Fool's Gold Read online

  There was a crackle on the telephone line with Smith. Probably some storm across the thousands of miles of open sea.

  "Okay," said Smith.

  "What?" said Remo.

  "Done," said Smith. "What's your reading down there?"

  "What's our reading?" Remo asked the technician.

  "Ready when he is," said the technician.

  "Ready when you are, Smitty," Remo said.

  "They are already gone," Smith said.

  "He says he sent them," Remo told the technician.

  The technician shrugged. "Nothing here."

  "Nothing here," Remo said.

  "But I got an acknowledgement," said Smith.

  "We send an acknowledgement?" asked Remo. The technician shook his head. "Not from us, Smitty," Remo said.

  "Oh, no," groaned Smith. Remo thought that it might just have been the first emotion he had ever heard wrung from the tight-lipped CURE director. "Someone has our records and we don't know who."

  "Want anything else?" Remo asked pleasantly.

  "There may not be anything else," Smith said.

  "I don't trust machinery," Remo said, and he hung up and headed toward where he knew Smith could reach him if he wanted.

  Barry Schweid was looking for the new gimmick, the totally new concept that would catapult him from the dinky $200,000 screenplay to the $500,000 plus gross. To do that, his agent said, he had to be original.

  No copying Star Wars or Raiders of the Lost Ark or Jaws.

  "Copy something nobody else is copying."

  "Everybody is copying everything," Schweid said.

  "Copy something new," said the agent, so Barry had a brilliant idea. He had all the old scripts put on computers, really old scripts. He would blend all the great old ideas, even from the old silent flicks. But in the middle of creating a new script, he panicked. Copying the oldies was just too original for him. He had to hook into newer material. So he had a disc satellite antenna put up outside his Hollywood home. He had the disc arranged to pick up all the new television shows and transform them by sound into scripts.

  But on the first day, the whole computer system went crazy. There was no script. The software used up his entire supply of storage material which he had been assured could not be used up in a hundred years.

  And then when he went to address his newest script to the producers, Bindle and Marmelstein, he saw the strangest readout. It was no package label that came out of the machine but three full sheets of computer readout, as to the strange ways Bindle and Marmelstein financed pictures.

  They were connected with the biggest cocaine dealer in Los Angeles. And there it all was on the computer printouts. How much the man dealt, where his home was, who were his sources of drugs in South America, how Bindle and Marmelstein helped move the coke through the film industry.

  There were many strange things on the computer and Schweid hadn't ordered any of them. He called the computer supplier.

  "There was a storm over the Atlantic the other day. Fouled up receptions from all the satellite stations," said the supplier.

  "So if I got some information, it wouldn't necessarily be wrong, but it might just be information I wasn't supposed to have gotten," Schweid said.

  "Yeah, I guess so. It was all scrambled, all over the atmosphere."

  When Barry confronted Hank Bindle and Bruce Marmelstein, the producers, and told them he knew about their cocaine connection, they promised that Barry would never again sell a script in the business, that this was an outrage, that he had sunk lower than anyone else in Hollywood had ever sunk before. Bruce Marmelstein's indignation was such that Hank Bindle fell into tears, realizing the depth of hurt in his partner.

  Both of them were in tears when Bruce finished talking about freedom of information meaning freedom for all mankind. That done, Bruce asked Barry Schweid what he wanted them to give him to keep quiet.

  "I want to do Hamlet."

  "Hamlet," said Bruce. He handled the business affairs of the company. He had a wide Valium smile. "What's Hamlet?"

  "It's old stuff. It's British, I think," said Hank Bindle. He was the creative arm of the production team. He dressed in sneakers and tennis shirts and looked like Bo Peep but those who knew him had the sense that he was more like the contents of a sewage system. But without the richness.

  "James Bond, you're talking," said Bruce.

  "No," said Barry. "It's a great play. It's by Shakespeare, I think."

  "Naaaah. No box office," said Marmelstein.

