"If it were important, Smith would have hung up a half hour ago, and be even now winging his way to a personal audience with me," Chiun said.
"Smith may not have that kind of time," Remo pointed out, eyeing the phone. His expression grew tense.
The Master of Sinanju noticed this and said casually, "I am making longevity tea this morning. Is longevity tea satisfactory with you?"
"Longevity tea will do," Remo said, his eyes going to the telephone with every third ring.
"It will be ready soon," said Chiun, pouring the hot water into a green celadon teacup in the shape of a sleepy turtle.
"That ringing is starting to drive me crazy."
"You know what to do."
"That's right, I do," said Remo, walking over to the phone and lifting the receiver. He dropped it back again with a clattery clunk.
"Aiiiee!" Chiun screeched. "Ignorant white, what did you do?"
"I stopped the ringing."
"You insulted Emperor Smith!"
"How's that?"
"If we did not answer, he would naturally assume we are absent. But to hang up on him is unforgivable."
Remo returned to his rice. "Hey, I don't care what Smith thinks of me."
"Nor do I!" Chiun snapped. "But what if he wrongly concludes that I am the rude hanger-upper of telephones?"
"Simple. Blame me like you always do."
The telephone immediately began ringing again. Chiun's startled-wide eyes went to it, "Answer that!"
"No way. I'm retired."
"Then you will earn your keep by answering the telephone!"
"Not me," said Remo, chewing his rice into a liquid prior to swallowing it.
The phone continued ringing. It seemed to be getting shriller with each blast of sound.
At last the Master of Sinanju flung himself at it, crying in a loud voice, "Hail, Emperor Smith. Please accept the House's apologies for the incorrigible behavior my wayward pupil has just exhibited in hanging up, which I only this minute learned of upon returning from being out for the past hour."
"Master Chiun, we have a dire emergency," Smith said breathlessly.
"I will swoop to the site of this emergency and dispatch America's enemies without mercy, Emperor Smith. You have only to command me, for I will gladly do the work of two now that I alone serve you."
"The submarine carrying the gold is missing." Chiun was clutching the receiver in both clawlikc hands.
They clenched in unison. "Did the gold arrive safely?" he gasped.
"We do not know."
"Do not know!"
"Master Chiun, the sub with all its crew is missing."
"Not the gold! Remo, did you hear? My gold is missing."
Remo did not look up from his rice.
"We don't know that for certain, Master Chiun," Smith protested. "The sub may have encountered difficulties after it dropped off the gold."
"There is only one thing to do in this hour of darkness," Chiun cried, lifting a hand ceilingward.
"Yes?"
"I will call my village." And Chiun hung up. Immediately he dialed his personal international toll-free number, 1-800-SINANJU, first dialling the country code for North Korea.
A reedy old voice responded after a dozen rings, "This is the House of Sinanju. Whom do you wish dispatched?"
"Faithful Pullyang! Quickly, has the gold of America arrived yet?"
"No, Awesome Magnificence."
"Check the beach."
"I have just returned from the beach. There is no gold."
"If the gold arrives, call instantly."
"As you wish, Awesome Magnificence."
Chiun hung up, his face stiff. "You heard all?" he asked Remo.
"Yeah," Remo said worriedly. "I hope nothing happened to those sailors."
"They-are unimportant," snapped Chiun, dialling so furiously that the nail of his index finger obliterated the black numbers with each whir of the dial. "It is the gold that is important. Have you learned nothing of what I have taught you?"
Remo continued eating his rice with his fingers, knowing that it was considered uncouth by Korean standards.
"Emperor Smith," Chiun shrieked into the telephone. "The gold did not arrive."
"It must be recovered."
"Or replaced."
"My information is that the sub was challenged by a North Korean gunboat somewhere in the West Korea Bay before it was lost."
"Impossible."
"That was their last report."
"Ridiculous. The minions of Kim Il Sung would not dare challenge the vessel designated to carry the gold of Sinanju."
