Destroyer 040 - Dangerous Games

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FAIR GAME

Mullin screamed and before Sorkofsky reached the far wall, two of the blacks tackled him. As

he fell to the floor, he released Mullin. When he shook his head and cleared it, he saw the

Englishman standing in front of him.

"On your feet, ox," the Englishman said. "I won't even need a knife for you."

His one arm useless, Sorkofsky rose to his feet. As he did, Mullin reached out and kicked

the hard toe of a pointed boot into the Russian's solar plexus.

Sorkofsky, instead of going down, roared and charged at Mullin, but as he reached the small

Englishman, Mullin twisted his knife upward into the Russian's stomach, and Dimitri Sorkofsky

fell to the floor, his eyes already glazing over.

The room was as quiet as death.

"Well done, lads," Muffin said, although it had not been as easy as he had anticipated or

would have liked. The big Russian was a bloody bull and had made things more difficult than

they should have been. Still, the terrorists' point had been made. The security officers for the

Olympic Games were dead. The world would know the terrorists were not joking.

The telephone rang on the small phone ledge behind the spot where Sorkofsky's desk had

stood.

Mullin said quickly, "All right lads, let's go." As they went out the door, he added: "The American is next. This

Remo. . . ."

THE DESTROYER SERIES:

#1 CREATED, #22 BRAIN DRAIN

THE DESTROYER #23 CHILD'S PLAY

#2 DEATH CHECK #24 KING'S CURSE

#3 CHINESE PUZZLE #25 SWEET DREAMS

#4 MAFIA FIX #26 IN ENEMY HANDS

#5 DR. QUAKE #27 THE LAST TEMPLE

#6 DEATH THERAPY #28 SHIP OF DEATH

#7 UNION BUST #29 THE FINAL DEATH

#8 SUMMIT CHASE #30 MUGGER BLOOD

#9 MURDER'S SHIELD #31 THE HEAD MEN

#10 TERROR SQUAD #32 KILLER

#11 KILL OR CURE CHROMOSOMES

#12 SLAVE SAFARI #33 VOODOO DIE

#13 ACID ROCK #34 CHAINED REACTION

#14 JUDGMENT DAY #35 LAST CALL

#15 MURDER WARD #36 POWER PLAY

#16 OIL SLICK #37 BOTTOM LINE

#17 LAST WAR DANCE #38 BAY CITY BLAST

#18 FUNNY MONEY #39 MISSING LINK

#19 HOLY TERROR #40 DANGEROUS GAMES

#20 ASSASSIN'S PLAY-OFF #41 FIRING LINE

#21 DEADLY SEEDS #42 TIMBER LINE

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DANGEROUS GAMES

PINNACLE BOOKS

LOS ANGELES

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.

DESTROYER #40: DANGEROUS GAMES

An original Pinnacle Books edition, published for the first time anywhere.

First printing, May 1980 Second printing, January 1981

ISBN: 0-523-41255-X

Cover illustration by Hector Garrido

Printed in the United States of America

PINNACLE BOOKS, INC.

2029 Century Park East

Los Angeles, Calif ornia 90067

CHAPTER ONE

He was known throughout Greece as The-Tree-That-Would-Not-Fall, but his real name was Miros. His arms were as

big around as most men's legs, and his thighs were as thick as a horse's throat. He was forty-four years old, but he had

tasted neither wine nor woman and the lumpy muscles of his stomach jutted through his skin like half-submerged

stones rippling the surface of a slow-moving stream.

He was a hero, not only in his own village of Ares-tines but throughout all Greece. Still, as a child, his life had

been dedicated to the glorification of the great god Zeus who, legend said, had begun the Olympic games in a

battle against a lesser god for possession of the planet Earth; so, instead of living the life of an honored wastrel with a

marketable skill, Miros lived a life normal to Arestines. Every day he went down into the caverns and brought up

giant buckets of coal for the people of his village, to help warm them against the chill Aegean winters. The only

break from this routine, day in, day out, summer and winter, was his visit to a fertile Greek plain every four years, to

defend his Olympic wrestling title.

Now he was attempting to win his sixth title. He knew that that was as many as Milo of

Croton had won a century before . . . and Miros of Arestines allowed himself the satisfaction of

hoping that four years hence, he would be back to win his seventh

Olympic crown. No man had ever done that. It would be a record that would live for many years, long after

Miros himself had turned to dust and his immortal spirit had been swept up to live with Zeus forever on Mount

Olympus.

Miros sat on the earth inside his tent and shook his head to clear it of such thoughts.

Before he could celebrate winning seven championships, he had better make sure he won the

sixth. And there were his knees to worry about.

