The Final Death td-29 Read online

  "Good morning, Chiun," Smith said.

  "Greetings, Emperor, who is as wise as he is generous. Your glory knows no bounds. Your telling will know no antiquity. Your wisdom will be spread on the sands of time forever. This humble thing shall earn your fame in Sinanju 20-fold."

  Smith cleared his throat. "Errr, yes. Of course," he said. He pulled Remo to the side. "He wants something from me. What does he want from me? I already send enough gold to that village of his to finance a small country. Now, that's it. No more raises in the tribute.

  I'll hire Cassius Muhammid to train you if he raises the price again."

  "You don't have a thing to worry about, Smitty," said Remo. "He's not after your money."

  "What then?"

  "He thought with all your connections you might know somebody in the TV business."

  "Why?"

  "So you can help him get his soap opera on the air."

  "Soap opera? What soap opera?"

  "Chiun's written a soap opera," Remo explained happily. "It tells all about his life and career in America."

  "His life and career?" Smith said. "It talks about us? About CURE?"

  "Does it ever? But you really come off good, Smitty. Not penny-pinching or narrow-minded or anything. Just another big-hearted, friendly hirer of assassins."

  "Oh, my god," Smith groaned. "Talk to him and find out how much he wants to throw it away."

  "You're a philistine, Smitty. You'll never understand that us artists just can't be bought and sold that way. I'm surprised at you."

  Smith sighed. "I'm not surprised at you. Not anymore. Not at anything."

  "Anyway, Smitty. Just leave the whole thing to me. I'll take care of it for you. Now why did you bring us to a graveyard?"

  Smith led them toward a slight rise in the ground. Down in a small hollow, a fat-faced minister, sweating despite the January chill, was mumbling prayers next to a casket, surrounded by two dozen persons.

  "This is the funeral of Vincent Angus," Smith said. "He was one of our contacts in the meat industry. Of course, he didn't know he was reporting to us. Now we figure he was on to something because he was murdered. They found him dead in a tree. The flesh peeled off his body. That's why you're here."

  "I didn't do it. I was in North Dakota," Remo said. He looked toward Chiun but the Oriental was listening to the prayers below.

  "I know you didn't do it," Smith said. "Now this is complicated but pay attention. Someone has been trying to work out a way to introduce poison into America's food supply. That convention load of veterans at the hotel who all died. That was from the poison. Now under the guise of the swine-flu program we've managed to inoculate a lot of Americans, and we think the vaccine is 100 percent effective."

  "So that solves your problem," Remo said.

  "No, that doesn't solve our problem. One. We don't know if the vaccine is perfectly effective. Two. We can't give the vaccine to everybody because the swine-flu program's not mandatory."

  "Why not?"

  "Political reasons."

  "Then let me talk to the politicians," Remo said.

  "Remo," cautioned Smith.

  "Ahhh, it's always like this, Smitty. I know what you're going to tell me. Find out who's doing the poisoning and stop them. That's always how it is. Find this and find that and find out how it works and find out how to stop it. I'm an assassin, not a scientist. Can't you just aim me at somebody?" He looked around for support to Chiun, but Chiun had drifted down the hillside and was now standing among the band of mourners, listening to the booming voice of the Rev. Titus Murray, whose three chins bobbed with the effort.

  "And so we say farewell to Vincent Anthony Angus, good husband, father, skilled craftsman. A boon to his community, his family, and his church."

  Rev. Murray took a moment to compose himself and wiped his face with a handkerchief.

  "Rest in peace," he finished. "May God have mercy on your soul."

  "What did this guy tell you before he got killed?" asked Remo.

  "He reported a shortage of flank beef."

  "Oh, well. That explains it. The giant flank cartel had to silence him before their secret got out."

  "And he complained about the Department of Agriculture stamp on the meat in his restaurant. Said it was too thick and tinny tasting. I reviewed the tape last night."

  "That's no help," Remo said. "Where'd he get the meat from?"

  "Meatamation Industries. A salesman named O'Donnell."

  "Okay. We'll see about him," Remo said.

