Destroyer 023 - Childs Play

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TALK-OR ELSE

"Hello there," came a voice from behind him. "My name is Remo and you're going to talk to me. You've caused

me a problem. You're going to uncause it. How did you kill Kauf-mann? Who did it for you?"

"My wrist. I can't talk."

"I left you your throat to talk. Now if you're not going to use it for me, I'll take it with

me."

"There's a man-he provides the service. Special killings are contracted out. It's

expensive-a hundred thousand in advance."

When Remo left, Polastro picked up the phone. "Look," he said. "I'm going to talk.

This is an open line so ask questions at the end. Both my wrists are broken. I've lost two

of my best men. There is a man after you. He must use some kind of weird killing machine.

I gave him your name. I had to. He would have killed me. But you can stop him."

"If it's who I think it is-no one can stop him!" The phone went dead.

THE DESTROYER SERIES:

#21 DEADLY SEEDS

#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

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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.

THE DESTROYER: CHILD'S PLAY

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

ISBN: 0-523-41238-X

First printing, April 1976 Second printing, April 1978 Third printing, May 1980

Cover illustration by Hector Garrido Printed in the United States of America

PINNACLE BOOKS, INC.

2029 Century Park East

Los Angeles, California 90067

For Megan

CHAPTER ONE

The left arm came sailing over the schoolyard fence ... without a body on it. The left leg skittered into a

sandbox, where the blood pumped out of the thigh stump and onto a rubber play shovel. There were no sharp

edges on this yellow shovel the size of a large serving spoon because it was guaranteed by the National

Parental Council as "child safe." In the playground of the Fairview, Oklahoma, Country Day School there was

also no left side of Robert Calder.

Jimmy Wilkes and Katherine Poffer remembered that was the side on which Mr. Calder had been holding

the "froobie."

"Tell the men what a froobie is, Katherine," said the nurse in the infirmary of the Fairview Country Day

School as two men in polished cordovan shoes and neat gray suits with white shirts and striped ties took

notes on a small tape re-

corder. They had told the Fair-view County Sheriff's office they wanted to talk to the

children first, and afterward the sheriff could get all the information he needed. He had

complained that homicide was not a federal crime but a state crime, and if the Justice

Department wanted the assistance of the Fairview County Sheriff's Office, they should tell

him what the hell was up. Especially since November was four months away and while

they had assured jobs, an elected county official sure as hell didn't, and one hand washes

the other if the FBI knew what the Fair-view County Sheriff's office meant. They did, and

they didn't want him talking to the children first.

So Katherine Poffer, seven, explained to the two FBI agents what a f roobie was.

"It's nice," said Kathy.

"Tell them what it does, dear," said the nurse.

"It's like a frisbee. It's plastic, only it squiggles if you get it right," said Jimmy Wilkes,

six.

"She said me. She said I should say what a froobie is," said Katherine Poffer. "It's like a frisbee only it

six.

"She said me. She said I should say what a froobie is," said Katherine Poffer. "It's like a frisbee only it

squiggles," Kathy said with righteous triumph.

"Now when did the bang happen?" asked one of the agents.

"Me or Jimmy?" said Katherine Poffer.

"Either one," said the agent.

"When he threw it, sort of," said Jimmy.

"Sort of?"

"Yeah. Like the froobie was up at his ear, like a quarterback ready to throw."

"Yes," said the agent.

"He was left-handed," said Jimmy Wilkes.

"Yes."

"And then, wow, boom," said Jimmy, his hands going out to show a big explosion.

"You didn't see half of him at all," said Katherine Poffer.

"A leg went in the sandbox, and there's no going in the sandbox during afternoon

recess," said Jimmy.

"Did you see who brought the froobie to the schoolyard?"

"Nobody brought it. It was there," said Jimmy.

"Somebody must have brought it," said the agent.

"The new boy maybe brought it," said Katherine.

