Infernal Revenue td-96

by Warren Murphy

  Remo snapped his fingers. "Didn't the 3000 change its voice right after that?"

  "Yes, from female to male." Smith's voice grew hollow. "That must be it. Friend became the ES

  Quantum 3000. It learned all of our secrets, and once I returned it to the manufacturer, it set about pursuing its single-minded god of making money. Chip Craft was only a pawn, not the mastermind."

  "Whoever he is," Remo muttered.

  Chiun's facial hair trembled in indignation. "It is evil beyond description, for it sought my gold."

  "No. The gold was just a way of getting you and Remo out of the way. It was part of its master strategy to neutralize CURE so that it could implement its master plan."

  "What master plan?" asked Remo.

  "It has bankrupted the U.S. banking system," Smith said flatly.

  "Banks are an Italian swindle," Chiun sniffed, "designed to gull the gullible out of their gold. My bank is the House of the Masters, and it will never fail as long as one emperor remains in need."

  "We have less than forty-eight hours to restore the system, or the U.S. economy will melt down completely," Smith warned.

  Remo grabbed the phone. "You gotta find Friend."

  "I have. I destroyed it last night."

  "Wrong. We talked to it this morning."

  "What?"

  "It is true, Smith," said Chiun. "It attempted to bribe us into making peace. But we are above such base transactions."

  "Then it still exists," said Smith. "In the time it distracted me from shooting it, it must have transferred its programming to one of its slave mainframes." Smith's voice darkened. "I need you both back here.''

  "Forget it," said Remo.

  "How much gold do you offer?" asked Chiun.

  "I offer you the gold that Friend has stored in his basement vaults."

  "How much gold?"

  "I have no idea of the amount, but it must be significant."

  "No way," snapped Remo. "I'm through with CURE."

  "Remo, listen to me," Smith said urgently. "The computer error that led to the death of Roger Sherman Coe was caused by Friend. All of it was caused by Friend. It was part of the plot."

  "That doesn't change the fact that I killed an innocent man," Remo retorted hotly. "Or that a little girl is an orphan because of me."

  "It does not. But it lays the blame squarely on the culprit truly responsible. Friend. You want to square that account, don't you?"

  Remo's mouth thinned.

  Smith pressed on. "Nothing will change what happened, Remo, but you owe it to yourself to punish the entity responsible for what happened."

  Face hard, Remo said, "Make you a deal, Smith."

  "Yes?"

  "Use your computers to find my parents, and I'm back. Just to wrap up a few loose ends."

  "I can't promise results."

  "I want an honest effort."

  "You have that." "What about me?" asked Chiun plaintively.

  "Master Chiun, the gold of Friend is yours for the taking if you can locate and destroy this infernal menace. I ask only a reasonable finder's fee of ten percent—to replace CURE's lost operating fund."

  "Done!" cried Chiun.

  "Go to Harlem, and the headquarters of XL SysCorp. Destroy every mainframe you find there. But this is important. Leave one functioning."

  "Why?" asked Remo.

  "Only Friend can restore the banking system. We need his cooperation, or America is lost. Call me when you have Friend isolated."

  "Got it."

  "I'll continue working on it from this end. With luck, and God willing, we will succeed."

  "We will succeed whether God wills it or not," said Chiun, slamming down the phone. "Come, Remo. We must hurry."

  "What about my gold?"

  "We will-divide it equitably later."

  "Uh-uh. I know you. If I don't bring it back with me, I'll never see it."

  "Very well. Take what you can carry and we will be off."

  In the end Remo decided he could comfortably carry only three ingots in his hands.

  When they got to Sunan International airport, they were told there was only one airworthy Tupolev-134 jet, which flew the Pyongyang-to-Beijing route, with stops at Chongjin, Moscow, Irkutsk, Omsk and Sofia, Bulgaria. Not always in that order.

  "Fly us to Kimpo Airport," Remo said. "We'll catch a KAL flight from there."

  "I would have to defect to do that," the pilot who doubled as booking clerk pointed out .

