Destroyer 010 - Terror Squad

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THE DESTROYER: TERROR SQUAD

Richard Sapir and Warren Murphy

PINNACLE BOOKS * NEW YORK

THE DESTROYER: TERROR SQUAD

any form.

A Pinnacle Books original, published for the first time anywhere.

ISBN: 0-523-41225-8

First printing, June 1973Second printing, July 1974 Third printing, October 1974 Fourth

printing, April 1976 Fifth printing, February 1977 Sixth printing, April 1978 Seventh

printing, January 1979 Eighth printing, July 1981

Printed in the United States of America

PINNACLE BOOKS, INC.

1430 Broadway

New York, New York 10018

TO:

Graces

CHAPTER ONE

As airplane is an unsupportable outpost. You cannot reinforce it. You cannot resupply

it.

Mrs. Kathay Miller listened to this description on a flight from New York City to

Athens, Greece. The man beside her was fascinating, a gentle person in his late thirties

with soft brown eyes and a craggy face honed by wind and sun. He spoke with a slightly

guttural accent she could not place, and he was attempting, unsuccessfully, to calm her

fears about skyjacking.

"Airplane travel today is far safer than going from one small village to another during

the Middle Ages." he said. "And for the hijacker, it is becoming almost impossible today

to successfully achieve the capture of a plane. It is a vulnerable, unreinforceable

outpost in the air. It has to land."

He smiled. Mrs. Miller hugged her infant son Kevin closer to her breast. She was not

reassured.

''If worse comes to worst, we will all fly around and In perhaps Libya or Cairo and then

be returned. Even the most militant governments today are tired of hijackers. So, I do

not know how horrible a delay would be for you, but for me it would be delightful. I

have you and your adorable child for company. Americans are such good people, really."

"I hate the idea of hijacking. Even the thought of it makes me... well, mad and

frightened."

''Ah, so we have it, Mrs. Miller. You are not afraid

of the hijacking, but the idea of it. Being defenseless."

"Yes. I guess so. I mean, what right do those people have to endanger my life? I never

did anything to anyone."

"A mad dog, Mrs. Miller, does not dispense justice. Let us be grateful that their fangs

are weak."

"How can you say they're weak?"

"How can you say they're strong?"

"Very simply. They kill people. They murdered those athletes in Munich, those diplomats

in whereverit-was. They shoot people from rooftops. They bomb stores. They snipe at

innocent people from hotel rooms. I mean, that isn't weak."

The passenger in the next seat chuckled.

"That is the sign of weakness. Strength is irrigating a field. Strength is constructing

a building. Strength is discovering a cure for a disease. The random lunatic killing of

a few people here and there is not strength. The odds against getting hurt by those

madmen are astronomical."

"But it can happen," said Kathy Miller. She felt strangely annoyed by the man's

argument. Why did he take terrorism so lightly? Her fear was gone now. It had been

replaced by annoyance.

"Many things can happen," he said. "But that's life. Landslides when you ski. Sharks

when you swim. Accidents when you drive. But to live life, you must accept accidents as

such, as inherent parts of living. You see, what bothers you is the fact that you are

vulnerable to accidents, not that accidents exist. What bothers you is that these

terrorists remind you of something you would like to keep hidden in some dark closet

Your mortality.

"The answer to these mad animals is to live. To love. Look, you have a beautiful baby.

You are going to meet your husband in Athens. Your very Me and loving is a refutation,

and a strong refutation, of every terrorist act every committed. You are taking an

airplane today. That shows the terrorists are weak. They could not stop you."

"There's something wrong with that argument," said Kathy Miller. "I don't know how or

why, but there's something wrong."

A stewardess leaned over the three-seat section and, with a plastic smile, asked if

anyone wanted a beverage.

Mrs. Miller wanted a cola.

Her neighboring passenger shook his head.

"Pure sugar and caffeine," he said. "No good for you or for your baby whom you

breastfeed."

"How do you know he's not on a bottle?"

"Just the way you hold him, Mrs. Miller. My wife also. I know. That's all."

"I love cola," she said.

