Remo The Adventure Begins (24 page)

“There is but one problem in the world, and that is that your glory is not fully recognized as yet.”

“Well, all right,” said Smith.

Chiun gave a proper retreating bow. He was rather pleased with his presentation before this mad devious white emperor who preferred machines to courtesans and silks. It never did an assassin any good to let an emperor really know what was on his mind. The one thing an emperor could not handle was the truth.

Even Remo had difficulty with it. It was an obsession with some whites. Fortunately not all. But they would dwell on the truth as though every passing leaf had to be informed of its greenness, every wart announced, every intention absolutely perfectly understood by anyone who happened past. Remo was like that. No matter what Chiun tried, that truthfulness seemed too stubbornly resistant to training, too immutable in the face of wisdom or logic.

Chiun thought about that as he packed for his passage to Mount Promise. He could not be blamed for that failure. After all, what could one do with the boy when the Roman Catholic Church had him for the first eighteen years of his life?

• • •

Mount Promise was a glorious piece of American scenery with high-rising peaks, magnificent natural pines, flowing streams, freshwater lakes, and machine-gun posts behind wire fences.

It was set in this isolated part of the American west to take advantage of its distance from everything. At Mount Promise, things could be blown up, shot up, lasered, strafed, tracked, and done in through mud, heat, rain, ice and other weather conditions of war without notice.

The combined powers at Mount Promise, it was said on this magnificent spring day, could track the thought of an ant at a mile, and incinerate it at twenty miles.

It was General Scott Watson who commented on the beauty of spring. It was George Grove who did not care that much about the spring day, but the testing of another of his weapons, the C-18.

General Watson offered to have George Grove personally delivered to the site so that he could oversee the test himself.

“I don’t want to see it. Just make sure there are no screw-ups today, will you, Scott?”

General Watson, commander of the interoffice memo, conqueror of the congressional subcommittee, gave a snappy salute to a passing military guard as he guided George Grove to one of the administration buildings. He had a bit of bad news for Grove that day. It was nothing major, not like the sneak attack some foreign power had waged on HARP; just an update on the nuisance none of them had been able to get rid of.

Major Rayner Fleming would be on hand for the test of the C-18. Somehow, she had evaded enforced hospitalization. Worse yet, someone was condoning—if not encouraging—her special interest in anything Grove produced. But before the general got the chance to drop the bombshell on George Grove, the two men met her in an outer command room. Fleming was in uniform.

Grove squeezed General Watson’s arm, indicating that he would take care of it. Grove understood women, especially this type. Women like Fleming had no desire to be men, as many suspected. What they wanted was control, acknowledgment that they ran things. Words never cost anyone anything, so George Grove told her how happy he was to see her. And he had a small confession to make.

“I feel I owe you an apology. I get pretty hot under the collar when people start telling me how to run my business. But I know you’re just doing your job. And pretty darn well by the looks of it.”

General Watson smiled in agreement. An officer who actually commanded men in combat had once told him that the way infantry would handle cavalry in the past was to let them through, dissipating the force of their charge. In other words, not confront an offensive move at the point of attack. This was what Grove was doing now. Maybe that was the right way to handle the major.

Grove exuded charm like a too-sweet car odorizer.

“Hell,” said George Grove. “The important thing is we’re both working for the same side, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Grove,” said Major Fleming. “And speaking of work, I still have a lot to do before this afternoon . . ."

“Carry on, Major,” said General Watson, happy that she was preparing to leave.

But Grove did not let it pass.

“Actually, General, there was one point I wanted to clear up with the major,” said Grove. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced several glossy photographs. He spread them on the table in front of Major Fleming.

“Who are you really working for?” he asked.

Major Fleming looked down at the photographs. There was that bird colonel from the auditor general’s office in New York City, and that rather pushy companion she had on the elevator ride down. She wondered if she should tell. Then came another picture of the bird colonel, this time with his head on a pillow and tubes going into his nose.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Grove, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

General Watson looked to Grove. This he did not understand. He knew she probably was the leak to the news media, but this was more than Grove had yet to tell him.

