"Stop the foolishness."
"That's what I like about you, sweetheart. You're all joy."
"Goodbye," said Smith.
"Chiun. The ninety-pound Alex Karras."
Smith hung up and returned to the reports. They were all bad and getting worse. Perhaps his own fear of dying was now clouding his judgment. Perhaps CURE already had passed the point of compromise. Maybe he should have ordered Chiun back to Folcroft then and there.
From the safe on the left side of his desk, he withdrew a small air-sealed plastic bag. It held one pill. He put it in his vest and went back to the reports. Remo would contact again tomorrow.
The new reports were coming in again, this time with his razor. Remo's call line had been tapped and traced to Rye, New York. That information came from an assistant traffic manager of a telephone company in Boston.
Smith flicked the intercom to see if his secretary was in yet.
"Yes, Dr. Smith," came the voice over the intercom.
"Oh. Good morning. Please send a memo to the shipping department. We're almost certainly going to send an aluminum box of laboratory equipment to Parsippany, New Jersey, tomorrow. I'd like it routed through Pittsburgh and then flown in."
CHAPTER NINE
Ricardo deEstrana y Montaldo y Ruiz Guerner had told his visitor that $70,000 was not enough.
"Impossible," he said, strolling to his patio, his velvet slippered feet moving silently over the fieldstone. He walked to its edge and rested his breakfast champagne on the stone ledge separating him from his acres of rolling gardens that became forest, and beyond that, the Hudson River about to be enveloped in the glorious bright colors of fall.
"Just impossible," he said again, and breathed deeply the grape-scented breeze coming from his arbors nestling in the New York hills, good wine country because the vines must fight for survival among the rocks. How like life, that its quality was a reflection of its struggle. How true of his vineyards, which he personally supervised.
He was well into middle age, yet exercise and the good life left him remarkably trim and his continental manners and immaculate dress provided his bed with constant companionship. When he wanted. Which was always before and after, but never during the harvest.
Now, this grubby little woman with a purse full of money, obviously some sort of Communist affiliate, and more than likely just a messenger, wanted him to risk his life for $70,000.
"Impossible," he said for the third time and lifted the glass from the hard rock edge of his patio. He held it to the sun as a thank you and the tinted bubbling liquid glistened, as if honored to be chosen for an offering to the sun.
Ricardo deEstrana y Montaldo y Ruiz Guerner did not face his guest, to whom he did not offer champagne just as he had not offered her a seat. He had met her in his den, heard her proposition, and declined it. Yet she did not leave.
Now he heard her heavy shoes follow him, clomping out onto his patio.
"But $70,000 is more than twice what you get ordinarily."
"Madame," he said, his voice cold with contempt. "Seventy thousands dollars is twice what I received in 1948. I have not been working since then."
"But this is an important assignment."
"For you perhaps. Not for me."
"Why won't you take it?"
"That is simply none of your concern, Madame."
"Have you lost your revolutionary fervor?"
"I have never had a revolutionary fervor."
"You must take this assignment."
He felt her breath behind him, the intense heat of a nervous sweaty woman. You could feel her presence in the pores of your skin. That was the curse of sensitivity, the sensitivity that made Ricardo deEstrana y Montaldo y Ruiz Guerner percisely Ricardo deEstrana y Montaldo y Ruiz Guerner. Once, at $35,000 a mission.
He sipped his champagne, allowing his mouth to surrender to its vibrancy. A good champagne, not a great one. And unfortunately, not even an interesting champagne although champagnes were notoriously uninteresting anyway. Dull. Like the woman.
"The masses have bled for the success which is imminent. The victory of the proletariat over the oppressive, racist capitalist system. Now join us in victory or die in defeat."
"Oh, piffle. How old are you, Madame?"
"You mock my revolutionary ardor?"
"I am shocked at a grownup's addiction to it. Communism is for people who never grow up. I take Disney-land more seriously."
"I cannot believe that you would say such a thing, you who have fought the fascist beast."
He turned to examine the woman more closely. Her face was lined with years of rage, her hair cast scraggly in many directions beneath a plain black hat that could use a cleaning. Her eyes seemed tired and pld. It was a face that had lived through a lifetime of arguments about the absurdities of dialectical materialism and class consciousness, far from where human beings lived their lives. She was about his age, he believed, yet appeared old and worn as though beyond the reach of even a spark of life.
"Madame, I fought the fascist beast, and so, am qualified to speak on it. It is identical to the communist beast. A beast is a beast. And my revolutionary fervor died when I saw what was supposed to replace the oppression of fascism. It was the oppression of such dullards as yourself. To me, Stalin, Hitler and Mao Tse Tung are identical."
"You have changed, Ricardo."
"I should hope so, Madame. People do grow up, unless stunted by some mass movement or other group sickness. I take it you knew me before?"
"You do not remember me?" Her voice, for the first time, wore some warmth.
"No, I do not."
"You do not remember the seige at Alcazar?"
"I remember that."
"You do not remember the battle at Teruel?"
"I remember that."
"And you do not remember me?"
"I do not."
"Maria Deloubier?"
The champagne glass shattered on the fieldstone terrace. Guerner's face paled.
"Maria," he gasped. "You?"
"Yes."
"Gentle, sweet Maria. No."
He looked at the haggard, cold face with the old eyes and he still could not see Maria, the young woman who believed and loved, who had reached out each morning for the sunshine as she reached out for a new world.
"Yes," said the old woman.
"Impossible," he said. "Time does not ravage like that, without leaving a trace."
"When you give your life to something, your life goes with it."
"No. Only if you give your life to something without life." Ricardo deEstrana y Montaldo y Ruiz Guemer gently placed his left hand on the woman's shoulder. He could feel the coarseness of the material, over the hardness of the bone.
"Come," he said. "We will eat. And we will talk."
"Will you do this thing for us, Ricardo? It is so important."
"We will talk, Maria. We have much to talk about."
Reluctantly, the woman agreed, and during the morning repast of fruit and wine and cheese, she answered questions about where she went after this cell collapsed, or that revolution succeeded, or this agitation failed or that one succeeded.
And Guemer discovered where Maria had fled, leaving only this passionless woman before him. Maria was the classic revolutionary, so involved with masses and power structures and political awareness that she forgot human beings. People became objects. Positive responses meant Communists, negative responses meant not Communist.
So it was easy for her to lump Nazis together with monarchists, democrats, republicans, capitalists. To her they were aU alike. They were "them." He also found that she had never remained in a country where her revolutionary efforts were successful. Those who dream most of the promised land are the ones most afraid to cross its borders.