Rain of Terror td-75 Page 3

  "We walk him every day. No more taking turns." Chiun's upraised finger indicated acceptance of Remo's offer. But he still did not draw breath.

  "And hose him down daily."

  A second finger joined the upraised one.

  "Twice daily. Okay! Twice daily. Now, come on. You're turning bright blue."

  Chiun made sweeping motions with both hands.

  "No, not that. I'm not cleaning up after him. No way." Chiun folded his arms, and deep inside him, he coughed. But he refused to let the cough escape his lips. He seemed to shrink. The bluish cast to his face darkened and he suddenly clutched at his thin breast.

  "Okay, okay! You win. I'll clean up after him too. Anything else?"

  Chiun released his breath in a long, gusty exhalation. "How should I know?" he squeaked. "You are doing all the negotiating."

  And then he floated out of the room like a happy elf. Remo stood in the middle of Folcroft Sanitarium, his teeth clenched and his face slowly turning red.

  Dr. Harold W. Smith picked that moment to enter the room, peering owlishly at Remo through rimless glasses. "Could I see you one moment?" Smith said in a serious tone. "It's about your elephant."

  Chapter 3

  "It's not my elephant," Remo said in a defensive voice. He had followed Dr. Harold W. Smith up to Smith's Spartan office. Smith closed the door after them and retreated to the security of his shabby desk.

  "You brought it back from Vietnam," Smith said flatly.

  "Chiun made me. It was his idea. I wanted no part of this. If you want to get rid of the elephant, you have my total, unconditional moral support. Just don't quote me."

  "We can't have an unlicensed animal like that on the grounds. This is supposed to be a private hospital. On that basis alone, I'm risking health-code violations and problems with AMA recertification." Just the thought of those bureaucratic hassles brought that old, haggard look to Smith's gaunt, lemony face. Smith reached into a desk drawer and Remo made a mental bet with himself that out would come the aspirin. Smith's haggard look suggested aspirin. His sour look usually signaled a liquid antacid binge. On occasion, it would be Alka-Seltzer. Smith was not wearing his Alka-Seltzer face today, so Remo was dead certain it would be aspirin.

  "Talk to Chiun," Remo said exasperatedly. "You have good security reasons. Just give him the chapter and verse."

  "The health-code matter of course is not uppermost," Smith told him. "Folcroft is a secret government installation. Security must be our primary concern at all times. An elephant is bound to attract attention."

  "Save it for Chiun, Smitty. It's out of my hands."

  Out of the desk drawer came a paper cup, and a worried notch appeared between Remo's eyes. A paper cup usually meant aspirin, but Smith always took his aspirin with water from the office dispenser. Why would Smith have a paper cup in the desk when they were racked next to the bottled mineral water?

  "I hold you responsible for this elephant situation," Smith said, digging around in the drawer.

  "Why me? I told you it was Chiun's idea."

  "Which he wouldn't have gotten had he not been forced to follow you to Vietnam. Need I remind you that you were in that country despite my strict orders?"

  "I don't want to rehash that mission."

  "It was not a mission," said Smith. "It was a renegade action on your part."

  "Rub it in, why don't you?" Remo slouched onto the office couch. Why was everyone on his case today?

  "I am not even mentioning the expense to the taxpayers of having the elephant shipped to Folcroft. I'm sure there are naval officers who are still trying to learn how an Asian elephant came to be on a United States submarine. By the way, how did you get the animal into the sub in the first place?"

  "Through the weapons-shipping hatch," Remo said sourly. "I told Chiun he wouldn't go down the conning tower, but it didn't discourage him. The sub captain tried to bluff Chiun too, but Chiun's been on too many subs in the past. He knew about the big hatch. He made them open it and Chiun prodded Rambo inside."

  "Hmmm," said Smith absently. He pulled out an aerosol can, on which the words "FREE SAMPLE" were marked in red. Remo had never heard of aerosol aspirin, and he wondered if Smith was going to fool him and shave instead. But Smith's jaw looked as if it had seen a straight razor in the last hour.