"Some grownup," said the agent. "Was any grownup standing near the schoolyard?"

"The ice cream man for a while," said Jimmy. The two agents went on with the interview. They had talked

to the ice cream vendor already, and he had seen nothing. He was also not the kind of person to withhold

information. This wasn't Brooklyn, where people stuck their noses behind doors and kept them there for

their safety. This was heartland America, where if a strange dog wandered into town, everyone knew and

was willing not only to talk about it but to tell you if it was a Communist dog or a Mafia dog. This was pin-

clean small-town USA, where everyone not only knew everyone else but talked about everyone else. And no

one knew who had killed Mr. Calder and while everyone was downright glad to cooperate with the FBI-"We're

on your side, fellas"-no one knew who had planted the bomb. And what was the FBI doing here in

Fairview

anyway? This wasn't a federal crime, you know. Was Mr. Calder a secret spy?

No, ma'am.

Was he a secret scientist?

No, sir.

Was he a big Mafia cappucino who split with the family?

No, sir.

Was he a hit? He was a real live hit, wasn't he?

Well, ma'am, we believe that his demise was, so to speak, intentional.

That's for dang sure. Folks don't blow up by accident.

Yes, sir.

So here they were, talking to little children about froobies and bang bangs and sand

boxes, while other agents went around picking up pieces of the man called Calder from the

schoolyard.

"Anything else?" said the agent.

"He went like a ladyfinger. Bang. You know how ladyfingers blow up when you light

them," said Jimmy.

"Ladyfingers are firecrackers. They're against the law. I never used them," said Kathy

Poffer. "Jimmy used them a lot though. Jimmy and Johnny Kruse and Irene Blasinips.

She showed herself to the boys, too. I know that."

"And you took extra cookies before nap," said Jimmy, turning in his playmate to the

FBI. But the FBI did not seem interested in firecrackers or who showed what to whom,

just Mr. Calder who was new to the town and had gone bang like a ladyfinger with some

of him left, like those little firecrackers that never quite went all up.

There was something else, too, Jimmy remem-

bered, but no one would be interested in that. They wanted to know about the bang,

not about the new kid who wouldn't let anyone play with the froobie but just hung

around sort of, and when Mr. Calder came by, called out to him and seemed to know

him because he called him Mr. Calder.

"Mr. Calder, they say you can throw a football,. but I bet you can't throw a froobie," the new kid had

said.

"Mr. Calder, they say you can throw a football,. but I bet you can't throw a froobie," the new kid had

said.

And everyone had watched Mr. Calder take the froobie, while the new kid had

backed away to the other side of the schoolyard as Mr. Calder raised the yellow plastic

froobie to his ear, just like the football players did when they wanted to throw footballs

like grownups. But when the froobie was ready to go, bang.

And Mr. Calder was only partly left. Outside the infirmary, the strangers were still

examining the area for the sprayed pieces of Mr. Calder. Lights came on, and there were

television cameras, and everyone was talking about how hard it must have been on Jimmy

and Kathy to see such a horrible thing at their ages, so Kathy started to cry, and since

Kathy was crying and everyone said it was horrible and since Jimmy's mother was

hugging him as if something horrible had happened, Jimmy started to cry, too.

"The poor babies," said someone, and Jimmy couldn't stop crying. All this over Mr.

Calder, who went up like a little firecracker with some of him left.

The two agents caught the nightly news on television as they went over their day's

notes. There were the two children, crying away before the tel-

evision cameras. The schoolyard. And Calder's home.

"A modest home on a well-kept street," said the announcer of the local television station.

"Well kept, you can bet," said the agent who had questioned the children. "We had

both sides and the front of the house covered. And the backyard neighbor was a

retired Marine." He blew air out of his mouth and went over the notes. Somehow,

apparently in the children's toy, a bomb had been smuggled in. But then why did Calder

play with it? How had it happened that a child hadn't grabbed it first and blown himself

up, instead of Calder?