  He looked up to see Chiun coming up the hill with an attractive dark-haired girl in a long black dress.

  Chiun bowed to Smith. "Emperor, knowing your great interest in this matter, I have arranged for this child to tell you all about the death of this poor man."

  Smith looked shocked.

  The young woman spoke. "I'm Victoria Angus. Are you really an emperor?"

  Smith sputtered. "Chiun, did you… have you…?"

  Chiun raised a consoling hand. "You need not worry yourself. I have told her nothing about your secret duties in Rye, New York, or the roles that Remo and I play in your plan to make America a better nation. Perhaps someday you can do me a favor in return."

  "Report regularly," Smith said. He walked rapidly away.

  "He's a very strange emperor," Viki Angus said.

  "He can't stand funerals," said Remo.

  "What's your name?" the woman asked.

  "Remo."

  "Remo what?"

  "That's right. Remo Watt. Chiun you already know."

  "Yes. Were your friends of my father's?"

  "Associates," Remo said.

  "You don't look like people in the meat business," said Viki.

  "Well, actually we work with O'Donnell. At Meatamation?"

  "Oh, yeah. The salesman. Surprised he wasn't here."

  "He and your father were close, I understand," said Remo.

  "Close enough so he should have come to the funeral." She looked at Smith's figure walking briskly away across the cold dead-grassed surface of the cemetery. "Will he be coming to the house? Mr… what's his name?"

  "Jones," said Remo.

  "Smith," said Chiun.

  "Mr. Smith. Will he be coming to the house?"

  "I don't think so," Remo said. "He can't stand parties any more than funerals."

  But Viki Angus was not really listening. She was thinking about her father's final phone call and the computer that answered. These three men might have something to do with that computer.

  The man called Smith might be the brains, this Remo the muscle, and the Oriental… well, the Oriental could wait for classification.

  They could be the "Bureau of Agriculture" men. They might be the men who murdered her father.

  Viki Angus decided to call the father's reporting number and record the computer clicks.

  Then she would break the clicks down into its unique computer code.

  Then she would trace the code.

  Then she would find the computer's central location.

  Then she would find out who ran it.

  And then she would kill him. Or them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mrs. Ruth Angus was moving uncertainly around the house with her dusting cloth when the doorbell rang.

  Mourners already?

  She casually tossed the dust rag behind a potted plant and moved toward the basement playroom to reassure herself that the hors d'oeuvres were ready and the punch indeed mixed.

  A cluster of liquor bottles and soda mixes was on the table next to the punchbowl and Mrs. Angus nodded in satisfaction. Just as well. If their friends were half as shaken as she by Vinnie's horrible murder, they would want their refreshments as powerful as possible. She herself had sneaked four fingers of scotch along with her valium.

  The doorbell rang again and Ruth Angus checked her coiffure on the stair mirror. She touched a curl here and a wave there, smoothed her long black dress, then leaned closer to see if the tracks of her te
ars through her heavy paste makeup were still visible.

  Good, she thought, and went to the door. She turned the big copper knob which always seemed to give guests difficulty and pulled open the heavy wooden door.

  Outside the screen door with the sheet metal "A" cutting across the lower panel were six Oriental men in long red robes.

  Mrs. Angus gulped again and tried to stifle a light-headed giggle.

  "Hello," she said.

  The Orientals did not speak.

  "Are you friends of my hus… my late husband's?" she asked lightly, but with, hopefully, the proper solemn tone for the occasion.

  Five yellow men in the red robes remained motionless, but the man at the head of the group slowly nodded yes. Then he too joined the ranks of the motionless.

  "Well," said Mrs. Angus, wondering about her late husband's taste in friends, "come in."

  That got a reaction from the group. The two in back moved their heads quickly from side to side, as if surveying the neighborhood.

  Mrs. Angus hoped they were not thinking of moving in, even with the two green-and-brown houses at the end of the block up for sale. The Ladies' Alliance for Woodbridge Neighborhoods, also known as L.A.W.N., had done much to insure that the West Haven blacks would not buy property piecemeal. And she was sure they would not like to start the whole process over again with Orientals.

