On the other hand, he told himself, there could have been a problem with the drone—or plain bad luck. They had gone twenty years without a glitch, before they lost the first one. Any other company with products on the market, they were making recalls every time you turned around. Bad tuna, flammable pajamas, cars that went off like a fucking atom bomb if they got love-tapped from behind, airliners crashing when some idiot forgot to doublecheck the nuts and bolts.
Frayne lounged beside his pool, eyes covered with those little plastic cups that looked like something from a 1950s horror movie, flaccid body slathered with enough sunblock to protect him from a napalm strike, and waited for Justine to put in her appearance. He had met her dancing at the Lucky Strike, in Lauderdale—that is to say, she did the dancing, while he sat and tried to keep his pulse from going through the roof. His second time to visit, she had joined him at his table, stalled a little bit before she finally agreed to private sessions at an hourly rate that should have qualified her as a lawyer or psychiatrist-—perhaps even a plumber.
Frayne had to smile at that, his capped teeth glinting in the sun. Justine had cleaned his pipes, all right, and she was well worth every cent she charged. It wasn’t like a man his age could drop into a singles’ bar and find some sweet young thing to love him for his personality, much less the body that would surely fail him one fine day before too long. They did not go to dinner or the movies, were not dating or engaged. It was a straight-up pay-for-play arrangement, and Frayne liked it that way, everybody knowing where they stood. When Justine tired of him, or found somebody with a bigger bankroll to entice her, Frayne could always shop around for a replacement. Maybe something Latin next time. Get a little piece of NAFTA working for himself.
Lately, though, he had trouble maintaining interest in the game. He still looked forward to the visits with Justine, of course, and went out trolling in the clubs at least three nights a week, but it was getting stale. Frayne had begun to wonder if maybe there was something more to life than lying in the sun and chasing someone else’s tail.
It could be worse, he told himself. He could be like that asshole Giddings, stone-cold dead. Or like that, crazy fucker Radcliff, hooked on some great cause that made the rest of life seem like a fever dream.
No, thank you very much.
If Frayne got a vote, he would prefer his current lifestyle over the alternatives—no life at all, or a crusade that ate up every waking moment of his time. Wall Street was bad enough, while, it had lasted, with the damn margin calls and everybody screaming in the pits all day. It almost came as a relief when they had caught him with his fingers in the cookie jar, especially since he had. already socked away enough cold cash to send him on his way in style.
Good times, he thought. And then, there was Eugenix.
Fuck it.
Frayne heard the side gate creaking on its hinges, and he smiled at the image in his mind. He felt himself begin to stiffen in anticipation. Should they start out with a little skinny-dip this afternoon, or maybe a massage? He had two hours booked, and if he needed more—
A shadow fell across Frayne’s face and stayed there, blocking out the sun. He waited for a moment, psyched up for the phony compliments she always threw in free of charge, then became a bit confused when she said nothing.
Finally he raised a hand and slipped the sci-fi goggles up onto his forehead, blinking at the man who stood above him, where Justine should be. The sun was at the stranger’s back, and yet—
That face.
“Aw, shit,” he muttered, bolting upright, angling for the house and the guns inside.
A set of steely fingers gripped his throat like talons, stopped him dead and slammed him backward to the deck.
Remo drove west from Lauderdale on Highway 84, picked up 817 northbound, the final thirteen miles to Coral Springs. He had an address memorized for Jasper Frayne’s retirement, directions from another street map, but his mind was busy with a replay of his latest conversation with Chiun.
“I take it from our flittering hither and yon that you have not yet located one of Smith’s walking dead men,” the Master of Sinanju had blandly inquired as they were settling into yet another motel room.
“Not yet,” said Remo.
“Nor will you,” Chiun sniffed. “The man has obviously taken complete leave of his senses. How does he expect you to kill a man who is already dead?”
“We never really got that far,” Remo admitted.
“Pah! He is a fool and you are on a fool’s errand.”
“Is that why you keep barricading yourself in these hotel rooms and refusing to help with the leg-work?”
“Legwork is for dancers, not Masters of Sinanju. If you want to be a Rockette, that is your business.”
“Thanks a heap. Little Father.”
Chiun tipped his birdlike head to one side. “I am somewhat curious,” he said. “Your targets simply wear a dead man’s face?”
“And fingerprints. Maybe the same DNA, for all I know. The new technology didn’t exist in ’65, and no one bothered saving Hardy’s blood.”
“But someone saved the body,” Chiun reminded him. “The act required some risk. You should assume it has significance.”
“I sort of had already.”
“Are they religious?” Chiun asked suddenly.
“Who?”
“Your adversaries.”
“From the nature of their crimes, I tend to doubt it.”
“Perhaps they are politically motivated,” Chiun ventured.
“Their choice of victims doesn’t indicate that, either.”
“So they are hired killers.”
“Almost certainly.”
“Then you must understand that everything they do is done for money or to save themselves.”
As the preeminent assassin from a village known for expertise in that regard, Chiun knew whereof he spoke, and Remo didn’t argue with his personal assessment.
How long before his unseen, unknown adversaries started working overtime to save themselves? Within the past few months, they had lost two of their peculiar carbon-copy killers, and they had to realize that the authorities would be investigating the bizarre phenomenon. It was a time for plugging leaks, and Remo wondered if Devona Price would be all right. Or Yuli Cristobal, in Carson City. Both of them had spilled their guts, and while they only pointed him toward nameless shadows, toward a corporation long defunct, that breach alone would, be considered a betrayal in the big leagues, justifying punishment.
But they had taken a risk a long time ago, and now they were on their own. And he had more important fish to fry. If anyone could tell him what was cooking with Eugenix Corporation, that someone was Jasper Frayne, the former CEO and founding father. Remo meant to keep his FBI facade in place as long as possible, but he would use whatever pressure might be necessary if he met resistance from the one-time leader of Eugenix.
There was nothing in the book that said Frayne had to come out of their interview alive, much less intact.
He found the address, parked his rented compact at the curb and walked up to the house. No answer to the bell, but Remo heard a muffled sound, like someone coughing, that appeared to issue from the yard in back. He circled to the left and found a gate half-open, beckoning him to proceed. The scuffling, thrashing sounds were louder now, and Remo knew exactly what they meant.
Someone was fighting for his life.
He came around the corner in a burst of speed, found two men grappling in a grim, uneven contest. The older, softer of the two, was sprawled across a chaise longue, clad only in a black bikini bathing suit, his brown skin slick with oil and blood. The man who stood above him, bending at the waist, wore linen trousers and a garish flowered shirt that gave him the appearance of a tourist gone astray. He held down his victim with one hand, while his other made repeated, choppy jabbing motions from the waist.