How did anyone even know the subject was in Fairview? He had changed his name to

Calder when his children were only babies, so they never knew his real name. No one at

the factory where he was assistant purchasing agent knew his name. The agent at the plant

had kept an eye on that.

No stranger had entered Fairview. No stranger could have entered Fairview without the

whole town knowing about it-that was why Fairview had been chosen. Everyone in this

town talked. Gossip was the major industry here. That, and the single manufacturing plant.

The agent in charge of the investigation had also been in charge of picking the town

for Calder. He had been careful about it. As the district director had told him, keeping the

man called Calder alive was a career move:

"If he lives, you have one."

That blunt. That final.

Calder was just one of seven hundred government witnesses hidden away each year by the

Justice Department. Seven hundred. Not one in the last ten years had been uncovered until he was ready

for trial. This was necessary because as the Justice Department closed in on the mobs around the country, the

mobs had started to fight back in their traditional way.

Good lawyers could occasionally discredit a witness in a courtroom, but the mobs had

long ago found out that the best way to get rid of a troublesome witness was simply to get

rid of him. During the twenties, a government witness against a racketeer signed his

death warrant when he signed a statement. A secretary, a witness to a shooting, a

thug who wanted to turn state's evidence-the mob would get them, even in jail. And

righteously, defense counsel would get the signed statement thrown out of court because

the witness's death had denied him his right to cross-examine.

So about ten years ago, the Justice Department had a good idea. Why not give the witnesses new identities

and new lives and keep them absolutely secure until the trial? Then, after the trial, give them another life and

watch them a while to make sure they were safe? And it had worked. Because now witnesses knew they

could testify and live.

So the man called Calder had thought.

The phone in the motel room where the agent was staying rang. It was the district director of the FBI.

The agent wanted to speak first.

"As soon as I finish my report, you can have my resignation."

"Your resignation won't be required."

"Don't give me the official bullshit. I know I'm going to Anchorage or somewhere I can't

live because of this thing."

"You don't know that. We don't know it. I don't know it. Just continue your work."

"You can't tell me that the agent who loses the first government witness in ten frigging

"You don't know that. We don't know it. I don't know it. Just continue your work."

"You can't tell me that the agent who loses the first government witness in ten frigging

years isn't going to get canned. C'mon, I'm not Bo Peep."

"You're also not the first. We lost two others this morning," said the District Director.

"This whole thing may be coming apart."

In a sanitarium called Folcroft on Long Island Sound, giant computers received the details of the Fairview

incident and the two others. Because of the designs of these machines, the printouts could only be gotten at one

office. It had one-way windows, a large sparse desk, and a terminal which could be operated only through a

code. The Fair-view incident was the last to clack out of the machine. A gaunt man with a lemony face read

all three reports. Unlike the district director in Oklahoma, Dr. Harold W. Smith did not think ten years work

might be falling apart. He knew it was.

CHAPTER TWO

His name was Remo and the hotel guest wouldn't let him go. Was Remo aware that he and his Oriental friend

probably produced an incredible amount of Theta waves and functioned to a great degree at the Alpha level?

Remo didn't know that. Would the guest please pass the salt?

The guest was sure that Remo and his elderly Oriental friend functioned at these states,

otherwise how could Remo explain yesterday. How?

The salt.

Certainly, the salt. There was no other explanation, said Dr. Charlese, Averill N., as in Averill Harriman except

he wasn't related to the wealthy and famous railroad family, just a poor parapsychologist trying to let people

know of the great powers locked within humanity. He had a card:

Dr. Averill N. Charlese

President

Mind Potential Institute Houston, Texas

He had come down to Mexico City, where the America Games were now being held, to prove his theory. Not

that it really needed proving, because it was a fact. Fact. People producing Theta waves could perform what

appeared to be incredible feats.

