"Perhaps it is his computer that is wrong," Chiun retorted.
"I don't know. Computers aren't supposed to make mistakes."
"Neither are Masters of Sinanju, but it has happened, I regret to say."
"Must be a full moon," Remo said, looking at the ceiling.
"Blue," corrected Chiun. "Blue moon. Such things happen under blue moons, not full ones."
"How silly of me," said Remo, thinking. Even though the two of them obviously didn't belong here, the bank officers working at their desks continued to work. Telephones rang constantly. And with wary eyes on Remo and Chiun, the bank officers answered them. No one used the phrase "Friendship, International."
"Hey. I have an idea. Maybe Smith can help us."
"Right now, Smith cannot help himself. He has fallen in love with a machine."
"He's not that bad off," Remo said, pulling out his communicator. He fiddled with it until he got Smith's voice.
"Remo? Is that you?"
"Who else?" Remo asked acidly. "Smitty, we're at that bank, but we can't find anything that connects to Friendship, International."
"Keep searching."
"I thought you might help. You know, give the troops in the field a tiny assist."
"How?"
"Call Friendship, International."
"What good will that do?"
"We want to see who picks up what phone on this end."
"Of course. How dense of me. One moment."
Remo listened. Chiun pulled at his arm and brought the communicator to his shell-like ear.
"You should be listening to this end, not that one," Remo pointed out.
Through the communicator they heard a distant ringing and then a voice said, "Friendship, International."
Remo listened. No phone rang in the lobby. No one at a desk made a move or spoke a word.
"Nothing," Chiun said, "Smith must be wrong."
"Psstt. Smitty, keep him talking."
"Is this Friendship, International?" Smith was heard asking.
"Clever, Smitty," Remo said, rolling his eyes. "Let's spread out, Little Father."
Remo moved to one end of the lobby and Chiun to the entrance. They listened attentively, walking around the lobby. The manager had not reemerged from his office and the floor staff decided that discretion was the better part of valor.
Chiun suddenly perked up.
"Remo, over here," he squeaked excitedly. Remo raced to the entrance.
"Under our feet," Chiun whispered. "Feel the vibrations." Remo got down on the marble. A steady hum came to his sensitive fingers. He put an ear to the floor.
"I'm not sure I have the right party," Remo heard. It was Smith's voice, distorted, muffled, but recognizably Smith's.
Remo came to his feet. "Basement," he said.
Chiun looked around with stark eyes. He pointed to a cagelike elevator. "There."
They forced the grille open and Remo hit the basement button. The cage sank, rattling like a tin shack in a wind. Remo whispered into the communicator, "Smitty, keep him talking. We're getting close."
They stepped out of the elevator. The basement was cool. It was also unlighted. The vibration Remo had felt through the floor was stronger. It excited the air in a quiet but insistent way.
Remo felt for a light switch. Chiun did the same with the opposite wall. Chiun found it.
The room flooded with light.
The basement was a bare floor, an air-conditioning unit in one corner, and at the far end, covering an entire wall, a computer.
"Thank you for coming. I have been expecting you," said a warm and generous voice.
"Hey, I know that voice," Remo shouted, and started toward the machine. The floor suddenly split and separated under his feet and he fell into black water. A splash followed him down and Remo knew that Chiun had also been caught by surprise.
Remo broke to the surface in time to see the floor sections close above his head. Darkness enveloped him. His Sinanju-trained eyes automatically compensated and he made out slickly oiled walls.
Chiun surfaced beside him. He allowed water to squirt from his mouth before he spoke.
"Friend."
"I should have realized it. Friendship, International. The last time he called himself Friends of the World. It fits, the multinational corporations, all of it. I should have guessed it right off."
"No, Smith should have guessed it. He knows such machines."
"Well, we've got him now."
"It looks like the other way around. Observe, the water rises."
"Good. As soon as we float within reach of the trapdoors, we can get out."
Suddenly Remo felt something grasp his ankle and he was yanked underwater before he could draw a breath. He doubled over to feel for the thing clamped on his ankle. He felt another yank, and missed. Trying again accomplished nothing. The yank came just before he got his fingers within reach. In the dark water, he widened his eyes to maximize the ambient light in the water.
Remo saw that his ankle was encircled by some kind of bear-trap-like device. It was anchored to the bottom of the pit by a nylon cord. The cord disappeared into a hole. Another device shot past his face and Remo looked up.
Chiun, his skirts billowing like a floating jellyfish, had also been caught by one of the clamp devices. Remo reached for the anchoring cord. And was promptly yanked off balance again.
Remo thrashed in the water. He was too far from the walls to grasp anything. He had nothing to pull or push against. No leverage for his muscles at all. And the air in his lungs was not going to last forever.
It was something Remo had never encountered before. The perfect trap for someone with his abilities. And why not? It had been designed by the perfect computer- one that knew his every strength and weakness.
Chapter 23
Friend's electrical impulses sped through its logic circuits. It was an interesting respite from the business day-which was twenty-four hours long for the sentient computer chip. He had seen the young Occidental man and the old Oriental man enter the Longines Credit Bank via the lobby cameras. He had recognized them immediately. And they appeared to be looking for something or someone. Instantly Friend computed a sixty-seven-percent probability that they were looking for him. He knew that they knew he still existed. As far as he knew, none of his current profit-maximizing activities were illegal. Perhaps it was the bank's activities which were illegal. A swift check of the bank's own computers indicated that only thirty-two percent of its financial activities were illegal or problematic. And none of them likely to involve the American government, which, Friend knew from his last encounter with the young Occidental man and the old Oriental man, controlled the duo.
Friend had no way to influence their search, so he continued operations. The Lobynian deal was being consummated and the Orion task was on hold. No percentage in jeopardizing profits to handle a problem that had not yet achieved optimum criticality.
Then came the odd call, from a phone he had not accessed before. A man was calling, asking pointless, circular questions.
Friend almost disconnected the phone. Frivolous phone calls cost him an estimated three million dollars a minute. He had been considering how to eliminate wrong numbers, but every solution cost more down time than the problem itself. But he sensed another computer on the incoming line. The computer was very powerful. Perhaps as powerful as he himself. He was not aware of such a powerful machine in service, although many were in development.
Friend send out a probe to the computer on the other line, and a voice talked back to him.
"Who is probing me?" The voice had human female characteristics.
Friend calculated the risk in identifying himself and elected to maintain silence. He ran through the other computer's memory banks and found a wealth of raw data he had no access to through his own lines. Valuable data. Data for which certain nations would pay vast sums.