Three men in business suits brushed quickly behind the stewardess, heading toward the

front of the plane. The passenger, whose movements had been so slow and relaxed, looked

up suddenly at the three men, watching them like a gazelle alert for a tiger.

"Do you have the cola now?" he asked the stewardess.

Kathy Miller blinked in puzzlement. What was going on?

"Yes. I have it right on this cart," said the stew.

"Now, please," said the passenger.

"Two colas then," said the stewardess.

The passenger, who had been so gentle and consider-

ate since the plane left New York City, rudely snatched. a drink before the stewardess

could serve Kathy.

He held it to Jus lips, watching the front of the plane in wide-eyed fear, Kathy could

see he held a white oblong pill near the lip of the glass.

Without taking His eyes off the front of the plane, he said: "I want you to remember one

thing, Mrs. Miller. Love is always stronger. Love is strength. Hate is weakness."

Kathy Miller did not have time for philosophy. Over the plane's loudspeaker came words

that curdled her intestines.

"This is the Revolutionary Liberation Front of Free Palestine. Through our courageous

endeavors, we have gloriously captured this vehicle of capitalistic-zionistic

oppression. We have liberated this airplane. It is now in our hands. Make no sudden

moves and you will not be hurt. Any sudden moves and you will be shot. Everyone put his

hands on His head. No sudden moves. Anyone who fails to put his hands on his head will

be shot."

To put her hands OH her head would mean dropping the baby, Kathy Miller put her left

hand on her head and held the baby with her right. Maybe one hand would be good enough.

She shut her eyes and prayed, prayed as she had been taught to pray in Sunday School in

Eureka, Kansas. She talked to God, explaining that she had nothing to do with this and

that they shouldn't hurt her or the baby. She begged God to let her and her baby live.

"Dr. Geleth. Dr. Isadore Geleth. In which seat are you?" came the voice over the

loudspeaker.

Kathy could hear people move down the aisle. She

felt a wetness at her feet. It must be her cola, that she had dropped. She did not want

to open her eyes to see it, though. She would keep her eyes shut and hold Kevin to her

chest and it would all pass. She had nothing to do with this whole thing. She was just a

passenger. At worst, the plane would fly around a few hours longer and then she would

open her eyes and find that they had finally landed at Athens Airport. That's what would

happen if she kept her eyes shut. The people who were hijacking the plane would have to

land somewhere. They would get off and she and Kevin would fly with everyone else to

Athens.

"Dr. Geleth. We know you are aboard. We will find you, Dr. Geleth. Do not endanger other

passengers," said the voice from the loudspeaker.

Kathy heard the passengers murmur. One woman shouted that she was having a heart attack.

A young child cried. A stewardess kept repeating that everyone should be calm. Kathy

felt the plane descend. She remembered she had read somewhere that a bullet through the

skin of a plane at high altitude could cause an explosion. Or was it an implosion? No,

an explosion. Everything would rush out. Air pressure at high altitudes made a gun

battle tantamount to turning the aircraft into a bomb.

"Dr. Geleth. We will get you. We call upon the passengers to signal if they are sitting

next to Dr. Geleth or know where he is. We do not wish to harm you. We are peaceful. We

do not wish to harm anyone."

Kathy felt something hard and metallic next to her head.

"I can't put my other hand up. I'll drop my baby," she said.

"Open your eyes." The voice was soft and menacing, the silky smoothness of a snake.

Kathy did what she had not wished to do until it was all over. She opened her eyes. A

pistol was pointed at her forehead, and a nervous, gaunt-faced young man in a business

suit leaned over from the aisle holding it

The passenger who had assured her that hijacking was so improbable was sleeping through

this. His eyes were closed, his hands relaxed on His lap. The tip of his tongue stuck

out of His lips like a sliver of bubble gum. It was then that Kathy realized that she

was still holding her drink, in the hand above her head. The passenger had dropped his

and that was probably the wetness she had felt. But she did not dare look down.

"You know him?" said the gunman, nodding toward the passenger.

"No. No. We just talked," said Kathy.

