Destroyer 050 - Killing Time

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OUT TO LAUNCH. . .
At that moment the six-foot, four-inch frame of a man wearing what looked to be a white toga
came flying past the window outside.
"Wa-wa-wa," the man called as he zoomed upward toward the roof.
Remo looked to the snow-covered garden below, already sure of who would be down there.
A crowd of onlookers near the swimming pool, similarly attired and shivering in the cold,
gasped and shrieked piteousiy as a second man blasted off into space. In the center of the
throng stood Chiun, his arms folded triumphantly across his chest, his face serene.
"Oh, bulldookey," Remo sighed. The first man turned an arc overhead and began his dive,
nose first, like a white-sheathed warhead. His features were set rigidly in a mask of
unadulterated terror as he sped downward alongside the house.
"Hang on!" Remo called, throwing open the window and hoisting himself up to his knees.
"To what?" the man moaned.
"To me." He stretched out his arms, slowly pivoting so that he was facing up, supported by
the backs of his knees against the window frame. He was directly in line with the falling body.
A woman below screamed and fainted. "This is terrible," another said.
"Quite terrible," Chiun said sympathetically. "Remo is always interfering."
"How could you do such a thing?" a muscular beach-blanket type yelled to Chiun.
"Oh, it was nothing," he said, beaming modestly. "Just a small upward thrust. It is an
elementary maneuver. . . ."
THE DESTROYER SERIES:
#1 CREATED, THE DE- #25 SWEET DREAMS
STROYER #26 IN ENEMY HANDS
#2 DEATH CHECK #27 THE LAST TEMPLE
#3 CHINESE PUZZLE #28 SHIP OF DEATH
#4 MAFIA FiX #29 THE FINAL DEATH
#5 DR. QUAKE #30 MUGGER BLOOD
#6 DEATH THERAPY #31 THE HEAD MEN
#7 UNION BUST #32 KILLER CHROMO-
#8 SUMMIT CHASE SOMES
#9 MURDERER'S #33 VOODOO DIE
SHIELD #34 CHAINED REACTION
#10 TERROR SQUAD #35 LAST CALL
#11 KILL OR CURE #36 POWER PLAY
#12 SLAVE SAFARI #37 BOTTOM LINE
#13 ACID ROCK #38 BAY CITY BLAST
#14 JUDGMENT DAY #39 MISSING LINK
#15 MURDER WARD #40 DANGEROUS GAMES
#16 OIL SLICK #41 FIRING LINE
#17 LAST WAR DANCE #42 TIMBER LINE
#18 FUNNY MONEY #43 MIDNIGHT MAN
#19 HOLY TERROR #44 BALANCE OF POWER
#20 ASSASSIN'S PLAY- #45 SPOILS OF WAR
OFF #46 NEXT OF KIN
#21 DEADLY SEEDS #47 DYING SPACE
#22 BRAIN DRAIN #48 PROFIT MOTIVE
#23 CHILD'S PLAY #49 SKIN DEEP
#24 KING'S CURSE
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KilliNGTIME
PINNACLE BOOKS
NEW YORK
For Regina Caroselli
Often thought of and the house of Sinanju
P. O. Box 1454, Secaucus, N.J. 07092
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any
resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental,
: KILLING TIME
Copyright ® 1982 by Richard Sapir and Warren Murphy
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
An original Pinnacle Books edition, published for the first time anywhere.
First printing, October, 1982
ISBN: 0-523-41560-5
Cover illustration by Hector Garrido
Printed in the United States of America
PINNACLE BOOKS, INC.
1430 Broadway
New York, New York 10018
KILLING TIME
Chapter One
The vintage 1940 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow glided noiselessly through New York's Central
Park, its smoked windows sealing off the lilting strains of Pachelbel's Canon from the
humdrum sounds of the city.
inside, behind the liveried chauffeur, sitting in a sea of velvet the color of his dark wavy hair, Dr.
Felix Foxx sipped at a daiquiri from a glass of cut Baccarat crystal. He pressed a button on the
partition between the front and rear seats.
"Any joggers?" he asked the chauffeur.
"No, sir."
"Keep looking," Foxx said in richly modulated tones, and switched the microphone off.
Ah, this was the life, he thought as he sniffed a rose in its Lalique bud vase. He finished his drink and set the glass
"Keep looking," Foxx said in richly modulated tones, and switched the microphone off.