  The man in front smiled serenely. When his right hand appeared to pull open the screen door, Mrs. Angus noticed his fingernail.

  It was at least three inches long, slightly curved, shiny, and cut at the end on a diagonal, like the blade of a guillotine. Mrs. Angus found it unnerving.

  The six Orientals came in, crowding the foyer, each smiling appreciatively as they passed. The leader of the group, holding the door, entered last. He said, "How nice of you to let us in. We could not have entered otherwise."

  Mrs. Angus heard one of the Orientals laugh. She thought it a strange way to say hello, but ignored the awkwardness of the situation. The valium and four glasses of uncut punch helped. "Won't you come downstairs?" she politely inquired, unable to spot any space between the six huddled bodies.

  The men smiled even more broadly and began to move down into the playroom. Somehow, their moving made Mrs. Angus feel more comfortable.

  She followed them into the playroom turned wake-room. The group had gathered in a tight pack in the center of the tile floor. Their long red robes and dark yellow faces made her think of a bunch of life-sized lollipops. Mrs. Angus moved to the punch bowl to pour herself another drink.

  "Help yourselves," she said, waving her arm to take in the rolled up salami and olives, the tiny tuna fish on white quarters, the bacon rolled around liver, the plates of ham and cheese, and the jello molds.

  She could have sworn that the head man was scowling before she said, "It was a terrible thing. What happened to my husband, I mean. Over and over, I ask myself, why him? Why him?"

  The head man caught her eyes with his own dark brown ones and said, unmoving, "At least he is free."

  "Maybe," said Euth Angus, gulping some punch before coming around the table, half-full cup in her hand. The punch definitely needed more vodka in it, she decided. She would spike it as soon as she had a chance. "Maybe. He doesn't have to worry about the mortgage and the taxes and all that stuff anymore. But what about me?"

  She stood in front of the head man, swaying ever so slightly, and hid a slight burp behind her raised punch glass.

  "What about me?" she repeated, her voice cracking this time. "What about the restaurants? The girls?"

  Mrs. Angus considered the tile floor for a moment. There was no answer.

  "Well, at least there's the insurance. There's that." Her fuzzy eyes moved up to the Oriental's dark ones. "But he was so young."

  Her eyes clouded and tears began to cut new grooves in her cheeks. "I lived for that man. I honestly did. I lived for that man." Mrs. Angus sobbed and turned to refill her glass. Behind her was an Oriental.

  She reconsidered the drink and moved to the right to sit down in the recliner for a moment. Beside her was another Oriental.

  Mrs. Angus moved to the left to turn on the color TV set to get her mind off Vinnie's death. To her left stood a fourth Oriental.

  She swayed forward. She felt the head man's outstretched hand steady her and take her punch glass. She half saw his long lacquered fingernail rising by her face.

  "You lived for him," the man said. "Tell us what he said."

  Mrs. Angus tried to focus her eyes but the man's face kept expanding into a' big yellow fuzzball. All she could really see clearly was his eyes. His dark, deep-brown eyes.

  "When?" she asked uncertainly. "He said a lot of things. He said, 'What's for dinner.' He said, 'Shut up, I'm watching the game.' He said…"

  "Before he went away," interrupted the Oriental. "Tell us what he told you before his hunting trip."

  Mrs. Angus tried to slip between the man and the man on her left. She really wanted another drink. A fifth Oriental stood in her path.

  "Lessee now," said Mrs. Angus. "I was reading before he went to bed, so he didn't say anything then. There was no ball game on that night so he didn't say anything then. He never watches 'Rhoda' so he didn't say anything then…"

  The man in front of her gripped her shoulders and looked harder into her eyes.

  "Vincent Angus' spirit is gone. It has been destroyed. His soul has been sent into eternity unfulfilled. His spirit shall never see the afterlife. He has died the Final Death."

  A man behind her snickered.

  Mrs. Angus began to cry again. She wanted to sink to the floor but the Oriental's strong hands kept her upright.

  "I know, I know," she said. "He's dead. Poor Vinnie. What can I do?"