“She’s an informer. She’s selling out the Army and betraying you, General Watson.”

“George, I’m sure there’s been some mistake,” said General Watson.

“Shut up, Scott. These men are working for some secret government investigative unit and she is part of it.”

Major Fleming did not miss the closeness apparent between the two men. She thought of Private D’Amico. Major Fleming was beginning to understand a lot more than she even suspected before.

“Where did you get those photographs?” she asked.

“That’s none of your business,” said Grove.

“If you will excuse me, General,” she said to Watson, “I have other things to attend to.”

“Who are you working for?” asked Grove.

“You are not my commanding officer, Mr. Grove. If you have an accusation I would appreciate your making a formal charge, and then backing it up. Now, I am busy,” she said, picking up a folder on the specs of the C-18. She was going to make sure this weapon was perfect, down to every last screw and nut.

She was also going to see if someone could look into General Watson’s finances. She smelled rotten apple. And she smelled it contaminating whatever part of the barrel it touched.

Remo gained entry to the Mount Promise compound rather easily. The flaw in a maximally defended castle was that the lords of that castle tended to believe no one could penetrate their beautiful defenses. But all defenses were designed only to protect against what most people could possibly do. They were not set to detect the presence of Sinanju, particularly when that presence came in on the underside of a speeding truck where normally there was no place for a person to hang on to.

Remo entered with the road an eighth of an inch from his cheek, going by at sixty miles an hour. When it slowed inside the compound, he allowed the momentum of the truck to roll him forward along the dust, careful not to muss his army slacks and private’s blouse. He landed, of course, walking.

Major Rayner Fleming thought she must have failed to be aware of her surroundings because suddenly walking next to her was that wise guy from the elevator in New York City, the one whose picture she had just been shown by George Grove. Now he was dressed as an Army private.

“Some people are looking for you,” she said.

“You remember me?” said Remo.

“How could I forget the longest elevator ride I have ever taken in my life? You’ve just gotten me into a pile of shit, you know. I’m supposed to be your accomplice in whatever it is you’re up to. Now, who the hell are you, Private?”

“Would you believe the one loving human being in my entire organization?”

“You know, I could march you into that building,” said Major Fleming, nodding to where she had just left General Watson and George Grove. “And that would clear up a lot of my problems right now.”

“You could but you won’t,” said Remo. He laid on as much charm as his rough face could hold. Even that might not be enough, he thought. Maybe he’d give her a demonstration of Sinanju, treat her to the first of the thirty-seven steps, but that might leave her writhing in passion here on the test grounds. Worse, it might have no effect on her at all.

“Who the hell are you, giving me orders? Army Intelligence?”

Remo smiled. Stroking her cheek as one might stroke a lotus blossom seemed somewhat inappropriate at this point.

“You are Army Intelligence, aren’t you?”

“You know I can’t answer that,” said Remo.

“You’re up here on a case,” she said.

Remo smiled.

“It’s the AR-60, isn’t it?”

Remo narrowed his eyes to look as though he knew what an AR-60 was. Maybe he could stroke her cheek as a lotus blossom after all of this was done.

“No wonder I’ve been having so much trouble getting information,” said Major Fleming. “We’ve been working on the same thing. I’m sorry. I don’t even know your name or rank. Do I salute you?”

Remo thought about that. What he thought was, Good-bye, lotus blossom. What he said was:

“You salute me.”

Someone had been watching them, Remo knew. Major Fleming hadn’t noticed, of course. He was well dressed, and he had been waiting for the proper moment, because just now he got into a jeep across the small dusty square and drove over to them. He seemed to recognize Major Fleming.

“Hello, my name is Wilson,” he said. “I’m from Grove Industries, Major Fleming. General Watson asked me to contact you about an in-use weapon that has been fully tested already. The AR-60?”