Remo suddenly saw a small chart cover his breakfast of white rice and water. There, in

blue and red and green and yellow, was an ascending "rainbow!" Yellow, at the top, was

the conscious level of the mind, and darkest blue was the deep Theta state.

Remo looked around for a waiter at the El Conquistador, a large modern hotel built like

a simulated Aztec temple, with waiters in Aztec-type print smocks, surrounded by

very un-Aztec Muzak.

"If I'm bothering you, let me know," said Dr. Charlese, a pudgy man in his mid-thirties,

with a crown of brownish gold hair gleaming like a helmet fashioned by hot comb and

lacquer.

"You're bothering me," said Remo, who folded the chart and put it in Charlese's

gold plaid jacket.

"Good. Honesty is the basis for a good relationship."

Remo chewed a few kernels of rice until they were liquid, then he drank it into his

stomach. He eyed a roast beef, sliced thick and fatty and red, being served at a

neighboring table. It had been a long time since he had had a piece of meat, and

his memory hungered for it. Not his body, which now dictated what he would eat. He

remembered that the roast beef used to be good. But that was a long time ago.

"I knew yesterday you were something special," said Dr. Charlese.

Remo tried to remember an incident the day before that might have inflicted this

lacquer-headed sparkler of positive thought on him. He could not. There was nothing

special the day before, just resting, getting sun and, of course, the training. But Charlese

couldn't have been able to tell the training from a nap. Which was what it appeared to be,

because at Remo's level of competence, his body had long ago achieved its maximum. He

was now working in the limitless frontiers of his mind. Anything more he would learn to

do, he would learn in his mind, not in his body.

Charlese opened the chart again, and moved the rice away, explaining that this was

his only chart and he didn't want to get food on it.

Remo smiled politely, took the offered chart and, starting at the top left corner, tore

it diagonally across. Then he tore the two remaining pieces into four, then the four

Remo smiled politely, took the offered chart and, starting at the top left corner, tore

it diagonally across. Then he tore the two remaining pieces into four, then the four

into eight. He put them in Dr. Charlese's open mouth.

"Fantastic," said Dr. Charlese, spitting the confetti of his chart. A corner with a blue Theta on it landed in

the center of Remo's rice. Enough. He rose from the table. He was a thin man, about six feet tall, give or take

an inch, depending on how he used his body that day, with high cheekbones and eyes that had a central

darkness of limitless, weightless space. He wore gray slacks and a dark turtleneck shirt. His shoes were loafers.

As he left

the table, the eyes of several women followed him. One sent back a green and yellow

Montezuma parfait when she looked at her husband after looking at Remo.

Dr. Charlese followed him.

"You probably don't even remember what you did yesterday," said Dr. Charlese. "You

were by the pool."

"Leave," said Remo.

Dr. Charlese followed him to the elevator. Remo waited until the door was just

closing before he entered. The elevator was a local, making several stops before the

fourteenth floor. When it reached the floor, Dr. Charlese was there smiling.

"Positive thinking. Positive thinking," he said. "I projected my elevator not to make

stops."

"Did you do your projecting while standing in front of the buttons?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, yes," said Dr. Charlese. "But it never hurts to help the

projection of a positive image. A human being can do whatever he imagines he can do. If

you can imagine it, you can do it."

"I'm imagining that you're leaving me alone," said Remo.

"But my imagination is stronger, and I'm imagining that you're going to answer my

questions."

"And I'm imagining that you're lying on the carpeting of this hallway with your mouth a

mess of broken teeth so you cannot ask questions."

Dr. Charlese thought this quite humorous, because he was imagining Remo telling him the secrets of his

power. Remo smiled slightly and was about to show Dr. Charlese how a snapping right hand could overcome

any thought, when Dr.

Charlese said something that made Remo stop, made him want to know about this man's theories.

"Breathing is the key," said Dr. Charlese. "I know that. Breathing is the whole key to

control of those vast reaches of your mind. Did you know that the chart I gave you was

nylon mesh? No one could tear it with his hands."