  "Let's see how much coke you fellows moved last year," said Barry.

  "Okay. Hamlet. But with tits. We got to have tits," said Marmelstein.

  "There were no tits in Hamlet," Barry said.

  "All men? Gay?" said Hank Bindle.

  "No," said the writer. "There was Ophelia."

  "We'll have Ophelia with the biggest set of tits since Genghis Khan," said Bruce.

  "Genghis Khan was a man," Barry Schweid said.

  "With a name like Genghis? A man?" said Bruce, shocked. He looked at Hank Bindle. "I think so," Bindle said. As the creative arm, he was supposed to be able to read newspapers and everything, even ones without pictures.

  "Was this Genghis Khan gay?" asked Marmelstein.

  "No," Schweid said. "He was a great Mongol conqueror."

  "I never heard of a mongrel with a name like Khan," said Marmelstein. "He was probably gay."

  When Remo arrived at the condominium, set above the blue waters of Miami Beach, he brought a duck and some rice for the following day's dinner.

  A wisp of a man with delicate strands of white beard and white locks coming down over his ears sat on the veranda. He wore a kimono and did not turn to answer when Remo called his name.

  "Little Father," Remo said again. "Is everything all right?"

  Chiun, the Master of Sinanju, said nothing.

  Remo did not know if Chiun was being quiet or if he was just ignoring Remo. There was no way that he had not heard him. Chiun could hear an elevator start on the next block.

  "I got the duck," Remo said.

  "Yes, of course, the duck," Chiun said. Right. It was ignoring that he was doing.

  "Is something wrong?" Remo asked.

  "What should be wrong? I'm used to this."

  "Used to what, Little Father?"

  "I said I was used to it."

  Chiun looked out to the sea, his long fingernails folded into each other.

  Remo thought, I will not ask. He wants me to ask. Remo started the slow boiling of the rice. He looked back at Chiun and surrendered.

  "All right. What are you used to?" he asked.

  "I am so used to it I hardly notice."

  "You notice enough to ignore me," Remo said.

  "Some things one cannot shut out, no matter how hard he tries."

  "What?"

  "Did you enjoy St. Maarten?" Chiun asked.

  "You didn't want to go. I had to take seventeen brothers all at once by myself. I could have used you. Fortunately, they bunched up so there wasn't any problem. But you know seventeen is seventeen."

  "Has it come to this?" Chiun asked woefully.

  "What?"

  "You're trying to use guilt on your teacher. On the trainer who has given you the awesome power of Sinanju. And now guilt? Guilt for what? For giving you what no white man has ever had? Giving from my own blood and breathing. And then you come here after being gone for a month and you try to make me feel guilty?"

  "What did I do?" Remo asked.

  "Nothing," said Chiun and turned to the window in silence.

  In Miami Beach the next day, the telephone rang. The call was for Remo. Smith would be coming into Miami. Apparently there was something even more important than CURE's lost files.

  Had Remo or Chiun, in their travels, ever heard of a mountain of gold?

  Chapter Three

  The knife went into the throat perfectly, slicing across the jugular and cutting the windpipe, rendering the soldier helpless.
r />   Neville Lord Wissex stepped back so that Generalissimo Moombasa Garcia y Benitez could see his soldier die, could see how well the knife fighter worked.

  "We take a regular Gurkha soldier and give him further training, as you can see," said Lord Wissex. He wore a pinstriped business suit with vest and gray leather gloves.

  The generalissimo watched. He could have sworn his soldier would have killed the knife fighter, for the soldier had the very effective street club that all the generalissimo's soldiers carried when they helped protect the liberated people of modern Hamidia.

  Hamidia was bounded by three Latin-American countries that would have had the most repressive regimes in South America if it were not for Generalissimo Moombasa's.

