Death Sentence td-80 Read online

  "Jesus Christ!" Remo said, turning on Smith. "You are the most cold-blooded son of a bitch I've ever seen outside of the can. That guy saved your butt. Or doesn't that count for anything?"

  "He knew too much. And he had been targeted for exposure and probable prison. This was a better fate than prison would have been, don't you agree?"

  "Whatever happened to due process?" Remo wanted to know. His fists were clenched in anger.

  "Sometimes circumstances force us to make exceptions," Smith told him sadly, "so that due process can be maintained for the majority of Americans. That is the purpose of CURE. Ransome, for all his access to our secrets, missed that point. He thought CURE was an acronym. It is not. CURE is simply that -a cure for America's ills. If our work is allowed to continue to its ultimate end, CURE will cease to exist because the need for CURE will have ended. That is our goal. No one must be allowed to stand in the way of that goal."

  "So what about me?" Remo said angrily. "Back to prison-or are you going to snuff me too?"

  "Chiun," Smith said tonelessly, looking Remo in the eye. "You know what to do."

  "Not without a fight," Remo warned. He whirled. He never completed the turn. A hand at the back of his neck squeezed and his vision clouded over like a fast-moving line squall....

  Remo awoke suddenly. He was strapped down in a big steel-and-leather chair studded with dials and cables. And looking at him with clinical detachment, sitting in his wheelchair, was Dr. Harold W. Smith.

  Oh, Christ, he thought. That bastard Smith is going to fry me himself. Remo tried to turn his head. When it wouldn't move, he became conscious of a band of metal encircling his neck, restraining him. He frowned, wondering what kind of electric chair went around the neck, not the temple.

  "See you in hell, Smith," he grated. Smith gestured in such a way that Remo became aware that there was someone beside him, hovering at the edge of his field of vision.

  Then the neckband popped. Remo jerked his head free. Someone reached over and lifted the domelike helmet that had covered his head. It was an unfamiliar man in hospital green. A doctor. Wordlessly he undid the straps that pinioned Remo's wrists, biceps, and ankles.

  Remo looked around. The room was filled with complicated electronic equipment, computers, and wheeled control stations. Everything, it seemed, was connected to the chair by coaxial cable or wiring.

  Chiun stood off to one side, watching him with the cocked head inquisitiveness of a terrier.

  "Please leave us alone with the subject, Doctor," Smith said tonelessly.

  The doctor complied and swiftly left the room. Remo got out of the chair, rubbing his wrists. "What do you remember, Remo?" Smith asked dryly.

  Remo blinked. It was as if his brain had been cleaned of the foglike heaviness that he hadn't been able to shake since Florida State.

  "All of it," Remo said bitterly. "Mostly how you rigged my very own house so you could dispose of me like used facial tissue."

  "When you joined the organization, you understood that we were all expendable."

  "Except me, of course," Chiun put in smugly.

  "You're siding with Smith on this?" Remo accused. "I don't believe it. After all we've been through together."

  "I serve Smith, as do you," Chiun rejoined. "Smith serves his president. What more is there to be said?"

  "Thank you. Now I know where I stand. And what I said earlier still goes. I quit."

  "Remo, let me explain," Smith said quickly. "First, what you went through was a contingency operation. Designed simply to get you out of circulation in the event of my being incapacitated. Upon my recovery, you would have been salvaged."

  "I love your choice of words," Remo growled, folding his arms.

  "It was Ransome's doing that brought you to the brink," Smith went on. "And he has been paid back in his own coin. You did that yourself. That is the end of that. But I have a higher responsibility to America. As you know, in the early days of our association, I had an arrangement with Chiun. Were CURE compromised, and I forced to swallow the poison pill I carry at all times"-Smith extracted a coffin-shaped pill from a pocket of his bathrobe-"it would be his responsibility to end your life quickly and painlessly and then quietly return to Korea. CURE would disappear as if it had never been. No one would ever know that democracy had survived the twentieth century because of our important work."

  "Do me a big favor," Remo shot back. "Skip the lecture. My memory's fine now. Too fine."

  "If you wish, we can ... ah ... edit out all recollections of your recent death-row experiences. There is no need for you to suffer from them."

  "No, I'm keeping them. They'll remind me what a prince of a fellow you are, Smith."

  Smith cleared his throat. "I devised this contingency plan after the crisis of a few years ago when the Soviets learned of our existence and blackmailed the last president into turning Chiun over to them."

  "I remember it well," Remo said acidly.

  "As do I," Smith said without rancor. "It was the first time I had been called upon to order you terminated. An order which Master Chiun refused pointblank."

  "I did not feel like killing Remo that day," Chiun said officiously. "Not in front of my villagers. They foolishly believe that Remo will support them after I am dust. They would not understand."

  "On that day, I took my poison pill. I would have died had it not been for you," Smith said tonelessly.

  "I like your concept of reciprocity," Remo remarked dryly.

  "You brought me back from the brink of death, but the problem remained. We solved it, you and I. Not as friends, but as uneasy allies. Do not misunderstand our relationship, Remo. I have orders and obligations to my country which come before everything. I will never shirk them as long as I live. But the events of that affair showed me without doubt that the old contingency plan was no longer valid. You have grown beyond your deep-seated patriotism. You are perhaps more Sinanju now than American. And Master Chiun sees you as the heir to Sinanju. You mean more to him than his loyalty to me."

  "I could be persuaded to reconsider that attitude," Chiun said hopefully. "For additional gold." Neither Remo nor Smith looked in Chiun's direction. The Master of Sinanju watched them intently. "CURE cannot operate without safeguards to prevent our existence from becoming public knowledge," Smith went on. "It is not pleasant, but it is necessary. I hope you will see the events of the last week in that light."