"It is our understanding that Kim Jong Il is running Pyongyang during his father's convalescence."
"That whelp! He would not dare order this outrage."
"Please go to North Korea immediately and learn the truth, Master Chiun."
"This will be done with utmost dispatch and great zeal," said the Master of Sinanju.
"Here it comes," Remo muttered.
"-once the gold is replaced."
"This is no time to replace the gold," Smith protested.
"You are the secret emperor of America. You can work wonders. I know you can do this, Smith."
"Master Chiun, please."
"The contract has been signed. But the gold has not been delivered. Thus, we have no contract. I would dishonor my ancestors if I were to undertake service under these conditions."
Smith was silent for a breath.
"Is Remo there?" he asked at last.
"No," Remo called out through a mouthful of rice.
"He is lying," Chiun spat out the words. "Of course he is here. But he does not wish to speak with you, therefore it will do you no good to appeal to him."
Harold Smith's voice was pleading now. "Please, Master Chiun. We must act quickly while there is still time."
"Yes, by all means. Act quickly and replace the gold of Sinanju."
"But it takes three days to cross the Pacific by sub."
"What is this? Yesterday you told me that you only then sent the gold. Now you say it reached the West Korea Bay before being lost. How can this be?"
"I, er, fibbed," Smith admitted.
"Hah!"said Remo. "Caught at last."
"Fibbed?" demanded Chiun.
"I, ah, had sent the gold ahead of schedule. It was necessary because the Harlequin was the only sub available for the next three months."
"What if we did not reach an agreement?" Chiun asked suspiciously.
"I could have signalled the boat to turn around at any time. This was done in the interests of efficiency."
"And because of your impatience," Chiun flung back, "my gold has been lost at sea. It must be replaced at once."
"I can possibly have a down payment drop-shipped to your home by late afternoon," Smith offered.
"Unacceptable," said Chiun. "If I accept the gold on American soil, I will be responsible for transporting it to Sinanju and possibly for paying usurious income taxes, exorbitant customs fees and other burdensome levies imposed by your new President, the flint-skinned one, and his grasping consort. Thereby being cheated of full tribute. Only in your barbarian country are such things done, Smith. Do you think the pharaohs handed my ancestors a sack of gold, only to demand one third back in taxes? Or the Romans? Not even the Chinese would stoop so low, and they are notorious thieves."
"Even as we speak, your gold may be in the process of being confiscated by North Korean authorities," Smith pointed out.
"Your gold. It is not mine until I have taken delivery. I have not."
"Would you accept a cash surety until the gold is replaced?"
"Possibly," said the Master of Sinanju, and seeing that he had Harold Smith on the ropes, promptly hung up on him.
"Why'd you do that for?" Remo demanded. "Now he knows you hung up on him."
Chiun lifted his indignant chin defiantly. "If necessary, I will blame you. In the meantime he will move heaven and earth to scrounge up replacement gold."
"I don't think even Smith can scrounge up a boatload of gold ingots on short notice, Little Father."
Chiun made a face. "Why do you care, retired one?"
"Because there's a submarine full of U.S. sailors missing, and somebody's gotta do something."
Chiun leveled a warning finger at his pupil. "You are retired. Remember that. I will have no sunlighting from you."
"That's moonlighting and don't worry. I'm through with Smith."
"Yeah. But is Smith through with you?"
Chapter 10
Harold Smith stared at the blue contact telephone in his white-knuckled hand. His office, spacious but Spartan, seemed to be closing in on him.
First his computers had failed him. And then the submarine had been lost. Now this.
In the past, when the Master of Sinanju had been recalcitrant, Harold Smith could count on Remo's stubborn sense of duty to his country. Not after the Roger Sherman Coe incident. When Remo, as he sometimes had, refused missions, Chiun was always there to take up the slack.
