thedestroyer.deathcheck-第1节

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　CHAPTER　ONE
　
　It　was　a　very　fast　killing。
　Touch　the　needle　to　the　left　arm。　Press　your　thumb　in　between　the　left　bicep　and　the　tricep　to　pump　up　the　vein。　Ah；　there　it　is。　Clear　the　air　from　the　syringe。　Then　in。　Full。　Slowly　push　the　plunger　all　the　way。
　Done。
　。　Remove　the　needle　and　let　him　collapse　back　again　beside　the　chess　table　where　he　had　fallen　moments　before。　His　head　cracked　on　the　polished　parquet　floor；　and　the　killer　could　not　help　wincing；　even　though　a　man　with　a　splendid　overdose　of　heroin　needs　no　sympathy。
　〃You　know；　my　dear；〃　said　the　man　with　the　needle。　〃Some　people　pay　for　this。　I　mean　they　actually　pay　to　do　this　to　themselves。〃
　〃You　didn't　have　to　do　it　that　way。　You　could　have　given　him　to　me　first。　I　wanted　him　tonight。〃
　She　said　this；　staring　directly　at　the　killer's　eyes；　trying　to　get　him　to　look　at　her　instead　of　the　man　on　the　floor。　She　wore　black　mesh　stockings；　covered　to　the　knees　with　deeply　polished　black　boots。　She　wore　lipstick　the　color　of　dried　blood。　That　was　all。　She　held　a　whip　in　her　left　hand　and　when　she　stamped　her　feet；　her　naked　breasts　quivered。
　〃Will　you　listen　to　me？〃　she　demanded。
　〃Shhh；〃　said　the　man；　his　hand　on　the　wrist　of　the　person　on　the　floor。　〃Ahh；　yes。　He　must　be　in　ecstasy。　This　might　not　be　a　bad　way　to　go　when　you　really　think　of　it。　Shhh。〃
　There　was　silence。　Then　the　man　said；　〃A　very　fast　and　efficient　job。　He's　dead。〃
　〃He's　dead　and　what　about　me？　Have　you　given　any　thought　to　me？〃
　〃Yes；　my　dear。　Put　your　clothes　on。〃　The　man　who　had　once　been　known　as　Dr。　Hans　Frichtmann　busied　himself　pressing　the　now…empty　hypodermic　needle　into　the　dead　man's　left　arm　in　three　other　spots；　barely　missing　the　fatal　entry　hole。　When　the　body　was　found；　the　holes　would　show　that　it　had　taken　the　victim　four　tries　to　find　the　vein。　An　amateur。　That　would　help　to　explain　the　massive　overdose。　Not　perfect；　but　it　might　do。
　The　woman　in　the　boots　had　not　moved。　Now　she　spoke。　〃How　about。。。　you　know；　you　and　me？　Normal。〃
　〃You　and　me　would　not　be　normal。〃　He　fixed　his　pale　blue　eyes　on　her。　〃Get　your'　clothes　on　and　help　me　with　this　unfortunate。〃
　〃Shit；〃　she　said。
　〃I　do　not　find　your　total　Americanization　being；〃　he　said　coldly。　〃Dress。〃　She　tossed　her　head　angrily　and　her　rich　black　hair　cascaded　around　her　bare　shoulders　as　she　turned　and　walked　away。
　Well　before　dawn；　they　placed　the　body　behind　a　desk　in　an　office　at　the　Brewster　Forum；　a〃　non…profit　organization　described　as　〃pursuing　research　into　original　thought。〃　It　was　the　office　of　the　director　of　security；　and　when　the　man　had　been　alive；　it　had　been　his　office。
　The　head　fell　forward　onto　the　blotter　and　the　syringe　was　carefully　dropped　beneath　the　right　hand；　whose　knuckles　momentarily　swung　inches　above　the　pile　of　the　carpeting；　then　settled…very　still…above　the　needle。
　〃Ah；　that's　it。　Good。'　Perfect；〃　said　the　man。
　〃A　shameful　waste；〃　added　the　woman；　who　now　wore　a　smart　tweed　suit　and　a　fashionable　knit　cap；　pulled　down　tightly　over　her　head。
