Death Check td-2 Read online

  "Well, I'm going to see her."

  "You don't have my permission."

  "How do I get it?"

  "You don't."

  "Do you know that if I flick your nose with this forefinger Remo said, bringing the forefinger very close to the white bandages, "I can cause you all sorts of hurt?"

  "And you'll be out on your ass before the throbbing subsides."

  "What if a brick should fall on it at night from you know not where?"

  "You'll be out on your ass before it hits the ground."

  "What if I teach you to do to people what I did to those motorcycle thugs?"

  "I'm pushing sixty, man."

  "I could teach you to do it to at least two people."

  "Young people?"

  "Young people."

  Dr. Nils Brewster dialled his telephone and said into the receiver: "Deborah, I thought you would like to do an input feedback on Remo Pelham, the new security officer. The others have and... oh. Yes, of course. Certainly I understand." He returned the telephone to the receiver.

  "She said she was busy on something else. But you have my permission. I'll deny it afterwards, but of course that'll be too late. At least you're not risking your job. Now when do we start on the...." Brewster made striking motions at young faces and young stomachs, dodging very swift punches of young athletes whom he would now rend asunder should the little twerps dare make wise-ass comments on the road or in restaurants or anywhere. Any

  "In two weeks."

  "Two weeks?" Brewster looked hurt, cheated.

  "Well, you've got to get into shape first. Run a quarter of a mile a day for a week, then a half-mile the following week."

  "Anything else?"

  "No. That's it."

  "What is your school of attack, by the way? Karate, kung fu, judo?"

  "Wow tu," said Remo, making up the most idiotic name he could think of.

  "Wow tu? Never heard of it."

  "That's why it works so well. Do you think anything really good would be sold out of a gymnasium or a book?"

  "Wow tu," repeated Dr. Nils Brewster, Faversham Fellow of Sociology, Ph.D., University of Chicago, author of "Man as Hostile Environment."

  "Wow tu," he said again, and in the place where dreams are formed he saw his older daughter's latest boyfriend crumple to the floor in agony.

  Now Remo was at her cottage. Mosquitoes and moths held a mass rally near her window and Remo slapped unsuccessfully at them while awaiting her answer. He knocked again.

  "who is it?"

  "Your security officer, Remo Pelham."

  "What do you want?"

  "I want to talk to you."

  "About what?"

  "I don't want to talk out here."

  "Come back tomorrow."

  "Can I see you now?"

  "No."

  "Are you busy?"

  "Will you go away!" It was not a question.

  "I just want to talk to you."

  There was silence and the bugs poured in reinforcements. It was the stale hot of the Virginia summer, a deadening sweat-demanding night that buzzed with the insects of the land. And she did not answer.

  "I'm not going until you talk to me."

  "Does Brewster know you're bothering one of his scientists?

  "Yes."

  "He does not. That is a lie. Leave me alone."

  "After you talk to me."

  He heard footsteps pad to the door. It opened, and Deborah Hirshbloom stood before him with the un-amused tolerance of a parent declining to be manipulated by the antics of a child. Her face was set, but calm, enhancing its fine smooth lines. Her eyes were black jewels hi a setting of smooth, milky skin garnished with the joy of freckles. Her lips, unpainted, were tight; allowing nothing for Remo standing before her.

  "All right. What?"

  "I'd like to talk to you. May I come in?"

  "It's late."

  "I know. May I come in?"

  She shrugged and beckoned Remo to enter. She wore a plain khaki blouse with plain khaki shorts. She was bare and her cottage office was just as bare, except for the books stacked to the ceiling and a chess set open on the small table, near the lamp. There was a metal cot and two chairs. She sat on the cot, but with such stiffness that it obviously was not an invitation.

  "May I sit down?" Remo asked, nodding to the chair.

  She allowed it.

  "As you know, the other department heads of the forum have been interviewing me." She did not respond. Remo continued: "And I wondered why you had not."

  "Because I'm not interested."

