Verillio was very careful and very precise as he always had been, and he carefully raised the pistol, made sure it was on line, then he squeezed the trigger. He felt only a fractional instant of discomfort as the top of his head blew off and splattered a far wall with flesh and bone and gristle. In the split second before everything stopped, he tried to smile at Remo and he said to himself, "In the name of the Father and. . . ."
The secretary shrieked and fainted. Remo let her drop and walked to the desk. The attaché case was open but it held only money. He felt under the desk and the blades on the shredder basket were still warm. Verillio had left him nothing.
He looked at the money. Stack after stack and $10,000 in each stack. He tried to imagine how many fixes it represented; how many lives destroyed and twisted by the needle that made this money for Verillio; he saw a parade of people passing him by-junkies, children, dying, dead-and he felt no more sympathy for Verillio's dead, skull-shattered body lying there. He stuffed his pockets full of the money. Next, he walked over, gentled the secretary back to consciousness at her desk, and told her she had best call the police. Then he left.
Downstairs, Remo wondered if it were all finished now. Was it all over with Verillio's death? He thought not. There was still a mountain of heroin somewhere and as long as it was out there somewhere, it meant that men would try to sell it. They would fight over it; they would kill for it; and there would be need of Remo Williams, the Destroyer.
Remo walked down the street, thinking, and behind him he heard the wail of sirens headed, no doubt, for Verillio's office. He kept walking and then he was standing in front of a church, a beautiful church. On impulse he went in.
The church was ornate and as beautiful inside. The seats seemed to be hand carved, the altar was magnificent-celebrating the Me of Jesus and God. Remo could feel love and worship in the air and he thought it was good for men to have gods to love. He felt in his pocket for the money and it was there, then he saw a young, balding priest standing in the rear of the church and he walked over to him, pulled the money out of his pocket, dropped it onto a small table and said, "For you, Father. To continue God's work."
Remo turned and walked away, and Father F. H. Maguire smiled. He had expected a sign from God.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
But the stuff was rolling. Into Kansas City came ten pounds and Greasy Russo cut the price to start driving out the competition. There would be plenty more where this came from.
And into Vegas came a few pounds-in the casinos downtown and the whorehouses outside the strip -the word came down: the price is going lower. The independent dealers got the word and began angling to try to get themselves lined up with the man who controlled the sales.
And there were the same stories coming out of St. Louis, Philly, Atlanta and Chicago. The dope was rolling. It was just a trickle now. . .just a few pounds . . .probably brought out in private cars. . .but it was coming.
The trickle would turn into a pour, then into a wave, and when it got split up and scattered around America's major cities, the big fix would be on, America's chance to break the back of the narcotics trade would be lost.
America's allies were angry now, too. France had wanted to handle this and was now pointedly expressing regret that America had blundered. Great Britain and Japan too. What happened in America happened in their countries as well. They wanted the narcotics movers wiped out. If America couldn't do it, well, then, they just might have to fall back on their own resources.
It was noon. Remo had gone back to his New York apartment and called Smith on the scrambler phone.
"Verillio's dead," Remo said.
Smith could not have cared less. "Have you found the heroin?"
"Not yet."
"Not yet? What are you waiting for?"
"I'm waiting for you and all your stupid Dick Tracy snooperscopes to find it"
"Don't be smart. The supplies are getting out. We don't know how and it's just a little bit. Rut we've got to find the main source of supply."
"Won't Verillio being dead stop it?" Remo asked.
"Use your head. That'll stop it for about five minutes and then somebody else is going to be moving it. What you have to do is find it. And fast. You must act quickly."
"Thanks a lot for the great advice."
"Try following it for a change."
It was a race but Smith hung up first. Score one for him.
Remo looked around the room. On the couch was the pile of equipment he had bought at the sporting goods store on the way over. Chiun had studiously ignored it ever since Remo came in the door. Chiun was still mad because Remo had missed dinner last night after Chiun had made special lobster.
Chiun now sat on the floor watching Myron Brisbane, psychiatrist at large. "Chiun," Remo said, "You've got to give me a hand with those bodies. The bathroom's getting disgusting, even with the ice."
Chiun stared at the television and mumbled something to Remo. It sounded like "my arteries. . .the strain."
"Come on, Chiun, dammit," Remo said.
"I am too old for that kind of thing."
"You weren't too old to kill them," Remo said.
"Shhhh," Chiun said, holding up a finger for silence and staring at the television.
Remo muttered something about the deceit of Orientals, especially Koreans, and picked up the heavy package and carried it into the bathroom. He did not see Chiun stick out his tongue at Remo's back.
Inside the bathroom, Remo looked at the three bodies crowded into the bathtub, crushed ice packed tightly around them.
Remo dropped his package with a snarl and snapped the heavy twine that wrapped it. From the heavy brown paper, he extracted three duffle bags and three diver's wet suits.
He yanked the top body in the grouping out of the tub onto the tile floor, and began to yank the black foam rubber pants over the dead man's suit clothes. Then he pulled on the long-sleeved black rubber jacket, snapped and zipped both of them shut. He pulled a rubber helmet onto the corpse, then outside rubber booties, and forced the body into one of the duffle bags. He stuffed a towel in on top of the body so no one could look in at the bag's contents and locked it with a padlock.
He repeated the process with the other two bodies in the tub. When he was done the light blue tile floor was sloshy with water and melting ice, but the bodies were packed safely away in the canvas military duffle bags.
Remo stood them up against the sink and walked out again into the living room.
"You going to help me with these? he asked Chiun.
Chiun feigned sleep.
Remo knew when he had lost. "The next time you fell somebody, you get rid of them. I don't even want to know you."
Chiun's eyes were still closed and Remo said out loud, "A sleeping man can't watch television. No point in wasting electricity," and then he walked over and turned off the television.
Remo went back into the bathroom. He hoisted one duffle bag up to his shoulder, catching the body inside at the waist with his shoulder and balancing it there neatly. He grabbed the other duffles by their center handles, one in each hand, straightened up and walked back out into the living room where the television set again was on.
The secret was in motion, and Remo imperceptibly kept the two bags he was holding in his hands swinging gently and the one on his shoulder rocking. He kept them moving all the time, so they never got a chance to become dead weight and he never had a chance to feel their six hundred pounds of weight.
Downstairs the doorman gave him a quizzical look, but hailed a cab. The cabbie stopped and made no offer to help his passenger with his odd luggage, so the passenger tossed it into the back seat himself.