He had just begun to wrap the thin linen straps around his right knee when a man entered

the tent. The man was tall and thin and his face pale and pink, an unusual look in this

He had just begun to wrap the thin linen straps around his right knee when a man entered

the tent. The man was tall and thin and his face pale and pink, an unusual look in this

village, which had been peopled for the last week by athletes from all over Greece, sturdy

men, nut-brown from working in the sun.

"Worried about your knees, Miros?" the thin man said. He was in his sixties, and he showed

his years, and as Miros looked up at him, he realized sadly that Plinates was old. Plinates had

been the head of the Council of Elders ever since Miros had been a boy, and now the thin man

had grown old in the service of the village. Miros was glad he did not have to work with his

head, but labored instead with his arms and legs and back. Plinates looked as if he were going

to die soon.

Miros grunted no reply at all.

Then he realized that was rude and he said, "I am dedicated to the service of Zeus, but when

he created men, he could have given a little more thought to their knees."

Miros spoke slowly and continued wrapping his right knee with the linen bandage. "No

matter how big a man may grow, he has exactly the same knees as a little man. It does not

seem to me to make much sense." He added quickly, "But of course, Zeus does not confide his

plans to me."

Plinates grunted and sat on a cushion across from Miros as the dark-haired giant continued to wrap. First seven

strips of linen from left to right. Then four strips of linen, vertically, along the length of the leg. Then four more

strips from right to left. Finally, thin linen laces to hold the bandage in place. Then the left knee.

"I have seen your opponent," Plinates said. "He looks very strong."

"He is very strong," Miros said. "Ottonius is very strong. But he is a boy and I am a man."

"You were not much more than a boy when first you were victorious here," Plinates said.

"One must beware of boys. They call this one The Knife."

"In these games, I am wary of everyone," Miros said without looking up. "That is why I

wrap my knees."

"Perhaps it is the year that The Knife will chop down The-Tree-That-Would-Not-Fall,"

Plinates said.

Miros looked up quickly. If Plinates had not been the head of the Council of Elders and the

best friend of Ms late father, he would have told the older man to leave the tent. But that

would be disrespectful. He looked back down and resumed wrapping his left knee.

"Perhaps you are not ready," Plinates said.

"Not ready?" Miros said. It almost seemed as if Plinates was taunting him. "Not ready?

Today, Plinates, I could wrestle the world and win. Not ready?" He laughed, a heavy, deep

laugh that filled his barrel chest with air.

"That is too bad," Plinates said.

Miros looked up in surprise, dropping his linen wrappings to the dirt of the tent floor,

"Because today you are going to lose," the older man said. His pale blue eyes stared calmly

at Miros, and the wrestler searched them for the sign of the

jest he was sure must come. But there was no jest. Plinates was serious.

"What are you talking about?" Miros said.

"You are going to lose today. The Council of Elders has decreed it."

"Fortunately," Miros said, "the council's ways are not my ways and council edicts have very little to do with

wrestling."

"That is true," Plinates said. "This edict has nothing to do with wrestling. It has to do with

government and with war. You will lose."

"But why?" Miros asked. He still did not understand. "So Ottonius of Kuristes is strong.

And he is young. But he is also arrogant and foolish and he spends his life loosely on women

and wine. He will never beat me."

"True enough," Plinates said. "But nevertheless he will win."

"How?" Miros asked.

"Because you will let him," Plinates said.

Miros rose to his feet angrily, the sound in his throat nothing so much as a growl. A

lesser man would have fled the tent at the sight of the expression on his face. But Plinates

neither moved nor showed emotion.

"You may thank Zeus that you were my father's friend," Miros said softly. His dark eyes

flashed anger, and the cords in his neck stretched at their covering of skin. His big fists

clenched and unclenched.

"Yes. I was your father's friend and I am your friend. But I am also the Chief Elder of the

village of Arestines and that is my responsibility, even more than friendship."

"Yes," Miros said. "And our village has been fighting the village of Kuristes for five years

and now we have a truce for these games and then today I will beat Ottonius of Kuristes and

tomorrow we will be at

war again with Kuristes. Just as we always have. I fight for our village and our honor."

"How many have died in these five years of fighting?" Plinates asked.

war again with Kuristes. Just as we always have. I fight for our village and our honor."

"How many have died in these five years of fighting?" Plinates asked.

"I don't know. I leave counting to politicians."

"Two hundred and six," Plinates said. "And now, if I tell you that you have it in your power

to save perhaps another two hundred? Or four hundred? That you have it in your power to

end this war? That you alone can make your village the victor? Then what do you say?"

"I say I am a wrestler," Miros said.

"And I say you are the son of a father who gave his life for the village of Arestines. Do you

deny the value of what he did?"