  "I was, well, sort of wondering why."

  "Because one man beating up seven ridiculous hoodlums is not exactly the awe-inspiring scientific phenomena my colleagues obviously believe it to be."

  "Then you know something about violence."

  "I am learning from you, and I like no part of it. I know Hawkins came down with your chute and you with his. I know he tried to kill you and died for it."

  "You're Israeli, aren't you?"

  "Yes. You know that."

  "And violence offends you?"

  "Yes."

  "Don't all Israelis have to serve in the Army?"

  "Yes."

  "And violence still offends you?"

  "Of course, why not?"

  "Because you people couldn't survive without violence. Without being tough. The Arabs could have peace by not firing a shot. You people would have another holocaust."

  "Mr. Pelham, what are you driving at? That because we are outnumbered one-hundred-fifty to one by people who unfortunately have made our annihilation a national goal, that I should like what I must do to survive? One must dig latrines, too, for survival. But you do not have to like digging latrines. What do you really want? You do not care that violence offends me. This does not interest you. What do you want?"

  "Well, I have a problem and you contribute to it. You see, I'm responsible for the protection of everyone here. And everyone moves around so much, especially you, that to really make sure I can provide the proper security, I have to know generally where I can reach you when I need you. That attack on the forum by the motorcycle gang could be a portent of things to come. I'm not sure they will, but if those people try again, I want to make sure they can't reach any of the top staff."

  "There is a word in English, Mr. Pelham, that describes beautifully what you have just said. It is both sharp in definition and meaningful in substance."

  Remo knew he was opening a door. "What word?" he said, preparing himself for the deserved consequences.

  "Bullshit," said Dr. Hirshbloom sweetly.

  "That's unfair, Deborah."

  "That is your name, Remo, it is bullshit should you deny it to your grave. They called for you. They challenge you. And they got you. Or, as you will, you got them."

  "They went for me first so that they could get to you. Certainly you are aware of a situation like that. Russia attacking us through Israel."

  "Why must you put everything on an international level? You're sitting here, asking my schedule, obviously not to protect me because you know I do not need your protection. So why else would you want to know where you can reach me, except to do me harm? Right?"

  "Bullshit."

  "Hah. Mr. Pelham...."

  "Remo, remember."

  "All right, Remo. Good night."

  "Deborah, I would like to see you again."

  "I'm certain you will. But, please. Not in such frightening fashion as the other day, or such annoying fashion as tonight."

  "Frightening? You were frightened? You didn't seem frightened?"

  "Now I am terrified because now I know you even had time to look around at me and the other scenery." Deborah sat calm, but a cool formal smile set it. It did not change, and Remo recognized the personal control people develop when they are faced frequently with danger. They develop it, or they die, or they are incredibly lucky.

  "All right. I had time to look around. Suppose that is so. Suppose
my defence was really an attack. Suppose all those things."

  "Then suppose, Mr. Pelham, you're not a policeman."

  "All right, suppose that."

  "Then you must be something else."

  "Then I'm something else."

  "Then I don't feel comfortable. I do not feel comfortable seeing an approach to attack which I recognize, and then seeing added an awesome ability to do things that I do not recognize at all. I was truly afraid the other afternoon, Mr. Pelham. And I was afraid of you. I am afraid of you now."

  "Strange for a psychiatrist."

  "I am tired also, Mr. Pelham. Good night. I do not know what you are really here for. Perhaps it is even to be, as you say, a security officer. But I have seen your like before. When I was a little girl, a volunteer from America. He taught us that set, and two days ago I saw it on you."

  Chiun in Israel? Impossible. The set? It was not Chiun who taught the set, the apparently awkward foot alignment that made you look as if you were about to step backward when really you moved forward. That was not Chiun. The first days of training after the electrocution were.... Of course, the set. Conn MacCleary. Conn MacCleary in Israel?

  Deborah rose to usher Remo to the door. Remo re-seated.