Ah, this was the life, he thought as he sniffed a rose in its Lalique bud vase. He finished his drink and set the glass
back into the small lacquer bar built into the Rolls. He slid his hand over his $55 tie from Tripler and the flawlessly
tailored lapels of his $1200 Lanvin suit. He looked down at his Botticelli shoes, gleaming a dark mahogany against
the white plush of the carpeting.
A perfect life.
1
2
The rear speakers buzzed to attention, "Joggers, sir."
Foxx's eyes narrowed into hard little slits. "Where?"
"Ahead and to the left, Dr. Foxx."
He peered through the darkened glass. Ahead, running alongside the road, were a man and
woman dressed in running clothes, their Adidas sneakers kicking up the dust behind them.
Their faces were flushed and glistening with sweat.
"Get into position," he said.
The car sped up alongside the joggers, then spurted slightly ahead. "Ready?' Foxx asked,
a small spark of lust coming to his eyes.
"Ready, sir."
Through the smoked windows of the Rolls, Foxx took a good look at the joggers. They were
sparkling with good health, two fine specimens flirting with one another. "Now," he growled.
The car zoomed forward, kicking gp a cloud of dirt and pebbles onto the astonished
joggers. Through the rear window, Foxx could see them coughing and sputtering, their shiny
perspiring faces coated with soot.
"On target," he yelled, laughing uproariously.
"Yes, sir," the chauffeur said.
"Shut up." He slammed off the communications system and chuckled while he took out a
silver vial from his vest pocket and snorted a noseful of cocaine from a tiny silver spoon.
He hated joggers. He hated health. If it weren't for the miilions brought in from Running & Relativity and Live Free
On Celery-Foxx's two books concurrently on the New York Times bestseller list-he'd see to it that runners, hikers,
dancercisers, tennis players,
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ski bunnies, and all the assorted other health nuts of the world were put on priority lists for euthanasia.
The car swept out of the park and pulled up slowly beside the curb. "It's two blocks to the
television studio, sir," the chauffeur said.
Foxx sighed and put away the cocaine vial with a growl. "All right, all right," he said with the resignation of the
doomed. "Hand them over."
The sliding partition behind the driver slid open, and the chauffeur handed him a neatly stacked pile of clothing.
There was an undershirt, a pair of pale blue custom-tailored sweatpants, and a jacket to match. Foxx unfastened
his own clothing reluctantly and handed it up to the driver, then put on the running clothes with a grimace. He
hated the feel of them.
"Sweat," he commanded morosely.
Obediently, the driver handed him an atomized bottle of Evian Tonique Refraisant, which Foxx dutifully sprayed
over his face to simulate perspiration.
It was hell being a health guru. "Anyone around?" he asked.
"Coast is clear, sir." The chauffeur slid out of his seat and came around to open the door for
Foxx.
"Pick me up in an hour," Foxx said. He retched once and trotted away.
By the time he reached the WACK studios, the retching had subsided and the expression of bitter resolution on
his face had changed to one of radiant cheer. He waved to onlookers outside the studio entrance. He joked with the
receptionist in the studio. He told funny stories to the other guests waiting to go on the "Frank Diamond Show" in
the studio's green room. He jogged triumphantly on stage.
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On camera, he was greeted with shouts and cheers. Frank Diamond introduced him as "Feiix
Foxx, the Phantom of Fitness."
Smiling warmly, he admonished the overweight housewives of the nation to find happiness through fitness and his
books. Audience members gave testimony to the life-changing effects of Dr. Foxx's inspirational talks. Middie-aged
women screamed in ecstasy as he demonstrated jumping jacks. Fat girls threw their candy bars into the aisles with
the fervor of zealots.
At the stage door exit after the show, a group of adoring fans thrust copies of Running & Relativity and Live Free on
Celery at him to sign. Among the flapping pages was a pair of oversized breasts thinly covered by a tight pink sweater.
At the stage door exit after the show, a group of adoring fans thrust copies of Running & Relativity and Live Free on
Celery at him to sign. Among the flapping pages was a pair of oversized breasts thinly covered by a tight pink sweater.
Foxx followed the breasts upward to a Shirley Temple face beneath a mop of curly blonde hair.
"Hi," the girl breathed, causing her sweater to stretch almost beyond endurance. "I think
you're just fabulous, Dr. Foxx," she whispered. Her lips quivered.
"Oh?" Foxx said. She looked like the sort of girl who could accommodate him. Not many
could. The last had been a screamer. Screamers were out.
