"It is for me to say these things; you are merely osnaz."
Which confirmed to Yuli Batenin the suspicion that had been growing since he had left the motherland. These men were not ex-KGB. Not all of them. They were Spetsnaz-spetsiadnoye nazhacheniye. Special purpose soldiers of the GRU, military intelligence. They were the shock troops of the former Red Army General Staff.
By osnaz, they were mocking him as a mere secret policeman, which is what he had been in his KGB days, albeit a glorified one.
Whatever this "Shield" was, it was comprised of the most hard-core members of pre-Gorbachev forces. Every man was an athlete of Olympic caliber. This was good. It was also very intimidating to Yuli Batenin, whose background was in intelligence, not operations.
"I have forty American dollars and three kopecks," Yuli said, showing Captain Gerkoff the contents of his pockets.
"Give me dollars, and save kopeks for after next Revolution. When they will be valuable once again."
Reluctantly, Batenin did as he was told. He did not think kopecks would ever be worth anything. Even in good times, they were valueless. But he had no choice.
Others chipped in. Soon, nearly two hundred dollars had been amassed.
"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 e
agerly. 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.
When the dealer refused to take it back, Rumpp had the signature painted over and "Property of R. Rumpp" inscribed in its place, figuring that would increase its resale value.
On his second circuit of the room, he noticed something missing. He ran to the door and stuck his head out into the corridor.
"Dorma!"
"Yes, Mr. Rumpp?"
"Did you take my monogrammed Colibri lighter?"
"Of course not."
"Well, somebody did. It's gone. And nobody's been in here except you and me and the-"
Rumpp's face acquired a sick look.
"Oh, God," he said thickly.
Randal Rumpp turned on his portable cellular phone. He lifted the receiver to his ear.
"Anybody in there?" he asked.
"Help me. I am lost in telephone," said a familiar voice.
"I know."
"You! You trick me!"
"There was a screw-up. But don't worry. I fired the jerk responsible. Listen, did you take my monogrammed cigarette lighter?"
"Are you calling me thief?" the voice demanded.
"It was either you or my secretary. And I saw you looking at it. You called it a funny name."
"I called it 'krahseevah.' In my language, it means 'beautiful.' I like beautiful things."
"Case closed. Good-bye."
"I admit it! I admit it!" the voice said hastily. "I have lighter. I will be happy to return it to you."
Randal Rumpp hesitated. "Can you do that without coming out of the phone yourself?"
"I can try."
"How?"
"You lift up receiver. I hand out lighter. It is very simple. Like opening refrigerator door for ice cream cone. "
Rumpp frowned. "I don't trust you."
"You trick me and talk about trust. You phony-baloney."
"Hell, you're the thief here!" Rumpp protested indignantly. "I'm a businessman. I don't steal. I just hoodwink people who don't do their homework. No law against that."
"You want pen, you must lift receiver. There is no other way."
"Forget it," said Randal Rumpp. "I'm not ready to cash in my chips just yet. I'll get back to you."
"Wait!"
Randal Rumpp hung up the telephone. Instantly, it began ringing.
From down the corridor Dorma Wormser shrieked as if in pain, and begged for mercy.
"Remind me to fire that weak-kneed bitch when this is over," Rumpp muttered, moving the bell lever to LOUDEST.
When his executive assistant's screams began to get on his nerves, Rumpp reluctantly suppressed the bell.
It was going to be a long, long day.
Chapter 26
The Master of Sinanju's green-and-gold steamer trunk arrived by express at nine o'clock.
"Your trunk's here," Remo called.
"Do not let the messenger escape."
"Escape?"
Chiun bounded out of his bedroom, wearing a blue-and-white ceremonial robe. Ignoring Remo and the surprised deliveryman, the Master of Sinanju fell upon the ornate trunk. He examined every inch of its lacquered surface for nicks or blemishes.
Finding none, he threw open the lid and did a complete inventory with suspicious eyes.
Only then did he straighten his cat-lean back and address the waiting messenger.
"You may live, careful one."
"You mean 'leave,' " said the deliveryman.
"That too," sniffed Chiun. After the man had closed the door behind him, Remo remarked, "He thinks you were kidding him."
The phone rang. Chiun ignored it. Remo scooped up the receiver and said, "Smitty?"
"Remo!" Harold Smith admonished. "You should never speak my name before I identify myself. Security. "
"Like there aren't twenty million Smiths in the world," Remo muttered. "Okay, what's your problem?"