"Would you explain what you're talking about?"

"I had only one copy of that chart. I carried it with me. I didn't want it destroyed so I

had it hand-painted on strong nylon mesh, reinforced with steel strands. Something like

a steel-belted tire. And you tore it up like it was paper."

"I'm trying to piece this thing together. What do you know about breathing?" Remo

asked.

"Yesterday, I saw you by the pool. With the Japanese man."

"Korean. Never call him Japanese," said Remo.

"And I saw you do it. I timed it."

"What? Nobody can tell when I'm exercising."

"Your diaphragm gave you away."

"How?"

"It didn't move. I watched your breathing slow down and then your diaphragm didn't

move. Not for twenty-two minutes and fifteen seconds. I have a stopwatch. I time

everything."

"Can we talk somewhere privately?"

"I've been sort of evicted from my room. But I'm projecting that someone else will

pay the bill."

"No, no. I'm not interested in your projecting. I want to know about breathing," said

Remo.

"I knew you could tear that chart when I saw your breathing control."

"Wait," said Remo. "Not out here in the hall." He led Dr. Charlese to his suite. He

opened the door quietly and put a finger over his lips. A frail Oriental, with a wisp of a

white beard and strands of white hair surrounding his otherwise bald head, sat in a

opened the door quietly and put a finger over his lips. A frail Oriental, with a wisp of a

white beard and strands of white hair surrounding his otherwise bald head, sat in a

chartreuse kimono, mumbling something. He was watching a television program in which

the actors spoke in English. Remo guided Dr. Charlese to another room.

"I didn't know there were American soap operas down here," said Dr. Charlese.

"There aren't. He has them taped specially. Never misses one."

"What was he talking about?"

"It was Korean. He was saying how awful the shows were."

"Then why does he watch them?"

"One never asks why with the Master of Sinanju." "Who?"

"Never mind. Tell me about breathing."

Dr. Charlese explained: The human brain emitted waves at different levels of consciousness. At the Alpha

level, or what they called Alpha waves, people were more relaxed and creative and even exhibited powers of

extrasensory perception. At the deeper level, where people emitted what were called Theta waves, people could

perform extraordinary feats. This was documented. How many times, for example, had Remo heard of a child

trapped underneath a car and the mother lifting that car in a sense of calm purpose? How many times had

Remo heard of people fleeing danger

and leaping over fences to do so, leaps that would have been Olympic records? How many

times had Remo heard of a person surviving a fall, while others in the fall were killed?

What were those greater powers?

"Get back to the breathing," said Remo. "What does breathing have to do with these

things?"

"That's how we discovered that human beings can produce these waves at will. It's a

relaxed breathing process in which you slow down your breathing. You relax your way to

power."

"And you can do these things?"

"Well, not exactly me. But I've seen others. You see, I'm not exactly a representative

of the institute, anymore. They're very finicky."

"About what?"

"Commissions and things, and using this power for good, I say power is power and has

no purpose other than itself."

"You stole money or something?"

"There was an accident. They blamed me for the girl's death, but I say what is the life of a child when I

can help all mankind. I, Dr. Averill Charlese. And, with you, we could make a fortune."

"Breathing, you say, huh?"

"Breathing."

And Remo listened. About the institute. About the narrow-minded people running it and how Dr. Charlese

was not actually a doctor exactly. He was a doctor in the broader sense. One person bestowed the title on

another, therefore he was bestowing it on someone he knew was worthy of the title. Himself.

"You could call yourself doctor, too," said Charlese.

"Breathing you say," said Remo.

In the late afternoon, Remo heard the set in the lounge of the suite click off. He nodded

for Dr. Charlese to follow.

When they entered the lounge, the old Oriental turned his head.

"Little Father," Remo said, "I would like to introduce you to someone very

interesting. He is not privy to any secrets of Sinanju. Neither has he been taught by

any master. He learned what he knows in an American City called Houston, Texas, from

white men."

