"Great," he muttered. "I'm heading for 'Kazakhstan.' I never even heard of Kazakhstan. They probably don't even speak English there. Maybe I'd better just surrender."
But the pounding at the credit-control doors made him think again. It was getting louder. Louder than the insistently ringing office telephones. They really wanted him. Wanted him bad.
"What the heck!" he told himself. "Can't hurt to call those riceballs at Nishitsu again. I haven't threatened to sue them yet. Maybe I can hose them into building Rumpp Tower II. "
Grinning, Randal Rumpp reached for his portable cellular phone.
Chapter 31
Rair Brashnikov was attempting to induce the two American agents to let him remove his helmet.
"No," said the Caucasian.
"I am having trouble breathing."
"Then die quietly."
The Oriental was arguing with the Caucasian. They were arguing over his head. The Oriental wanted it removed from his shoulders, and the Caucasian was in favor of letting Brashnikov keep it.
In the meantime, they were waiting for the telephone to ring. And then it did.
The Caucasian picked it up.
"Yeah, Smitty. What's the deal?" The Caucasian listened.
He looked up and said to the Oriental, "Smitty says the Rumpp Tower is still sinking, and they can't get Rumpp out."
"Offer to Smith our services to extricate the schemer, Rumpp."
"Smitty. Chiun says we can get Rumpp out." He listened again. "Okay. What do with do about Ivan here? Gotcha."
The Caucasian hung up.
"Smith says we grab Rumpp."
"And this monstrosity?"
"Put him on ice until we get back."
The old Oriental was still holding on to Rair Brashnikov's aching wrists, pinning them together as irremovably as shackles. Now he manipulated his long bony fingers, transferring both wrists to the unshakable grasp of one amber hand.
All around him, the bodies of the many Russian agents sent to recapture Brashnikov lay still and waxy as a Disco museum after an earthquake.
"What means 'on ice'?" Brashnikov asked.
Silence.
"Does 'on ice' mean dead? I must know. Am I allowed a final prayer? I know some very short ones."
The cold-eyed Oriental reached for his throat.
Down the corridor the elevator doors rolled open. Remo called, "Shake a leg, Chiun!"
Then came Cheeta Ching's voice. "Grandfather Chiun! Where are you?"
Chiun started. "Cheeta?"
But the corridor was suddenly filled with the tramping of heavy footsteps.
"We can't leave him now," Remo hissed. "That's either the IRS or the cops."
The Master of Sinanju stepped toward the open doorway. The helpless Russian came with him, unable to free his pinioned arms.
Then the tiny Korean lifted one foot. A simple gesture barely noticed. Remo moved to the edge of the door, hands high, ready to strike if need be.
A clot of Manhattan's finest clopped up the corridor, guns drawn.
"Grandfather Chiun!" Cheeta shouted. "It's all right! I brought the police!"
"Some one shut her up," a voice growled.
And the Master of Sinanju pivoted on his one planted foot.
The thick-soled white boots on Rair Brashnikov's feet buzzed the rug, as sudden centrifugal force brought him around in a standing arc.
Incredibly powerful fingers released his wrists.
By that point, momentum had set his legs at right angles to the walls. His feet flew through the bullet-gnashed doorway, taking the rest of him with it.
The Russian bowled over four policemen before they could react or retreat.
Remo and Chiun jumped out into the corridor, their feet busy. Their heels stamped pistol muzzles flat and broke cylinders from their frames.
"Remo!" Chiun squeaked. "See to the Krahseevah!"
"Right."
Remo reached into the tangle of blue and white and came within a hair of grabbing the Krahseevah by its rubbery neck.
That hair made all the difference. For Rair Brashnikov had fumbled for his belt rheostat. Remo's reaching hand dipped into a sudden blur of white shine.
"Damn!"
Chiun turned. "What?"
"Lost him."
"Idiot!"
Rair Brasnikov remembered his KGB training. In his disembodied state, he had to be careful. Only micron-thick wafers in the bottom of his boot soles enabled him to stand on solid ground when the vibration suit was operation. He could not use his hands to lever himself up.
He could only unbend himself until the boot soles found traction.
Unfortunately, that was not as easy at it sounded.
He realized that his rear end was sinking through the hall carpet, when all around him dazed American policemen recoiled and shouted hoarse curses.
Rair Brashnikov decided to go with the flow.
The flow was taking him through the floor, much to the frustration of the Caucasian American agent, who frantically tried to grab him by any handy extremity.
The level of the floor soon crept up to Brashnikov's chin, his nose. Then he shut his eyes-and did not open them until the subatomic darkness had gone away and he could see pink light through his closed lids.
Remo was taking his frustration out on the hapless police.
"You guys couldn't have waited another lousy minute," he said, grabbing ankles and pulling the police into his inexorable grip. Remo put them all to sleep with simple nerve pressure, while the Master of Sinanju confronted a shocked and wide-eyed Cheeta Ching.
"It is all right, my child. This was not for your eyes."
"My God!" Cheeta gasped. "That witch-bitch was right. It is a night-gaunt!"
"No, it-"
Remo straightened. "Exactly. A night-gaunt. And we want you to spread the word. Tell the world that the night-gaunts have broken loose into the waking world. You're the only one who can convince people."
"Yes, yes, I must!"
"But leave us out of it."
"But . . . but you're part of the story."
"Chiun," Remo said.
The Master of Sinanju took Cheeta Ching's cold hands in his.
"Child, you must do as Chico says."
"Frodo," Remo corrected, straight-faced.
"No word of us must be spoken aloud. Have I your word on this?"
Cheeta Ching had never been known to squelch a story in her career. She was being asked to do so now
It was a complete violation of everything she thought she stood for.
Silently, she nodded, her lids lowered demurely. She bowed. Twice.
The Master of Sinanju bowed in return. Once.
"We must go now, to seek out other night-gaunts," said Chiun solemnly.
Cheeta Ching brushed away a tear. "Go in peace, Grandfather!" Her wet hand got stuck in her sticky hair, and refused to come loose.
Remo and Chiun slipped to a fire exit.
"Good move," said Remo. "Now we just gotta capture that Krahseevah without raising a ruckus."
"This is all your fault," Chiun spat.
"Why? You let him go."
"But you failed to seize him. A mere Russian, faster than a Master of Sinanju? My ancestors would disown me for having lowered myself to instruct you in proper breathing."
"I had my hands full. The police were loaded for bear."
They reached the thirteenth floor. Chiun led the way to a point along the corridor.
"It is here he should have fallen," Chiun said, looking up at the paneled ceiling. There was no sign of the Krahseevah under the ceiling, or along the carpet.
"Split up?" Remo said. They split up, breaking down doors, moving from room to room like unstoppable juggernauts.
When they had worked their way down the corridor, a white shining bubble emerged from the wall near where they had paused. The bubble continued to grow until it became a smooth rubbery head, whose blank face expanded and contracted like some gruesome external lung.
Then the Krahseevah tiptoed across the hall with soundless ease. It melted into a door as if it were a gossamer curtain painted to look like wood.