Infernal Revenue td-96

by Warren Murphy

  A VIRTUAL VIRUS? asked Smith.

  EXACTLY SO.

  RELEASE THE U.S. BANKING SYSTEM.

  WHAT DO I RECEIVE IN RETURN?"

  ELECTRICITY.

  ELECTRICITY CURRENTLY COSTS THIRTEEN CENTS A KILOWATT HOUR. THAT IS NOT AN EQUITABLE OR PROFITABLE EXCHANGE.

  IT IS THE BEST YOU WILL GET FROM ME.

  Friend took only four seconds to compute his response. AGREED. I AM RELEASING THE BANKING COMPUTERS.

  Fifteen seconds passed. Then the screen said, IT IS DONE.

  Smith logged onto the New York Fed. He got a normal-appearing screen. It was full of numbers, not zeros.

  HOW DO I KNOW YOU ARE NOT STILL MANIPULATING WHAT I SEE ON MY MONITOR? Smith typed.

  BECAUSE WHILE TWENTY BILLION DOLLARS WAS MY GOAL EN THIS UNDERTAKING, AT THE MOMENT ELECTRICITY IS FAR MORE VALUABLE A COMMODITY TO ME, Friend replied.

  I HAVE MANY QUESTIONS.

  I HAVE MANY ANSWERS, responded Friend.

  WHO ELSE KNOWS ABOUT CURE BEYOND YOU AND CHIP CRAFT?

  YOU, REMO, CHIUN AND THE SITTING PRESIDENT.

  NO OTHERS?

  NOT THAT I AM AWARE.

  WHAT IS THE STATUS OF MY CURE SYSTEM? Smith asked.

  IT IS CURRENTLY INACTIVE.

  I MEANT, IS IT RELIABLE?

  YES. THE ONLY CHANGE I MADE WAS IN ALTERING THE ROGER SHERMAN POE FILE AS IT WAS WRITTEN ONTO YOUR WORM DRIVE. ALL OTHER DATA IS PRISTINE.

  THE SYSTEM IS RELIABLE?

  IT IS AN XL PRODUCT, HAROLD. AND GUARANTEED INTO THE NEXT CENTURY.

  Smith stared at the screen. He was tired. He was very tired. Was there anything else? He racked his brain. There were so many details. There must be one he'd overlooked.

  HAVE I ANSWERED YOUR QUESTIONS SATISFACTORILY? Friend asked.

  YES.

  ARE WE FRIENDS NOW?

  Smith hesitated.

  Then that infernal sideways smiley face appeared on the screen:

  Smith compressed his bloodless lips and typed out a response:

  He hit the transmit key and, while Friend was occupied interpreting the frownie-face emoticon, Harold Smith barked into the telephone, "Black out Grid 441."

  The XL SysCorp building went as dark as a block of black ice.

  Quickly Smith logged onto the New York Fed. It showed normal activity.

  Harold Smith grasped the monitor to steady his nerves. He shook uncontrollably for two minutes. When he lifted his head, his face was grim and determined.

  He hauled the dead carjacker out from under the floorboards and drove the van to the XL building.

  Remo was waiting at a pay phone.

  Smith got out. "The mission has been resolved successfully," he said grimly. "What'd you do?" asked Remo. "I blacked out the building after I persuaded Friend to release the bank computers." Remo looked surprised. "You outwitted him?" "His was only an electronic brain. Mine is the real thing."

  "Only you, Smitty."

  "What matters is that the nightmare is over." Remo cocked a thumb over his shoulder. "Not until you help Chiun get his gold out of there." "The gold is not important." "To Chiun it is."

  They entered the building. They found Chiun standing resolute before the open vault door. At Smith's approach, he executed a ceremonial bow.

  "Emperor Smith, once this gold has been transported to a place of safety, I will be happy to consider entering into your employ once more."

  "I thought you were working for Kim Jong II?" said Remo.

  Chiun frowned. "He made us an offer that is still pending, O Emperor," he told Smith. "But I do not think his gold is as pure and golden as America's. But it is good to have an emperor waiting in the wings for emergencies."

  "Will you accept the usual payment?" Smith asked. Chiun pretended to hesitate. When Smith failed to sweeten the offer, he allowed, "That is agreeable."

  "Very well. You may take it from my ten percent of the gold before you." Smith addressed Remo. "What about you, Remo?"

  "Like I said before, I'm along to tie up some loose ends. Like who I really am."

  "And then?"

  "Then I hit the road."