And slowly Miros sat down on the dirt of the tent floor. He kicked away the linens with

which he had been wrapping his left knee. He would not need them this day. He knew that and

the truth lay in his stomach, as black and as hard as a giant lump of the Arestines coal he had

mined for the past thirty years.

That afternoon, Miros of Arestines met Ottonius of Kuristes in the final championship

match of Olympic wrestling. The hot Greek sun had coated both their bodies with sweat as

they faced each other across the twenty-foot rectangle that had been scored in the earth of the

plain, formed where the Qadeus and the Alpheus flowed together.

Ottonius was as tall as Miros, but he was as blond and fair-skinned as Miros was dark. Miros

had seen Ottonius pin his opponents in four other matches, and he knew the young man was

skillful. But he also knew that he was stronger than Ottonius and faster and that he took better

care of his body. What had Plinates said? That Miros wasn't ready? Not ready? He could pin a

hundred like Ottonius this day.

Ottonius sneered at Miros and the older man wondered if Ottonius knew what Miros had

been asked

to do. Then he saw Ottonius glance down toward Miros's dark and heavy genitals, and decided Ottonius knew

nothing, either about Plinates' demand or about genitals. If genital heft were the measure of a wrestler, then surely

the bull of the fields would be the greatest wrestler of all.

The audience quieted as the referee signalled time and the two naked wrestlers moved

warily toward each other in the center of the twenty-foot square. As they circled, Miros saw that

Ottonius moved improperly to his right. The blond man stayed classically high on his toes, but

when he moved to his right, he put too much of his weight on that foot and came down off

his toes. It was not much but it was enough.

The two wrestlers came together and locked hands. Miros took two steps to his right,

forcing Ottonius to circle to his right to keep facing his opponent. Miros felt Ottonius's steps.

One. Two. Just as Ottonius planted his weight again on his right foot, Miros threw his own

weight back to the left, fell onto his back, planted his right foot in Ottonius's belly and tossed

the big blond up in the air, over his head. Ottonius landed on his back with a thump. Dust

exploded in the air as his body hit. Before he had a chance to scramble to his feet, Miros was

on him. He wrapped his arms around the blond man's neck.

"Don't you ever sneer at me, you son of a Kuristes dog," Miros hissed in the younger man's

ear. Ottonius struggled fiercely to free himself from the head lock, but his movements just

seemed to burrow his head and neck deeper into Miros's giant arms.

"You move like an ox," Miros hissed softly. "That is why you lie here like a sheep for

shearing." He tightened his hold around Ottonius's throat, and the man from Kuristes tried to

kick up into the air with his feet so his weight would slide his sweaty head out of Miros's arms.

But the maneuver failed.

"And you wrestle like a woman," Miros said. "I

could hold you like this until you go to sleep. Or I could just simply move my arms and snap your neck. Do you

understand?"

Ottonius tried to wriggle loose. Miros tightened his hold still more and twisted his body

slightly sideways so that his weight put pressure on Ottonius's neck. The blond could feel his

head starting to pull away from his spine.

"I said, do you understand?" Miros demanded.

"Yes," Ottonius said. "Yes."

"Very well," Miros hissed. "Now, you giant clod, I am going to let you go without killing

you, but try to wrestle well enough to make it look believable. Kick out with your feet again."

Ottonius kicked both feet up into the air. This time Miros loosened his grip and Ottonius

slid out from his arms. As the younger man scrambled to his feet, Miros dove across the

ground at him. He made himself come up inches short. He lay on his face in the dirt. He felt

Ottonius jump onto his back and wrap his arms around Miros's throat.

"Why?" Ottonius asked as he lowered his face toward Miros's ear. "Why did you do that?"

"I don't know," Miros said. "Perhaps I just wasn't ready today." He let Ottonius hold him for

a reasonably long time before he raised his hand in surrender. Ottonius stood up, raised his

hands over his head in a gesture of victory, then reached down to help Miros to his feet.

Miros got up by himself. "I don't need your help, you peacock," he hissed. The audience

hands over his head in a gesture of victory, then reached down to help Miros to his feet.

Miros got up by himself. "I don't need your help, you peacock," he hissed. The audience

still sat silently, stunned by the swiftness of the victory, but they cheered minutes later when

Ottonius received the gold medal on a chain. Miros stood alongside his opponent and praised

Ottonius's strength and quickness. Ottonius praised Miros's skill and called him the greatest

champion of all time. It made Miros feel good, but not good enough.

Back in his tent, Miros found a small bag that Plinates had left. In it were six gold pieces. It

was a fortune, designed to make Miros feel better about losing. He went to the river and threw

the gold pieces in.