  "This man, did you like him?" Remo asked.

  "As a matter of fact, the whole village loved him. But he is dead now, a fate that awaits us all. It is really only a question of when. And toward extending that when, we are all devoted, no?"

  "Where did this man die?"

  "You seem very interested in this man. Why?"

  "Perhaps I knew him."

  "If you did I would not have to fear you anymore because he was a good man. That is what we all remembered about him most. He was a good man. What he did for his livelihood does not attract good men that often. He was rare. And he died. And I believe he probably died sooner than he should. Because good men do not often live long lives in some situations."

  Her voice was softer now and Remo detected a break, the quiver of emotion stronger than one expects, a memo that remains forever too fresh.

  "This good man," Remo said, "had he lost a hand?"

  "Yes," said Deborah.

  "And was his name Conn MacCleary?"

  "Yes," said Deborah, and she shut the door she had opened. "You knew him then?"

  "Yes," said Remo. "I knew him."

  "You were in the American intelligence then?"

  "No, no," Remo said. "I knew him. I knew him once."

  "Do you know how he died?"

  "Yes."

  "They said it was in a hospital."

  "It was. It was. In a hospital."

  And Deborah's face became a smile and warmth and tenderness, a delicate joy that people who can understand beautiful things bestow upon their surroundings.

  "It is funny, and since you remember Conn, so typical she said, taking the chair facing Remo. "When he came to our village, it was just before independence when the five Arab armies attacked, and we had, I think, one rifle for five men in our village, or something like that. I was very young."

  "Of course," Remo said.

  "Of course," Deborah laughed. "Well, he had volunteered to give special training to people, I am not at liberty to disclose what, and we were all waiting for him. Anxious. Everybody was anxious. My uncle would say: 'When the American arrives here, he will show you all what technology is. Wait and see. American organization.' So it is supposed to be a big secret and so naturally everybody knows about it and is waiting for his arrival. Like a welcoming committee for his secret entrance into our village. Well, he is driven up in the back of a car, and I do not know if you know how valuable a car was to us then, but you can imagine, and Conn is in the back seat and you will never guess...."

  "He was drunk," Remo supplied matter-of-factly.

  Deborah guffawed and slapped Remo's knee. Tears began to form in her eyes and she struggled to talk through the laughter.

  Remo added quickly: "Sure. I told you I knew Conn MacCleary."

  And his casual way of saying this threw Deborah into an hysterical reach for the table to steady herself. "Drunk," she finally said. "He was passed out drunk. You should have seen the look on Uncle David's face. He kept asking the driver if this was the right man and the driver kept nodding. We found out later he had been drinking since Tokyo where he had been mustered out, I think it was a month before. Drunk? He reeked. I mean when they carried him out everyone stepped back he smelled so badly."

  "Conn MacCleary," Remo said.

  "He was one of a kind. It took him three days to realize where he was."

  "There must have been a lot of pressure then."

  "Well, not really so much for us. Our training thing was for something else. I think we all believed that we would win. Although it was frightening and I was, at the time...."

  "After all, a young girl."

  "Of course. Otherwise I would be an old woman instead of the incredibly attractive, beautiful young woman that I am now."

  "Of course. You know you are beautiful."

  "Come. Stop that. I gave you a MacCleary story. Now you give me one."

  "Well, the first time I saw Conn," Remo said, conveniently planning to leave out details, "was.... No, let me see. The first time."

  "No. The second time," Deborah said. "The first you won't tell me and that's all right. So tell me the second tune."

  Okay. So she believed he was with the CIA or the FBI. So what? That was to be expected from the kind of work they were doing here anyway. He had used CIA as a cover before anyhow.

  "Okay," Remo said. "I was coming to in a hospital bed and he was wheeling in this great dinner with lobster and booze."

  "For someone in a hospital bed?"

  "This is Conn MacCleary we're talking about."

  "Yes," Deborah agreed with a nod.

