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  Hostile Takeover

  ( The Destroyer - 81 )

  Warren Murphy

  Richard Sapir

  Destroyer 81: Hostile Takeover

  By Warren Murphy apir

  Chapter 1

  The panic started in Hong Kong.

  It was ten A. M. Hong Kong time. Trading was light on the floor of the Hang Seng Stock Exchange. Red-coated traders were shouting buy and sell orders in what was their normal controlled frenzy of trading. It was a day like any other. At first.

  Loo Pak was the first to notice the news coming in over his pocket Quotrek computer.

  Pak wore his Quotrek clipped to his belt, like an oversize pocket pager. He had just bought sixty shares of IBM and decided to check the black device. He pressed a button and the liquid crystal display came to life. The device was tied into an electronic subscription service provided by the British news agency Reuters. For a hefty monthly fee, Loo Pak had access to minute-by-minute news bulletins and stock transactions critical to doing business in the fast-moving world of global finance. It was news that as often as not would not see print for days-if ever.

  To the average citizen, the Reuters bulletins were often fragmentary or meaningless. Not to Loo Pak. To him, the price of wheat in Chicago or the situation in Cambodia could have instant impact on his livelihood. The Reuters service acted as an early-warning device as important as radar.

  Loo Pak blinked as he watched the black LCD letters form a headline. His eyes went wide. The headline was brief: "GLB DOWN 27 POINTS IN NIKKEI TRADING."

  To Loo Pak that curt string of symbols held a world of meaning. It meant that the price per share of the hitherto fast-rising Global Communications Conglomerate had lost an unprecedented twenty-seven points on Tokyo's Nikkei Stock Exchange. It was dropping like a stone.

  Loo Pak was heavily invested in GLB. He had already lost thousands of U. S. dollars in the four seconds it took him to absorb the bad news.

  Loo Pak jumped up, waving both hands.

  "Glob to sell!" he cried in English, the world-wide language of business. "Glob" was the pit term for GLB. "Any takers?"

  A trader offered him fifty-five per share. He obviously hadn't gotten the news. Loo Pak took him up on it. In a twinkling, with no more than a staccato exchange of terse sentences and a few scribbled notations on their traders' books, Loo Pak had divested all his GLB stock and the other trader was positioned to eat a big loss. Unless GLB rebounded.

  GLB didn't rebound. The new price hit the big electronic ticker tape. Word raced around the exchange floor that GLB, the world's largest communications conglomerate, was heading for the cellar. Anxiously, sweaty-armpitted traders conferred with their pocket Quotreks. Sell orders were shouted, and accepted. In the time that it took to execute them, the value had dropped another five points. The room began to heat up.

  And on the electronic ticker overhead, the string of stock codes and numbers began to drop lower and lower. Not just for GLB, but for virtually every stock being traded.

  It had begun. And once begun, there was no stopping it.

  Within fifteen minutes, over two thousand professional traders were scurrying around the paper-littered floor of the Kabutocho Exchange in Tokyo, Japan. Their Quotreks were warning that Hong Kong's Hang Seng Index had dropped a stunning 155 points-dragged down because of heavy sell-offs of Global Communications Conglomerate stock by investors and mutual funds. Computerized trade programs kicked in. And were executed. In a twinkling, massive blocks of stock moved like ghostly juggernauts-impelled by the shout of a voice, the touch of a button. Not a coin was offered. Not a single stock certificate was touched by a human agency. No securities physically changed hands. Nor would they. The exchanges might as well have been trading in air. Only abstract numbers changed. In traders' books. On computers and in international bank accounts.

  But those numbers were all-important. For they represented more than mere gold or jewels. They represented man's faith in other men and the rules that governed international commerce.

  And it was all about to unravel.

  With the frenzy of sharks, Tokyo began unloading GLB holdings. And within ten minutes, Singapore and Melbourne were doing the same. Milan's Palazzo Mezzanotte trading floor buzzed with rumors as the opening bell was delayed twenty minutes. Frankfurt and Zurich markets started buying dollars, and then, realizing that the New York Stock Exchange was only hours away from opening, reversed themselves and sold.