"Have you read my books?"
"No. I'm waiting for the movie to come out." She pushed ahead of her a frowzy redhead with a road map face
covered by thick layers of pancake. "This here's my roommate Doris. We live together. She thinks you're cute,
too."
"Really," Foxx said, aghast. As he signed more autographs, he contemplated the blonde girl's mouth. It curved
upward, like a new moon. There were bruises on her neck. "Where did you get those?" he asked,
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brushing his hand languidly along her throat as the autograph seekers moaned in longing.
"Oh. My boyfriend," she giggled. "He gets kind of rough sometimes. It turns me on."
That was it, Foxx decided. She would do. "You'd better get a doctor to look at that," he
said.
"Oh, it's nothing," the girl gushed. "Just a bruise. I get them all the time." Doris poked her
in the ribs. "Oh. Did I say something wrong? Doris says I'm always saying stupid things."
"My dear, you're enchanting," Foxx said. "Let me look at those bruises."
Her eyes rounded. "You mean you're a real doctor? Like on 'General Hospital'?"
"That's right." He eased her through the crowd toward the Rolls parked outside. "That's all,
ladies," he said charmingly to the throng. "I've got a small emergency to take care of."
The women sighed in disappointment. One of them shouted that she loved him. He took
the woman's hand and squeezed it. "Be the best you can be," he said earnestly. The women
squealed with delight.
Inside the car, Foxx offered the blonde a glass of champagne. "I just love this fizzy stuff," she said. "Once I
broke my arm. I took an Alka Seltzer. It felt wonderful."
"Your broken arm?"
She laughed wildly. "No, silly. The fizz. The arm didn't feel like anything at all."
Foxx stiffened. "Wasn't there any pain?"
"Nope. A guy I knew once-he worked in a carnival-he said there was a name for people like me. You know,
people who don't feel pain. It's weird, I was always like that. . . . "
"A horse," Foxx said, staring fixedly at the girl. She
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was everything he wanted. Everything. And more.
"Hey, that's right. A horse. That's what he said. Maybe you know him. Johnny Calypso, the
Tattooed Man."
"Mmm. 1 doubt it," Foxx muttered. It was going to be a wonderful evening.
The Rolls pulled up in front of an awning in the expensive section of Fifth Avenue, and a
doorman strode forward to help them out. "Oh, by the way, my name's Irma," the girl said.
"Irma Schwartz."
"Lovely," Foxx said.
Irma was a dynamo. Foxx started with clothespins and graduated steadily through
needles, ropes, whips, chains, and fire. "Does it hurt yet?" Foxx wheezed, exhausted.
"No, Doc," irma said, swigging from the bottle of champagne she'd brought with her from the car. "I told you.
I'm a horse."
"You're a sensation."
"So are you, Foxie. Running changed my life. Really. Last week. Before that, I was into roller skating, only I
broke my nose. I couldn't smell too good out of it, so I got it fixed. Before that, I was into rolfing. And est. Only I quit that
'cause ! didn't like people calling me an asshole. I mean, getting beat up by your boyfriend's one thing, but when a
total stranger calls you an asshole, you know-"
"Didn't the broken nose hurt, either?" Foxx asked, yanking at her hair.
" 'Course not. I told you, I don't feel nothing. Then before that, the est I mean, I was into Valiums. But I started eating a
lot. Doris, my roommate, told me how the guys at the Metropole was saying I was getting fat."
"Metropole," Foxx muttered as he dug his teeth into Irma's shoulder.
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"That's where I work. I'm a go-go dancer. They couldn't believe it when I wrote down on
the application how old I was. Bet you can't guess, either."
"I don't care." He was on his way to paradise again.
the application how old I was. Bet you can't guess, either."
"I don't care." He was on his way to paradise again.
"Go ahead. Guess."
Foxx sat up with a sigh. "All right. Twenty? Twenty-five?"
"Forty-three."
Foxx inhaled deeply. "Forty-three?" There were no lines on her face, no trace that Irma
Schwartz had been on the planet longer than two decades. "You really are a horse," he
mused. "The rarest kind of horse."
"I read a thing about it once in Ripley's Believe It or Not. There's some kind of drug in me. Not that I put it there on
purpose or nothing, it's just there. Doctors call it propane."
"Procaine," Foxx corrected abstractly. His mind was racing. Irma Schwartz was too good
to be true. What she possessed was worth more than all the nookie in the world. It would be
selfish to keep her to himself. She belonged to the world.