  Two things, however, saved Moombasa from protests by the world. From without and within. One, his soldiers with clubs would kill protesters very often and very thoroughly. That took care of protest from within. Second, he had wisely put a hammer and sickle on his flag, called his country the "People's Democratic Republic of Hamidia" and went about talking socialism as piles of people, who were foolish enough to whisper unkind things about him, went up in flames. Moombasa called them "my bonfires." The world outside Hamidia ignored the bonfires and concentrated only on the hammer and sickle. No protests from there either.

  Once, when he got tired of burning people, he tried to take over Uruguay, Paraguay, and Venezuela. He did this by killing bathers, schoolchildren, bus drivers, airplane passengers, people in restaurants, and any other unprotected citizens with his soldiers, who were generally too cowardly to fight other soldiers.

  Attacks on civilians were not considered atrocities because Moombasa called them "battles in the war of liberation." Promptly, three quarters of the newspapers in Great Britain and half its universities opened their minds to his far-reaching philosophies.

  At first he had said, "I don't got no philosophy. I kill people."

  But it was then that he and Neville Lord Wissex became fast and true friends. He called Lord Wissex "my good friend Neville."

  Of course, half the other people he had called his good friends were now charred remnants buried on the outskirts of Liberation City, his capital. The other half killed for him.

  Wissex had said to him: "We'll get you a philosophy and then you can kill anyone you want in any way you want and you will be respected in the world community. Nothing you can do will be condemned except by people you can call names yourself."

  "What kind of philosophy?" Moombasa had asked. He thought it might have something to do with not eating meat.

  "Marxism. Just say you are the people and anyone against you is against the people and therefore you are defending the people as you kill anyone you want. But you must always blame everything that goes wrong on the United States of America. And sometimes Great Britain."

  Moombasa couldn't believe how well it worked. He spent municipal taxes on a new pleasure boat for himself instead of sewage disposal and half a city died from the ensuing diseases. Then he blamed American imperialism for the suffering of his people, and immediately scores of new articles appeared in Europe and America describing how the generalissimo fought hunger, disease, and American imperialism.

  It gave him an international license to kill. Having been granted that, he made his first important purchase from Lord Wissex: a delayed-action bomb and, more importantly, the Wissex employees to deliver it.

  He almost toppled two neighboring governments that way, before they sent armies to his borders, and he suddenly decided they were brothers in the never-ending battle against American aggression and tyranny.

  But now, Lord Wissex was asking an astounding price for knife fighters.

  "Five million dollars?" said Moombasa. "Let me see the knife."

  Lord Wissex nodded the Gurkha knifeman to approach the large chair on which the generalissimo sat. The Gurkha handed the blade hilt forward.

  Moombasa looked at the knife. He felt the blade. It was sharp. He ran a hand across the back of the blade. It was curved.

  "I give you twenty-five dollars," said the generalissimo to Wissex.

  Lord Wissex smiled tolerantly.

  "That's ten dollars too much, my friend Moombasa, President for Life. It is not the knife. It's the delivery. You can buy a lump of lead for a penny, but delivered from a high-powered special sniper's rifle, that bullet costs much more. It is not the material but what you want to do with it that costs," Wissex said.

  "Right. I got no one worth five million dollars dead," said the generalissimo, handing back the knife. He told the Gurkha who had killed his soldier, "Nice cut, kiddo."

  "You don't want to kill someone, old friend," said Lord Wissex. "You want to capture someone."

  "I don't want to torture no one worth five million."

  "You probably won't have to torture her," said Wissex.

  "Her? I can get any woman I want in Hamidia for ten bucks, two thousand in Hamidian cash, which is— —"

  "Nine ninety-five today," whispered an aide who had one of the few secure jobs in the nation. He could read and count. Sometimes without moving his lips. "The exchange rate down again today."

  "Right," said the generalissimo. "Nine ninety-five."

  "You want to talk to her," Wissex said.

  "Ain't nobody I want to talk to five million dollars worth."

  "Ah, but you do. Talk to her and you may become the richest, most powerful man in the world."

