Warren Murphy: Infernal Revenue

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 squeezed 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.