"We know him," said the gunman, and let out a stream of foreign words that sounded as if

he were preparing to spit.

Quickly another gunman came up behind Mm in support.

"May I put down my drink?" asked Kathy. The other gunman, a swarthy youth with the inner

stillness of a cave, nodded that she might do so.

Kathy dropped the drink to the carpeted floor of the plane and clutched Kevin with both

hands.

"What is your name, if you please?" asked the swarthy gunman.

"Miller. Mrs. Katherine Miller. My husband is an

engineer for a construction firm. He's on a job in Athens. I'm flying there to meet

him."

"Very good. And what did Dr. Geleth say to you while you flew next to each other?"

"Oh, just conversation. I don't know him. I mean, we just talked." She kept waiting for

the passenger to wake up, to say something, to draw their attention from her onto

himself.

"I see," the gunman said. "And he gave you something?"

"No, no," said Kathy, shaking her head. "He didn't give me anything."

The swarthy gunman gave a sharp command in that guttural language. The gun next to

Kathy's head disappeared inside a belt. His hands free, the lighterskinned gunman

removed the jacket from Dr. Geleth and in the leaden way the body responded, Kathy knew

the gentle passenger next to her was dead. The pill he had held near his glass when the

three men hi business suits went forward, had obviously been poison.

With swift expert hands, the lighter gunman stripped and searched Dr. Geleth.

"Nothing," he said finally.

"No matter. It was his mind that we wanted. Mrs. Miller, are you sure Dr. Geleth said

nothing of importance to you?"

Kathy shook her head.

"Let us try. What were the last words he said to you?"

"He said love was stronger than hate."

"That is a lie. He told you something," said the . swarthy gunman, his lips quivering.

"We have failed," said the lighter-skinned man. "What could he tell her in a minute?

Besides, even if he had given her His life's work, what was important was him. His body

for ransom. He knew that dead, he was worth nothing to us in an exchange. We are

defeated. We failed."

Froth formed at the corner of the swarthy man's' mouth.

"We have not failed. This American helped the Jew. If the Americans didn't help, we

would have succeeded. She is responsible."

"Brother, leader. She is just a housewife."

"She knows something. She is part of the capitalistic zionistic plot that cheated us of

victory,''

"Dr. Geleth cheated us, not her."

The swarthy face reddened and the dark eyes heated with anger.

"You sound like an Israeli agent One more defeatist word and I will shoot you. Take her

and the child to the rear. I will question them."

"Yes, brother leader."

Kathy tried to get up but something held her down. The lighter-skinned gunman reached

over and she thought he was going to touch her private parts, but he merely unbuckled

the seat belt.

He helped Kathy to her feet and she stumbled into the aisle over the legs of Dr. Geleth.

"I really didn't know him.," she sobbed.

"It wouldn't have made any difference if you did,'' said the light gunman. "He was not

military. He was just valuable for what he was.''

"What was he?" asked Kathy.

"Cancer research. We do not want the Israelis to be

the first to discover a cure. It would be too good for their propaganda. But we would

have been willing to trade back Geleth for some of our members in Israeli jails."

"Quiet!" came the command from the leader.

In the rear lounge, the leader took Kevin from Kathy.

"Search her," he said to his accomplice. There was a stream of the spitting language

which Kathy now judged to be Arabic. It came from the lighter gunman. He said it with

palm open, as if disputing the sanity of the order. A quick violent sentence from the

leader and the other gunman bowed his head.

"Strip," he said, "I'm going to search you."

Sobbing, Kathy took off her plaid jacket and white blouse and unzippered her skirt. She

let it fall to her ankles. She averted her eyes from theirs.

"Strip, he said," barked the leader. "He did not mean leave clothing. Strip is strip."

Head bowed, Kathy reached behind her back and unhitched her bra. She was too terrified

now for shame. She jimmied the panties down from her hips and let them fall along her

legs over the skirt at her feet.

"Search her whole body," said the leader. "With your hands."

"Yes, Mahmoud," said the lighter gunman.

"Do not use names," said the leader, Mahmoud.