  "Wanna defect?"

  "I will need gold to live in the south," the pilot said, eyeing one of Remo's bars of gold.

  Remo slapped the bar on the counter. "Let's not hold up your new life."

  When they saw the state of the jet, they had second thoughts.

  "Little Father, you take your usual seat over the right wing and I'll take the left. That way if either wing starts to fall off, we can warn each other in time to bail out."

  Chiun nodded. "At last you understand these airplanes for what they are—no more trustworthy than the banks you Westerners think reputable because they are built of hard stone."

  Chapter 32

  The struggle for the economic future of the United States of America began when a white mobile communications van of the Federal Emergency Management Agency rolled up Harlem's Adam Clayton Powell, Jr., Boulevard and pulled into an alley within sight of the XL SysCorp corporate headquarters one block east.

  Harold Smith squeezed out of the driver's seat and into the gear-packed electronics nest that filled the van's entire rear.

  Deploying the roof satellite dish, he booted up the computer and switched on the twenty-three-line GTE Spacelink mobile telephone system.

  In rapid succession, using a series of unimpeachable cover identities, he ordered NYNEX to sever all outgoing telephone service to XL SysCorp.

  Smith received a confirmation callback within fifteen minutes.

  Then he reached the head of Consolidated Edison on vacation in Aruba.

  "I told my office not to forward my calls," the Con Ed official complained.

  "This is a national emergency," returned Smith.

  "Who is this?"

  "I told you. General Smith with the joint chiefs. We are expecting a terrorist situation in upper Manhattan. I require discretionary authority over all electrical service in and out of Harlem."

  "If I give it, will you leave me alone and out of the loop?"

  "Guaranteed." "You have it."

  Smith took down the name and number of the Con Ed supervisor in charge of Manhattan's electrical lifelines.

  "What do you want done?" he asked when Smith reached him.

  "Stand by. I will tell you what I need when I need it."

  Smith put the man on hold. The sun was going down. All he needed now was darkness. And Remo and Chiun.

  The sight-seeing service helicopter pilot at Kennedy International Airport was adamant.

  "I need a major credit card or cash. No checks." "Look, pal, this is an emergency," said Remo. "Well, if it's an emergency that makes it different." He gestured to the two gold bars in Remo Williams’ hand and said with a straight face, "Emergencies cost a bar of gold."

  "Robber," said Chiun.

  Remo slapped the bar of gold down on the counter. The helicopter pilot lifted it. Seemed heavy enough.

  Then he saw the fingerprints the skinny white guy with the big wrists had left on the bar. He knew pure gold was soft. He didn't know it was that soft.

  "Okay, where do you want to go?"

  ' 'Drop us off on the roof of a skyscraper up in Harlem."

  "I don't know of any roof helipads up there."

  "Just hover and we'll jump out."

  "No can do. I'd be in violation of just about every FAA reg in the book. They'd pull my license." The pilot made his face resolute, but his eyes drifted toward the remaining ingot.

  The second gold bar slammed down on the desk. Remo gave it a hard squeeze. The gold actually elongated like a stick of warm wax as he sque
ezed his knuckles white.

  "Take this for your trouble," Remo said.

  "No trouble at all," the pilot said, white-faced.

  The sun was almost to the horizon when the helicopter skimmed over Harlem to alight on the flat roof of the blue glass block that was the XL SysCorp building.

  Remo and Chiun got out, and the helicopter rattled away like a scared dragonfly.

  "A fool and his gold are soon parted," admonished Chiun.

  "Forget the gold. We have a job to finish."

  "I will not rest until the evil chip breathes its last."

  "He doesn't breathe, and remember the game plan. We isolate Friend to one computer and Smith takes over," "And Smith takes over.' '

  Friend analyzed the audio pickup from the rooftop sensors. It was the white Caucasian named Remo Williams and his dangerous companion, Chiun, according to the voice-matching program. They had found him. Once again these annoying human factors had interfered with a plan with a high probability of success.

