Warren Murphy: Death Therapy

He was the third man to know of CURE. And when his recruiter became compromised in a hospital bed from which he could not escape, the third man, Remo Williams, was ordered to make it two. And two it had been ever since. Remo Williams and Dr. Harold K. Smith, the man who ran CURE, and who sometimes granted the requests of Presidents who would ask… only ask… him for help.

They were the two who knew. But around the nation and the world, thousands worked for CURE without even dreaming of its existence. Federal agents, grain inspectors, customs inspectors in other countries, petty criminals… all were part of a world-wide information gathering service that fed facts into the ravenous CURE computers so they could analyze crime. And now the newest operative was a young European banker who was doing a favor for a wealthy client by trying to find out what someone named Clovis Porter had been doing in the moments before his death.

CHAPTER FOUR

But it was not Clovis Porter who was being discussed that night in Washington.

Washington watched the Air Force make its official announcement concerning the St. Louis incident. A fuselage tank had fallen from an aircraft into a St. Louis garbage dump. Yes, it was a nuclear bomber. No, no nuclear weapon was dropped on St. Louis. No, such a weapon would not have exploded even if one had dropped. Yes, the pilot fell to his death after the incident. A tragic accident. Yes, it is standing policy that no nuclear weapons are flown over American cities.

Then why, asked the pushy reporter as television lights glared on the marble-calm face of the public information officer, then why was this bomber flying over St. Louis?

Navigational malfunction.

Could it happen again?

Not one chance in a million.

When the butler, in the large plush living room whose curtains were drawn to Adams Street in Washington, D.C., turned off the television set at the nod from the ambassador, titters were heard through the gathering. Cocktail glasses began to tinkle. One man guffawed.

"It is not that America lies," commented the Urdush ambassador. "It's just that it lies so badly. Perhaps more practice is indicated."

"You people fell into a bit of a muck, didn't you?" asked the British air attaché of an American admiral. The admiral answered icily that he was unaware of just what muck the British colonel was referring to.

"Really, old boy, it's common knowledge that you people plopped a nuclear bomb on top of one of your own cities."

"I was unaware of that," said the admiral.

"Well, let's hope your voting public remains so blissfully unaware. Bad business, nuclear warheads, what?"

The French ambassador's wife attempted to diffuse the tension. She asked why military men always appeared so much more sexually alive than other men.

The British colonel accepted the compliment noting that all men were always more alive when in the presence of beauty.

"Oh, Colonel," laughed the wife of the French ambassador.

"I have noted that military men in the upper ranks, and particularly those who defend countries which are still powerful in the world, have less time for sexual expression," the admiral said.

The smile on the face of the French ambassador's wife became cold without a millimeter's change in smile.

"Well, we all have problems, don't we, Admiral?" said the British colonel unconcernedly.

The French ambassador's wife was wearing an almost see-through blouse which, on this cocktail circuit, attracted as much attention as a general's star—namely, none.

Then the buzzing of the reception suddenly subsided and the French ambassador's wife saw the blond flowing hair enter the room, then the face, a cool perfection of beauty, and then the smile that made men gasp. It was a smile as dazzling as diamonds and as natural in its awesome beauty as a Norwegian fjord.

The smile of the wife of the French ambassador slowly settled into a thin, muscleless resignation. Other women forced themselves to appear unthreatened, watching closely the faces of their men. They watched mouths open, tongues lick lips and one unfortunate woman saw her husband sigh. She made immediate and disastrously calculated comment on her husband's age. He responded honestly, "I know, dammit," and it would be weeks before he slept with his wife again.

"By Jove, who is that?" asked the British colonel

"That is Dr. Lithia Forrester," said the French ambassador's wife. "Stunning, isn't she?"

"She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," said the colonel.

"She looks healthy," conceded the American admiral. He was thinking about the firmness of her breasts that moved with youthful, unfettered grace under the softly-draped black silk gown she wore.

"Healthy? Is that all you can say?" commented the British colonel.

The admiral looked into his martini, then back at the colonel's truly shocked face. "In twenty years, she may be built like a balloon. Nothing lasts. Nothing."

"In twenty years, Admiral, she will still be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Ever. And I am not talking about Washington or Paducah or the bridge of a ship. I am talking about the world."

"A tit, Colonel, is a tit. A nose is a nose. And a mouth is a mouth. They all become remarkably the same in the grave."

"But we are not in the grave now, sir," the British colonel protested. "At least not all of us."

"Oh, she's coming over here," said the French ambassador's wife.

"Hello, dear," said the French ambassador's wife. The British colonel adjusted his tie and came to a relaxed attention, almost clicking his heels. The admiral took another sip of his martini.

"I'd like to introduce you gentlemen to Dr. Lithia Forrester. Lithia is such a good friend of the embassy," said the ambassador's wife. "Doctor Forrester, Lithia, this is Colonel Sir Dilsy Rumsey-Puck, air attaché of the British Embassy. Dr. Forrester. And this is… Admiral, excuse me, but I don't believe I know your name."

"Crust. James Benton Crust. You can call me admiral."

The ambassador's wife flushed at the grossness. The colonel, Sir Dilsy Rumsey-Puck, glowered. And Dr. Lithia Forrester laughed uproariously, reaching to Admiral Crust's arm for support. Admiral Crust could not contain a guffaw, even though he tried.

"Admiral, I am so glad to meet you," said Dr. Lithia Forrester.

"You can call me Jim," said the admiral. "But don't touch."

Lithia Forrester laughed gloriously again and with the entire room secretly watching her, secretly, because men had caught the messages in their women's eyes, she leaned forward and gave Admiral James Benton Crust a kiss on the cheek.

"Is that touching, Jim?" she asked.

"No. That's allowed," he said

"You know each other then," said the French ambassador's wife.

"No. Just met," said Lithia Forrester.

"Oh," said Colonel Sir Dilsy Rumsey-Puck. And when Lithia Forrester repeatedly turned the conversation to Admiral Crust, the French ambassador's wife excused herself, and finally Colonel Rumsey-Puck lowered the Union Jack and went to join the rest of the party. He had never understood just what it was that had made America so successful in the first place, but whatever it was, the middle-aged admiral obviously had it.

Rumsey-Puck had surrendered after trying to interrupt Dr. Forrester's comment on the tragic General Dorfwill, who had been at her therapy institute and one of those who suffered what she called "the power syndrome." They were easy to cure because they were not really sick, just responding normally to abnormal stimuli.

"It's almost like a football player's knee," Dr. Forrester had said. "The player is healthy. The knee is healthy. But he gets knee injuries because the knee was not designed to take the pressure of 250 pounds running 100 yards in 10 seconds."