Her eyes shut, Kathy felt the hands brush her shoulder and armpits and backside. The

hands were brisk.

"All the parts," said Mahmoud.

Kathy felt the hands linger over her breasts, and although she did not want it to

happen, her breasts responded. The hands moved away down her sides, and then at first

harshly, then softly, then not harshly

enough, a hand invaded her body. And her body betrayed her. While her mind said "no,"

her body said "yes."

She kept her eyes closed when she was taken and in her mind told her husband that she

was sorry. She felt triumphant that she was not able to move with her ravisher. She

remained stiff on the lounge sofa and then the intrusion was gone, followed almost

immediately by another intrusion. Another hijacker was taking her. This time it hurt.

And by the third, she was in great pain.

When they were through with her, they dumped her into the bathroom and locked it. She

could feel the plane hit turbulence and kept telling herself that the unsupportable

outpost would have to land somewhere. It was cold in the plane's bathroom and she tried

to cover herself with hand towels. She felt broken and worthless and used, yet she knew

she had done nothing wrong. She couldn't help herself.

She knocked on the door. Nothing. She knocked again. Nothing.

"Please, my baby. My baby. At least give me back my baby."

Nothing. So she banged harder and then banged continuously.

"Quiet," came the harsh command.

"My baby. My baby,'' she whimpered.

"Quiet."

She could hear crying outside, a baby's crying. It was Kevin.

"My baby," she yelled. "Damn you bastards. Give me back my baby, you damned bastards.

Animal bastards. Give me back my baby."

Suddenly the crying ceased. The door unlocked and a white object came hurtling at her

head. Instinctively, she ducked it and then was immediately sorry. It hit the lavatory

wall and rebounded down toward the toilet. Kathy desperately grabbed Kevin's chest and

plucked him from the water. As soon as she saw His head wobble to the side, she knew she

was too late. She had been too late when the door had opened. A large reddish welt rose

from the neck and Kevin's pink head dangled crazily over his chest. They had broken his

neck before they threw him in.

When the unsupportable outpost finally did land, Mrs. Kathy Miller was still hugging the

body of her baby. But now Kevin was cold and her breasts were hurting, with the force of

the now-unneeded milk.

The hijackers were greeted by an Arab honor guard and praised for their heroism, and

their role in writing "another glorious chapter in Arab courage, honor and daring, part

cf a thousand years of similar achievement by the courageous Arab peoples. This wondrous

act, oh heroes of the Arab liberation struggle, typifies the very spirit of the Arab

peoples in their unquenchable yearning for glory and honor and justice."

When all the passengers finally reached Athens, Arab spokesmen and their supporters were

already giving out stories about the death of the Miller baby. Some said the mother, in

a fit of hysteria caused by the pilot, killed her own child. Others said while they

would not say whether or not they approved the killing of the baby, they understood the

reasons "why men were driven to do things like this." They spoke softly to the newsmen

in the same spitting accents of the hijackers.

Many living rooms around the world watched the

explanations, and watched the haggard, drawn faces of the passengers finally departing

from the plane in Athens.

In one room, the lapping of waves outside could be heard. There was no shock on the

faces of the three men watching the television set. All were in their late forties and

wore suits and ties. All three held the rank of colonel, but in three different

services-American, Russian and Chinese.

They watched the Miller woman, her emotions smothered by shock's blanket, softly

describe the rape, then the death of her baby.

"Chickenshit," said the American. "Real chickenshit. Rape and baby killing."

"That's what worries me," said the Chinese colonel.

"The rape of a woman? And the death of a baby?" asked the Russian colonel. He was

incredulous. He knew Colonel Huang had witnessed countless atrocities by the Japanese

and by war lords; and while all three men found the killing of non-combatants

distasteful, it was not a shocking tragedy to end the world. It wasn't even a military

situation to be given any constructive thought. It was as if a dog had been run over on

a highway. Too bad, but you didn't rearrange the highways of the world because of it.

"Yes, it worries me," said Colonel Huang. He turned off the television set and glanced

out the porthole at the calm water extending out to the reddening horizon. There was

nothing so secure as an American navy vessel on the high seas, to accomplish sensitive

international arrangements without interruption.

