Warren Murphy: Ghost in the Machine

Chapter 29

The lowermost floor of the Rumpp Regis Hotel was the storage subbasement. It was crammed with the historical castoffs of the nearly century-old hotel. Everything from old brass mantel clocks to spittoons littered the dusty shelving.

It was dark. Remo closed his eyes and listened for the sound of a heartbeat he knew better than anyone's on earth. Chiun's.

He zeroed in on it and simply moved in the direction his ears indicated, oblivious to the solid-looking obstacles he breached with each step.

He passed through antique highboys and turn-of-the-century dining tables like a phantom wading through the history of furniture.

His bare arms felt the body warmth of two people.

Remo opened his eyes to see the frantic figure of the Master of Sinanju, bending over the prostrate figure of Cheeta Ching.

Apparently, Cheeta was drowning on the concrete floor. At least, that was the impression her body language gave Remo. She had landed on her back, and now strained to keep her mouth and wildly flaring nostrils above the level of the floor. Her hands threshed the air, and when her mouth came up above the floor level, it made shapes Remo mentally called "inarticulate."

Remo looked down at his feet. The floor supported his feet perfectly. It gave Remo a creepy feeling.

The Master of Sinanju was fussing helplessly.

"Remo! I cannot help Cheeta!"

"Tell her to stand up," Remo told Chiun casually.

"I did!" Chiun squeaked. "Cheeta cannot hear me!"

Remo folded his arms. "Oh, that's right. We can't hear them and they can't hear us. In this case, it's a blessing."

Chiun stood up. His wizened face was beseeching. "Oh, Remo, what do we do?"

"Look, she's not going to drown. She just thinks she is. Give her time. She'll figure it out."

Chiun stamped an angry foot. "Heartless one!"

At that moment, Remo felt the vibration again.

"Oh-oh. Don't look now, but the building's becoming glued again."

"Quickly! Cheeta will be trapped. Help me!"

"Help you how?"

"Take one precious hand."

"If you insist . . ."

Remo reached down. Chiun did the same. Their fingers attempted to capture the incapturable.

In a flash of a second, the insubstantial hands of Cheeta Ching grew palpable. Remo and Chiun each grabbed a flailing bunch of fingers.

"Now!" Chiun cried.

They heaved. Cheeta came up out of the floor. They set her on her feet.

In the darkness, Cheeta Ching swayed like tightrope walker.

"You okay now?" Remo asked.

"What? What? What?" Cheeta gulped. "Who's there?"

"It's me," Remo said.

"Frodo?"

"She's okay," Remo said.

"She is not!" Chiun flared. "She has been traumatized by machines. Cruel, white, oil-drinking machines."

"Fine," Remo said, starting off. "You comfort her. I'm going to look around."

"I am coming with you."

"You bring that barracuda, and there will be complications," Remo warned.

"Chico, don't leave me!" Cheeta pleaded.

At that, the Master of Sinanju rendered Cheeta Ching insensate with a simple application of pressure to a neck nerve. She collapsed with a rattly sigh.

Bearing the limp figure, Chiun followed Remo Williams back up to the lobby level.

"In her hour of need, she spoke your name!" he hissed.

"Technically, no," Remo pointed out.

"I am humiliated."

"Wait'll she names the baby."

"Argh!"

They found the Rumpp Regis lobby in an uproar.

The desk clerk was screaming at the IRS men, saying "They're shooting up the fourteenth floor! Do something!"

"Call the police," suggested one IRS man.

"But you're government agents!"

"Yeah, but we're tax collectors, not enforcers. We don't carry guns. Call the police."

Remo turned to Chiun. "The Russians are up on the fourteenth floor."

"Then that is where they will perish," said Chiun, placing Cheeta on a divan. She immediately rolled over and began snoring.

"There they are!" one of the IRS men shouted. It was the one Chiun had imprisoned in the revolving door. "You, stop!"

"Let's go, Little Father!" Remo urged. "The last thing we need now is tax trouble."

"Woe to him who touches the Master of Sinanju's trunk!" Chiun hurled back.

They flashed to the elevators, Remo racing and the Master of Sinanju floating along in an effortless series of leaps.

Three revenue collectors hit the closing elevator doors and bounced off like ping-pong balls.

Remo and Chiun piled out on the fourteenth floor and ran into a wall of frightened hotel guests, who pushed past them in a blind panic and commandeered the elevator.

"They will surely hinder pursuit," Chiun remarked, as the elevator started down.

"Follow me," Remo said grimly. "I know exactly what door to knock on."

Captain Rair Brashnikov floated in the middle of a bullet storm. He knew it was a storm, because all around him the fine gold-leaf molding and framed pictures were cracked and coming apart as assorted Soviet-made ammunition took their toll.

Assorted rounds pierced his brain, his lungs, and other major organs with no effect, other than to cause him to blink when the stray bullet crossed his retina.

Otherwise, it was quite peaceful up here under the ceiling. Much like the bathhouses of his homeland.

He faced an interesting dilemma. He knew that he could not float here forever. Yet to deactivate the vibration suit would be to become vulnerable to the angry bullets.

On the other hand, he seemed to be floating toward an outer wall. This was not good, Brashnikov knew. To float into a outer wall in this bodiless state would be to float out the other side. Depending on how high this particular floor was, he might find himself floating high enough off the ground that to turn off the suit would be to risk a broken neck or a completely pulverized skeletal system.

The third option, no less terrifying, would be to wait until the suit's battery power died. There was no telling how long that might be. He had been trapped in the American telephone system for a very long time-much longer than his reserve supply.

Somehow, the power had not been drained in all that time. This was good. What was not good was that he had no idea how long he had until the power went dead.

Then, in the tight-fitting confines of his white protective helmet, he heard an angry wasp's buzz. Looking down toward his midriff, he saw the red warning light illuminate the core of his belt control rheostat.

Rair Brashnikov knew two things then.

One, that he had only twenty minutes of power left.

The second thing he spoke aloud in a thick voice.

"I am dead man."

Even if Remo Williams had not followed one of the Russians to his hotel room, there would have been no question which door they were behind.

It was the one full of punch holes, from which the occasional bullet snarled out.

Remo dodged a stray round and dropped to one knee.

A step behind him, the Master of Sinanju hugged a wall, his eyes like steel.

"Game to crash the party?" Remo asked.

"Make haste. Cheeta awaits me."

"Never keep a hungry shark waiting."

Remo moved on the door. He drove a half fist ahead of him. It connected with the lock, which surrendered with a metallic clank. Remo brought his other palm around and spanked the door in its exact center, sending shock waves through the thick wood.

The heavy panel flew off its ornate hinges and became a wonderfully efficient room-clearer.

It flew true, unimpeded by the natural resistance of the air, and pinned at least three unwary Russians against the far wall. Remo figured it was three because, in the instant he paused to assess the situation, that was the number of left hands he counted sticking out from the door edges.

Then Chiun bounded in.