Warren Murphy: Ghost in the Machine

"Should be enough to obtain us each fine room in best American hotel," the captain said confidently.

As it turned out, when they presented themselves at the front desk of the Rumpp Regis Hotel, the two hundred dollars was barely enough to get them a single room in the back.

When Yuli Batenin broke the bad news to his Shield unit, few of whom spoke passable English, Captain Gerkoff said, "Is no problem. Take room, Batenin. We come back."

Less than a hour later, there was a knock at Batenin's hotel room door.

He called through the door cautiously. "Who is it?"

"Gerkoff. Shchit."

Batenin opened the door. They were all standing there, in open-neck shirts whose pointed collars overlapped their suit coats. Gold chains festooned hairy necks.

"We have registered, and are prepared to go among Americans undetected by them," Gerkoff said, stepping in.

"How did you register?" Batenin asked, marveling at their clothes.

"Credit cards. We strangle tourists and take theirs. Is no problem."

"Did you steal clothes, too?"

"No. Clothes foolishly donated by Americans to Russia through Project Provide Hope packages. They are latest fashion, no?"

"They are latest fashion, twenty years ago," Batenin said unhappily.

This assertion caused the Shield unit to huddle and converse worriedly. When they broke their huddle, Captain Gerkoff said, "We have decided clothes too fine to abandon. We will keep them."

And Yuli Batenin, looking at the only hope of reviving the Soviet Union assembled before him like extras from Saturday Night Fever, could only smile weakly and hope for the best.

After all, these were the finest killers produced by the Soviet Union. What matter their wardrobe, when it came time to make moist red spots on the carpets of America?

Chapter 25

Randal Rumpp watched the sun come up through his magnificent office window.

The night had passed peacefully. Oh, there had been a few minor problems, such as the attempt by the mob below to storm his office.

Fortunately, Randal Rumpp had had anti-creditor doors installed on all access routes to the twenty-fourth floor. They were modeled on the waterproof sliding doors used to seal off flooded submarine bulkheads.

When his executive assistant burst in to warn him of the impending assault, he coolly reached into an open desk drawer and hit a switch.

A red light should have come on. None did. Then he remembered that the tower electricity was still offline.

Rumpp came out from behind his desk, screaming, "Man the manual controls!"

They jumped on levers and turned big iron wheels concealed all over the floor, sealing off the two main points of invasion and later the remaining fire exits.

Randal Rumpp, not satisfied with having saved his own skin, hurled abuse through the thick doors.

"Go home, losers!"

That only made the pounding grow more heated.

The pounding continued for an hour or so. Then, their rage expended, the mob had apparently withdrawn.

Now, with the sun up, and Randal Rumpp's enthusiasm, fortified by a wide assortment of candy bars ranging from a Skybar to a USA, restored, he was working his cellular phone. The USA company had gone out of business in the early seventies, and Rumpp, who had claimed in print that he hadn't really begun making money until he had tripled his sugar intake, had had a lifetime supply put into deep freeze for his personal use.

"Hello, Mr. Mayor," he said cheerfully, picking nougat out from between his front teeth with a monogrammed ivory toothpick, "have you given any further thought to Rumpp Tower II?"

"The plan is unworkable. Your FAR won't allow for two hundred stories."

"That's what the previous administration said about Rumpp Tower I," Rumpp countered. "The jerks said our permissible height was too much for our floor-area ratio. But I bargained for and got the max-21.6 FAR. And I didn't have an eyesore like this mess to cover up."

"According to some news reports, this mess, as you call it, is a haunting, not your responsibility," the mayor said.

"Hey! That's Cheeta Ching's version of events. She's got one in the oven. You know how that messes up those high-estrogen types. This has my fingerprints all over it."

"What on earth are you up to, Rumpp?"

Rumpp shrugged. "Hey, I do it to do it. I think that's what I'm gonna call my next autobiography. So what's the deal? Do I draw up a letter of intent, or what?"

"I have a nine o'clock with the planning commission."

"Listen, you tell those slobs if I don't get what I want, all city property tax payments stop!" Randal Rumpp warned. "You're not dealing with just any chump here. You're dealing with a Rumpp."

"I know," said the mayor bitterly, hanging up.

"Hmmm. That didn't come out right. Dorma!"

Dorma Wormser raced in, her eyes expectant.

"Take a memo," said Randal Rumpp.

Her face fell. "Yes, Mr. Rumpp."

"I want a reminder in my personal reminder book never to use the phrase, 'You're dealing with a Rumpp.' It's bad for the image. Doesn't sound right, somehow."

"Yes, Mr. Rumpp," sighed Dorma, who had been hired because her boss was an "ass man."

The cellular phone rang.

Randal Rumpp reached for the handset. But his attention was distracted by his executive assistant's headlong leap under a glass coffee table. She huddled under it, in plain view.

"Get out of there! What's with you? You've been jumpy all night."

"I can't help it, Mr. Rumpp. Ever since that . . . thing jumped out of the phone, I've been a wreck."

"Be a wreck on your own time," said Randal Rumpp.

The phone continued to ring.

Dorma shrieked, "Please answer that thing!"

Randal Rumpp lifted the handset. Instantly, his assistant stopped trying to shrivel up into a cowering ball.

"Go ahead," Rumpp said into the mouthpiece. His scowl fled when he heard the tight voice on the other end. He brightened.

"Dad! Now, about those chips . . . Yeah, sure, I'll buy them back. I promise. A little misunderstanding. I fired the jerk who handled that deal. Listen, I need a hand up here. Can you front me some start-up money. Huh? Oh, not much. Maybe three-four million."

The earpiece buzzed angrily. Rumpp's mouth squeezed into a moist, meaty pout.

"Yeah, Dad. I know you're not made out of money. But this is an emergency. I got a problem with the Tower. You know, I think I've outgrown it or something. I need to trade up. How about a little interest-free loan?"

Rumpp listened, wincing on and off.

"Tell you what," he said quickly. "I'll name the new building after you. How's that? Yeah, I'll call it 'the Rumpp Tower.' "

Rumpp listened eagerly. His face resumed wincing.

"Then I'll issue a press release explicitly stating that it's named after you," he said soothingly. "No, I don't want to call it 'the Ronald Rumpp Tower.' Why not? You know these jerks on the planning commission. They won't let me put up a sign that big. If I could do it, I would. Honest. You know me."

The line went silent.

"Hello? Hello? Dad? Damn!"

Rumpp closed the antenna with an angry bat of his hand.

"That old fart! The nerve of him! I offered him the best deal of his life, and he walked way from it. His blood must be running thin, or something."

Randal Rumpp felt the stiffness of his joints as he got out of his executive chair. He decided to commune with his trophies. In his favorite room in the whole world, maybe he'd find inspiration. He took with him his attache cellular.

"Hold my calls, Dorma," he said, as he marched out.

"Yes, Mr. Rumpp."

In the trophy room, Randal Rumpp pored over the takings of a lifetime of cutting corners, wheeling and dealing, and bait-and-switch at the executive level.

He paused to admire a rare Picasso hanging on a wall. He knew nothing about art, but someone had told him at a cocktail party that Picasso was the artist to invest in. He had bought it sight unseen. When it came in, he couldn't figure out which end was up and was afraid to hang it in a public place. Rumpp called the gallery to complain the paint had settled during shipping, and the work was ruined.