"The Rumpp Regis is about to be seized for back taxes."
Remo raised an interested eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"
"It just broke over the wire services," Smith added.
"So what do we do?"
"Sit tight. If Randal Rumpp has somehow turned the Krahseevah technology to his own use, it's possible he may move to despectralize it."
"That means we're at ground zero. With a capital Z."
"Await developments."
"What developments?" Remo asked.
"Any developments."
"Great," Remo said sourly, hanging up.
"What did Emperor Smith say?" Chiun asked absently. He was going through the contents of his trunk. Remo noticed he was holding some sort of feather-decorated wind instrument, whose flaring mouth promised an ear-splitting cacophony.
Remo decided the less the Master of Sinanju knew, the quieter the lull before the storm would be.
"He said we're to hang loose until something happens," Remo replied, trying to keep his voice toneless.
Chiun looked up from his trunk. "He said to do nothing?"
"That's about the size of it."
Chiun returned to his rummaging. "Then we do nothing. "
"Not me. I'm going downstairs to get a newspaper."
"For an illiterate like you, that is nothing," Chiun sniffed.
Remo took the elevator to the lobby and bought a paper at the newsstand. He bought a Post, because the Times didn't have a comics section.
The lobby was busy with grim-faced official types who were showing badges. IRS. They were giving the desk clerk a hard time.
"Are we being audited again?" the clerk asked.
"No, sir," said the IRS man said. "We're not auditors. We're revenue collectors."
"If you want to take money from the hotel safe, you'll have to speak with the manager," the clerk sniffed.
"No need. We're seizing the entire hotel."
The clerk paled and looked on the verge of fainting. "Does this mean I'm unemployed?"
"Only if you don't follow instructions. You work for Uncle Sam now."
Remo decided to read the paper in the lobby, seeing as the IRS agents promised to be almost as entertaining as Calvin and Hobbes.
An agent sauntered over and said, "No loitering in this lobby."
"I'm registered," Remo pointed out.
The agent flashed his badge and said, "Agency rules. Sorry."
"You guys are going to bankrupt this place with that attitude."
"I don't make the rules."
"I know. You just jam them down people's throats."
Remo got up and started for the elevator. He reached it a step behind a thick-necked man in a John Travolta ensemble.<
br />
The door opened and Remo got on. So did "Travolta."
"I thought Halloween was yesterday," Remo remarked dryly.
The man looked at the elevator indicator board and said nothing.
"Got a match?" Remo asked. The man looked down at his shoes. One hand-his right-rose slightly . . . and Remo became aware that the man was armed. He was no IRS agent. That was for sure.
In fact, he didn't even smell like an American. Remo's senses had been trained to the peak of perfection. But that was only the first step. Chiun had taught him to utilize his heightened senses in ways Remo himself still found amazing. One exercise involved guessing people's nationalities by their personal scents.
It was not as bizarre as it sounded. Personal scents were a mixture of hygiene, diet, and other organic constants. Diet was the predominate determinate, however.
The man in the elevator smelled of black bread and borscht.
A Russian.
In itself, it was not unusual to find a Russian staying at the Rumpp Regis. It was a four-star hotel. Its clientele probably included citizens from Canada to Tongo.
Still, an armed Russian was unusual.
When the elevator stopped at the fourteenth floor and the Russian got off, Remo kept the door from closing again with the toe of an Italian loafer and stepped out into the lobby.
He hung back, staying close to the walls, as he followed the Russian's distinctive scent to a room at the end of one corridor. The man knocked, spoke a thick word that sounded to Remo like "shit," and was let in.
Remo noted the room number and went to a corridor phone. He called his own room.
"Chiun. We got Russians."
"Turn on the lights and they will scurry away," said Chiun unconcernedly.
"I think this may be connected to the Krahseevah. Smith said we may have another Rumpp Tower here."
"He did?" Chiun squeaked. "You did not not tell me of this! I must make preparations!
"Wait a minute!" The phone clicked in Remo's ear.
"Damn," Remo said, racing to the elevators.
The doors opened on a cage going up. Remo ignored it.
The next elevator was going down. Remo knew that because, when the doors opened, there stood the Master of Sinanju, standing before his green-and-gold trunk, wearing a ceremonial white stovepipe hat.
"Little Father, wait!"
From up one sleeve, the Master of Sinanju withdrew the strange feathered wind instrument and brought it to his lips.
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