Sitting in the chair he had occupied for thirty of the most difficult years of his life, Harold W Smith understood with a sinking coldness in the pit of his stomach that he commanded virtually no resources.
Except, he realized suddenly, the instrument in his tremulous hand.
Smith brought the receiver to his ear and punched out an international number with quick stabs of his forefinger.
A crisp, vaguely British voice replied, "Grand Cayman Trust."
"This is account number 334-55-1953," Smith said.
The plasticky clicking of a keyboard came over the line, signifying the account number was being inputted into a workstation computer.
"Password, please."
"Remedy," said Smith.
The clicking came again. Then the voice asked, "How may we help you?"
"I would like a cashier's check in the amount of five million dollars drawn against my account and couriered to Boston's Logan International Airport," said Smith, figuring he could be in Boston within three hours and present the check to Chiun in person by late afternoon.
"I'm sorry. The account shows insufficient funds for us to issue that check."
"Insuff-"
"Our records indicate that all but the minimum deposit, twenty-five dollars, was wired to Chemical Percolators Hoboken Bank in New York City overnight."
"Impossible. Only I know the password and account number."
"Our records are quite clear on this."
"To whose account was my money transferred?"
"I am sorry, but since you claim to be the owner of the account and you do not yourself know. I cannot tell you."
"But I am the owner of the account!" Smith said in a heated voice.
"Yet you seem unaware that you wired the bulk of the account to New York."
"Chemical Percolators Hoboken, you say?"
"Yes."
"I will get back to you," said Smith, and hung up. Reflexively he reached for his computer stud to look up the bank phone number. He caught himself and instead dialed the operator.
"AT&T."
"I would like to place a long-distance call to Chemical Percolators Hoboken Bank in New York City," Smith said tightly, thinking, Was the entire world going mad?
The line began ringing, and the operator asked, "What party?"
"Station to station," said Smith, who knew it would save him money.
"Thank you," said the operator, who went away once a female voice said, "Chemical Percolators Hoboken. How may we help you?"
"I would like to speak with the manager," said Smith.
The bank manager possessed a lockjaw WASP voice that reassured Harold Smith with his first clipped vowel. "Yes?"
"I am calling about a wire transfer your bank received from my account."
"Of course, sir. If I could have your account number?"
"I do not have an account with your bank," Smith said crisply. "I am calling to inquire about a wire transfer of some twelve million dollars you people received from the Grand Cayman Trust yesterday."
"Grand Cayman Trust. Where exactly is that?"
"In the Cayman Islands," said Smith. "Obviously."
"Of course," said the manager. There was a pause. "Would you mind identifying yourself?"
"My name is Smith."
"First name?"
"I would prefer to leave it at Smith."
"I see," said the bank manager, his voice cooling. "Well, Mr. Smith, I can assure you that you've been misinformed. We have received no wire transfers in that amount in several weeks and certainly not from an institution of the Grand Cayman Trust, uh, sort."
"They assured me down there that the transaction took place late yesterday."
"And I am assuring you that it was not received at this branch," the bank manager said pointedly. "Have you any other branch in New York City?" Smith asked.
"No, we do not."
"Someone is not telling the truth here," Smith said through tight teeth.
"That may be, but if you have a problem with your account at the Grand Cayman Trust, then I suggest you take it up with them."
"I will," said Smith, ringing off. He called the Grand Cayman Trust and, reaching the manager, quickly summarized his problem.
The manager brought up Smith's account on his own desk terminal and said, "All but twenty-five dollars was wired to Chemical Percolators Hoboken yesterday."
"Do you have a written record or authorization?"
"I see by my screen that you expressly waived the need for debit tickets or other written authorization on transfers of any type or amount."
Smith swallowed hard. He had. Using the Grand Cayman Trust, notoriously lax in their oversight and regulations, enabled him to move and launder vast amounts of money without leaving a paper trail to Folcroft Sanitarium or him personally. The system had worked perfectly-until now.