  "And he lays out this beautiful spread, abuses the doctor and nurse, tells me to eat up. And he drinks all the booze."

  "Conn MacCleary," Deborah said in punctuation.

  "But that's not the half of it. I never knew the man to be away from a bottle for long. It's a wonder he lived past twenty-one."

  "The Egyptians are making a push up through the Negev. We're near there."

  "Where?"

  "Never mind. Will you let me finish? Besides, none of that stuff about wheres. Read my official biography if you want to know wheres."

  "I bet they're the wrong wheres."

  "Stop that shit, Remo. Just stop and listen. Because if you want to play question and answer with me, I can go to Dr. Brewster and complain about nasty interference from you agents-kind-of-people, and he'll beat you within an inch of your life. Hah."

  "Okay. No more shit."

  "Okay. We are near the action and Conn is desperately gathering copper tubing. Uncle David says, 'Hah. You see. Secret weapon. I told you. Technology. American technology.' And Conn is being very secretive. No one can go near where he is preparing his technology. One day I followed him. And there behind some rocks, sandbagged... let me tell you, sandbagged... we should have that kind of defence on the Suez Canal today... it looks like he has emptied the Sinai into burlap. He had all the children stripping the entire village of sandbags for this. And my Uncle David was leading it. Sandbags for the secret weapon of our village. Well, since it is so top secret no one is allowed to look. But I look. I knew he would not punish me. I was his favourite, but he loved all the children."

  "Con love children?"

  "Oh yes. That was his big love, I believe. And I believe because he never had children was why he drank. He would tell us stories at night. We all loved him."

  "Conn? Children?"

  "Shut up. Let me finish. I crawl over the sandbags and I peek. There he is with a cup underneath this copper tubing which is all twisted and connected to a small boiler. He had made a still and I can't describe him waiting for the drip, drip, drip with the cup. This grown man, bending over in this incredible heat made hotter by the sandbags, the defence of our villag
e by the way, just waiting for the drip, drip, drip."

  Remo shook his head. "Yeah, that's Conn. But I can't imagine his stripping a village's defence for it."

  "Well, the sandbags were not really that important, and he knew that within a half hour for every bag he got, it would be replaced. We were not short of sand."

  "Tell me though. What happened there to make him hate the Arabs so?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, once I heard him call the Arabs vicious mean animals. For Conn, 'bastard' usually sufficed."

  "I don't understand."

  "Well, he must have seen some Arab atrocity that really rankled. You know he had been around."

  Deborah searched the past and her face was a jewel of concentration. "No, no. Not near our village. As you know we were in the South and the only danger was from Egyptian regulars. And they were all right. No. Conn never dealt with anyone but the Arabs in our village. And they are fine people. Some, I am sorry to say, left at the time."

  "Sorry?"

  "Certainly. We wanted to build a country, not create a refugee problem. As you know we had 2,000 years as refugees. Some left because they thought we would lose and they did not want to be there when we did. Others thought they could return and get back their own homes plus ours. And some were frightened of us. But we never drove them out. Never. Especially our village. And of course some stayed. Like the vice president of the Knesset. He is an Arab. Did you know that?"

  "No, I didn't."

  "Remo, that tells me something about you."

  "What does it tell you?"

  "Some of the things you're not."

  Remo accepted the statement and made no comment on it. Deborah switched the subject. "I can't think of any atrocity he would have seen."

  "He was vehement, Debby. Can I call you Debby?"

  "No. Deborah. What would make him vehement?" Suddenly she clasped a hand to her mouth. She shook her head, but there was laughter in her eyes. "Oh, that man, he is impossible. Impossible."

  "What is it?"

  "You know Conn MacCleary?"

  "Yes."

  "And I told you of the still?"

  "Yes." Remo looked at Deborah quizzically. He was supposed to be able to figure something out and now he wanted to very much.

  "Come on. You knew Conn. What were his exact words?"

  Remo thought back, and if he had not tried so hard, he knew he would remember. "I can't remember exactly."