Chiun's placid eyes moved up and down the lacquer-haired visitor with the bubbling

Rotarian smile. He turned away as if someone had pointed out an orange rind. He was not

interested.

"Dr. Charlese, I would like you to meet Chiun, the latest Master of Sinanju."

"Pleased to meet you, sir," said Dr. Charlese. He offered a pudgy hand. Chiun did

not turn around. Dr. Charlese looked to Remo, confused.

"He says hello a little differently," said Remo, by way of explanation. Chiun's way of

saying hello was to not even turn his head as Remo explained some of the things Dr.

Charlese had been talking about.

"Breathing," Remo said. "Nothing mysterious. Nothing great. Just good old American

science. By white men."

Chiun chuckled. "Am I now led to believe the awesome magnificence of the Glorious

House of Sinanju has been put into a little pill for people?

That centuries of discipline and wisdom can be discovered in a test tube?"

"No test tube," said Remo. "Breathing."

"When we talk of breathing, we talk of approaching the unity which makes you a force," Chiun said.

"When that man talks of breathing, he means puffing."

"I don't think so, Little Father. I think they may have stumbled onto something.

Maybe by accident."

"So glad to meet you, sir. The name's Charlese. Dr. Averill Charlese, no relation to

Averill Harriman, the millionaire. And you, sir, are Mr. Chiun?"

Chiun looked off into the blue Mexican sky outside their window.

"He doesn't like to discuss these things with strangers, especially foreigners."

"I'm not foreign. I'm American," said Dr. Charlese. "And so are you."

Remo heard Chiun mumble something in Korean about being able to take whiteness

out of the mind but not the soul.

"Go ahead, talk. He's really listening," Remo said. Dr. Charlese began drawing

diagrams of the mind on small white cloths he found under an unused ashtray.

Breathing, thought Remo. It had been more than a decade now since he heard

that first strange instruction. More than a decade since he had stopped using his body

and mind only partially, as other men did.

What appeared to others as great feats of strength and speed were really as

effortless to him now as flicking a light switch. As Chiun had

said, effort was expended when one functioned improperly. Correctness brought ease.

Remo had been taught that ease when he had been given Sinanju, called Sinanju after the

village on the West Korea Bay whence came the Masters of Sinanju. From king to king

and emperor to emperor, from pharaoh to Medici, these masters-one or, at most, two-

generation-rented their talents and services to the rulers of the world. Assassins whose

services paid for the food in the desolate little Korean village where crops did not grow and

the fishing was poor. Each Master did not rule the village, but served it, for he was the

provider of food.

During many generations their actions were observed by those who would imitate

Sinanju. But they only saw, as Chiun had said, the kimono and not the man. They saw the

blows when the blows were slow enough for the human eye to see. And from these blows

and kicks and the other movements that were slow enough for normal men to see, came

karate and ninja and taikwando and all that was thought to be the martial arts.

But they were only the rays. Sinanju was the sun source.

And in the travels of the Masters of Sinanju, the current one, Chiun, made contact with an American group

that said, "Take this man and teach him things." It had been more than ten years. And it had started with the

blows and became the essence-the breathing that now so excited Remo who, since he was born in the west, had

always sought to explain Sinanju to himself in Western terms. And always failed.

Maybe Chiun was right: Sinanju could not be

explained in terms of the West. Then again, maybe he was wrong.

Remo listened to Dr. Charlese, and although Chiun seemed to be contemplating,

Remo knew the Master of Sinanju was taking in every word.

"So you see," said Dr. Charlese in summation. "People are not using their full abilities.

More than 90 percent of the human brain is never used. What we do is unlock the human

growth potential."

Chiun finally turned and looked at Charlese, whose pudgy pale face was beaded with

sweat, even in the air-conditioned chill of the fourteenth-floor Conquistador suite.