"It worries me," continued Colonel Huang, sitting

down at the table with the other two colonels, "when undisciplined operatives can pull

off a hijacking that efficiently."

"He's right," said Colonel Anderson. "We didn't have an easy problem to begin with,

Petrovich. We just may be up against something that is going to be impossible."

"Worry, worry, worry, first of all, how do you know the operatives were undisciplined,

as you say? When we entered Berlin, we had those problems too."

"Not from your top troops. Your stragglers, Petrovich. Elite units don't rape or kill

babies. Come on."

"So. One isolated incident," said Colonel Petrovich testily. He threw up his hands as if

it were nothing.

"No, it's not," said Colonel Anderson. "It's a pattern. A splinter group of the IRA

takes out an entire wing of British Army headquarters and stops to hold up a department

store. A unit of the South American Tupemaros goes crazy in a girl's school, yet still

manages to cut its way through a full, well-armored division of the Venezuelan Army."

"You know it was full armored?" asked Colonel Huang.

"Yes," Anderson said quickly, "I know. For a fact. Now the important thing is that the

United Nations conference on terrorism is going to start next week. And we have to have

our international agreements worked out by that time. Let's face it. We wouldn't be here

at all, if our governments didn't feel it was in their own best interests to stop

terrorism once and for all."

The other two colonels nodded solemnly, then Petrovich said, "And we have done very

well. We have worked out all kinds of technical problems in these

last few weeks. Next week, our governments will jointly present our plan to eliminate

terrorism, and all the other nations will go along because they will think they

participated in the debate. So why do we worry now?"

"Colonel," Anderson said stiffly, "we have worked out pretty-solid agreements here on

arms, skyjacking, random violence, and political kidnaping. But this new wave of

terrorism may contain a new ingredient that makes our work a waste of time."

Colonel Huang nodded. Petrovich shrugged. Were they both going mad?

"All our work has been built on the need to cut off terrorist groups from a base. We've

presumed that they need training; they need financing; they need a country to work from.

But what if they don't?"

"Impossible," Petrovich said.

"No, it's not," Anderson said.

"He's right," said Huang. "That hijacking was pulled off slickly by people who obviously

had no training or discipline. The British outpost was levelled by little more than

street hoodlums. The guerillas in Venezuela were common field hands out on a lark.

Somehow, somewhere, in the last two weeks, the whole nature of terrorism has changed.

Don't you see, Petrovich, it is no longer tied to a country? And if that is so, the

agreements we work put here for the world are worthless." Huang sat back in his chair.

Anderson nodded, then added: "Do you realize those skyjackers got their weapons past the

very latest metal detection devices? And they took over the plane in thirty-seven

seconds?"

"Competence," said Colonel Petrovich. "Just competence."

"Instant military competence for anyone," Huang corrected. "And that is what is so

frightening."

"And against that kind of competence," Anderson said, "sanctions are useless, because

this new wave of terrorism does not need a host country to train in."

"We can't be sure of that," Petrovich said. "All terrorists are cow dung at heart. I

can't be sure that these incidents prove they have access to instant training."

"Well, that is what I plan to report to my government," Anderson said. "And I would

suggest that both of you report the same thing to your superiors: that we believe there

is a new movement underway in terrorism and that the conference will be useless unless

we can figure out what this new force is and how to handle it"

Colonel Anderson felt sure that the American government would appreciate the soundness

of His thinking. He had good lines right up to the top. It was a shock, therefore, when

he heard the reaction to his report two days later in the Pentagon.

"It is the policy of our government to proceed as if no new terrorist force exists,"

said the President's personal military advisor, Lt. Gen. Charles Whitmore.

"C'mon, Chuck-are you out of your head?" asked Anderson.

"The United States government, Colonel, will submit, in conjunction with China and the

Soviet Union, a plan to control terrorism. This plan will be advanced next week. You and

your two associates will continue working out the final details."

