bids that were entered today. They might be good for something."

"You say it was a word that was the trigger?" Smith asked.

"Yes," Remo said. "A line from that song." He had feared this moment.

"What was the song?"

Remo cleared his throat nervously. "Are you listening, Dr. Smith?"

"Yes, dammit, I'm listening."

Remo spoke slowly. "Super-kali-fragil-istic-expi-ali-docious. You will forget that I ever existed. The experiment eight years ago failed and the man known as Remo Williams died in the chair. He does not exist."

There was a long pause. Back at Folcroft, a beatific smile crossed Smith's face. He began to hum the tune softly into the mouthpiece of the phone. Then he said:

"Forget it. You're in this, Remo Williams, until death do us part. I'll expect Chiun with the lists."

He hung up chuckling.

Remo's hands were wet as he hung up the telephone back in Manhattan. But he was not done yet.

He watched Chiun putter around until the last problem of the day had been postponed on the last of his television shows. Remo picked up the lists from the floor and, along with the envelopes containing the bids, stuffed them into a large manila envelope he found in the hotel room closet.

Then he walked downstairs with Chiun and called two cabs. As he helped Chiun into the first cab, he told him: "Remember, Chiun, give these to no one but Smith. I'll contact you at Folcroft soon."

"At my age, am I now to be lectured on caution?" Chiun asked.

Remo ignored him and leaned into the front of the cab. "The trip's to Rye, New York. Folcroft Sanatorium." Remo remembered Smith's habits and pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. He tossed a twenty to the driver. "Here's your tip in advance. Now don't go talking to the old fellow. Don't get him sore. And drive carefully or you'll never hear the end of it."