Ghost in the Machine, page 21
Randal Rumpp was slammed into the big picture window behind him.
“You,” said the cold voice of the dead-eyed man, “have caused enough trouble.”
“Urkkk.”
“What?”
“I made it all up!” Rumpp said breathlessly. “I didn’t make any of this happen! I lied! You can’t liquidate my ass over a lie!”
“That’s the biz, sweetheart,” said the man, as he gave Randal Rumpp a harder push. The back of his sandy head banged the wobbly glass.
“But I didn’t–” Randal Rumpp attempted to say. The hand constricted, choking off the words. Randal Rumpp wanted to tell the man that it had all been a scam. That he had not caused any of this to happen. He had just taken advantage of events to engage in a little creative restructuring of his debt load.
But the man wasn’t listening. He was using his free hand to manipulate Randal’s Rummp’s helpless limbs. He forced Rumpp’s left arm against his side, his palm flat with his thigh so they formed a straight standing line. Then he crooked Rumpp’s right arm at the elbow and set his fist on his hip. Lastly, he made his right leg stick out straight at an angle from his pelvic bone.
Randal Rumpp’s couldn’t see what he was doing, but when the man was done Rumpp was standing on one leg, frozen in the awkward pose.
“Guys like you,” the dead-eyed man was saying, “used to have the courtesy to jump out of their offices when things went bad.”
The man’s hand rose. Randal Rumpp’s polished shoes left the floor.
Then he was being forced out through the bronze solar window glass. It made a sudden crack, but strangely didn’t shatter as it should have.
Randal Rumpp flew twenty feet straight out, and saw why.
His nerve-stiffened body had punched out a perfect silhouette. It was in the shape of a six-foot letter R.
Rumpp smiled. It was perfect. A classy touch. The guy was a real pro. He wanted to salute the guy on his taste, but his arms were still stiff and gravity was starting to exert its inexorable influence.
As the ground zoomed up to meet him, Randal Rumpp’s life flashed before his eyes. It was such a kick to relive it all that he completely forgot about his predicament–until he went splat on the sidewalk in front of the mangled letters RUMPP TOWER.
· · ·
Remo Williams waited until the pulpy sound had reached his ears before turning to check on Chiun’s progress.
The Master of Sinanju was using a delicate sandal toe to kick apart the cherry wood desk that dominated the cathedral-like office.
“Missed, huh?” Remo asked.
“The fiend resorted to his machine trickery again.”
“Well, I got mine.”
Chiun sniffed. “The unimportant one.”
“The big cheese. Rumpp was the big cheese,” Remo said, picking up the fallen receiver.
He put it to his ear. The line was still open. He heard voices shouting and screeching in confusion at the other end.
“Here, check this out.”
The Master of Sinanju snatched the handset from Remo’s grasp and listened, fuming.
He made a face.
“Pah! It is nothing,” he snapped.
“What makes you say that?”
“It is only Japanese complaining.”
“Just the same,” Remo said. “Let’s take this phone to Smitty.”
“Yes,” Chiun said bitterly. “Let us take the evidence of our ineptitude to Mad Harold. No doubt he will wish us beheaded for our miserable failure.”
A relentless pounding continued to come from down the hall. Remo indicated it with his head.
“Think you can keep it down, until we can slip out of the building the same back way we got in?”
“Who could detect us over that racket?”
· · ·
Harold Smith was very interested in the telephone. He looked up from his shabby oak desk at Folcroft Sanitarium later that day, his gray, pinched face thoughtful.
The cellular unit had been partially disassembled and was now connected to his computer system.
“According to the memory chip,” he said, “the last number dialed was that of the Nishitsu Corporation in Osaka.”
“Nishitsu?” Remo said. “Weren’t they the ones behind that crazy invasion of Yuma, Arizona, a few years ago?”
Smith nodded. “A rogue operation. Or so it was claimed. But recall, Remo, that before that we had intelligence on an event at Nishitsu Osaka which was laid at the KGB’s doorstep.”
“Right. You thought that the suit was a Japanese invention, and that was how the Soviets got hold of it.
Smith nodded. “No doubt Rumpp was attempting to gain more information on the suit from Nishitsu. When you and Chiun burst in, the Krahseevah simply hit the redial button.”
“And faxed himself to Nishitsu. Damn!”
“Not necessarily, Remo.”
Remo and Chiun looked interested.
“Then where did he go?” Remo asked.
“Recall that prior to this, the Krahseevah traveled through fiber-optic cables and short-distance cellular transmissions. In order to reach Osaka, he would have to be uplinked to an orbiting communications satellite and relayed back to a ground station. It is not clear that his atomic structure would retain its integrity during such an extreme transfer.”
“You mean he might have had his molecules scrambled?”
“It’s possible.”
Remo folded his arms. “Last time, you were sure he was never going to come back to haunt us again.”
“And I am not certain of his fate this time. But it is a possibility.”
“Yes,” said Chiun. “That must be what happened.”
“Since when did you become the technology expert?” Remo asked dryly.
Chiun surreptitiously kicked Remo in the ankle. Remo went silent. Chiun went on.
