Yuli Batenin had less time to wait than he had dreamed possible. And when they got back to him, it wasn't through a crisp female voice over hundreds of miles of rusting cable but by crashing in the apartment door and seizing him roughly.
There were three of them. Plainclothes men. Very KGB.
"Yuli Batenin?" the tallest of them asked stonily.
"Yes. Who are you?"
"You will come with us," the man said gruffly, as the other two dragged him by his elbows down the dingy apartment stairs and out into the sterile autumn cold of Sovno Prospekt.
They flung him into a waiting car and, as the car sped off, Yuli Batenin found himself weeping with a mixture of pride and nostalgia. He himself had seized dissidents in just this fashion during the days of his youth.
"Is just like old days," he blubbered. "I am so happy."
They slapped him to quiet him, but he only smiled harder.
Chapter 21
The Master of Sinanju was ignoring the prattling whites.
As he sat on a tatami mat before the hotel room television, with the incessant honk and blare of city traffic permeating the room, he bided his time, waiting for the glorious face of Cheeta Ching, his Cheeta Ching, rosy-cheeked with child, to appear.
The whites prattled on, disturbing his thoughts.
"I got it all figured out, Smitty," Remo was saying.
Over the miles of phone wiring, the brittle voice of Harold W. Smith buzzed. Its noise offended the ears of the Master of Sinanju above all.
"Yes, Remo?"
"It's a hologram."
"Pardon me?"
"The Rumpp Tower is a hologram," Remo repeated. "You know, one of those 3-D gimmicks."
Chiun snorted derisively. The whites prattled on, unheeding.
"What about the people trapped inside?" Smith asked.
"Holograms too," Remo said. "It's the only thing that makes sense."
"So far, you are not even making that," Smith buzzed.
"Follow my train of logic," Remo said, looking over to the bright television screen. His face was reflected in a wall mirror for the Master of Sinanju to see. His round white eyes grew interested in the image they beheld.
The Master of Sinanju casually reached up to change the channel.
Remo looked away with a frown and resumed speaking.
"Listen," he said. "Rumpp is about to be shut down. He's got an ego bigger than Lee Iacocca. He can't handle it, so he arranges for a hologram of his Tower to appear, to fool everyone who tries to evict him."
"Not likely," Smith said.
"And to make it really, really look good," Remo went on, "he has holograms of people planted so that when they seem to step outside, they fall into the ground."
"Explain how you and Chiun fell through the atrium lobby."
"Simple. Rumpp had the marble ripped up and laid down a hologram floor. We couldn't stand on it, because it was just light. The hologram people didn't fall through because they weren't solid either."
"Not plausible," Smith said sharply.
"Yeah? You got a better theory?"
"No," Smith admitted.
"Then let's go with mine until you do."
"There's only one thing wrong with your theory, Remo."
"What's that?"
"If the present Rumpp Tower is a three-dimensional illusion, where is the real thing?"
Remo's confident expression fell in like a black hole with a white face. He wrinkled his forehead unhappily. He pulled on an earlobe and scrunched up his right eye and that side of his face.
Remo snapped lean fingers. "Simple. He moved it."
The Master of Sinanju snorted and attempted to return to his meditations. But he knew there would be no peace unless these whites were allowed to indulge their mania for trivia.
"Remo, it is not possible to simply move a sixty-eight-story office tower," Harold Smith pointed out in a firm voice.
"Maybe it was on jacks, and he just sent it dropping into the earth," Remo said with less confidence than before.
"Hardly."
"Okay, there are some weak links in my logic chain. But I still say the only rational scientific explanation is a hologram scam."
"Perhaps we should not be looking for a rational scientific explanation," Smith said slowly.
"What other kind is there?"
"What has Chiun to say about this matter?"
"Who knows? I'm still trying to get a handle on this baby situation."
"I spoke with Chiun earlier," Smith said.
Across the room, the Master of Sinanju cocked a delicate ear while feigning disinterest.
Remo brought the receiver closer to his mouth and lowered his voice. "Yeah? What'd he say then?"
"We did not get to the matter at hand. It seemed that the Master of Sinanju expects me to become the baby's godfather."
"Uh-oh. "
"I told him it was quite impossible, for security reasons. He-er-hung up in a huff."
"Well," Remo said guiltily. "You know how Chiun gets these ideas into his head. It'll pass."
"It will not, liar!" Chiun hissed.
Remo, noticing something on the TV screen that interested him, grabbed the remote unit off the dresser and pointed it at the cable control box. He eased the volume up.
Chiun reached up and changed the channel manually.
Remo changed the channel back.
The Master of Sinanju, in response, lowered the sound.
"Chiun! Cut that out! That looked like a report on the Tower thing coming on."
"The only news that could be of interest will come from the divine lips of Cheeta Ching," he intoned.
Remo offered the receiver. "Here, Smith wants to know your theories about what happened tonight."
Chiun refused to move. "I will have nothing to do with a person who would turn away an innocent child."
"He, she, or it hasn't been born yet!" Remo called over. Cupping his hand over the mouthpiece, he added in a whisper, "Think how many points you can score with Smith if you can solve this mess for him. The President's on his back."
The Master of Sinanju hesitated between opportunity and stubbornness.
"And it'll sure make up for the way we screwed up our last assignment," Remo added hopefully.
"I screwed up nothing!" Chiun flared, leaping to his feet. "Your failure to dispatch the dictator allowed him to seize one of Smith's outermost provinces! No blame is mine."
Remo suppressed a grin. Last time out, Remo had been assigned to assassinate a deposed Central American dictator. Remo thought he had done the job, but weeks later, the man had resurfaced in an new identity as an office-seeker in the California governor's race. Chiun had been seduced into joining the campaign by a promised post as Lord Treasurer. When the truth came out the Master of Sinanju was embarrassed, and ever since he had been determined to restore himself to Smith's good graces.
"Tell that to Smith," Remo suggested.
Chiun grasped the telephone and brought the ugly device to his parchment face.
"Emperor Smith. The truth here is very simple, O all-seeing one."
"Yes?"
"The idiot Rumpp built his ugly tower on a cursed spot."
"Cursed?"
"All Koreans understand that one does not merely set a building down in any old place. There are lucky places and unlucky places in the earth. Restless spirits roam. Unmarked graves abound. This is why we employ mudangs to seek out efficacious places first."
"Mudangs?"
"He means witches!" Remo called over.
"Oh," said Smith, disappointment in his tone. "I do not think we are dealing with witchcraft here, Master Chiun."
"What other explanation is there? Even your white witches have emerged from their places of hiding to brave the hangman's noose to behold the awesome sight."
"I've been trying to explain about the Salem witch trials!" Remo called over. "Somebody forgot to tell him dunking stools went out with the Spanish Inquisition."