  By the time London's Financial Times Stock Exchange opened, it was a tidal wave. It washed over London's financial district like an invisible storm, beggaring major investors in a matter of minutes. And then, having wrought its soulsickening carnage, it continued on, moving west, unseen, impalpable, unstoppable-but as devastating as a firestorm.

  Overhead, orbiting recon satellites snapped photographs of a placid blue cloud-wreathed planet. The earth spun as it always had. Precision lenses recorded ordinary October weather-a sandstorm in the Sahara, a hurricane forming off Puerto Rico, rainstorms in the heart of Brazil, and the first snowstorm in upper Manitoba.

  The lenses did not-could not-record the greatest upheaval in modern world history. Because it was panic, fueled by fear and kept alive by sentinel communications satellites as they squirted bursts of news back and forth between the continents.

  And then the two-way message traffic changed ominously. The flow shifted west. Frantic telexes, cables, faxes, and transcontinental phone calls choked every line of communication known to modern man. Every one of them contained a single word.

  It was a common word, but in the context it was being transmitted, it held the potential to plunge the world into an abyss of darkness and despair.

  The word was "Sell."

  Chapter 2

  His name was Remo and he held the clusters of varicolored balloons in front of his face as he entered Tallahassee, Florida's State House.

  The guard at the door noticed the balloons immediately and called over to Remo from his security desk.

  "I knew this was a bad idea," Remo muttered under his breath. He shifted his position so the balloons floated between him and the guard.

  "What's your business here?" the guard wanted to know.

  "Balloongram for the governor," Remo said. He didn't bother to disguise his voice. His voice wasn't the problem. It was his face. And his thick wrists. The wrists were, if anything, more of a giveaway than his high-cheekboned face. That was why his Chicken Wire uniform was two sizes too big for him. The cuffs bunched up around his freakish wrists, hiding them.

  "I'll check with his office," the guard said, reaching for his station phone.

  "You can't do that," Remo said hastily. A sea-green balloon bumped his nose.

  "Why not?" the guard asked, looking up. He clutched the receiver in his beefy hand.

  Remo thought fast. He didn't want to hurt the guard. The man was only doing his job. And Remo was here to hit the governor. No one else.

  "Because it's a surprise," Remo whispered through the balloons. "It's his birthday."

  "It won't hurt if I check with his secretary," the guard said, tapping buttons on the telephone keypad.

  "Yes, it will," Remo said. "Trust me."

  The guard hesitated. "How's that?"

  "The governor's wife sent them."

  "So?"

  "I guess you haven't heard," Remo whispered conspiratorially.

  "Heard what?"

  "The governor and his secretary. They're, you know, intimate. "

  "No!" The guard breathed. "I hadn't heard that." He was looking at Remo through bubbles of elastic balloon. He saw a face that was broken up into distorted translucent coral-pink, ocher, and burgundy spheres. He won
dered what had happened to primary colors.

  "If you let the secretary know I'm coming," Remo went on, "she'll probably tell you it's not the governor's birthday or something. You know how jealous secretaries are."

  " I wish," the guard said. "Still, I gotta call. It's my job."

  "Suit yourself," Remo said. "But I warned you."

  The guard completed his call and spoke quietly for nearly a minute. Remo heard both sides of the conversation, so he was prepared for the guard's response.

  "She says it's not the governor's birthday."

  "See! What'd I tell you?"

  The guard rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "I dunno. Maybe I shouldn't let you go up. You could be a nut."

  "Do I look like a nut?" Remo asked sincerely through the soap-bubble cluster of balloons.

  "Well, no . . ." the guard said. Nuts carried guns or knives, not balloons.

  "Look at it like this," Remo suggested. "If you let me through, you might catch hell from the secretary, but she sure couldn't hurt you. But if you don't, the governor's wife is going to raise hell to the governor that her balloons didn't get delivered, and look where you'll be."