"According to Chemical Percolators; they did not receive the wire transfer of funds," Smith said.
"According to our records, it was sent and received."
"Chemical Percolators is a very large, very reputable institution," Smith pointed out in a tone that could not be misinterpreted.
"Yet you chose our fine institution," the bank manager answered in a frosty tone.
"A mistake."
"Would you like to close out the remainder of your account, then?" the manager said in a thin voice. "All ... twenty-five dollars of it?"
"No. I will get back to you."
"Always happy to serve."
Smith hung up. He removed his rimless eyeglasses and rubbed his eyes. This was impossible. Money does not disappear en route. Then Smith realized that the money had moved electronically. In a physical sense, it had not moved at all. Only electrons, sent by computer and backed up by a voice confirmation, had moved.
Someone had raided the CURE bank account and, during the transfer, redirected and misappropriated nearly twelve million dollars in taxpayer funds.
That someone would have to be tracked down. Smith still had the matter at hand to resolve.
He would have to replenish the CURE operating fund.
OVER THE DECADES CURE operations had grown exponentially. Just as Smith had been forced to upgrade his computer system to its present state, so had his operating budget mushroomed. In the first decade of CURE, it had been possible to draw millions of dollars out of various off-the-books CIA, DIA, NSA and other Intelligence-community operating funds undetected because there was little or no congressional oversight on such black-budget expenditures once appropriated.
But CURE had one day outgrown the ability to do that undetected by its sheer voracious financial need. A blind had to be created, a federal agency whose mandated purpose was too important to ever be closed or suffer budget cutbacks, one with an annual operating budget vast enough that CURE could siphon off funds at will without arousing suspicion.
Smith normally moved funds from this agency by computer to the Grand Cayman Trust-a notorious haven for m
oney laundering-to ensure absolute security. There was no avoiding it. He reached for the concealed stud that would bring his terminal humming up from his desk well.
Smith pressed the stud. Almost at once the intercom buzzed, and his secretary said, "Dr. Smith. There's someone to see you."
"I have no appointments this morning," said Smith as the desktop panel dropped slightly before it was to slide to one side.
"It's Mr. Ballard."
"Ballard? I know no-"
"He's from the IRS, Dr. Smith," the secretary said. Smith hit the stud again. The scarred oak panel reversed its mechanical course to return flush to the top of the desk and vanish from casual inspection.
"The IRS?" Smith said dully.
"Shall I send him in?"
Smith hesitated. Lips thinning, he said, "Yes." He did not sound enthusiastic.
The door opened and a balding pear of a man wearing bifocals entered, carrying an imitation-leather briefcase.
"Dr. Smith. My name is Bryce Ballard." He put out a pudgy hand.
"Is that your real name?" Smith said without warmth.
"No, actually it isn't."
"But you do claim to be with the IRS?"
"Here's my identification."
Ballard showed an IRS revenue agent's card that appeared genuine.
"I have reason to believe you are not who you say you are," Smith said flatly.
"You can check with my office," said Ballard. He waved toward the couch. "May I sit down?"
"Yes," said Smith, dialling the number the man gave him.
"Internal Revenue Service," a voice, announced. "Ask to speak with Mr. Vonneau," Ballard called over.
"I would like to speak with Mr. Vonneau."
"One moment, sir," a switchboard operator said crisply. Smith regarded the man Ballard. He looked harmless enough.
He might easily pass for an IRS revenue agent, but Smith had excellent reason for thinking him an impostor.
"Vonneau speaking," an unemotional voice said. "This is Dr. Harold W Smith at Folcroft Sanitarium, Rye, New York," said Smith. "I have a man in my office who claims to be here to audit me. He gave his name as Bryce Ballard, although he admits that is not his true name."
"Describe him, please."
Smith described Ballard in flat but accurate terms. "That's Ballard. As you know, Dr. Smith, IRS agents for their own personal protection are allowed to assume authorized pseudonyms."
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