Ottonius led his delegation of athletes home that night to their village of Kuristes. He had

already forgotten the peculiar circumstances of his victory that afternoon, and he swaggered at

the head of the athletes' line like Achilles marching around the walls of Troy. As they neared

the walls of Kuristes, the other athletes lifted Ottonius onto their shoulders. It was the signal the

villagers had waited for.

Using heavy hammers, they began to chop a hole in the wall surrounding their village,

because the tradition that had come down through the ages said: with such a great champion

in our midst, who needs fortifications to defend against enemies? It was a tradition as old as the

Olympic games themselves, said to have come from the land of the gods far across the seas.

The Kuristes athletes stopped in front of the hole in the wall. On a hilltop, a hundred yards

away, the dark-haired Miros of Arestines sat and watched, shaking his head sadly, finally

understanding.

Ottonius postured in front of the wall, marching back and forth, inspecting the hole. Up on

the hill, Miros could hear his voice complaining.

"I have vanquished Miros of Arestines," Ottonius bellowed. "Is this tiny little crack what you

think I deserve?"

Even as he spoke, men with hammers made the hole in the wall wider and higher. Finally, it was large enough

for Ottonius to pass through without stooping. The other athletes followed him. Soon darkness covered the land,

but inside the village, fires burned and there were sounds of singing and dancing.

All night, Miros sat on the hilltop watching. The noise stopped two hours before daybreak.

Then, as he had expected, he saw a group of men, dressed in full battle gear, scurrying over a

hill toward the village.

That would be Plinates leading the men of Ares-tines, Miros knew. The troop passed

unchecked through the hole in the wall of Kuristes. Soon, screams rent the air that had

resounded with music only a few hours before. By dawn, the village of Kuristes had been

slaughtered down to the last man, including Ottonius, Olympic champion wrestler.

On the hilltop, Miros stood. He sighed heavily, thought of all the dead inside the village of

Kuristes, and wiped a tear from his eye. The Olympic games had been made an instrument of

war and politics, he realized, and they would never again be the same.

It was tune to go back home and get to work in the mines. He walked away and into the

dim mists of Olympic history.

The lesson he had learned-to keep politics out of the games-would be largely heeded until,

twenty-five centuries later in a city called Munich, a gang of barbarians would decide to make a

political point by killing innocent young athletes. The world's horror and revulsion at this act

was short-lived, and soon the terrorists were the adopted darlings of the left-looking, and

others thought to copy their tactics-in a city called Moscow. In a country called Russia. In the

1980 Olympic games.

Jimbobwu Mkombu liked to be called "president" and "king" and "emperor" and "ruler for life" of what he

vowed would one day be the unified African nation that would succeed South Africa and Rhodesia on the world's

maps. He certainly did not like to be called "Jim."

In deference to this preference, Flight Lieutenant

Jack Mullin, late of Her Majesty's Royal Air Force, did not call Mkombu Jim. He called him "Jim Bob," which he

knew Mkombu did not like, but which he was sure Mkombu would prefer to Mullin's private name for him, which

was "pig."

That this last name had a solid basis in fact was reinforced for Mullin when he walked into Mkom-bu's office in a

small building hidden inside the jungle, just across the Zambia border. The entire desk top in front of Mkombu was

covered with food, and the food was covered with flies. This did not discourage Mkombu, who ate with both hands,

shovelling food into his face and swallowing any of it that did not manage to drop onto his bare chest. Flies and all.

Mkombu waved a grease-covered hand at Mullin as he entered the office. In the same

motion, he picked up a bottle of wine, took a long swallow directly from the bottle, then

offered the bottle to the Briton.

"No, thank you, sir," Mullin said politely, controlling his face tightly so that the revulsion he

felt did not show on his face.

"No, thank you, sir," Mullin said politely, controlling his face tightly so that the revulsion he

felt did not show on his face.

"Well, then, eat something, Jackie. You know I hate to eat alone."

"You seem to have been doing a pretty good job of it," Mullin said. Mkombu glared at him

and Mullin reached out and picked up a piece of chicken between right thumb and

forefinger. With luck, he could nurse this chicken lump throughout the entire meeting and

then go back to his own cottage where he kept a supply of American canned foods, which

was all he ever ate in the jungle.

Mkombu smiled when he saw Mullin pick up the chicken, but he kept staring until the

Englishman took a small bite and began, reluctantly, to chew. Mkombu nodded.

"You know, Jackie, if you keep killing my men, I'm not going to have any left to fight my

war with."

Mullin sat in a chair facing the desk and crossed his legs. He was not a large man, standing only five-foot-seven

and weighing 150 pounds, but men did not often underestimate him twice.