“Obviously the Russian fiend is no more,” he said firmly. “And since we dispatched the schemer Rumpp, this assignment has been successfully accomplished and all glory and credit is ours.”
“I imagine that it has,” Smith allowed.
“And contract negotiations may continue,” Chiun added.
“Er, yes,” Smith said carefully.
Chiun beamed. “Then I suggest we begin now.”
“If you do not mind, I have a few loose ends to tie up.”
“What could be more important than contract negotiations?”
“Briefing the President.”
“Yes. Do that. And be certain to speak our names prominently and often.”
“Of course, Master Chiun.”
“You know, there’s one thing I still don’t get,” Remo said slowly.
The others looked at him.
“Who were those Russians?”
“That is a good point,” said Smith. “You had no chance to interrogate them?”
“Yeah. The head guy said he was shit.”
“He did?”
“So I obliged him.”
“No,” Chiun interjected, “he said he was ‘shield.’”
Remo frowned. “I thought I heard the other word.”
“Your mind is a sewer,” Chiun sniffed.
“One moment.” Smith turned to his ever-present computer terminal and called up his Russian lexicon file base.
“The only Russian word that transliterates into that term is Shchit.”
“That’s the word I heard. What’s it mean?” asked Remo.
Smith looked up, his face puzzled.
“Shield.”
“Means nothing to me.”
Smith switched to another file. Keys rattled. “There is no such Russian organization on file, past or present.”
“Maybe they’re new, Smitty.” Smith’s lemony face grew more bitter. “I believe I will create an active file under that name. Strange things are happening over there now. If there is a new Russian group or organization known as ‘Shield,’ it may be a problem for the future.”
“Emperor, what will be the fate of the mighty building of the schemer Rumpp?”
“It has been condemned. Demolition experts are going to wire it with shaped charges and implode it into rubble.”
Chiun nodded. “It will be an improvement.”
Remo said, “One last thing, Smitty.”
“What is that?”
“Those people who fell into the ground when the Rumpp Tower first spectralized. What happened to them?”
“Officially, they will be counted among the missing.”
“And unofficially?”
“Unofficially, we have no idea. They may have simply slipped into the earth some distance. Or they may continue falling until they emerge from the earth’s crust at some point on the other side of the globe.” Smith consulted his computer briefly. “Which would appear to be Kazakhstan.”
“Then what will happen to them?”
“I have no idea. And it is not something I care to dwell on,” said Harold W. Smith, closing the file and pressing the concealed stud under his desk edge that sent his CURE terminal slipping into the concealment of his desktop receptacle.
EPILOGUE
With the coming of winter, the Kazakh hill men of Kazakhstan came down from the gray folds of the Tian Shan Mountains to dwell with their herds in the valley.
Bulbul, leader of his people, led them off the mountains, as he had every winter for twenty-two years. Come the spring, he would lead them back up. It was the way of the Kazakh hill men of Kazakhstan.
After they had pitched their felt tents and set the bullocks to grazing, they cut the head off a sheep and played the last game of buzkashi until the spring.
It was a rough, sweaty game. The men on their horses would swoop down on the carcass, and fight with one another for the privilege of carrying it from a circle drawn at one end of the great winter valley to a pole at the other, and back.
It was a tradition as old as the mountains.
Bulbul, as always, was the first to reach the dead animal. Leaning over his pounding pony, his weathered hands snatched up the thing by its wooly white coat just ahead of the others.
Laughing and calling, they thundered after him. They seldom caught him. But this year, Pishaq bumped his horse against Bulbul’s own and grabbed a sheep leg.
Tugging and struggling, they rode hard, the sheep carcass straining between them. The man who had it firmly in hand when he reached the end of the valley would be declared the winner.
In past years, for twenty-two winters, the winner had been Bulbul. This year, he felt, for the first time, the strength of a new champion in opposition to his own. It made his blood run hotter, but somehow his spirit grew sad. He did not yet wish to become old.
They never reached the end of the sheltering valley, still green with grazing grass.
Directly before their pounding hoofs, something came up from the earth.
It looked like a man. A strange, dead man.
Bulbul gave a warning shout, and immediately all horses were reined in.
Through the dust they watched as the dead man floated up from the grass, as if he were a ghost arising from some long-forgotten grave.
Their narrow eyes tensed, in the wonder of it.
“A ghost!” Bulbul hissed.
“Look at its eyes! They are dead!”
It was true.
The eyes of the ghost were open and staring, but its pupils were like pinpoints. Dead.
As they watched, it floated up toward the sky.
A rider shouted.
“Another ghost!”
It was so. This ghost wore a blue uniform, like a soldier. His eyes, like the other’s, were round in a way they had never seen.
A third ghost, too, soon emerged from their ancestral grasslands.
They watched in stolid silence, these men of the mountains, rough of face and hard of eye.
They had seen strange things in their lives. But none stranger than this. Yet such were they, that they did not retreat or betray cowardice. Only the horses were skittish.
The three bodies floated up to the sky and out of sight.
Later, an ugly dog resembling the forgotten buzkashi sheep was seen floating in the sky. then there came a long, white wheeled object one man said resembled the machines men drove throughout distant Kashgar, followed by another dead man-corpse.