"Yeah, that's it. Procaine."
"You're very lucky," he said. "People pay thousands of dollars for what you've got. A lot of
forty-three-year-old women would like to look like they're twenty. It's an age retardant.
Procaine's been used by the military for years. In small amounts, it wards off pain. It's related to
Novocaine and to cocaine, only the human body produces it. In larger quantities, the drug can
slow down the aging process. Theoretically, it can actually stop aging completely, allowing
people to stay young for their entire lives. Of course,.that's only theory. It's much too rare to
use in quantities like that."
8
"Well, how do you like that?" irma said, "i got something floating around inside me that's
worth money."
"Lots of money," Foxx said. "Any clinic in Europe would pay a fortune for the procaine in
your system."
"Yeah?" Irma brightened. "Maybe I can sell some. I mean, I got lots, right?"
Foxx smiled. "I'm afraid that would be impossible. You'd have to be dead to donate it."
Irma giggled. "Oh. Well, I guess it's back to dancing at the Metropole."
Foxx dug his thumbnail into her ear in a gesture of endearment. Irma giggled. "Be right
back," he said. He returned a moment later.
His hands were sheathed in rubber gloves. In his left hand was a brown, medicinal-looking
bottle. In his right, a thick wad of cotton.
"What's that?" Irma asked.
"Something to make you crazy."
"Like drugs?"
"Like." He poured some of the contents of the bottle onto the cotton wool. The fumes stung his eyes and made his
breathing catch.
"You're really good to me, you know that?" Irma tittered. "I mean, champagne, now
this. ..."
"Breathe deeply," Foxx said.
She did. "I'm not getting off."
"You will."
"This the new thing at the discos?"
"The latest. They say it's like dying and going to heaven."
"What's it called?" Irma asked, her eyes rolling.
"Prussic acid."
"Groovy," Irma Schwartz said before she died.
Chapter Two
His name was Remo and he was climbing an electrified fence. He'd had trouble before with
electricity, but after the old man had shown him how to conquer it, the matter of scaling a
twelve-foot high screen of electrified mesh was no problem. The trick was to use the electricity.
Most people fought against the current, just as they fought against gravity when trying to climb. The old man had
shown Remo long ago that gravity was a force too strong for any man to fight, and that was why most people fell off
the sides of buildings when they tried to climb them. But Remo never fell off a building because he used gravity to
push him forward, then redirected the momentum generated in his body by the gravity to push him upward.
It was the same with electricity. As he neared the top of the fence around the compound,
he kept the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet exactly parallel to the surface of the
It was the same with electricity. As he neared the top of the fence around the compound,
he kept the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet exactly parallel to the surface of the
fence, inches away from the steel frame. He kept in contact with the electric current, because
that was what kept him suspended in air, but never varied his distance from the fence.
That contra! had taken him time to learn. At first,
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during his practice sessions, he'd come too near the fence, and the electricity had jolted him,
causing his muscles to tense. Then he was fighting electricity, and it was all over. No one fights
electricity and wins. That was what the old man said.
The old man's name was Chiun. He had been an old man when Remo first met him, and he
had known him most of his adult life. When the electric current felt as if it were going to fry Remo
alive, Chiun had told him to relax and accept it. If anyone else had told him to hang loose while a
lethal charge of electricity coursed through his body, Remo would have had words with the
person. But Chiun wasn't just anyone. He was Remo's trainer. He had come into Remo's life to
create, from the expired form of a dead police officer, a fighting machine more perfect than
anything the Western world had ever known. Remo had been that policeman, framed for a
crime he didn't commit, sentenced to die in an electric chair that didn't quite work.
Not quite. But bad enough. Years after the morning when he had come to in a room in
Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, the burns still fresh on his wrists, he remembered that
electric chair. Long after he'd met the lemon-faced man who had personally selected Remo
for the experiment and introduced him to the ancient Korean trainer named Chiun, he
remembered. A lifetime later, after Chiun had developed Remo's body into something so
different from that of the normal human male that even his nervous system had changed, the
fear of electricity stiil lurked inside Remo.
So when Chiun told him to relax, he was afraid. But he listened.
Now he made his way up the fence, the fringe-ends of the electric current in contact with his skin. His
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breathing was controlled and deep, his balance automatically adjusting with each small move. The current was the force
that kept him aloft. Using it, never breaking contact, he slid slowly up the fence, moving his arms in slow circles to
generate the friction that propelled him upward. At the top of the fence he broke suddenly, pulling his legs backward
and over his head and somersaulting over the top.