  Remo watched with growing puzzlement. Smith's odd New England habits fascinated Remo in a peculiar way. For many years Remo had resented the cold Smith. It was Smith who had set Remo up, so that his faked execution wiped away all traces of Remo's existence. It wasn't done out of malice, but because Smith had been charged with running a supersecret government agency called CURE. It was set up to deal with national-security problems in an off-the-books manner. Officially, it didn't exist. So its single agent, the former Remo Williams, could not exist either. Twenty years and countless operations later, the bitter edge of their working relationship had softened. And so Remo watched with faint amusement as Smith upended the tiny aerosol can and squirted a white, foamy substance into the paper cup. It was not shaving cream. It lacked the pungent medicinal smell--although there was a faint lime scent.

  "Free sample, huh?" Remo said to fill the lull in the conversation.

  Smith nodded and brought the cup to his lips. His skinny Adam's apple didn't bob as it usually did when Smith drank something. He tilted his white-haired head back further. Smith looked very uncomfortable. Maybe it was whipped cream, Remo thought.

  "Can I get you a cupcake or something?" Remo offered. Smith's head came back down and the cup dropped from his face. His expression was especially sour, and annoyed. There was a dab of the white stuff on the tip of his nose.

  "I must be doing something wrong," Smith muttered. He turned the can around in his hand as if looking for directions.

  "Try squirting it directly into your mouth," Remo suggested in a pleasant voice.

  Smith considered Remo's suggestion with a serious expression. Remo hadn't been serious. He leaned forward, anticipating Smith's next move.

  But instead of squirting the stuff into his mouth, Smith dipped a finger into the cup and brought the foam-laden digit to his lips. He licked the finger clean, and went back for more.

  "This is very inconvenient," Smith said to himself.

  "Use your tongue," Remo prompted.

  Much to Remo's surprise, Smith did. He scoured the bottom of the cup, getting more foam on his nose. Some of it collected at the corners of his mouth too. Remo decided not to bring it to his attention.

  Finishing up, Smith capped the can and returned it to his desk. He looked at the cup as if considering its reuse. Reluctantly he threw it into a green wastebasket that Remo happened to know was purchased used from a grammar school that had been forced to close down. Smith had sat through a three-hour auction to get it, thereby saving forty-seven cents.

  Smith looked up, his face businesslike except for the dabs of white substance.

  "When did you become a whipped-cream fiend?" Rema asked with a straight face.

  "Never," Smith said humorlessly. "That was an antacid product."

  "Aerosol?"

  "It's new. Supposed to be easier to take, but I didn't think so."

  "I'll bet you go back for more anyway."

  "Can we get back to the matter at hand?"

  "Talk to Chiun. It's his elephant."

  "I will need your assistance, Remo. I sometimes think the Master of Sinanju does not understand my concerns. He seems to listen, and gives positive answers, but then he forgets our conversations ten minutes later."

  "Chiun understands more than you think. If he doesn't understand something, it's because he doesn't want to. He loves that elephant. I know. He's got me trained to see to its every need. You tell him he has to get rid of it and I guarantee you he will not understand a word you say."

  "I have to try. Every day that elephant remains at Folcroft places us at risk."

  "So talk to Chiun. I'm not stopping you."

  "I would like you to back
me up. Help me get through to him."

  Remo sighed. "Normally, I'd say no way. But I'm facing a lifetime of stable cleaning if Rambo doesn't go. I guess it can't hurt to try. Chiun can't get any madder at me than he already is."

  "Good," said Smith, buzzing his secretary.

  "But I'm telling you right now, it won't work."

  The Master of Sinanju arrived moments later. He ignored Remo and bowed politely before Smith.

  "A thousand greetings of the morning, O Emperor Smith," he said roundly. "Your servant informed me that my presence was required, and my sandaled feet flew with wide-eyed anticipation to your sanctum sanetorum."

  "Er, thank you, Master Chiun," Smith said uncomfortably.

  Chiun beamed at his emperor.

  Smith cleared his throat. He cleared it a second time. Chiun cocked his head to one side inquisitively.