"You would see something then?" asked Chiun.

"You betcha," said Dr. Charlese.

Chiun's long fingernails at the end of parched bony hands made a circular signal,

calling on Remo for a move.

"That's nothing," Remo said.

"You were the one, Remo, who would invite some passing stranger into the bosom

of our home. Then you may demonstrate. And of course I selected a 'nothing.' I did

not want you to do it incorrectly."

Remo shrugged. It was a simple exercise. It depended on slowness. You approached the wall with

momentum, and then bringing it flat to you so you could practically smell the dust in the ceiling corner, you

walked straight up, letting the momentum carry your waist height to the level of your head and then, with

your feet just beneath the ceiling, dropping the head down straight to the floor and bringing the feet

beneath you just

before the head touched. Like so much in the discipline of Sinanju, it appeared to be

what it wasn't. The legs only followed the momentum of the body up to the ceiling,

though it looked as if you were using them to walk up a wall; it was really only using

forward momentum deflected upward by the impact with the wall.

"Golly, wow," said Dr. Charlese. "Wow. Walked right up the frigging wall."

"Well, not exactly," said Remo.

"And you too would do these things?" asked Chiun.

"I'd be rich," said Dr. Charlese. "I could buy off the parents."

"What parents?" Remo asked.

"Well, that damned little girl. I had a demonstration of teaching to swim through

imagination. Little bitch."

"What happened?" said Remo.

"Panicked. Didn't trust me. I told her if she panicked, she'd drown, but if she relaxed,

she'd be fine. Had the parents' signature on the release form too. But you know the

courts in America. Didn't let it hold up. It would have been a breakthrough. Could have

sold the program by mail order if it had worked."

"You took the life of a child?" said Chiun.

"She took her own life. If she had listened to me, she would have swum right out. I

would have been famous. But the little bitch called out for her mommy. Damn. Had the

local press there too."

"I see," said Chiun. "If the child had followed your instructions, she would have lived."

"Absolutely. One hundred percent. Lord's honest truth," said Charlese.

"Then I will show you how to walk walls," said Chiun, "for no secrets should be kept

from one of such great faith."

This surprised Remo, because he knew that for the most deadly killers the world had

ever known, the purposeful killing of a child was anathema. And there could be no

question that Charlese's accident was not purposeful killing. Not to a master of Sinanju,

Remo knew, because while discipline for adults was screw-lock tight, children were

considered incapable of anything but receiving love. You nourished a child with love for

the long hard journey through a life that had so little love.

This teaching, Chiun said, would occur at night. Remo listened to him talk. Some of

what he said to Dr. Charlese was Sinanju, but most was, as Chiun often said, chicken

droppings.

Early evening there was a phone call. Remo's Aunt Mildred was going to the

country. She would be there at 3 a.m., and Remo should not worry about her kidney

stones. It was a telegram read by Western Union. Remo did not worry about his Aunt

Mildred or her kidney stones. He had no Aunt Mildred. He had no living relatives, which

was precisely why he had been chosen more than a decade before by the people who

hired Chiun to train him.

At 1 a.m., with Dr. Charlese bubbling over with speculation on the potential of the human mind, Chiun,

Remo and Charlese walked fifteen flights up a back stairway to the roof. Below them Mexico City, once a

city built on a swamp and now a modern city built on the rubble of ancient cities, twinkled brightly. The air

was dusty hot, even at

night, and the roof above the playroof gave no relief. The air covered them like a pressure cooker lid.

Charlese's fancy clothes were darkened with perspiration. The front of his shirt looked as if someone had

thrown a bucket of water at his navel.

"Do you believe?" asked Chiun.

"I believe," said Dr. Charlese.

"Do your breathing thing and then I shall show you a miracle," said Chiun.

Charlese closed his eyes and breathed deeply three times.

"I'm ready," he said.

Charlese closed his eyes and breathed deeply three times.

"I'm ready," he said.