  "Tell us what he told you. Reject all the falsehoods you have lived by. Reject Christianity. Reject meat. Bless the sacred…"

  Mrs. Angus suddenly shook herself free with surprising wiry strength. She stumbled back into the chest of the Oriental behind her.

  "Just a minute, buster," she said. "Reject what? Meat? Christianity? What are you talking about? I'm Jewish, for crying out loud."

  She steadied herself. The man did not answer and her face began to crack again.

  "Poor Vinnie. Do I need a drink."

  A voice came from the front door at the top of the stairs. The man holding her shoulders turned to listen.

  "She knows nothing," the voice called. "Get it over with. We have to get out of here soon."

  Mrs. Angus had both hands up on the chest of the man behind her, politely asking if he would be so kind as to get out of her way.

  The man nodded, but instead spun Mrs. Angus around to face the group's leader who swung his right arm across her neck, his forefinger slicing into her flesh.

  Mrs. Angus only screamed once before the two Orientals beside her grabbed her wrists and the one behind her clapped his left hand over her mouth and used his right to cup her chin, pushing up.

  The movement opened the three-inch-wide gash in her neck wider and a thin curtain of blood began to ooze down to her chest.

  The head Oriental planted one hand on her shoulder and lanced his fingernail deep into the left side of her neck.

  The tingling sensation exploded into searing pain for a moment as Mrs. Angus tried to scream again. The sound rose up her throat, but the yellow grip across her jaw only became stronger and the noise jangled across her tongue and died.

  Slowly, the Oriental's finger, now touching her neck, his fingernail completely implanted, moved along his original incision. Blood began to pour out of the wound, founting out as much as six inches.

  The pain was replaced by a nauseating sensation of drowning, as if her head were a cup being filled with liquid. Her face felt puffy and balloons filled her eyes, ears, and began to creep into her nose.

  Mrs. Angus tried to pull herself above the water level, but the grips on her wrists kept her submerged. Her legs seemed like anchors and she felt a warm wetness move d
own her front. In another part of her mind she wondered what this wetness would do to the floor wax.

  The Oriental's finger had reached the right side of Mrs. Angus' neck. He placed his other hand on her chin and pulled his fingernail out quickly. He looked at the weapon, then nodded.

  The three Orientals released Ruth Angus and moved across to join their comrades on the other side of the room.

  Mrs. Angus moved back, still on her feet and turned, hitting the table. Her upper body tipped sickeningly over the punch bowl.

  Mrs. Angus saw the sparkling punch striped with several red strings before her eyes moved up into her lids and her body flopped back onto the wet tile floor. She never even understood that her throat had been cut.

  The six Orientals waited until her body stopped moving, then began to edge forward.

  "Let's get to work," said the leader. "We don't have much time."

  Remo and Chiun drove Viki Angus home from the funeral. Actually, Remo drove since Chiun sat alone in the back seat of the rented automobile, scribbling furiously on a page of parchment with a feather pen.

  "It's all so gross," Viki said.

  "Yes, he is," Chiun agreed from the back seat.

  "What's gross?" Remo asked.

  "You are gross," said Chiun.

  "I'm not talking to you, Chiun," Remo said. "What's gross, Viki?"

  "The funeral. The whole thing. That fat faker of a reverend that my father hated standing there at the grave spilling out banalities. The whole awful murder. Why would someone, anyone kill my father that way? You have any idea?"

  Remo put his hand comfortingly on her left knee. "Not one idea."

  "Never ask that one for ideas, little girl," said Chiun. "He knows not the word."

  "Come on, Chiun, knock off the carping, will you?" said Remo, turning onto the Angus' street. "What do you know anyway. You haven't been listening to anything that was said since we got to the cemetery."

  "I know enough," said Chiun, his head still deep in parchment. "I know that the emperor has named a new disease after you."

  Remo kept looking for the Angus house.

  "A new disease? What's that mean?" he asked.

  "Swine flu," said the small man from the back seat. He thought this line so funny that he giggled and repeated it. "Swine flu. Heh, heh, heh."