  "I ... I crave a ... a boon," Smith said at last. He fidgeted with a pencil.

  "A boon?" asked Chiun, who had never before heard Smith use such kingly words. It was good at last to see Smith embrace his true state in life. Although Chiun knew that Smith did not exactly rule America, he understood that Smith wielded power second only to the President. And for centuries Chiun's ancestors had worked for royalty of all nations. Therefore Smith was royalty of a sort.

  "What boon?" Chiun asked in a delighted voice. "Merely state it and I will consider it my duty."

  Smith hesitated. He looked at Remo helplessly.

  On the couch, Remo tensed. "Here it comes," he said, bracing himself for the explosion.

  "I wish . . . that is, I request ... I mean, for security reasons your pet elephant presents serious problems." Chiun clapped his hands suddenly. The sound was so loud Smith jumped in his cracked leather chair. Even Remo was taken by surprise. He wisely started to inch toward the door.

  "Say no more," proclaimed the Master of Sinanju in a loud voice. Loud, but not angry. Remo hesitated with his hand on the doorknob.

  "But I-" Smith began.

  Chiun lifted a quelling hand imperiously.

  "I had not planned for this so soon," said Chiun, "but so be it. Be so good, Emperor, as to gaze out yon window." Uncertainly Smith swiveled his seat around. He stared out the big picture window overlooking Long Island Sound. There, by the docks, Rambo grazed contentedly. "Your elephant?" Smith said hesitantly.

  "No, O Emperor," Chiun corrected. "Not my elephant."

  "It's not mine," Remo said quickly.

  "Of course not," Chiun said. "It is the Emperor Smith's elephant. His royal elephant, to do with as he pleases."

  "As I please?" Smith asked unsteadily.

  "Yes, did you think I have had Remo training him all these weeks for my own pleasure? No. As a Master of Sinanju, I must be ready at a moment's notice to travel to any corner of the globe to do your bidding. As much as I love pets, I cannot be so encumbered. I knew this when I rescued the poor beast from the cruel Vietnamese. I knew that you were a lover of pets, and would therefore delight in owning him. Consider it a token of my esteem for long years of fruitful employment."

  "Smith?" Remo said incredulously. "A lover of pets?" Behind his own back, Chiun made quieting gestures at Remo.

  "I ... I had a pet turtle once," Smith muttered. "That was a long time ago. It died."

  "The loss still marks your kingly visage," Chiun announced. "But now you have many years of joyous pleasure to catch up on and I will not take up any more of our valuable time."

  Without another word, the Master of Sinanju floated out the door. As he brushed past Remo, there was a mischievous gleam in Chiun's bright eyes that Remo had seen before. He grabbed for the doorknob as Chiun closed the door behind him. But it would not budge. Remo strained. The doorknob came off in his hands and it was then that Remo knew he had fallen into a trap. Chiun was holding the door closed from the other side. Chiun, who knew Smith's next words before Remo heard them. Probably even before Smith himself formulated them in his mind.

  "Remo," Smith said, "I must ask you to find a home for that creature. Keeping him is of course out of the question." Remo said nothing. His groan was eloquent enough. After Remo had left, Smith touched a concealed stud that brought his CURE operations-desk terminal rising out of its desktop recess. From this terminal, which was connected to a bank of mainframe computers concealed in Folcroft's basement, Smith had instant access to virtually all nationwide data links. The CURE computers were the heart of his day-to-day operation. Through them, his ability to correlate endless, seemingly unrelated trivia alerted Smith to domestic problems before they exploded into full-blown crises. Through his computers, Smith anonymously tipped off normal law-enforcement agencies to these problems. Only when a crisis did occur, would Smith unleash Remo and Chiun.

  As he scanned news digests of the evening, Smith found only the usual situations. One oddity was a sketchy report of a fire in Lafayette park in the District of Columbia. The CURE software had flagged it only because of its proximity to the White House. But it appeared to be a routine matter.

  But when Smith switched over to monitor message traffic between the various branches of the government and the military, he suddenly sat up in his chair. Milnet and Arpanet traffic were virtually nonexistent. The systems were up. But no one was passing data. It was as if there was a blackout or a paralysis of communications.