  Friend computed the risk factors presented by their arrival and determined that it lay within the thirty percentile range. Not high enough to warrant transmitting its programming to a remote host unit.

  Especially since he was now aware of the threat and could take nullifying steps.

  There remained one significant factor—Harold Smith. An isolation plan had been mentioned. What could it be?

  Friend fed his slave mainframes the data at hand and left it to them to isolate likely scenarios. With only one telephone line working, there was enough to do monitoring outreach operations.

  Fortunately he had the critical line up and running, for it was no longer possible to dial out. That was Harold Smith's handiwork, a 97.9 percent certainty. He fed that data to the slaves and resumed monitoring the roof penetration.

  Wearing night black, Remo and Chiun stood in the shadow of the giant air conditioners clustered in the center of the XL SysCorp roof. There was no roof hatch, just a lone microwave satellite dish pointing up toward the southern sky.

  The disk abruptly dipped and began tracking them.

  "Heads up, Chiun!'' Remo yelled.

  The dish began humming. A rainwater puddle between them began to stream and boil.

  "Microwaves!" said Remo.

  They split up. The disk hesitated, wavered and began following the Master of Sinanju with its vicious- looking emitter array.

  "Kept it busy, Little Father," Remo hissed. "I'll nail it on its blind side."

  Chiun drew the tracking dish in one direction, reversed suddenly, remaining just ahead of the invisible microwave radiation.

  Remo glided around to one side and disappeared behind the pivoting disk. It was mounted on a complicated universal gear assembly, and he moved in low on it, grabbing cables. They came out like fire hoses, and the humming stopped.

  He stuck his head out from behind, saying, "It's okay!"

  Chiun kept dodging. "You are certain?"

  "Look," said Remo stepping out in front of the dish and standing still. It locked in on him and stopped.

  "See?" said Remo. "Dead as disco."

  Chiun drew near, frowning. "Microwaves are bad."

  "Only if they zap you," said Remo.

  Looking around, the Master of Sinanju added, "There is no way into the building from here."

  "Fine. We go over the side and make our own way."

  Remo went to the edge. There was no parapet or ledge, just a sheer drop-off. Stepping off, he turned in midair and somehow landed clinging like a spider to the building's nearly sheer comer. Using the flats of his hands and the inner pads of his knees, he began working down the corner of the building.

  Chiun followed, using the identical method of applying enormous opposing pressure to the building so it supported them.

  "Smith said to look for the thirteenth floor," Remo reminded him.

  Chiun looked down. "Which floor is that?"

  "Search me. I don't know the number of the top floor, and it's too late to count down now."

  Several floors farther down, Remo stopped and said, "Pick a window and do your thing."

  The Master of Sinanju paused and lifted a long fingernail. He used it to score a circle in the polarized blue glass. It screamed in complaint. Then he balled a fist and popped the circle of glass inward. Instead, it shattered.

  "What's wrong?" Remo called out, dodging sharp shards.

  "There is a wall behind this glass," Chiun snapped.

  "Let me try." Remo struck the pane nearest him. It broke like a mirror, and the pieces fell to the pavement below, shattering again.

  Behind the tinted blue glass was a chilled steel wail.

  "This is crazy. There aren't any windows. Just window dressing."

  "I will not be denied my revenge," vowed Chiun.

  "Go to it."

  The Master of Sinanju brought one fist to the hard steel inner wall. He began pounding. The wall acquired a deep dent. Then a deeper one. The entire building rang with each blow like a great blue bell.

  Remo slithered around to join the Master of Sinanju at the hole in the facade.

  "Let me take a whack at it."

  They held their fists over the great dent and struck in unison.

  The wall shuddered and dropped inward like a plate.

  The hole in the window was large enough for Chiun to slither in like a black rag. Remo followed.

  Once inside, they took stock.

  The inner walls were stark white. They were standing on the fallen armored panel.

  Remo said, "This place is like a fortress. How could anybody work here without windows?"

  They started for the only door. It opened before they reached it.