  "What I said before still goes," Remo snapped. "I quit. C'mon, Chiun." Remo started for the door. A squeaky voice stopped him in his tracks.

  "Write if you get work," Chiun called pleasantly. Remo turned, his face hurt. "You aren't coming?"

  "Alas," Chiun said in a forlorn voice, "I am under contract to Emperor Smith. But do not let that stop you."

  Remo hesitated. "I'm really going," he said.

  "It is always sad when a child takes off on his own. But perhaps one day you will return." Chiun turned to Smith. "If Remo changes his mind, Emperor, will you forgive him the heartbreak he is causing us both?"

  Smith nodded. "Now, if you'll excuse me," he said, "I must return to my office. My examination of Ransome's message-traffic files indicates that our exposure extends to the governor of Florida. I have a very difficult decision to make."

  Smith spun his wheelchair about.

  "Maybe we should discuss this first," Remo said slowly.

  At the door, Smith stopped and turned his head.

  "Would you two please take your discussion elsewhere?" he asked. "The technicians need this room." Smith sent the wheelchair into the swinging door and was gone.

  "So," Remo asked Chiun, "where do I stand with you?"

  "I will tell Smith whatever he needs to hear, for I accept his gold. But you are the future of my village."

  "I'll accept that," Remo said. "For now. You know, he probably has a contingency plan with your name on it too."

  Chiun beamed happily. "I am not worried. And rest assured that should any harm befall you due to any action by Smit
h, he will pay dearly."

  "I think Smith understands that."

  "You see?" Chiun said, his elfin smile widening.

  "And I think he's counting on that," Remo said flatly. "He already took his poison pill once. And he didn't like it. He probably figures you'll be quicker."

  Chiun's beaming face quirked. His smile collapsed. "The fiend!" Chiun flared. "Is there no limit to his craftiness? Come, let us discuss this unpleasantness where the walls do not have ears. And I would like to examine our house for more of Smith's infernal devices. The man is truly a sneak. Invading our very home to work his underhanded schemes."

  "All right," Remo said. "I could use a good meal. You wouldn't believe the kind of slop they serve in prison. "

  "No brown rice?" Chiun asked, aghast. "Only white?"

  As they left the room, they passed an attendant wheeling a bundled woman in a wheelchair. Her face was shaded under a wide sunhat.

  "Hey!" Remo called as he watched the woman being wheeled into the memory-altering room. "I think that was Naomi. Smith's going to-"

  Remo started back. Chiun stopped him.

  "It is better than eliminating her," he cautioned. Remo hesitated.

  "Guess you're right," he agreed reluctantly. "Besides, she was a twit. Hell of a business we're in, isn't it?"

  Chiun shrugged. "It puts duck on the table."

  In Starke, Florida, Harold Haines sat in his easy chair, a loaded .38 revolver in his lap. The TV was off. He had not watched it in days. He had not slept in days. His eyes were fixed on the triple-locked door as if on his own tombstone.

  "He's coming back," Haines muttered. "I know he is. It's just a matter of time."

  He was all alone now. The scuttlebutt was that Warden McSorley had been transferred to Utah. Haines did not believe that. He knew he would be next to disappear. He looked at the weapon in his lap. He picked it up. He wondered if a .38 had enough stopping power to kill a dead man. Did anything have enough stopping power to kill Remo Williams? He shuddered. The answer, of course, was no.

  Slowly he placed the oily barrel of the .38 into his mouth. He bit down hard and with his thumb pushed on the trigger.

  The report was loud in the tiny motor home. The window in back of Harold Haines' head shattered. Haines looked down the smoking barrel of the weapon he had yanked from his mouth at the last possible moment. It was like staring down a tunnel without another end.

  "I ... I can't do it!" he sobbed.

  Then Harold Haines remembered something he could do. He laid aside the weapon and got his toolbox out from under the sink.

  He spent the last evening of his life wiring his favorite easy chair to the portable gasoline generator that sat out in the sultry, mosquito-infested Florida night. For once, he let the mosquitoes bite him. For it no longer mattered.

  A week later, Remo burst into the front room of his Rye, New York, home waving a newspaper. "Hey, Chiun, check this out!" he called.

  The Master of Sinanju emerged from the kitchen. His hazel eyes lit up. Remo's face was free of care. He was recovering. In time, even the foul tobacco smoke would be gone from his breath.

  "What it is, Remo?" he asked, advancing happily.

  "Naomi made the front page," Remo said. He held up the National Enquirer. The headline read: SPACE ALIENS STEAL RENOWNED ANTHROPOLOGIST'S MEMORY! Remo turned to an inside page and began reading. " 'Noted anthropologist Naomi Vanderkloot was discovered wandering dazed through the science building of the University of Massachusetts last Thursday. When questioned by local authorities, she claimed not to remember anything that had happened during the last five years. An Enquirer panel of psychics speculate that space aliens abducted her and sucked out her memory cells. It is believed that these beings come from a distant galaxy where the turbulent atmosphere prevents ordinary television reception, and are forced to steal earthling memory cells, which they play back on VCR-like machines. Similar memory wipes have been reported in Sweden, Rio de Janeiro and-' "

  "Enough," Chiun said. "I do not need to hear any more of this nonsense. If it amuses you, that is enough for me."

  "Wait," Remo said brightly. "I was just getting to the best part. Listen: 'Questioned about her plans, Professor Vanderkloot said that she's organizing a field trip to the remote Philippine jungles, where she intends to befriend the semilegendary Moomba tribe in hopes of solving the riddle of their secret magic rites.' Isn't that perfect?" Remo asked, laughing uncontrollably.

  The Master of Sinanju examined his pupil closely and decided Remo was not necessarily demented. "White humor," Chiun said, returning to the kitchen. "I will never understand it."

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