  "God is good," said Moombasa. "How?"

  "The ancient Hamidians that first settled this land were the greatest traders of the ancient world. They created a fortune so vast that in gold alone, they owned an entire mountain."

  "Lots of money in mountains of gold," said the generalissimo blandly. "Nice legend. I like legends."

  "Suppose the legend is true. Suppose it is and suppose there is, hidden somewhere, that mountain of gold. It would make anyone the richest, most powerful person in the world. It's more important than oil because it is so spendable. No market prices being set at conferences. No delivery halfway across the world, like oil. Gold is pure wealth."

  "Who's got this mountain?"

  "We don't know who has it yet, but we know who rightfully owns it."

  "Who?" asked Moombasa. He knew he was going to like this answer.

  "You," said Lord Wissex. "It is Hamidian wealth."

  "God's light shine through your eyes. Your mouth speaks His truth," said Moombasa. Tears welled in his eyes. He looked to his generals and aides. They were all nodding. He would get them new uniforms. Medals with real gold in them. Maybe even the new electronic gear for torture. Every other country in South America had them. And himself? He would be able to live up to the name he had given himself: "the Great Benefactor." And he would be able to stash more gold in Switzerland than anyone else who had ever lived.

  According to Lord Wissex, in America there was a woman who could read ancient Hamidian. An ancient plaque had been found and she had translated it to tell where the mountain of gold was. But she was keeping it to herself. And the evil Yankees were keeping her surrounded so she would lead them to the gold, the gold that was rightfully the natural property of the proud Hamidian people.

  "The thieves," said Moombasa.

  "Exactly," said Lord Wissex. "I'd like to interest you in the knife. The knife is basic. It is classic and, in this case, highly appropriate. Seven knife fighters of the highest quality and training, and guaranteed service by the House of Wissex, the greatest house of assassins in the history of the world. We deliver the girl and she delivers the gold and everything is neat and proper."

  "Good. When I get the gold, you get the five million," said Moombasa.

  "I'm sorry, General President, but we are not in the gold business. We are purveyors of violence and it is the tradition of the House of Wissex that we must be paid in advance, in cash."

  "Five million dollars? You talking about ten tanks. Or the education budget for the next five hundred years."

  "How much do you
want your gold?" Wissex asked.

  "I give you two million."

  "I'm awfully sorry, my friend, but you know we can't bargain. It's just not that sort of business."

  "All right, but I got to get some blood too," said Generalissimo Moombasa Garcia y Benitez, President for Life and the Great Benefactor. "I ain't spending no five million dollars for no dry knife."

  "All the blood you wish. You are, of course, the client," said Neville Lord Wissex.

  Dr. Terri Pomfret was finally taking solid foods when the two walked into her hospital room and said they were her protection. At first she had thought they were patients.

  The old Oriental could not have weighed a hundred pounds if his green kimono were sewn with lead. The white, obviously, was a manic hostile.

  Rather handsome in a sinister way, of course, but hostile. Definitely.

  He told her to stop eating the food because that would kill her faster than anything outside the hospital. Then he told her that he wasn't all that interested in her problems, her anxiety about height or depth, and as for anyone cutting anyone else's throat, she didn't have to worry, her throat was safe.

  "I was assured I was going to get the finest protection in the country. Now who or what are you?" asked Terri Pomfret. She felt the tears coming up again behind her eyes. She wanted a tissue. She wanted another Valium. Maybe a dozen Valiums.

  The old one said something in an Oriental language. She recognized it as Korean, but he spoke quickly and in an accent she had never heard so she could not translate.

  What he had said and she didn't understand was: "What a disgrace! Once proud assassins and now nursemaids."

  And the white answered in the same guttural accent. "Smitty says it's important. We've got to get a mountain of gold or something and this glutton can find it."

  "We will be selling shirts on your street corners before that happens," said Chiun.

  "What are you two talking about?" said Terri. She dabbed an eye with the tissue.