  "You're right," the guard said. "I'm better off taking my chances with that hussy of a secretary. Okay. Go ahead."

  "Thanks," Remo said, making a beeline for the elevator. He got an empty cage and rode it up to the governor's floor. The hallway was polished and busy. Swift-moving government workers noticed Remo coming off the elevator. A suntanned blond asked, "For me?" and laughed as she disappeared into an office.

  Remo frowned. He was attracting more attention than if he'd come in street clothes. But Upstairs had warned him to make certain that no one got a good look at his face. Not that Remo gave a hang about orders anymore.

  He shifted the balloons in front of his face as he weaved between the workers, and backed into the governor's office, the balloons strategically positioned. Inside, he turned and spotted the secretary through the chinks between two blueberry-colored balloons.

  "Balloongram for the governor," he announced in a bright voice.

  The secretary was a sultry Latina, about twenty-three years old, her face already getting fleshy around the jowls. Her eyes flashed as she caught sight of Remo standing behind his balloons.

  "What are you doing here!" she snapped. "I told that guard not to let you up."

  "It's from his wife," Remo said, unperturbed.

  "Oh," the secretary said, subsiding. Remo wondered if the governor had been carrying on an affair with his secretary, after all. Remo had no information on that-any more than he knew when the governor's birthday was.

  "It's an anniversary balloongram," Remo said firmly.

  "The guard said birthday."

  "You know how guards are," Remo said with a shrug.

  "Very well. Give them to me."

  Remo backed away from the secretary's outstretched hands. She had long red nails that flashed like bloody daggers.

  "No can do. It's a singing balloongram. Has to be delivered in person."

  "I can't let you just walk in on the governor without an appointment."

  "Tell that to the governor's wife." Remo said pointedly.

  The secretary looked nervously from the governor's closed maplewood door to the balloon cluster.

  "I'll announce you," she said tightly.

  "It's supposed to be a surprise, Remo hinted.

  "I've never had this happen to me before," she said, fidgeting with her hands.

  "Trust me," Remo said. "I'm a professional."

  "Very well," the secretary said. "What do you normally do?"

  "You just open the door and I'll walk in. I guarantee that after I'm gone you won't hear a word of complaint from His Honor."

  "Okay," the secretary said. She took the double doors' brass handles in her immaculately manicured hands and threw them open.

  Remo breezed past her, shifting the balloons to hide his profile. This was a real pain, but so far it was working.

  The governor of Florida looked up from his desk in surprise. His eyebrows jumped off his eyelashes as if pricked by pins.

  "What?" he said in a startled voice.

  "Balloongram," Remo sang off-key.

  "We'll see about this," the governor growled, reaching for his intercom.

  "It's from your secretary," Remo whispered. " I think she's sweet on you or something."

  "Oh?" the governor said in surprise. Then, as the thought sank in: "Oh." It was a very pleasant "oh." It told Remo that the Florida governor was not having an affair with his gorgeous Latina secretary, but was open to the prospect. The governor's hand withdrew from the intercom and he leaned back in his chair.

  "Well, go ahead," he prompted. "Sing."

  "I hope you don't mind a cappella."

  "just do it."

  "You have to hold the balloons. I'm Italian. I can't sing unless my hands are free."

  The governor came out from behind his desk and took hold of the balloons.

  "Use both hands," Remo warned, "or they'll get away from you. I think they cooked the helium too long or something. "

  The governor grabbed the knotted-together strings, and when he had a firm grip Remo fused his hands together with a sudden two-handed clap.

  The governor winced at the unexpected stinging sensation. When he tried to pull one hand away from the other, it felt as if his hands had been welded together with Krazy Glue.

  It was an absurd thought, but still it was the only explanation that presented itself to the governor's mind. And he voiced it.

  "Krazy Glue?" he asked.

  "Sinanju. "

  "But it's the same thing, right?"