The compound he was in was an acre or more of snow-covered gravel and frozen mud set in the far reaches of
Staten island. Rotting wooden crates, rusted cans, and soggy sheets of old newspapers littered the ground. At the
rear of the compound stood a large, dirty cinderblock warehouse, six stories tall with a loading dock at the right end. A
truck was parked at the loading dock. As Remo neared, he saw three burly men packing crates into the truck.
"Hi, guys," he said, thrusting his hand into a crate on the dock. He pulled out a five-pound
bag of white powder encased in plastic. "Just as I thought," he said.
"Huh?" One of the dock workers pulled out a Browning .9mm automatic. "Who are you,
mister?"
"I'm with the Heroin Control Board," Remo said through pursed lips. "I'm afraid this won't do.
Sloppy packaging. No brand names. Not even a yellow plastic measuring spoon, like the coffee
boys give out. No, this just isn't up to par. Sorry, boys." He yanked open the plastic bag and
dumped its contents into the wind.
"Hey, that stuff's worth half a million dollars," the man with the Browning said.
"Do it right, or don't do it, that's our motto," Remo said.
"Move out of the way, fellas," the man holding the gun said two seconds before he fired. He
was one sec-
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ond late. Because one second before he fired, Remo had coiled the barrel of the Browning into a corkscrew, and by the
time the bullet left it, it was spinning toward the dock worker's chest, where it came to rest with a muffled whump.
"No gun, see?" another worker said, demonstrating his lack of weapons by raising his arms
high in the air and wetting his pants.
"No gun, see?" the other said, falling to his knees, his hands clasped in front of him.
"You the boss?" Remo asked.
"No way," the worker said with touching sincerity. "We're just labor. Management's what
you want, yessir."
"Who's management?"
"Mr. Bonelli. 'Bones' Bonelli. He's over there." He gestured wildly toward the interior of the
warehouse.
"Mr. Bonelli. 'Bones' Bonelli. He's over there." He gestured wildly toward the interior of the
warehouse.
Giuseppe "Bones" Bonelli sat behind a desk in the only carpeted and heated room in the place. Behind him was
one small window, placed high above the floor. Seated in a huge red feather chair, he looked more like an overaged
wraith than an underworld heroin don. His hair was thinning, and his leather skin fell in folds down his skull-like face,
which was grinning in ecstasy. The top half of Giuseppe "Bones" Bonelli was a tiny, wrinkled, happy crone. The
bottom half, displayed beneath the leg opening of the desk, was an ample, satin-covered rear end facing in the
opposite direction. Below it protruded two spiky black high heels.
The satin oval swayed rhythmically. Bonelli's mouth opened to emit a small squeal of joy.
"Oh. . . oh. . . shit," he said, noticing Remo standing in the doorway. "Who're you?"
One hand twitched frantically in his lap, while the
13
other pulled a ludicrously large Colt .45 from his jacket. "Arggh," he screamed, throwing the gun into the air.
"Zipper. The freaking zipper's caught."
"Thanks," Remo said, grabbing the gun.
"Freaking zipper. It's all your fault."
"Use buttons," Remo said. "Or a fig leaf. In your case, maybe a grape leaf will do."
Bonelli's trigger finger moved back and forth several times before he noticed it was empty. "Gimme that gun."
"Sure," Remo said, crushing the Colt into dust and sifting it into Bonelli's open hand.
"Smart shit," Bonelli muttered. He kicked the girl under the desk. "Hey, you. Get outta here. I got business."
The satin ovai wriggled out backwards and rose. It belonged to a statuesque blonde who carried the imprint of
Bonelli's foot on her chest. "What about me?" she groused, her face contorted with anger. Then she saw Remo, and
the anger disappeared.
Remo often had that effect on women. He saw her appraising eyes warm with approval as she took in the slender,
taut body with the abnormally thick wrists, the well-muscled shoulders, the clean-shaven face accentuated by high
cheekbones and long-lashed dark eyes, the thick black hair. She smiled.
"You come here often?" she asked.
"Only when I have to kill someone."
"You're cute."
"Get out of here!" Bonelli yelled. The girl sauntered away slowly, giving Remo the full benefit
of her undulating posterior.
"What's this 'kill me' crap?" Bonelli spat. "What kind of talk is that?"
Remo shrugged. "That's what i'm here for."