  Six hulking men in white T-shirts whose fronts were stamped with giant bar codes stepped through and started emptying riot guns and street sweepers at them.

  The room filled with the ugly noise of weapons going off, multiple ricochets and lead punching through partitions.

  Remo broke left and Chiun right, causing the killers to lose valuable time picking their targets.

  But they moved with a sure speed that took Remo and Chiun by surprise. There was no hesitation. Three locked in on Remo and three on Chiun.

  Not that that helped them. Remo cut in to decapitate the nearest target with a sideways chopping blow of his hand. The man ducked back, evading the blow. Caught off guard, Remo went into the wall, bouncing off.

  Recovering, he tried again, while the other two were regrouping, their smoking muzzles coming around toward him with an icy certainty that reminded Remo of the tracking microwave dish.

  Their guns blazed. The street sweepers coughed out shell after shell.

  Remo evaded each one easily. But there was something wrong. Something that didn't add up.

  While he maneuvered to land killing strikes, the Master of Sinanju gave out a shriek.

  Remo allowed himself the luxury of a quick glance in Chiun's direction.

  The Master of Sinanju was surrounded by three gunmen. They had him in a box. Their weapons boomed and crackled.

  The Master of Sinanju swept out a flying kick, and his target twisted out of the way with a speed that defied the eye. Landing on his feet, Chiun swept back in a furious reverse, and his flashing fingernails missed his foe by scant microinches.

  "Remo! They are as fast as I. How is this possible?"

  "It's not," Remo growled, and used a toe to explode the kneecaps of the nearest man.

  With no result whatsoever.

  Remo thought he scored, but the man seemed to melt back before his strike. And he couldn't pause for a jab at his floating rib and stay out of the line of converging fire, too.

  The rest was a maddening ballet of violence and death in which no one died and only the surrounding walls showed bullet damage.

  "This is ridiculous," Remo growled, dipping under a smoky tracer stream.

  Then he got it.

  Bullets snapped past him. He heard the noise in his ears. But there was no a
ccompanying shock wave.

  In fact, the sound of gunfire wasn't coming from the guns. It was all around him, but the guns weren't making those sounds. Remo selected out the sounds and zeroed in on the gunmen. No heart rates. No heavy, quick breathing. No smell of sweat or pulsing body-heat radiation.

  In the middle of ducking a shotgun blast, Remo closed his eyes.

  His surroundings were completely calm. There was only Chiun whirling through the air like an enraged dervish, kicking at the air—kicking at nothing.

  Remo .opened his eyes.

  The three gunmen who had chosen him leveled then- weapons anew and opened fire.

  Calmly Remo folded his arms.

  The Master of Sinanju, seeing this, let out a shriek. "Remo, are you mad? You will die!"

  The guns began blasting.

  Harold Smith was oblivious to. everything that was taking place outside of the FEMA communications van. His eyes were on the computer screen. The open line to Con Ed was in his lap. His coat was draped over the chair back, and his tie lay undone about his throat. It was too humid for formalities.

  He didn't notice the guy climbing into the front seat until he demanded the ignition key.

  Smith started. There was a black guy in the driver's seat. He looked all of nineteen. His gray plastic baseball cap was scrunched down on his head, bill backward.

  "Gimme the keys," he said.

  "This van is property of the federal government."

  "That's cool. I paid taxes one time. Now I'm collecting back."

  "I cannot let you steal it."

  "Tell you what, you get out now and I don't have to kill you."

  "You have a gun?"

  "No. You?"

  "No," said Smith.

  "Then unless you want your skinny white neck broke, you'll hand over the key and get the fuck outta my phat new van."

  Harold Smith picked the ignition key off the monitor.

  "Come and get it," he said, his free hand taking the fat end of his dangling tie.

  A hail of noise and smoky tracer bullets ripped through Remo Williams’ unprotected chest. He stood unflinching.

  "Remo!" Chiun shrieked, leaping to his side.

  "Watch this," said Remo.

  And before Chiun's astonished eyes, he began catching bullets in his teeth, pretending to spit them out.