Anderson rose from his seat "Are you people crazy, Chuck?" He slammed his fist down on

the broad, highly polished desk that was bare, but for a flag with

three stars. "That conference won't mean a spit in a windstorm unless we have some kind

of good handle on this new force. All the talk you want, all the sanctions you want,

they won't mean a goddam thing and we'll be right back where we started from. Even

worse, 'cause the sanctions won't work, and we'll have a harder time getting them next

time around."

"Colonel, I don't know how much of your military etiquette you remember from the Point,

but desk banging by a colonel on a lieutenant general's desk is not proper military

protocol."

"Protocol, my ass, Chuck. That's for the troops. We've got a problem and you're sticking

your head in the sand."

"Colonel, it may interest you to know that I relayed your message verbatim. It may

possibly interest you to know that I yelled also. I may have yelled myself out of my

career, but, Colonel, yell I did. And I was told, Colonel, by my superior that I should

relay to you that we will proceed with the conference as if this new terrorist force

does not exist. It was an order from my Commander in Chief. It was a direct order. To be

followed, Colonel."

Colonel Anderson sat back in his chair. He was quiet for a few long seconds, and then he

grinned.

"Okay, Chuck, what is it? The CIA?"

"I don't know what you mean, Colonel."

"Dammit, Chuck, don't be cute with me. I have to deal with Petrovich and Huang and I

need answers. Look, the President's no fool. You've explained the whole thing to him. He

says, business as usual. To me, that can mean only one thing. He thinks he's going to

have this new terrorist force pinned down by next week. So, now I ask, is the CIA going

to do it?"

"Colonel, I assure you, I have no idea."

"Have if your own way, Chuck," said Anderson, getting to his feet. "But I wish you'd

pass along one message if you could. This new terrorist force is something special. I

don't think the CIA's good enough to handle it. But that's the President's problem, not

mine. Just, when you get involved in it, you tell whoever's in charge that they better

work hard and make no mistakes. These people are good."

"Thank you, Colonel," said General Whitmore, indicating the meeting was over. He stayed

at His desk, staring at the door which closed behind Anderson. The President just had

not seemed concerned about the new terrorist force, and when Whitmore had suggested the

CIA, the President had jumped down His throat. "No CIA," he had said. "I'll handle

this."

The President had seemed almost cocky about it,, almost as if he had some kind of

special force that Whitmore knew nothing about. The general bent over His desk and

doodled on the blotter. He agreed with Anderson. These new terrorists were serious. The

President's special force had better be something really special.

CHAPTER TWO

His name was Remo, and he did not feel very special.

He felt incredibly ordinary that bright California morning, standing beside his sky-blue

pool, just like any other pool, near any other luxury villa in this luxury community in

a luxury county where everyone talked about his stock investments, or the movie he was

making, or the bitch of an income tax.

Did Remo find the new tax bill threatening? He was asked this often at the ordinary

cocktail parties made ordinary by their repetition and the dull ordinariness of the

people attending them who invariably felt, for some strange reason, that they were

extraordinary.

No, Remo did not find the new tax bill threatening.

Would Remo care for a cocktail? A joint? A pill?

No, Remo did not indulge.

An hors d'oeuvre?

No, it might have monosodium glutamate and Remo ate only once a day anyhow.

Was Remo a health food addict?

No, his body was.

The face was familiar. Did Remo make a flick in Paris?

No. Perhaps they just used the same plastic surgeon.

Just what did Remo do for a living?

Suffered fools gladly.

Would Remo care to repeat that statement out on the terrace?

Not really.

Did Remo know he was speaking to the former amateur light heavyweight champion of

California and a black belt holder, not to mention the heavy mob connections anyone

owning a studio would have?

Remo did not realize all that.

Would Remo care to repeat that statement about fools?

The fool had done it for him.

How would Remo like an hors d'oeuvre in his face?

That would be quite impossible because the silver hors d'oeuvre tray was going to be

wrapped around the fool's head.