The last ghost to emerge from the cursed earth was that of a woman, wide of eye and black of garment.
Bulbul grunted at the sight of her.
“Truly,” he said, “she is of the grave. Look, cave spiders have spun their webs in her dusty garments.”
This was indisputable.
The dead woman quickly disappeared from sight.
They held vigil all night long, but no more spirits rose into the heavens toward the cold stars.
At dawn, they held council. It was decided that the valley was a cursed place, and no more could they play buzkashi there.
It was a sad thing to accept, for this was the land of their forefathers. But they were clear-eyed and unsentimental.
There was no dissent.
As they rode back to their tents and their bullocks and their worried women, the Kazakh hill men of Kazakhstan made a compact never to speak of this to any whose eyes had not beheld the unforgettable sight.
It was a pact made by men of honor, and it was kept.
And so the world never learned of the floating ghosts of Kazakhstan.
Excerpt
If you enjoyed Ghost in the Machine, no one’s gonna stop you from leaving a nice review with some stars attached. Cheesy? Yeah, but it really helps. That’s the biz, sweetheart.
And if you did like Ghost in the Machine, maybe you’ll like Cold Warrior, too. It’s the next novel in the Destroyer series, and should be available wherever truly fine ebooks are sold.
Cold Warrior
His name was Remo, and he was trying to order duckling.
The room service manager of the Fontainebleau Hotel, overlooking Miami Beach, was graciously apologetic.
“I am sorry sir, but the duck is unavailable.”
“Uh-oh,” said Remo, his strong face warping in concern.
“Sir?”
“My roommate isn’t going to like this.”
“Please convey to your roommate our deepest apologies,” the room service manager said in an unctuous tone, “but as I said, the duck is unavailable this evening.”
“This is terrible,” Remo said.
“From time to time there is a problem with our suppliers. It cannot be foreseen, and there is nothing we can do about this.”
“You see, I have a sneaking suspicion my roommate picked this hotel expressly because he liked the duck,” Remo said.
The room service manager’s voice grew solicitous. “I shall so inform the head chef. I’m certain he will be gratified.”
“You see, normally we don’t check into a hotel a second time. We kinda like to move around, experience new things. But we were here a few months back and my roommate ordered the duck. Now here we are back at your nice hotel; and now no duck.”
“I can assure you it will be on the menu by the end of the week. May I suggest our beef Stroganoff?”
“You can suggest all you want,” Remo countered, “but my roommate and I are allergic to beef.”
“A pity.”
“We eat beef and we go into toxic shock.”
“We would not want that. Would you prefer the lamb-kabobs?”
“Lamb’s greasy.”
“Not our lamb.”
“And lamb makes us hurl.”
“Hurl?”
“Puke.”
“I shall have to remember the word “hurl,’” the room service manager said dryly. “It has a certain charming...force to it.”
“My roommate and I,” Remo went on, “are on highly restricted diets. We eat fish and duck and rice and not much else.”
“In that case, let me suggest the trout Almondine.”
“Good suggesting, but my roommate has his heart set on duck.”
“As I have explained, the duck is unavailable tonight, but it will be available again later in the week. Possibly by Thursday.”
"Don’t know if we’ll be here that long,” Remo said.
The room service manager’s voice dropped several degrees Fahrenheit. “May I make a further suggestion? Why don’t you ask your rather finicky roommate if, under the circumstances as I have outlined them, the trout Almondine might not be acceptable after all?”
“Hang on.”
Remo cupped his hand over the hotel suite phone receiver and called into the next room.
“Hey, Little Father!"
“Trout have bones,” came a squeaky, querulous voice.
Remo took his hand off the receiver and said, “He says trout is bony.”
“We bone our trout, sir.”
The squeaky voice came again. “Ask for the duck.”
“I did. They say they’re out.”
“Has every duck in the universe expired?” wondered the squeaky voice.
“Doubt it,” said Remo.
“Then I shall have the duck. In orange sauce.”
Remo spoke into the receiver. “Says he’s really, really set on the duck. And he’d like it in orange sauce.”
The last of the oil evaporated from the room service manager’s tone.
“Sir, as I have explained–”
“Listen, by chance did you hear about the bellboy?”
“I seldom pay attention to the doings of lower-echelon personnel,” the room service manager said bluntly.
“The poor guy ended up in a body cast.”
“I believe something was mentioned along those lines. Regrettable.”
“He nicked my roommate’s trunk carrying it to the elevator,” Remo pointed out.
There was a pregnant pause on the line. “This roommate of yours, by chance would he be an elderly gentleman of Asian extraction?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t call him ‘elderly,’” said Remo, knowing that he would be overheard by the occupant of the next room, who was sensitive about his age. “And I think you shouldn’t either. That’s worse than nicking a trunk.”
“Understood, sir.” The tone changed again. This time, it was helpful. “Well, if this is the case, there may be something we can do. Perhaps I could ask the head chef to dig a little deeper into the freezer, as it were. Ah, I trust your roommate would not be offended by frozen duck?”