"If they keep challenging my authority, they'll keep getting killed. It keeps the rest of them in line."

"Can't you just hit them on the head or something? That'll get their attention. Must you kill them?" Mkombu

wiped his greasy hands on the front of his dashiki shirt. Then, as an afterthought, he began picking the food from his

sparse brilloed chest hair and popping pieces of the debris into his mouth. Mullin looked away, through the window,

out toward the clearing that was the main jumping-off point for Mkombu's People's Democratic Army of

Revolutionary Liberation.

"They don't understand hits on the head," Mullin said. "They understand getting killed. If I

can't do that, Jim Bob, one day they'll run off and leave you and we'll be without an army."

"But the man you killed was better than any other three men I had."

Mullin sighed, remembering how easy it had been to kill the six-foot-six, 260-pound

sergeant. Mullin had removed his .45 automatic, his pilot's cap, and his black metal-framed

glasses. As he reached over to place his glasses carefully on the ground atop his hat, the big

man's eyes had followed him, and Mullin had kicked out with his left foot and with the hard

heel of his boot stove in the other man's Adam's apple. The fight was over before it had begun.

To make sure, when the man dropped, Mullin had smashed in the man's temple with the steel-

tipped toes of his high regimental boots.

"If he was better than any other three men, we are in deep trouble, Jim Bob. He was slow and

stupid. A soldier cannot be a soldier without a brain. The size

of the army doesn't win a war. Discipline, and at least enough brains to follow orders, do."

Mkombu nodded. He had finished policing his chest and again wiped his hands on his shirt. "You are right, of

course, which is why I am paying you so generously to be my chief of staff."

He smiled and Muffin smiled back. Underpaying me, Muffin thought, but he was satisfied

that his time would come. Patience was always rewarded.

Mkombu rose from behind his desk and said, "Well, stop killing everybody for a while."

And then, as if to halt any further discussion, he said quickly, "To the business at hand."

"Which is?"

Mkombu clasped his hands behind his back and leaned forward slightly at the waist. "The

Olympic Games," he said.

"What event are you entering?" Muffin asked. "International pie-eating?"

Mkombu stood up straight behind the desk. He was only two inches taller than Muffin

but outweighed him by more than a hundred pounds. His shirt was covered with food stains,

and a glob of grease glistened in his graying black beard. He smiled and Muffin saw gold

and silver glistening inside the pink cavern of his mouth.

"If I did not know better, Jackie, I would think you don't like me," Mkombu said.

It was a direct challenge and Muffin backed off, content that the day would come when he

would make his move, but it would not be just yet.

"Just joking, Jim Bob," he said.

"Fine. You joke all you want. Why don't you eat that chicken in your hand?"

He watched as Muffin brought it to his mouth and took another reluctant bite.

"All right," Mkombu said. "Now the Olympics."

"What about them?"

"The athletes from South Africa and Rhodesia may not be permitted to compete."

"So what," Mullin said with a shrug.

"It seems that might make both countries angry."

"Correct," Mullin said. "How does it concern us?"

"We are going to make what happened at Munich in 1972 seem like a picnic." He looked up

and Mullin nodded. The Englishman knew the game. Mkombu would make short

statements and Mullin would have to prod him with hows and whys and what-fors until the

story was completely out. It fed Mkombu's ego to have the Britisher continually ask for

statements and Mullin would have to prod him with hows and whys and what-fors until the

story was completely out. It fed Mkombu's ego to have the Britisher continually ask for

clarification of his statements.

"How?" Mullin said.

"We are going to kill the athletes of one of the competing countries and place the blame on

some white terrorist group from Southern Africa."

Mullin took off bis glasses and inspected them in the light. He could play games too. He

slowly replaced the glasses on the bridge of his nose and asked, "What for?"

"Once the deed is done in the name of the Southern African Somebodies for Something,

the world will crack down on South Africa and Rhodesia. It will open the door for us."

"It didn't seem to work that way with the Palestinians. Everybody seems to have forgotten

that they killed children at Munich. Why should they get upset about South Africa or

Rhodesia?"

"Because South Africa and Rhodesia are anti-Communist," Mkombu said. "That guarantees

that world opinion against them will be vicious and unforgiving. The Palestinians did not have

that handicap."

Mullin nodded. "Might work," he said. "How many athletes will we be killing?"

"From this one country, every single one. All of them," Mkombu answered with obvious

pleasure.

"And how will we accomplish this?"

"That, my dear Jack, is what I pay you so handsomely for. Figure it out. Naturally, we will be issuing threats in

advance so we can begin turning public opinion against the white regimes. The mass murder will be the final touch."

"A minimum force, of course," Mullin said.

