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Warren Murphy: Infernal Revenue

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Infernal Revenue: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Remo and Chiun join forces with Harold Smith and his crime-fighting organization in their battle against an artificial intelligence computer chip called Friend that hijacks CURE's computer system and holds the world hostage to technoterrorism.

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It was a gamble the parsimonious Smith had been loath to make, and he breathed an inward sign of relief that all had turned out. Perhaps, Smith thought, he was getting the hang of negotiating with the Master of Sinanju.

At his elbow a telephone rang. It was the blue contact telephone. Smith brought the receiver to his ear before the second ring could start.

"Yes, Remo?"

"I've had it."

"What?" squeaked Chiun, rushing to the desk.

"Is that Chiun?" Remo demanded.

"Yes," said Smith. "He is here with me. We have just concluded negotiations for another year of service."

"Well, I hope you and he will be very happy together, because I've had it with these piss-ant hits. Count me out."

Smith clapped his hand on the receiver mouthpiece and said, "Remo seems to be trying to resign. What do you know about this?"

"I know he is obligated to me for his every breath," snapped Chiun, snatching the receiver from Smith's hand. "Remo, stop behaving like a child. Speak! What is wrong with you?"

"From now on I only take assignments I agree with," Remo said tightly.

"This is blasphemy. You accept whatever assignments your emperor deems worthy of you."

"Change in plan. You can have my rejects."

"Remo, what has gotten into you? Think of the poor babies of Sinanju who look to you for sustenance."

"I'm thinking of the little girl I orphaned tonight. No more. From now on I see background checks on my hits. You tell that to Smith." And the line went dead.

Chapter 4

Harold W Smith had already initiated the callback trace program before Remo could hang up. The new system offered up the number and location of the phone from which Remo Williams had called as if Smith had simply wished for it.

Smith hit a function key, and the number was automatically dialed through his blue contact telephone. "Yeah?" Remo said when he picked up. His voice was unhappy.

"This is Smith."

"Don't tell me you bugged my B.V.D.'s," Remo said sourly.

"Hardly. My new computer system traced your call. You are at the Wilmington, North Carolina, Holiday Inn, I see."

"I'd be on the first flight out of here except Hurricane Elvis has the airport shut down," Remo growled. "Next time you send me to terminate a guy, make sure his wife and kid aren't hanging around."

"Are you referring to the Roger Sherman Coe matter?" asked Smith.

"No," said Remo. "I just did David Cassidy, and the entire Partridge Family is up in arms."

Smith cleared his throat to cover his confusion. "I don't quite follow-"

"Follow this. I found Coe right where you said, and I took him out just like you wanted. Only as I was walking away, his wife and daughter popped out in time to see him breathe his last-"

Smith sipped a sharp intake of breath. "You were not seen, were you?"

"Forget security. Listen to me, I did a guy in front of his wife and daughter. I made that little girl an orphan. You know what that means? No, you wouldn't, you cold-blooded fossil. Well, I know what it means. I grew up in an orphanage. I wouldn't wish that kind of childhood on anyone. You know what my Christmases were like?"

Harold Smith cradled the receiver against a gray shoulder and attacked his keyboard. The plastic clicking of the keys sounded like hollow dice rattling.

"Are you listening to me, Smith?" Remo said angrily.

"Yes, I am pulling up Coe's file."

"He's dead. Why bother?"

"Because I do not recall him having a wife or daughter."

"Well, he does. I can vouch for that because I just spent the past three hours standing on the frigging beach protecting them and their house from Hurricane Elvis."

Harold Smith didn't respond. He was moving digital packets of data at high speed, his face tight with concentration. The Master of Sinanju hovered nearby, his features anxious.

At length Smith gave out a dry groan. "What?" said Remo.

"What is it?" said Chiun.

"Remo," Smith said in a low, horrified voice, "are you certain you had the correct house?"

"I went to the number you gave me."

"What number?"

"Forty-seven, I think."

"Think! You were supposed to write it down."

"I did. I threw away the paper after I was done. It was 47 Ocean Street. Yeah, I'm sure of it now."

"That is the correct address of Roger Sherman Coe. Did you ask him his name?"

"I'm a Master of Sinanju. I know enough to identify a target before I do him."

"Hear! Hear!" said Chiun.

"And he identified himself as Roger Sherman Coe?" Smith pressed.

"Yes."

"Something is wrong," Smith said hoarsely. "Something is very wrong. According to my data base, Roger Sherman Coe is not and never has been married. In fact, he is a homosexual."

"Then he deserved to die," said Chiun loudly. "Hobosexualism is a despicable crime-unless one is a soldier in the U.S. Marines."

"The Roger Sherman Coe I killed had a wife and daughter," insisted Remo. "She couldn't have been more than five years old."

"The Roger Sherman Coe on my data base in fifty-six years old, red haired, and has committed an estimated sixteen contract killings that have been tied to him."

"This guy was on the sunny side of forty."

"Oh, my God. You may have killed the wrong man."

"Smith, don't say that. Don't tell me that. Making a widow and an orphan is bad enough, but don't tell me I hit the wrong guy."

Chiun bustled up to the telephone. "Remo, take heart. If a mistake was made, it falls not on your shoulders." Then, in an urgent voice, Chiun added for Smith's benefit, "Take responsibility, quickly. Remo is in a very fragile state of mind. We must not lose him to this tragedy."

"But my computers do not make mistakes," Smith said dully.

"Yeah? Well, they did this time," Remo Williams said bitterly. "Thanks a lot, Smith. Remember what I said earlier about picking my assignments? Cancel that. I quit. I'm through. Take CURE and shove it up your tight New England ass."

"Remo, you do not mean that!" Chiun wailed, seizing the phone. "Tell Emperor Smith you did not mean that! Smith, do not sit there like a ghost-faced white. Say something to absolve my son and my heir of this terrible guilt that overwhelms him."

"Stuff it," said Remo. And he hung up again. Harold Smith sat in his cracked leather executive's chair and stared into space. He seemed oblivious to the buzz of the dial tone in his ear. He seemed oblivious to the Master of Sinanju as he tore at the puffs of hair over each ear and paced the room in frustration.

"My contract! That impulsive white idiot has ruined a perfect negotiation," Chiun wailed.

And all Harold W Smith could do was mutter as if to himself, "My computers have never been wrong before. Never."

He sounded like a man who had lost faith in the sanity and order of the known universe.

If he was aware of the Master of Sinanju leaving his office, it was not reflected in his shell-shocked face.

Chapter 5

Hurricane Elvis had skirted Long Island, started out to sea and run into a cold-air mass that stalled it thirty miles out in the Atlantic. It couldn't go forward. Unable to go back, it festered over the water, churning up ocean brine and recycling it as hard, bitter rain that flattened spirits and human activity from Eastport to Block Island.

One by one airports up and down the affected area reopened, and Remo Williams was on the first flight out of Wilmington. Maybe it was the dampening effects of the overcast skies and the relentless rain, or maybe it was the hard scowl he wore on his face, but the stewardesses all left him alone during the short flight to Boston.

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