Warren Murphy: Ghost in the Machine

"How am I to know? I am thief, not rocket scientist."

"Do better than that!" warned the Caucasion named Remo.

"Who is that?" Rumpp wanted to know.

"New friend," Brashnikov explained.

"So what do I do?" Rumpp pressed.

"Try calling Moscow. I give you number."

Rumpp grabbed a pad and paper. "Shoot."

The long-distance operator was very helpful. She got through to Moscow in under an hour. Normally it took two, she explained. On a good day.

The voice that picked up on the other end at first denied any knowledge of the vibration suit.

Then Randal Rumpp said, "I'm Randal T. Rumpp, and I see a lot of investment opportunities in your country."

"Ah. Vibration suit. Why did you not say so? I will put you through to Vibration Suit ministry. We are only KGB liquidation unit."

"You're killers?"

"It is not that kind of liquidation we are doing."

"Oh."

The line clicked and hissed and hummed, and Randal Rumpp watched the ever-changing TV screen to keep from being bored.

Finally a low female voice said, "Shchit. "

Rumpp said, "I guess some words are universal."

"Who is speaking, please?"

"Randal Rumpp, famous billionaire."

"The one whose building, it is sinking?"

"The very same. And it's all the fault of your crummy vibration suit. It got into my Tower electrical system and screwed it up somehow."

"Vibration suit?"

"Don't be coy. Your guy was just captured."

"Which guy?"

"I don't know. I didn't catch his name. But I do know who I'm gonna sue if I don't get some satisfaction."

"USSR did not invent suit," the woman said crisply. "You should take this up with manufacturer."

"Who's that?"

"Nishitsu Corporation. Osaka."

"The Japs? How did you guys get hold of the technology?"

"KGB steal it."

"Oh," said Randal Rumpp, hanging up.

The long-distance operator put him through to the Osaka research and development plant of the Nishitsu Corporation in Japan.

Rumpp identified himself, and asked to speak with the department that designed the suit.

At first, the thick voice at Nishitsu denied any knowledge of the invention.

Then Randal Rumpp said, "The Russians say they stole it from you."

The man at the other end said, "Ah," and asked a simple question. "You possess device now?"

"Could be," Rumpp said cagily. "And I might be willing to do a trade."

"Prease continue."

"First, I want my skyscraper to stop sinking."

"How does bakemono suit have anything to do with that?"

"Bakemono?"

"Means gobrin."

"Spell it for me."

"G-o-b-l-i-n. "

"Good name for it," said Randal Rumpp, going on to explain how it had all started with a funny Russian voice in his telephone system, and what had squirted out when his secretary picked up a certain receiver.

The voice at the other end said "Ah" again, and in the background a number of people could be heard conversing in rapid, unintelligible Japanese.

Finally a different voice came on. It said, "It appear person wearing gobrin suit was captured by your buirding terephone system, much rike virus in broodstream of a riving person."

"Makes sense," said Randal Rumpp, wondering how a people who couldn't pronounce their L's could be so successful in international business.

"The properties of suit were transferred to buirding."

"That much I figured out by myself," Rumpp said dryly.

"Now person has reft, but your Tower is sinking?"

"You got the picture."

"Perhaps probrem remain in terephone wires," the Nishitsu representative suggested.

"Could be. So what do I do?"

"Ask terephone company to shut off power."

"And if it doesn't work?"

"Carr back."

"Count on it, Chuck."

The AT representative listened to Randal Rumpp's odd request.

"We will be only too happy to comply," the rep said smoothly.

"Great. Do it now."

"However, there is the matter of an unpaid bill due four months ago." Rumpp heard a clicking of a keyboard. "The current outstanding balance is $63,876.14."

"What is this crap! You've been threatening to shut off my lines for weeks over that bill!"

"I imagine so."

"'Well, I'm still in arrears. So shut me off, Chuck!"

"Not without payment."

"You can't do this! It's un-American!"

"Continued service is entirely an AT ," the infuriatingly unruffled voice said. "In this case, we elect to continue to serve your telephonic needs."

"I demand to be disconnected! Right now!"

The line went click, and Randal Rumpp found himself listening to a dial tone.

He hung up the telephone, with no life left in his eyes.

"I'm dead," he said dully. "I'm sinking into the earth and I'm dead."

A thought occurred to him.

"Where the heck am I going, anyway?"

Rumpp went to a hand-carved globe and spun it. He picked out the longitude and latitude of Manhattan, spun the globe, and found their counterparts on the other side. It was in a mountainous border region of what was once the Soviet Union.

"Great," he muttered. "I'm heading for 'Kazakhstan.' I never even heard of Kazakhstan. They probably don't even speak English there. Maybe I'd better just surrender."

But the pounding at the credit-control doors made him think again. It was getting louder. Louder than the insistently ringing office telephones. They really wanted him. Wanted him bad.

"What the heck!" he told himself. "Can't hurt to call those riceballs at Nishitsu again. I haven't threatened to sue them yet. Maybe I can hose them into building Rumpp Tower II. "

Grinning, Randal Rumpp reached for his portable cellular phone.

Chapter 31

Rair Brashnikov was attempting to induce the two American agents to let him remove his helmet.

"No," said the Caucasian.

"I am having trouble breathing."

"Then die quietly."

The Oriental was arguing with the Caucasian. They were arguing over his head. The Oriental wanted it removed from his shoulders, and the Caucasian was in favor of letting Brashnikov keep it.

In the meantime, they were waiting for the telephone to ring. And then it did.

The Caucasian picked it up.

"Yeah, Smitty. What's the deal?" The Caucasian listened.

He looked up and said to the Oriental, "Smitty says the Rumpp Tower is still sinking, and they can't get Rumpp out."

"Offer to Smith our services to extricate the schemer, Rumpp."

"Smitty. Chiun says we can get Rumpp out." He listened again. "Okay. What do with do about Ivan here? Gotcha."

The Caucasian hung up.

"Smith says we grab Rumpp."

"And this monstrosity?"

"Put him on ice until we get back."

The old Oriental was still holding on to Rair Brashnikov's aching wrists, pinning them together as irremovably as shackles. Now he manipulated his long bony fingers, transferring both wrists to the unshakable grasp of one amber hand.

All around him, the bodies of the many Russian agents sent to recapture Brashnikov lay still and waxy as a Disco museum after an earthquake.

"What means 'on ice'?" Brashnikov asked.

Silence.

"Does 'on ice' mean dead? I must know. Am I allowed a final prayer? I know some very short ones."

The cold-eyed Oriental reached for his throat.

Down the corridor the elevator doors rolled open. Remo called, "Shake a leg, Chiun!"

Then came Cheeta Ching's voice. "Grandfather Chiun! Where are you?"

Chiun started. "Cheeta?"

But the corridor was suddenly filled with the tramping of heavy footsteps.

"We can't leave him now," Remo hissed. "That's either the IRS or the cops."

The Master of Sinanju stepped toward the open doorway. The helpless Russian came with him, unable to free his pinioned arms.

Then the tiny Korean lifted one foot. A simple gesture barely noticed. Remo moved to the edge of the door, hands high, ready to strike if need be.