14
"Oh, yeah?" With a quick motion, Bonelli yanked a knife out of his jacket and sliced the air
with it. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah," Remo said, catching the knife by the blade. He tossed it upward in a spiral. The
knife drilled a neat hole in the ceiling. Plaster dust sprinkled down on Bonelli's head and
shoulders.
"Smart shit," Bonelii said. "Hey, what're you doing?"
"I'm taking you for a ride," Remo said, imitating ail the gangsters he'd seen on late-night TV
movies. He hoisted Bonelli over his shoulder.
"Watch it, creep. This here's a silk suit. Mess up my suit, I'm going to have to get serious
with you."
Remo tore the pockets off the jacket. Two knives and a stiletto clanked out.
"Okay, buddy," Bonelli raged. "You asked for it now. Shorty! Shorty!"
"Shorty?" Remo guessed his cargo's weight at 110, tops. Bonelli was barely five feet tall.
"Shorty? What's that make you, Paul Bunyan?"
Bonelli sneered. He jerked his thumb toward the window. "That's Shorty," he said.
The small overhead window was filled by a face. The face had little pig eyes and a nose so broken it looked like
a ball of putty that had been run over by a tank tread. Soon the tops of two massive shoulders edged into the
window. The pane burst in a shower of glass. Spiderweb cracks appeared in the window's corners and spread into
the room, widening with thunderous claps. Then the wall gave and Shorty shot through the opening like a sausage
with a lit fuse.
"You called, boss?"
"Yeah. Take care of this smart shit."
Shorty lumbered over to Remo. "This one?"
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"Who else?" Bonelli roared. "There's you, me, and him in this room. You thinking about offing me?"
Shorty's face fell with humility. "Oh, no, boss. You're the boss. ! wouldn't do that to
you."
Shorty's face fell with humility. "Oh, no, boss. You're the boss. ! wouldn't do that to
you."
"Then you're maybe thinking about offing yourself?"
Shorty pondered for several moments, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then his forehead smoothed and he
broke into a happy grin. "Oh. I get it. That's a joke, huh, boss? Off myself. That's funny, boss. Ha, ha "
"Shut upi"
"Okay, boss."
"Then who's that leave, Shorty?" Bonelli asked patiently.
Shorty looked around the room, counting on his fingers. 'Well, there's you. You ain't the one.
And there's me. . . ha, ha, that was funny, boss."
"Who else, stupid?"
Shorty lumbered around until he faced Remo. "That leaves him," he said with conviction. He
pulled back his oaken arm and blasted it forward.
"Right," said Boneili.
"Wrong," said Remo. He flicked out two fingers to deflect the blow. Shorty's arm kept
going, swinging around in a circle and finally landing in the middle of his own face, causing his
oft-broken nose to disappear entirely. He fell forward with a deafening thud.
"So much for Shorty," Remo said as he lifted Bonelli again, this time by his belt, and
carried him through the wrecked wall, dangling at his side.
"The belt, watch the belt," Bonelli said. "It's Pierre Cardin."
Remo began scaling the sheer wall of the ware-
16
house. Bonelli looked down once and screamed. "Holy freaking shit," he yelled. "Where are
you taking me?"
"Up." Remo climbed the wall methodically, his toes catching on the bricks of the building,
his free hand gently guiding ahead and working with gravity to pull him upward.
"May the saints curse you," Giuseppe "Bones" Bonelli sobbed. "May your days be filled
with suffering and hardship. May your mother's lasagne be laced with cow turds. May your
children and your children's children-"
"Hey, zip it up, will you? I'm trying to kill somebody. You're wrecking my concentration."
"Always with the smart shit. May your grandchildren be smitten with boils. May your wife lie
with lepers."
"Look, if you don't stop hurting my feelings, I'm going to forget about you and leave,"
Remo said.
"That's the idea. May your uncles choke on chicken bones."
"Just a second," Remo said, stopping. "Now that's getting personal. You don't mess with a
guy's uncles. I'm leaving." He tossed Bonelli into the air. Bonelli shrieked, his voice growing
small as he catapulted upwards.
"Take that back," Remo said.
"I take it back," Bonelli howled.
"How much?"
"All of it. Everything." He paused in midair for a moment, then began his screaming descent.
"Help!"
"Will you shut up?"
"Yes. Yes. Forever. Silence."
"You'll let me concentrate?"