　〃My　dear。　Our　employers　are　paying　us　very　well　to　procure　for　them　the　plan　to　conquer　the　world。　This　imbecile　got　in　our　way。　His　death；　therefore；　is　no　waste。　It　is　simply　a　requirement　of　our　profession。〃
　〃I　still　don't　like　it。　I　don't　like　the　planets　for　tonight。　There　is　a　force　playing　against　us。〃
　〃Rubbish；〃　the　man　said。　〃Did　you　give　him　a　person　check？〃
　〃Yes。　Was　it　rubbish　when　they　almost　caught　us？　Was　it　rubbish　when。。。？〃　Her　voice　trailed　off　as　they　left　the　office。
　But　the　person　check　had　not　been　made。　And　under　the　collar　of　the　highly　starched　shirt　of　the　director　of　security　were　clothbound　negatives；　tightly　stitched　into　place。
　The　late　director　of　security　had　sewn　them　there　the　previous　evening；　in　response　to　a　vaguely　anticipated　feeling　of　danger。　When　he　had　finished；　he　returned　the　needle　and　thread　to　his　wife's　sewing　cabinet；　kissed　her；　told　a　white　lie　about　an　evening　of　entertainment　and　moving　up　in　the　world；　double…checked　to　make　sure　his　insurance　policies　were　still　in　view　on　top　of　their　dresser　and　left　their　small　home　with　all　the　phony　nonchalance　he　could　generate　without　running　the　risk　of　being　obvious。
　Peter　McCarthy　had　planned　to　find　out　just　what　those　negatives　meant。　In　eighteen　years　on　the　job；　a　small　cog　in　the　federal　investigative　machinery；　it　was　the　first　time　he　had　ever　felt　that　his　work　was　important。
　Eighteen　years　on　the　job；　with　the　money　and　the　benefits；　and　they　were　one　of　the　first　families　on　the　block　with　a　color　television；　and　Jeannie　got　a　new　coat　every　year；　and　the　kids　were　in　parochial　schools　and　the　station　wagon　was　almost　paid　for；　and　they　had　all　taken　a　cruise　to　the　Bahamas　the　year　before。　Hell；　18；000　a　year　plus　the　4；000　tax…free　supplement　for　Peter　McCarthy　whose　final　high　school　grade　was　a　straight　C。　Nice　going。
　As　he　walked　away　from　his　house；　he　wondered　if　the　business　with　the　insurance　policies　was　not　unnecessarily　melodramatic。　After　all；　this　would　probably　turn　out　to　be　just　someone's　sordid　little　hobby。　Messy；　but　not　really　important。　He　felt　exhilarated。
　Later　that　night；　when　he　rested　his　forearms　on　the　arms　of　a　chair；　surveying　an　element　of　the　latest　move　in　a　game　strange　to　him；　Peter　McCarthy　realized　he　had　found　something　big。　But　it　was　too　late。
　When　his　body　was　found　the　next　morning；　it　was　taken　quietly　to　a　nearby　government　hospital；　where　a　five…man　team　of　federal　pathologists　performed　an　eight…hour　autopsy。　Another　team　went　over　McCarthy's　personal　effects　with　miscroscopic　thoroughness；　removing　the　lining　from　his　jacket；　unstitching　all　his　clothes；　dissecting　his　shoes；　and；　eventually；　finding　the　negatives。
　The　autopsy　report　and　the　negatives　were　sent　away　for　further　analysis；　to　a　mental　institution　on　Long　Island　Sound。　There　the　negatives　were　duly　processed　into　prints；　examined　for　their　film　type　and　source　of　development；　then　sent　to　another　department　for　reproduction　and　programming；　then　to　another　department　which　sent　them　to　another　department　which　hand…delivered　them　finally　to　an　office　where　a　bitter…faced　man　sat　with　an　abacus。　The　processing　had　taken　two　hours。