  "Wrong," Remo said, pushing the governor back in his high-backed brass-studded seat. The governor did not resist. The novelty of having his hands fused to a batch of bobbing balloons was overwhelming the natural fear response.

  He looked up, for the first time seeing Remo's face. He took in Remo's dark, deep-set eyes, his thin, insolent mouth, and the full black hair topping an angry expression.

  His eyes were attracted to the red stitching over the tunic pocket of Remo's Chicken Wire uniform. The stitching said: "REMO WILLIAMS."

  "That name . . ." the governor began.

  "Sounds familiar?" Remo prompted. "It's my name, although I haven't used it much in, oh, maybe twenty years or so.

  "I can't quite place it," the governor admitted.

  "You signed my death warrant last month," Remo said, his voice going from upbeat to flint-edged in a breath. "Come back to you now?"

  The bone-white pallor that settled over the governor's face told Remo that it had.

  "You got a call from a guy named Norvell Ransome," Remo went on. "He told you that unless you pulled the strings that bumped my execution to the top of the list, he'd tell the world that you were in bed with every drug trafficker north of Medellin."

  The governor's response was so political that Remo almost laughed in the man's suddenly sweaty face.

  "Of course, I know nothing about these baseless allegations. "

  "Yes, you do. And you know I escaped before they could strap me into the electric chair. You're probably wondering how I know all this."

  "All what?"

  "Norvell Ransome-the late Norvell Ransome, I should say-was temporarily in control of an organization called CURE. You probably never heard of CURE." ,

  "I categorically deny ever hearing that name."

  "Good answer. Pat. Saves me a lot of boring chitchat. CURE was set up back in the early sixties to take care of guys like you. Corrupt politicians. Crooked union bosses. Cops on the take. Judges on the make. The man who was selected to head CURE-never mind his name-ran it for years as a clearinghouse for domestic intelligence. CURE would tip off the authorities, and the bad guys would go to the slammer. But CURE wasn't enough. You see, there were too many guys like you. So it was decided, to deal with them more directly. That's where I came in."

  "If you have legal authority to arres
t me," the governor of Florida said sternly, "I must insist on seeing your credentials."

  Remo did laugh at that one. "Sorry, pal. I'm outside of legal authority. I'm what is known as an enforcement arm. Unofficially, I'm an assassin. I never liked my job description, but those are the cards I've been dealt."

  "Assassin?" the governor said weakly.

  "You see, when you signed my death warrant, here's what you didn't know: I was already dead. Not dead-dead. Officially dead. I was strapped into an electric chair up in New Jersey, about twenty years back. When I woke up I wasn't dead. I was working for CURE. I didn't like it, but it beat going back to death row.

  "Until, of course, I did go back to death row. That in itself is a long story. The short version is that my face was plastered all over the front page of the National Enquirer. My cover was blown. My superior saw the thing and keeled over into a coma. The President had to replace him. He picked your friend Ransome. Only Ransome was a bad apple. He sandbagged me in my sleep, wiped my memory clean back to my death row days and shipped me off to your charming little death row. It was his way of getting me out of the way."

  "That story is so bizarre I cannot believe it," the governor said tensely.

  "Actually, it wasn't Ransome's scheme," Remo said. "It was my superior's wacko idea of a retirement program. Send me back to where I came from. No one would know any different. Except while I didn't remember CURE, I did remember Sinanju."

  "Krazy Glue?"

  "I can see why you went into politics. You have the attention span of a pollster. Nope, not Krazy Glue. I already explained that. Sinanju is out of Korea. It's a martial art.

  "Like karate?"

  Remo frowned. "If it were like karate, your hands would be sacs of shattered finger bones instead of painlessly welded together. Comparing Sinanju to karate is like comparing your rubber ducky to a swan. Guess which one is the swan?"

  The governor looked at his hands.

  "You can separate them, can't you?"

  "Search me," Remo said cheerfully. "No one I've ever done this to has lived long enough to request the operation. That's one thing about Sinanju. Even when you know it, you don't really know it. It taps into something inside you that you can't explain. You can only show."