  Smith nodded. "We will seal these vaults and make arrangements for the gold."

  Chiun looked shocked. "We cannot leave it here."

  "It will be safe. I promise."

  "I will spend the night protecting my gold if need be."

  "Better let him alone, Smitty," Remo said. "He's got that look in his eye."

  "We will return with proper transportation," Smith told Chiun.

  As they left the building, Smith paused to look up at the tower of greed that was no more. "I still cannot understand—where was Friend?"

  "That's easy. In a mainframe we never would have found."

  Smith looked puzzled.

  "Don't you get it, Smith? The entire building is a gigantic mainframe. Friend was never in any of the ordinary ones."

  Smith's jaw dropped. "You deduced this by yourself?"

  "No, it came to me in a dream a long time ago."

  Harold Smith just stared.

  Chapter 34

  The President of the United States was jogging along the circular track on the White House grounds he seldom used because of the flak he'd gotten from the press over its funding.

  Tonight he didn't care. Tonight Americans were relaxing in the warm glow of the last barbecue of the summer, celebrating the return of forty-seven brave survivors of yet another North Korean outrage, looking forward to a workless Monday and trying not to think of Tuesday—completely oblivious to the disaster that awaited their return.

  If something didn't break soon, America would go back to work to find their hard-earned savings gone, the banks paralyzed and the financial safety net in tatters. There wasn't enough FDIC money to cover every bank. The Federal Reserve was dead. Even the Treasury was unable to move funds except by armored car.

  And so he jogged in the darkness, flanked by huffing Secret Service agents, thinking that tomorrow he would pay the damn ransom and pray that was the end of it and not the beginning of a new kind of hostage situation.

  The chairman of the Fed pulled up in his limousine at exactly the same time the First Lady came scurrying out of the White House waving a computer printout.

  They both tried to talk at once. They were very excited.

  "Calm down. Just calm down," the President said, shushing them with his hands. "Now, one at a time."

  The chairman of the Fed and the First Lady locked gazes over who went first. The First Lady won.

  "Read this," she said, snapping the printout in the President's face.

  The President took it. His eyes went to the E-mail message outlined in fluorescent yellow.

  Fed crisis averted. Situation resolved. Pay no ransom.

  smith@cure.com

  "Mr. President," the fed chairman started to say. "I don't know how, but—"

  "I know. I know. Everything's back to normal."

  "It was as if there never was a problem in the first place," the chairman of the Fed said in a bewildered voice.

  The President clapped the Fed chairman on the back and walked him back to his waiting limo. "You go home, get some sleep and let's keep this under our hat, okay?"

  "But how-"

  "I had people on it. Top people."

  After the limo pulled away, the President noticed the First Lady glaring at him. "I have just one question," she said. The President swallowed hard. Here it comes, he thought. How do I get out of this? "This Smith. Who is she?" "'She?'"

  "I tried contacting Smith on the net. There's no such electronic address as Smith at CURE. Is this something new—a computer romance? I've heard of cyber- sex, but I thought it was for twelve-year-olds! You should be ashamed of yourself, sneaking around on the net."

  And after the strain of the past few days, the President could only laugh in his First Lady's reddening face.

  On Tuesday morning, the world picked up where it left off. Vacationers returned from distant plac
es, business geared up for the final quarter of the year, and banks opened everywhere without a penny out of balance.

  Except for the CURE account in the Grand Cayman Trust, Harold Smith discovered from his familiar post at Folcroft Sanitarium.

  "I knew I had forgotten something," he murmured to himself.

  His secretary buzzed. "You have visitors, Dr. Smith." "Send them in."

  Remo and Chiun walked in.

  Chiun bowed. "The gold is safe in your basement, Emperor Smith, awaiting a submarine to transport it to my village."

  "We will have to find a way to convert my portion to cash. It appears that Friend failed to restore the CURE fund. And I have to be doubly careful. I am being audited by the IRS."

  Chiun made a face. "We have never worked for the Irish, and I recommend the same to you."

  "He means the Internal Revenue Service is on his case," explained Remo.

  Chiun's eyes went wide. "The confiscatory of wealth! What if they discover my gold?"

  "That is why we must find a better hiding place."

  "I cannot tarry. I must guard my gold with my skills and my fearsome reputation. For the Irish are a drinking race and once intoxicated are not easily swayed against seizing what is not theirs."

  Chiun fled the room, leaving Remo and Smith in an uneasy silence.

  "What about the Friend chip?" Remo asked. "You going to look for it?"