　〃Let's　see　them；〃　the　lemon…faced　man　growled。　〃Haven't　seen　stuff　like　this　since　college。　Of　course；　in　college；　we　never　paid　　1；900　a　print　either。〃
　When　he　was　through　with　the　last　of　the　twelve　prints；　each　the　size　of　a　large　magazine　page；　he　nodded　that　the　bearer　could　leave。　〃Have　them　processed　small　for　carrying　and　destruction。　Water　soluble　will　do。〃
　〃The　negatives；　too？〃。。　J
　〃No；　just　the　prints。　Get　out。〃
　Then　the　bitter…faced　man　drummed　on　the　polished　abacus　beads　and　spun　his　high　dark　chair　to　face　out　toward　Long　Island　Sound。
　He　watched　the　night　on　the　sound；　dark　and　trailing　far　away　to　the　Atlantic　he　had　crossed　as　a　young　man　in　the　O。S。S。　To　the　Atlantic　on　whose　shores　he　was　given　a　last　assignment　he　did　not　like　and　had　at　first　refused　and　still　wondered　about　at　moments　like　this。
　Peter　McCarthy　was　dead。　Murdered；　according　to　the　autopsy。　And　the　negatives。　They　confirmed　those　vague　hints　of　trouble　at　Brewster　Forum　and　as　far　as　the　United　States　was　concerned；　Brewster　Forum　was　heavy。　Very　heavy。
　He　went　through　the　pictures　again　in　his　mind；　then　suddenly　spun　away　from　the　view　of　the　darkness　and　the　stars；　and　pushed　a　button　on　a　metal　panel　set　into　the　space　where　the　desk　ordinarily　would　have　had　a　top　drawer。
　〃Yes？〃　came　a　voice。
　〃Tell　programming　to　give　me　a　match　on　backgrounders　attached　to　the　pictures。　Have　the　puter　do　it。　I　don't　want　anyone　playing　games。　I'm　the　only　one　to　see　the　matchups。〃
　〃Yes　sir。〃
　〃I　might　add　that　if　I　hear　of　any　of　those　pictures　being　used　for　entertainment；　heads　will　roll。　Yours　in　particular。〃
　〃Yes　sir。〃
　In　fourteen　minutes　and　thirty　seconds　at　the　click　of　the　chronograph　stopwatch；　the　pictures　in　numbered　envelopes　arrived　attached　to　resumes　in　numbered　envelopes。
　〃Leave；〃　said　the　bitter…faced　man；　checking　the　number　on　the　envelope　containing　a　photograph　of　a　pudgy；　middle…aged　man　wearing　a　black　cape　and　busy　stroking　away　at　a　wild…eyed；　dark…haired　woman　wearing　only　long　stockings　and　boots。
　He　looked　at　the　resume。　〃Yes；　I　thought　so。　He's　a　goddam　homosexual。　Dammit。〃　He　put　the　resume　back　in　the　envelope　and　the　pictures　back　in　their　envelopes　and　sealed　them　ah。　Then　he　spun　back　to　the　darkness　of　Long　Island　Sound。
　A　dead　operative。　Trouble　at　Brewster　Forum。　Photographs　of　a　homosexual　male　playing　with　an　obviously　naked　woman。
　Yes　or　no；　he　thought。　Remo　Williams。　The　Destroyer。　Yes　or　no。　The　decision　was　his　to　make；　the　responsibility　his　to　bear。
　He　thought　once　more　of　Peter　McCarthy　who　had　worked　for　the　past　eight　years　for　a　federal　agency　he　did　not　even　know　existed。　And　now　he　was　dead。　His　family　would　carry　forever　the　shame　of　a　man　who　died　from　a　self…inflicted　overdose　of　narcotics。　McCarthy's　country…　men　would　never　know　that　he　had　died　for　duty。　No　one　would　ever　care。　Should　a　man　be　allowed　to　die　that　gracelessly？
　Back　to　the　desk。　P