"Do anything you want. Jest catch me." As he ap-
17
preached eye-level with Remo, Remo reached out and clasped Bonelli by his belt. With a
whoosh of air and frantic movements of a drowning man, Bonelli whinnied once, then opened
his eyes a crack and discovered he was still alive.
"Smart-"
"Ah-ah-ah," Remo cautioned.
Boneili was silent.
The rest of the six-story climb was peaceful. Remo whistled an ancient Korean tune he'd
learned from Chiun. The melody was haunting and lovely, and the sound it made in the crisp
winter air made it even more beautiful. In the background, birds were singing. Remo half
forgot about the narcotics king dangling from his right arm as he made his way up the building.
Sometimes Remo almost enjoyed his job. He supposed that made him a pervert. Assassins weren't generally
happy people, and Remo guessed that he was probably no happier than most people who killed other people for a
living. But at least he killed people who deserved to be killed. He didn't hire himself out to greedy landlords who had
happy people, and Remo guessed that he was probably no happier than most people who killed other people for a
living. But at least he killed people who deserved to be killed. He didn't hire himself out to greedy landlords who had
stubborn tenants put away because those tenants didn't have the good grace to die quickly in their rent-controlled
apartments. He didn't shoot foreign students because a thrill-crazed dictator decreed it. He killed when there was
killing to be done. When there was nothing else that could be done.
Like all professional assassins, Remo did not decide whose souls would be liberated from
their bodies. That was done for him by an organization developed by a president of the United
States long ago as a last-ditch emergency measure to control crime. Only the emergency never
passed, and the president was himself murdered, and so the organization continued.
18
It was called CURE. CURE was possibly the most highly illegal instrument America had ever
devised to combat crime. Unknown to ali but three people on earth, CURE worked outside
the Constitution-utterly outside. CURE had no rules, and only one objective: to control crime
when every other method of controlling it had failed.
Of the three people who knew about CURE, the president of the United States was the
least important. It was his option either to use the special red phone in a bedroom of the White
House or not. The red phone was a direct line to CURE'S headquarters in Rye, New York.
Almost every president, upon learning from his predecessor about the red phone, swore that
CURE would never be used. The existence of an organization like CURE was an admission
that America's legal system had failed miserably, and no new president would admit that. And
so the red phone would rest, forgotten, for months at a time at the beginning of each new
administration. But eventually it was used. It was always used.
And when that red phone was picked up, it was answered immediately by a lemony-voiced
man, the sec-, ond person who knew of CURE'S existence. That man was Dr. Harold W. Smith.
Smith was as unlikely a personality to run an illegal organization as could be found on the
face of the earth. His principal interest lay in computer information analysis. He was precise,
fastidious, methodical, and law-abiding by nature.
His job, as director of CURE, brought him into daily contact with murder, arson, treason, blackmail, and other
forms of man-made catastrophe. The long-dead president who had begun CURE had hand-picked Smith, knowing
that illegal work would be difficult for
19
him. Smith had been chosen because he possessed one quality, which the president knew
would override all possible objections Smith could have about the nature of his work: Harold W.
Smith loved his country more than anything else. He would see to it that the job got done. Or
didn't get done, according to the best interests of the country. Even the president himself could
do no more than suggest assignments to Harold W. Smith. CURE obeyed no one.
The third person who knew about CURE was the enforcement arm of the organization. One
man, trained in an ancient form of defense and attack developed millennia ago in the small
Korean village of Sinanju. One man who could perform the impossible.
That man was Remo Williams.
He had scaled all six stories of the warehouse now, the silent but pained-looking Giuseppe "Bones" Bonelli in tow.
Below, the two dock workers were once again loading the crates full of white death into the parked truck. As he
tossed Bonelli onto the flat, snow-covered roof, the small man grimaced and ciutched at his side.
"What's the matter?" Remo asked dubiously.
"It's just that song."
What song?"
"The one you kept whistling. You know, over and over, over and over."
"What about it?"
Bonelli doubled over. "It gave me gas," he said. "I didn't want to say nothing over there"-he
gestured vaguely over the side-"but, I mean, like if you've got to sing, couldn't you do 'My Way'
or 'I Left My Heart in San Francisco'?" Not that" weird shit. Gives me a pocket, right here." He
pointed to a region of his intestines.
20
"You've just got no taste," Remo said. Chiun was getting to him, he knew. He was even
beginning to remind himself of Chiun.