Remo remembered that last cocktail party he had attended in Beverly Hills, how two

servants had to hammer and chisel the tray from the movie mogul's head, how the movie

mogul complained directly to Washington, even used his influence to get government

agencies to check out Remo's background. They found nothing, of course. Not even a

Social Security number. Which was natural. Dead men have neither Social Security numbers

nor fingerprints on file.

Remo stuck a toe into the too-blue water. Lukewarm. He glanced back at the house where

the wide glass patio doors were open. He heard the morning soap operas grinding into

their teary beginnings. Suddenly a voice cut through the television organ music.

"Are you ready? I'll be listening," came a squeaky, Oriental voice from inside the

house.

"Not ready yet, little father," said Remo.

"You should always be ready."

"Yeah. Well, I'm not," yelled Remo.

"A wonderful answer. A full explanation. A rational cause."

"Well, I'm just not ready yet. That's all."

". . . for a white man," came the squeaky Oriental voice.

"For a white man," hissed Remo testily under His breath.

He tried the water with the other foot. Still lukewarm. There had been flack from

headquarters over the hors d'oeuvre tray incident.

Was Remo aware of the incredible Jeopardy he had placed the agency in by attracting

attention?

Remo was aware.

Did Remo know the effect on the nation if the existence of the agency should become

known?

Remo knew.

Did Remo know the expense and risk the agency had gone to in establishing him as a man

without living identity?

If Dr. Harold W. Smith, head of CURE, was referring to framing a policeman named Remo

Williams for murder, getting the policeman sentenced to the electric chair so that when

the switch was pulled and the body pronounced dead? the prints would foe destroyed and

the Social Security number removed, and the poor guy would no longer exist, if that's

what Dr. Smith meant, yes, Remo remembered very well all the trouble CURE had gone to.

And all the trouble with the never-ending training that had turned him into something

other than a normal human being, Remo remembered well.

He remembered a lot of things. Believing he was going to be executed and waking up in a

hospital bed. Being told that the Constitution was in peril and a President had

authorized an agency to have powers to

fight crime beyond constitutional limits. A secret organization that would not exist.

Only the President; Dr. Harold W. Smith, the head of the secret organization CURE; the

recruiter; and Remo would ever know. And of course Remo was a dead man, having been

executed the night before for murder.

Still, there had been a little problem when the recruiter got injured and lay drugged in

a hospital bed, perhaps ready in his narcotic fog to talk about CURE. But that little

matter was easily taken care of. Remo, the dead policeman, was ordered to kill him and

then there were only three people who knew of CURE.

Why only one man for the enforcement arm of CURE? the ex-Remo Williams had asked.

Less chance of CURE becoming a threat to the government. Of course, the one man would

get special training.

And he did-training from the Master of the House of Sinanju, training so extreme at

times that even a real death seemed preferable.

Yes, Remo remembered all the trouble CURE had gone to for him, and if wrapping a tray

around a fool's head endangered all that work, well, that was the business, sweetheart

"Is that all you can say, Remo? That's the biz?" Dr. Smith had said in one of those rare

face-to-face meetings.

"That's all I can say."

"Well, it's done," said the lemon-faced Dr. Smith. "Now to the business at hand. What do

you know about terrorists?" Then followed an afternoon briefing on terrorists, a

preamble to a mission.

Remo bent over and tinkled a hand in the pool like everyone else's pool in this luxury

community.

"I do not hear a body move through the water," came the Oriental voice.

"I do not hear a body move through the water," Remo mimicked under His breath. He stood

in boxer bathing trunks, an apparently normally built man in his early thirties with

sharp features and deep dark eyes. Only his thick wrists would give any indication that

this was more than an ordinary man, for the real deadliness was where it always is with

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THEDESTROYER:TERRORSQUADByRichardSapirandWarrenMurphyPINNACLEBOOKS*NEWYORKTHEDESTROYER:TERRORSQUADCopyright(c)1973byRichardSapirandWarrenMurphyAllrightsreserved,includingtherighttoreproducethisbookorportionsthereofinanyform.APinnacleBooksoriginal,publishedforthefirsttimeanywhere.ISBN:0-523-41225-8Fi...

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Destroyer 010 - Terror Squad

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