  It was very puzzling, but it seemed to be centered in the Washington, D.C., area. That might have been because Washington was the home of most government agencies. But even on a dull day, CIA message traffic was not this light. And the intermilitary lines were unusually quiet too.

  Nothing was happening. The few messages Smith did intercept were so routine as to border on trivia. It was as if even though these computer links were considered secure, the government had clamped down on their use so that even in the upper levels of the U.S. government, there were no leaks.

  Fascinated, Smith switched over to other information-gathering sources. Everyone was acting as if nothing was happening. That alone was suspicious: In the government, something was always happening. And Smith was determined to discover just what it was.

  He hunched over his terminal, his gray eyes coming to life. Interfacing with his system, Dr. Harold W. Smith was in his element. Something close to a smile of satisfaction hovered at the edges of his dry lips. Absently he licked the remnants of the aerosol antacid from their corners. He was so deep in thought, the chalky taste did not even register.

  Chapter 4

  General Martin S. Leiber finished shoving his desk over so that it blocked the door to his Pentagon office. He had sent his secretary home. He pulled down the window shades and turned on all the lights even though it was barely noon.

  Tough times called for tough measures. He got behind his desk and laid a hand on the telephone. He waited. Every minute increased the risk. If the Joint Chiefs of Staff wanted him, they would have to come for him. The longer they held off, the better his chances improved. He could almost feel the weight of those extra stars on his shoulder epaulets. Never mind the extra perks; they meant a stiff ten thousand dollars a year in retirement benefits.

  If he could stall the Joint Chiefs just a little longer. They were calling for answers. General Leiber had put them off with some military double-talk. He had already fielded one call from the President of the United States this morning. The President was concerned.

  "Is it safe to come out?" the President had asked.

  "Negative, Mr. President," General Leiber told him. "We have not yet identified the threat."

  "But Washington has not been destroyed?"

  "It would be premature for me to comment on that, Mr. President."

  "Premature!" The President's voice skittered dangerously toward falsetto. "The nation's capital is either standing or it isn't. Which is it?"

  "It's not that simple, Mr. President," General Leiber went on, sweat gathering under his iron-gray toupee. "The city has experienced an attack of unknown origin."

  "But it failed.
"

  "The first strike may have failed. But it may not. Mr. President, I will be frank. We do not know the meaning of this attack. That is bad enough. But we are desperately attempting to establish the nature of the weapon itself."

  "I was told that it was a missile."

  "You have been misinformed, sir. We know no such thing. At present, the threat object is unclassifiable. It's true there was no explosion or release of radiation, but in the absence of knowing what this thing was supposed to do, we can't rule out the possibility that it won't develop into a threat situation. "

  "I don't understand. The thing was a dud, right?"

  "We don't know that. In fact, we know so little that any conclusion or action we might contemplate would be premature-even downright dangerous. I strongly advise you to stay underground until we know that it is safe to come up. Even if this object which is now being evaluated by the brightest minds in the Air Force-is a nonthreat, we cannot assume that a second strike might not be imminent."

  "Maybe I should be talking to the joint Chiefs. What do they say?"

  ''I have already spoken with them and we are in complete ... um"-General Leiber searched for an apt word that was not exactly a lie and, he hoped, not in the President's vocabulary-"equanimity about the situation," he said. In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought.

  "Well, if they think that's the best course, I guess I could stay down here another few hours. But dammit, this is my first day in office. I'm anxious to get up there and lead."

  "I understand, sir. But your security is top priority. And please, do not call again. We don't know if those phones are tapped. We don't want the enemy to know where you are. "

  "Yes, I see," said the President vaguely. "I appreciate your patriotism. It was fortunate a man of your caliber was on duty when this thing happened. I hope you will continue to act as my surrogate in this crisis."

  "Don't worry, Mr. President, I'm on top of it." General Leiber hung up. His eyes were bright. If this didn't work exactly right, he could kiss his pension adios and be up for high treason to boot. If only that fool of a major would call. How long could it take them to analyze that thing?