"Your body is air," Chiun said softly in a dull monotone. "You float like a balloon. You

are on a path. Solid. Walk. You feel a little wall in the middle of the path."

Charlese touched the small rail separating him from the sidewalks of Mexico City, one

foot forward, thirty stories down.

"Climb over the small wall and rest your feet on the step beneath it. They are wide

steps but you will use only a small part of them. You are secure. You are on wide steps.

You are safe," said Chiun.

Charlese lowered his feet over the wall while the trunk of his body rested on the ledge.

"Yep, I feel the steps," said Charlese. "Hot dayum. It's working!"

Remo knew that what Charlese felt were the crevices between bricks. People could use

the tips of the bricks for short climbing, but most people lacked the balance for anything

more than a momentary step.

"You walk safely down the steps, the broad steps," said Chiun. Charlese's body went

down, a brick's height at a time. Remo joined Chiun at the edge of the roof. Charlese

went down the side of the building slowly, supported by his heels which lodged in the

thin mortar cracks between bricks. The top of his body was visible. Then his shoulders.

Then only his head.

"You can turn around on this wide step," said Chiun, and Charlese slowly turned his

body so he was facing the wall. His smile looked to Remo like a crease in a fat melon.

His eyes were closed.

"Open your eyes," said Chiun.

"It's working. It's working. I'll be rich," said Charlese, looking up at Remo and Chiun.

"Now," said Chiun, holding forth a finger, "I give you a most important piece of

advice. Like you gave the child in the pool."

"I know, I know," said Charlese. "I won't muck it up."

"The advice is this: Do not think of what your body will look like when it falls that great distance to the

ground," said Chiun.

The face went. Thwit. First it was smiling at them, and then it was gone. The hands,

clutching desperately for a hold on something, anything, followed like two half-ounce

bobbers yanked by a whale on the dive. Gone.

"I told him not to think what his body would look like when it reached the ground. I

hope he listened to me," said Chiun.

Down below, a long way away, there was a distant clap, like a blob of fresh pizza dough

smacking a cold tile. It was Charlese.

"I think the kitchen is closed by now. I'd like some fish, if you can get it without

butter on it," Remo said.

"It is always a risk when someone else prepares your food," said Chiun. "You put their

hands in your stomach. That is the risk.

"Smitty sent word earlier. There's some trouble. He'll be here in a couple of hours,"

Remo opened the roof door for the Master of Sinanju. They descended the fifteen

flights to their suite.

"Trouble? Emperor Smith faces trouble? Good. An emperor is always more reasonable

when he is in trouble. The calm waters are starvation time for an assassin. For then he is

cheated and reviled and disrespected. At times like these, we must compensate for those

placid times."

"You're not going to hit him for another raise?" asked Remo.

"It is not a raise like some sweeper of dirt or planter of seed, but just an honest tribute

to the House of Sinanju."

"Sure, sure," mumbled Remo. He knew gold was delivered by submarine to this village in North Korea,

as stipulated in the agreement between Dr. Harold W. Smith, representing his organization, and Chiun,

representing the village. This amount of gold-Chiun did not accept paper money considering it only a promise

dependent upon the veracity of the sponsoring government-had steadily increased over the decade, the

biggest jump coming most recently, when Chiun had insisted that the amount be doubled because Remo could

now be considered a Master of Sinanju

also, since he would one day succeed Chiun, and therefore the village deserved double

compensation for double masters.

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TALK-ORELSE"Hellothere,"cameavoicefrombehindhim."MynameisRemoandyou'regoingtotalktome.You'vecausedmeaproblem.You'regoingtouncauseit.HowdidyoukillKauf-mann?Whodiditforyou?""Mywrist.Ican'ttalk.""Ileftyouyourthroattotalk.Nowifyou'renotgoingtouseitforme,I'lltakeitwithme.""There'saman-heprovidestheservic...

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Destroyer 023 - Childs Play

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