"Of course. The fewer people who know about it or are involved in it, the better." He sat

back down again. Almost without directing it, his hand moved toward a piece of beef. A fly

moved away as his hand closed in.

"One problem," Mullin said. "Your Russian friends. How are they going to like your

messing up their Olympics?"

"If you do your job well, they will never know it was us," Mkombu said.

"All right," Mullin said. He stood and tossed the piece of chicken with the two small nips

taken out of it back onto the desk. Mkombu, he was sure, would eat it later. Waste not, want

not. He started to the door.

"You forgot something," Mkombu said as Mul-lin's hand turned the door knob.

"Yes?"

"Don't you want to know the country whose athletes we will be killing?"

"It's not really important, Jim Bob, but go ahead. What country?"

"A major power," Mkombu said.

"Very good," Mullin said. He refused to ask which one.

"In fact, the world's most major power."

"Whatever you wish, sir," said Mullin.

"The United States of America, Jack. The United States of America."

Mullin nodded impassively.

"I want all their athletes dead," Mkombu said.

"Whatever you want, Jim Bob," Mullin said.

CHAPTER TWO

His name was Remo and he never played games. So instead of climbing up the side of the Hefferling Building in

Chicago as he would have if stealth had been required, he walked in the front door, off North Michigan Street, just a

wolf-whistle away from the Playboy building. He walked past the guard to the bank of elevators in the back.

As he waited for the elevator, Remo wondered how much energy it consumed to carry

people to the higher floors. He thought that people would be much better off if they walked,

and it would help solve the energy shortage too. He thought about running up the fourteen

floors to the office of Hubert Hefferling, president of the Hefferling energy group, as his

personal contribution to solving the energy crisis.

Then he remembered why he was there and decided he was making a big enough

contribution to America's energy problems, and when the elevator came and opened its door,

he stepped inside.

Remo did not care about heating oil shortages or gas shortages because he did not own a

house or a car. But there were people who did care, and it was for these people that Remo

Williams was going to kill a man he had never met.

He walked past the receptionist inside the suite of offices on the fourteenth floor and

presented himself to Hefferling's pretty young secretary.

"I've come to decimate Mister Hefferling. Is he in?" Remo said.

The secretary's name was Marsha. She was equipped with a full range of retorts for people

who wanted to bother Mr. Hefferling about the gas shortage or the oil shortage-particularly the

gas shortage-but when she looked up, all the retorts became lodged in her throat.

Not that Remo was exceptionally handsome, but he had dark hair and high cheekbones and deepset dark eyes

that seemed to rivet her to her chair. He was about six feet tall and thin, except for his wrists which were like tomato

cans.

Marsha opened her mouth to speak, closed it, opened it and closed it again. She got that

feeling in her stomach that she got when she saw dint Eastwood hi the movies.

"Sir?" she managed to sputter.

"Hefferling. I've come to decimate him. Where is he?"

"Of course, sir. I'll announce you. May I have your name please?" she asked and hoped he

would give her his address and telephone number too and wondered why this lean, dark man

made her feel so . . . so . . . well, outright raunchy.

"Tell him that Everyman is here to see him," Remo said.

"Of course, sir. Mr. Everyman."

He leaned closer to her and said, "But you can call me Ev."

"Ev. Yes, sir. Of course. Ev. When can I call you Ev?"

"Anytime," Remo said.

"Tonight? Right now?"

"First Hefferling," Remo said.

"Right." She depressed the switch on the intercom, never removing her eyes from Remo's. He smiled and she

felt herself blush.

"Yes, Marsha?" a voice crackled over the speaker, Remo leaned nearer her and listened in.

"Uh, Mr. Hefferling, there's a Mr. Everyman here to see you, sir," she told her employer.

"Everyman? What the hell kind of-? Does he have an appointment?"

Remo smiled and nodded his head and as if hers were attached to his, Marsha began

nodding too and she lied to her boss and said, "Yes, sir. He does. Something about decimals, I

think."

"Decimals? What-? Oh, crap, send him in."

"Yes, sir." She clicked off the intercom and told Remo, "You can go in."

"Thank you. Your name's Marsha?"

"Yes. And I live alone," she said, the words coming out in a rush.

"I'd like to talk to you when I come out of Mr. Hefferling's office. You still be around?"

"Absolutely. I'll be here. I'll wait. I won't go anywhere. Promise. I'll be right here."

"Good. Wait for me."

"I will. I promise."

She buzzed Remo into Harold Hefferling's office. He waved to her before entering.

When the door closed behind him, he looked at the man seated at the desk.

"You Hefferling?" Remo asked.

The man was frowning at his appointment book.