“You’re damned right I am concerned about the AR-60. Apparently someone doesn’t realize that when an American soldier fires a rifle it is supposed to kill the other guy.”

“I love it when you talk like George Patton,” said Remo, who had seen a movie about the American general.

“I know you are not here for the AR-60 but I do have it set up in the C range, and I think you will like what you see. This time we are going to kill the other guy, so to speak. I guarantee it.”

“I would appreciate that, Mr. Wilson,” she said, getting into his jeep. “What are you waiting for, soldier?” she said to Remo. “A presidential invitation?”

There was something wrong here. There was something wrong with the way the man invited them, the way he sat, the smile. Everything was wrong. But Remo did not refuse the invitation. He assumed he still had a duty to protect this woman. He could get Grove later.

The jeep drove to a pound cake of a building. No windows. One story. Flat. One door.

“We can use you, too, soldier,” said Wilson.

He wanted Remo to follow. Remo listened to them talk about bayonet mounts, housings, and other mysterious terms of manufacture as he absorbed the essence of what was around him. The passageways were bare. The doors were not simple hinged things that swung, but massive sliding locking mechanisms. They passed a small-arms range. A black Labrador retriever growled at them.

“Hi,” Remo said. “I met your cousin.”

Major Fleming and Wilson argued about manufacture. Remo sensed there was a great deal of anger in Fleming about the gun. He saw the fine proportion of her backside underneath the army skirt. Chiun had not mentioned the proper strokes for that part of the body. Remo thought he could improvise if he had to.

Remo began to plan his improvisation in his mind as Wilson and Fleming continued their argument. They stood by a small cage, chest-high, mounted to the floor with bolts. Above them to the right was a glass window just underneath the ceiling. There were seats behind the window. Wilson said he would be right back. Only when the door shut behind him did Remo realize he had lost his concentration. He heard the slam of solid metal and the gasp of air power locks and ran to the door. It didn’t open. And then Wilson appeared on the other side of the glass window. He had a friend with him now, a friend with a diamond tooth.

Then the gas started hissing up from the vents in the floor. And Remo knew what the small cage was for. It held animals so people could see how quickly they died from the gas. They were in the testing chamber of a poison-gas facility.

The vents had valves. Remo got to them, and turned. The hissing stopped. Major Fleming staggered. Remo tried to wedge the glass out of the wall. He couldn’t get an angle for the proper force. And he didn’t know how to create force yet. That was supposed to come later.

Vents in the ceiling opened up. More gas. There would be no later. The diamond tooth was smiling. Wilson simply rubbed his hands as though a mess were at last being cleaned up.

Wilson left. Major Fleming was trying to breathe too hard. She was breathing too hard. She was going to kill herself on the gas. Remo got to her chest and pressed. Instinctively she moved her hands to protect her modesty. But Remo wanted something else. He wanted her to pass out, use less oxygen. Her panic was going to do her no good here. She couldn’t run anywhere. Adrenaline would use up too much oxygen. He put her down as though she had fainted.

Stone saw the woman go down and then the man. The man dropped suddenly as though he didn’t expect to succumb to the gas, and had somehow been caught by surprise. His tongue rolled out of his mouth, and his eyes went up into his forehead.

Stone put on the proper suit, removed the safety lock so it would look like an accident, and entered the gassing room.

Now that he had a hit, Stone intended to settle up for his misses. He allowed himself a delicious little kick into the man’s groin. Unfortunately, the kick was stopped by closing thighs. Stone went forward.

He hardly felt the mask rip off his head. The rest of his body was in so much pain. He felt a vise at the back of his head, and his face was being rubbed into the glass. He couldn’t stop this force. His face went round and round against the glass, and he heard the scream of scratching reverberate through his skull. The man was using Stone’s diamond tooth to cut a hole in the glass. Stone knew it had worked when his head went through the hole.

Then he didn’t know what else the man would do. It was hard to know things when someone else’s two forefingers had entered your brain through the eyesockets.