But he wouldn't worry about that, he decided. He wouldn't worry because at the moment
there were other things to worry about. Like the fact that Giuseppe "Bones" Bonelli had
reached into his inside coat pocket and was unfolding something metallic with a black
handle. It was a hatchet. Chortling with glee, Bonelli swung it in Remo's direction, the blade
singing.
"Okay, smart shit. You asked for it." He brought the blade home. It struck at exactly the place where Remo's head
singing.
"Okay, smart shit. You asked for it." He brought the blade home. It struck at exactly the place where Remo's head
was, only Remo's head was no longer there. The thin young man had miraculously moved to another spot in a
movement so fast that Bonelli couldn't follow it. Bonelli struck again. And missed.
"I wish you'd cut this out," Remo said, casually tossing the hatchet away. In the distance,
outside the compound, it buried itself deep in a large tree.
"Nice," Bonelli said admiringly. "Hey, who are you, anyway?"
"Call me Remo."
Bonelli smiled broadly. "Remo. That's a nice name, sonny. Sounds Italian. You Italian?"
"Maybe," Remo said. He was an orphan. As far as he knew, his ancestry could have been anything.
"I thought so. You got a brain like a paisan. That was good, that tree. Say, Remo, I could use a guy like you in the
business."
"I don't think I like your business."
"Hey, it's good money. And you'll be part of the family. Do lots of family things together."
"Like shooting dope into children."
21
"Remo, paisan," he said expansively. "It's business, that's all. Supply and demand. Buy
low, sell high. I'll show you all the ropes."
Remo thought about it. "No, I don't think so," he said. "There's something else I'd rather
do."
"More than making money? Come on."
"No," Remo protested. "I really think I'd rather do this other thing."
"What's that?"
"I'd rather kill you."
Bonelli snarled. "Okay, kid. You had your chance. No more Mister Nice Guy." He rifled
through his trouser pockets and pulled out a grenade. "You leave now, or I pull the plug."
"Like this?" Remo said, snatching it away from him and pulling out the pin.
"What'd you do that for? Throw it, quick."
Remo tossed the grenade up in the air absently and caught it behind his back. "Nah," he
said. "I'm tired of throwing." He tossed it up in the air again. Bonelli leaped up, but Remo
caught it just above Bonelli's reach.
"Give me that." '
"What for?" Remo asked, juggling the grenade in one hand.
"I'll throw it," Bonelli said, sweat pouring down his face.
"I've got a better idea," Remo said. "You eat it." He stuffed the grenade into Bonelli's mouth and shook his hand.
"Nice to meet you. I'll keep your offer in mind."
Then he flipped Bonelli into the air and the man fell, eyes bulging, on a direct course with the
truck below. The crates had afl been loaded. The back of the truck
22
was sealed, and the two workers were sitting in the cab up front, its motor running.
Good timing, Remo thought as Giuseppe "Bones" Bonelli landed on top of the truck and
blew to fragments.
For a moment, the air was filled with a miasma of white powder containing shards of
splintered wood. Then the sky was ciear again, and blue and cold, and Remo climbed down
the building, singing an old Korean tune.
Chiun was singing the same tune when Remo walked into the Manhattan motel room they shared. The lyrics,
translated from the Korean, went something like: "O lovely one, when I behold your gracious ways, your beauty, like
the melting snow of spring, makes my heart weep with tears of joy." He was singing it while gazing at himself in the
mirror, arranging the folds of his gold brocade robe. He swayed as he sang, causing the white wisps of hair on his
head and chin to move softly. In the background, the television blared a commercial, in which a foul-tempered ten-
year-old girl refused to let her younger brother use the family's coveted toothpaste, while her mother smiled on
benignly.
"What is this racket?" Remo said, switching off the television.
"Lout," Chiun muttered. He jumped off the dresser, where he had been sitting, and seemed
to float to the ground. "Who can expect a white man to appreciate beauty?" He turned the
television on again. "O lovely one, when I behold your gracious ways. . ."
"Look, Little Father, if you're going to sing, don't you think it'll be less distracting without
the TV?"
23
摘要：

OUTTOLAUNCH...Atthatmomentthesix-foot,four-inchframeofamanwearingwhatlookedtobeawhitetogacameflyingpastthewindowoutside."Wa-wa-wa,"themancalledashezoomedupwardtowardtheroof.Remolookedtothesnow-coveredgardenbelow,alreadysureofwhowouldbedownthere.Acrowdofonlookersneartheswimmingpool,similarlyattiredan...

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