"I knew it," he said triumphantly. "You don't have an appointment, Mister Whatever-

your-name-is. How much did you give that bitch to let you in? I'll fire her ass right out of this

building, boobs or no boobs."

Remo walked toward the desk and the man behind it stood up. Harold Hefferling was in his

forties and kept himself in excellent shape. At six-feet-two and two hundred pounds, most of it

muscle, he had even taken some karate lessons since the gas shortage, be-

cause people who recognized him on the street some-tunes gave in to their deske to take his head off, over their frustration

about gas shortages. Apparently, his standing up was meant to intimidate the smaller Remo.

"You," he said, pointing. "Out the same way you came in and take that piece of fluff out there

with you." Remo reached out and took Hefferling's index finger between his own right index

finger and thumb and told the bigger man, "Don't point. It's not polite."

Although he had no deske to sit down, Harold Hefferling did and abruptly. He looked at his

finger. It did not hurt but it seemed to have had something to do with his sitting down.

"Who the hell are you?" he demanded of Remo.

"I told your secretary," said Remo as he perched on the edge of Hefferling's desk. "I am

Everyman. I speak for Everyman. If I opened my shirt, you would see a big red 'E' tattooed on

my chest and it would stand for Everyman."

"You're nuts," Hefferling said. Suddenly, for a moment, he was frightened. The man was

obviously a lunatic, maybe one whose brain had gone soft from spending too many hours in too

many gas lines under too much hot sun. He decided to take a softer tone. "Well, what do you

want, Everyman? Something about decimals?"

"No," Remo said. "She got that wrong. I said I wanted to decimate you. But I don't want

want, Everyman? Something about decimals?"

"No," Remo said. "She got that wrong. I said I wanted to decimate you. But I don't want

you to think I'm unreasonable. So first you tell me why you make this gas shortage worse and

then I'll decide whether I'm going to kill you or not."

Hefferling's mouth dropped open. He made a sound that sounded like "glah, glah." He tried

again and it came out clearer. "Kill, kill?"

"Just once," Remo said. "Kill."

"You are nuts," Hefferling said. "Stark, raving mad."

"Mad? We're all mad. We're mad because we have to sit on gas lines, because people are killing people on gas

lines and the only line you see is the one at the bank when you deposit your money. Mad? Sure. We're fed up and

we're not taking it anymore." Remo smiled. He had heard that line in a movie and always wanted to use it.

"But you're wrong. Dead wrong." Hefferling paused and reconsidered the phrase. "I mean,

you're wrong. There is a shortage and it's the fault of the Arabs, not me. Honest, Mr.

Everyman."

"You can call me Ev," Remo said.

Hefferling was sweating. He closed his eyes as if he were trying hard not to cry.

"Look, Ev, you just don't understand."

"Explain it to me," Remo said.

"Will you please let me talk?" Hefferling screamed. He jumped to his feet. Remo

wondered if the room was soundproof.

"Sit down," he advised. Hefferling blinked rapidly, convincing himself that he didn't have to

sit down if he didn't want to. After all, whose office was it and who did this Everyman think he

was? Remo touched his chest and he sat down.

"Okay now, go ahead," Remo said. "Explain."

Hefferling's eyes rolled as if on the inside of his eyelids was written what he should say. What

could he tell this madman?

"Look, it's true. Some people are making this shortage worse." That was good, he thought.

It was the truth. He had read somewhere that you shouldn't lie to a crazy man. Maybe if he

told him the truth that he wanted to hear, then, maybe this nut would believe everything he told

him. Remo rewarded this theory with a smile.

"These people buy up oil on the spot market but

then they hold it, waiting for prices to go higher before they sell it in this country. They

asked me to join them, but when I heard about it, I walked out. I wouldn't have anything to

do with that. I said their plan was un-American."

Remo nodded. "Good for you," he said. "And you wouldn't have anything to do with it."

"That's right."

"Because it was un-American."

"Right. Right."

"And you are a loyal American."

"I am."

"And you don't care one bit about making a few extra million dollars."

"Right. I don't."

"Come on, Hefferling," Remo said reproachfully.

"It's the truth."

"That's your defense? That's supposed to stop me from killing you?"

Hefferling stared at him. Slowly his face relaxed into a smile.

"I get it. This is a joke, isn't it? You were paid to do this, right? Kind of like a pie in the

face. Paid for it, right?"

Remo shrugged. "Actually, I was. But, see, that's the work I do."

"What is? Pies? Threats?"

"No," Remo said, and because it no longer made any difference, he told Hefferling the truth. How a young

Newark policeman named Remo Williams had been framed for a murder he didn't commit, was sent to an electric chair

that didn't work, and was revived and recruited to work for a secret crime-fighting organization named CURE. And

he told him, too, how Remo Williams had learned the secrets of Sinanju, an ancient Korean house of assassins, and hi

learning them had become something more than just a man. Something special.