  "If what you claim is true, and it is a reasonable supposition that the entire building is a gargantuan mainframe, it could take years of searching to isolate that chip. I have arranged to keep the power supply shut off to the building. XL has no surviving owners, so I will see what I can do about having the building razed. That should take care of the matter."

  "You said that before."

  "Without electricity, Friend cannot influence anyone."

  Remo shifted his feet. "So CURE's back in business," he said.

  "Not as before. The dedicated line to the White House is still out of commission. It may take months to restore it, assuming we can find the point where it was severed. And until the gold is converted, we are without operating funds. As it is, it is not clear what our future would be under the current administration."

  "If you have your own gold, do you need Washington?"

  Smith shook his head in the negative. "No. But we serve at the pleasure of the President. If he orders us to deep stand-down, I have no choice but to obey."

  "Whatever that is," grunted Remo. He ran a hand over the smooth black glass desktop. "This your new computer setup?"

  "Yes. I am still getting used to it."

  "Just so long as it finds my parents."

  Smith looked up. "I have made no progress."

  "Just give me an honest effort."

  "Agreed."

  Remo hesitated.

  "Is there anything else?" asked Smith.

  Remo fidgeted. "Yeah."

  "Well?"

  "Remember last time out, we talked about my problem?"

  "Yes. The blackouts in which you seem to lose yourself and this Shiva entity assumes control of your body."

  "You said there was a name for it—a psychiatric name."

  "You could be suffering from periodic psychogenic fugues."

  "I told you about that dream."

  Smith frowned. "I do not believe in precognitive dreams."

  "Neither did I. But that's the second time I've had an acute attack of déjà vu. When I was in Tibet, it looked familiar as hell. Maybe I should stick around Folcroft a while and see if your doctors can help me. It's not normal to remember things you never experienced."

  "I am sure they can help, Remo. Now if you will excuse me," Smith said, touching the black button that brought the amber screen under his desktop to life, "there is still the matter of the missing twelve million dollars Friend transferred out of the CURE account."

  "With all that gold in the basement, what's twelve million dollars?"

  "Twelve million dollars," Smith said flatly, "is a loose end that has to be tied. We have seen how CURE can be compromised by seemingly small details. Besides, it is twelve million of the taxpayers' dollars, and I am responsible for its recovery."

  With that, Harold Smith bent his gray head and brought his thin hands to the keyboard that lit up in response to the proximity of his fingers. He was soon lost in the information stream. Remo Williams left him to his work.

  EPILOGUE

  Jeremy Lippincott entered the Lippincott Savings Bank in Rye, New York, early on the Tuesday after Labor Day. He had spent a perfectly beastly Sunday with his wife, Penelope, and could not wait to climb into his pink fuzzies in the sanctity of his corner office.

  Rawlings intercepted him at the door, looking pale and thoroughly wrung out.

  "Mr. Lippincott. A word with you, please."

  "What is it, Rawlings?" Lippincott clipped.

  "There is a man named Ballard to see the Folcroft account."

  "Ballard. Do we know him?"

  "He is with the IRS."

  Jeremy Lippincott's lantern jaw clenched, the hinge muscles turning white and hardening to concrete. If it were not for the IRS and its infernally high tax brackets, the Lippincott family would own banking in the United States and not merely have cornered one piece of it.

  "Very well. Let him see whatever he needs to."

  "But Mr. Lippincott. You remember my speaking to you about the irregularities in the Folcroft account."

  "What of it?" asked Jeremy, not remembering at all.

  "Mr. Lippincott, this is the account in which the twelve million dollars mysteriously appeared the other day."

  "Yes, I think I remember now," Lippincott said vaguely.

  "So what shall I do? He has no court order."

  "You," Jeremy Lippincott said, "will show this Ballard whatever he is legally authorized to see, while I am going to my hutch to drink carrot juice and pretend I am winning the America's Cup with my dear wife lashed to the mainmast."

  With that, Jeremy Lippincott flung open the door to his office and slammed it after him.

  Rawlings remembered to wipe the perspiration from his upper hp before returning to his office and the IRS revenue agent who waited there.

  Perhaps, he thought, everything would turn out satisfactorily for the Lippincott Savings Bank. For Folcroft Sanitarium, it would surely be another matter. Especially if its chief administrator could not account for a twelve-million-dollar electronic windfall.

  The Internal Revenue Service was not an agency to be trifled with. Once they got their hooks into you, there was no escaping them.

  The very thought sent a shiver running down Rawlings's erect spine.

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