When Remo was done, he looked at Hefferling's face but saw only confusion there. Nobody ever understood.

"Anyway, Hefferling, upstairs tells me what is what here. I don't even use gas. But they tell me you have five

tankers of oil tied up in Puerto Rico somewhere and you're waiting for prices to go up and then you're going to

sell the oil in America. Meanwhile, people are waiting in gas lines. This is what upstairs tells me and they tell me I

should do something about it."

"Like what?" asked Hefferling.

"Like kill you."

"Wait now," Hefferling pleaded in panic. "I've got more to tell you. A lot more. Wait."

"Like kill you."

"Wait now," Hefferling pleaded in panic. "I've got more to tell you. A lot more. Wait."

"Tell it to the angels, Hubert." Remo leaned forward, tapped once with his knuckles and

Hefferling sat back in his chair. Remo picked up the man's right hand, and dropped it onto the

table with a thud. A dead thud.

"That's the oil biz, sweetheart," Remo told the body.

He walked around the desk, pulled a blank sheet of paper from the top left corner of

Hefferling's desk, and found a Flair marker in the dead man's inside jacket pocket. In black, he

wrote across the sheet of paper. With a piece of Scotch tape, he attached the paper to

Hefferling's forehead, first wiping away the perspiration with a piece of the man's desk

blotter.

He folded Hefferling's hands across his lap. At the door, he turned back to survey his work.

There was Hefferling's body, sitting up neatly. On the paper dangling from his head was

written:

DON'T TREAD ON ME. SUCH IS THE VENGEANCE OF EVERYMAN.

When Remo walked back outside, Marsha turned anxiously toward the door. When she saw

him, she smiled. There it is again, she thought, that feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"Hi, Marsha," Remo said.

"Hello. You wanted to . . . talk to me?"

"Actually, no, Marsha. I wanted to kiss you."

She felt herself getting dizzy as he bent over her and placed a hand between her shoulder

and her neck. She waited anxiously for his lips to touch hers. She thought she felt his breath on

her forehead and then there was a gentle pressure on her throat and she felt nothing more.

Remo placed her head gently on her desk, cradling it on her arms. When she woke, she would

feel fuzzy and dazed and find it difficult to remember what had happened in the last half-hour.

Later, she would tell police that she had fallen asleep with her head on her desk and had

dreamed about a man, but she could not describe him, except to say that he made her

stomach feel funny.

"I think your head is funny," one of the cops would growl, but he would write in his

report, "No witness to Hefferling murder."

Remo walked back to his hotel room, strolling past the Playboy Club, where he waved at

people sitting near the windows and yelled at them that they ought to be playing racquetball,

instead of drinking so early in the day.

Back at his room, he walked up to an aged Oriental who sat in a lotus position in the middle

of the carpeted floor. Remo said, "I am Everyman. Beware my vengeance." He pointed his

index finger toward the ceiling for emphasis.

The Oriental rose in one smooth motion, like smoke escaping from a jar, and faced Remo. The old man was

barely five feet tall and had never seen a

hundred pounds. At the sides of his head, white wisps of hair flitted out from his dried yellow skin.

"Come, my son, and sit," he said to Remo, guiding the young man forcefully to the couch.

Remo didn't want to sit down. The old man gently touched his chest and Remo sat down.

The old man shook his head and said sadly, "I have been expecting this."

"Expecting what, Chiun?" Remo asked.

"The strain of learning the techniques of Sinanju has finally driven you mad. It is my fault.

I should have known that a white man could not stand the strain forever, even with my genius

to guide him. It is like trying to pour an ocean into a cup. Eventually the cup must crack. You

have cracked. But remember this, Remo, before they come to take you away: you did well to

last this long."

"Come on, Chiun. It was a joke."

Chiun had returned to the lotus position and appeared to be praying for Remo's memory,

his hands folded across the lap of his purple kimono.

"Chiun, stop it. I'm not crazy. It was just a joke."

"A joke?" Chiun said, looking up.

"Yes. A joke."

Chiun shook his head again. "Worse than I feared. Now he jokes with the teachings of the

Master of Sinanju?"

"Come on, Chiun, stop fooling around."

"My heart is broken."

"Chiun-"

"My spirit is low."

"Chiun, will you-"

"My stomach is growling."

The cartoon lightbulb flashed on over Remo's head. "Oh, crap. I forgot your chestnuts."

"Don't apologize, please," Chiun said. "It is nothing, really. I couldn't expect you to

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