"I thought that might be your response."
The intercom buzzed and a voice asked, "Hey! White guy. We found it. We found the gas leak. What do we do now?"
"Ask them if they have enough light to see where the gas is coming from," Friend directed.
"Do you have enough light down there to find the exact spot?" Chip asked.
"No. We just got it cornered in this one empty room."
"Tell them to close the door," Friend instructed.
"Why?"
"Do it."
"Close the door," Chip said into the intercom.
"Just a second."
A moment later the voice came back and said, "Hey! I shut the door like you said, and the damn light went
out,"
Chip started to say something when he heard what sounded like his own voice saying, "Find the light switch,"
"How? It dark."
"Flick your Bic."
"No!" Chip screamed. "Don't! Don't flick any Bics!"
The boom could be heard fifteen floors below. Chip's eyes went wide. He reached out to steady himself against his desk and fell into it. His head poked out one end and his feet stuck out from the other.
"What—what happened?" he asked, climbing out of the holographic desk.
"They obeyed your instructions," explained Friend.
"But I didn't-"
"It was your voice."
"It just sounded like my voice."
"But you are the only human being in the building."
"You, you tricked me."
"No, I implicated you. You lured fourteen urban youths to their deaths with the promise of a job. I have it all on digital tape."
Chip swallowed, his eyes starting.
"Now you know the second reason I installed the gas line," said Friend.
Chip slumped in his chair. "What do you want?"
"Your continued cooperation in return for your usual cut of the profits, stock options and an ironclad guarantee the sealed room will never be opened."
"The police will search the building."
"The room was designed to defy detection. It will not be discovered unless I open it electronically."
"I don't feel well," Chip said weakly.
The office door popped open, and his secretary bounced in and in a bright, eager voice asked, "How about a little virtual nookie?"
Chapter 23
The fishing boats of Sinanju huddled on the spreading slick of oil over the sunken submarine Harlequin like ducks clustered together for warmth.
In the largest boat Remo and Chiun were talking.
"This is some fishing fleet," Remo was complaining.
"That is why the rent is so cheap," said Chiun.
"Rent? What rent?"
"Why, the rent I am charging you for their use."
"This is a freaking rescue operation."
'' Payable in gold," said Chiun.
"I don't have any gold."
"I will accept a portion of your share of the gold when it is found."
"Damn it, Chiun. This is no time to play Shylock."
"Are you reneging on our deal?"
"We don't have a deal."
Chiun lifted his voice. "Ahoy, brave sailors of Sinanju. The rescue is hereby canceled. Return your boats to shore, and you to your well-earned beds."
"All right. All right," Remo said in exasperation. "How much?"
Chiun's face became a bland mask. "One third of your share."
"Too much."
"Very well, one ingot per rescued sailor." "How many ingots in my share?" "That depends." "On what?"
"On how much gold is recovered."
"Why do I have the feeling you're gypping me either way?"
"Because you are an ingrate of uncertain parentage," snapped Chiun.
"Fine. It's a deal. Now listen. You and I go down, tapping the hull every six feet. Mark any spot where you hear tapping. Then we come back, compare notes and go down to do the rescue. Understood?" "This is agreeable," said Chiun. "Okay," said Remo, standing up. "Let's go." Remo went over the side making hardly a splash. Carefully Chiun turned in his seat, tied his kimono skirts up on a knot and put his bare legs over the side. He eased himself into the water with such grace that faithful Pullyang, at the tiller, hadn't realized he was gone until Pullyang looked and saw nothing.
Remo took the submarine's bow and worked aft while the Master of Sinanju started at the stern and worked forward to the amidships area. They used their bare hands to make sounds on the steel plates of the hull. The harsh sounds traveled back and forth in the cool, conductive waters.
Where they heard tapping in return, they used their fingernails, hardened as tempered steel by lifetimes of diet and exercise, to mark each spot. Remo made an R while Chiun, with quick, steel-scoring flashes of his fingernails, carved out the ancient symbol of the House of Sinanju—a trapezoid bisected by a slash.
When they rendezvoused on the sail forty minutes later, Remo flashed two fingers while Chiun lifted only one. Chiun frowned and went over Remo's end of the sub, seeking more tapping sounds. Remo decided to do the same on the aft end.
Twenty minutes later, with their oxygen running out, they regrouped again. This time Chiun flashed two fingers and Remo three.
Chiun made fists and puffed up his cheeks like an annoyed blowfish. Remo pointed upward, and they squatted down on the sub's deck and uncorked like human springs, shooting toward the surface.
They popped up in the center of the clustered fishing boats. Pullyang spied them and called over, "What news, Gracious Master?"
"Remo found three bangs and I four."
"Liar," hissed Remo.
"Prove it," said Chiun.
"One of yours doesn't exactly count, you know."
"What do you mean?"
"You got the banging that came from the compartment that sailor we rescued already told us about."
"It is my hope that it is filled with American sailors," Chiun said airily. "For each means one gold ingot of yours that will belong to me."
"Let's not count our gold until after have a few sailors up and breathing," Remo warned. "Now listen. We have five contacts. The best way to do this is the way they used to escape subs in the old days- through the torpedo tubes."
"If they could escape that way, would they not have done this already?"
"No. I mean we rip open the hull at each contact and help these guys shoot to the surface. If you work it real fast, no one will drown."
"It is a good plan. And I will agree to it only on one condition."
"What's that?"
"You will pay me one gold ingot for any who drown through their own stupidity, trying to reach my boats."
Remo rolled his eyes. "Why not?"
The Master of Sinanju addressed the fishermen who watched the exchange with uncomprehending eyes, because it had been conducted in English.
"Hark," he said. "Very soon heads will appear in these befouled waters. It will be your responsibility to assist all who come to the surface into your boats."
"These guys are going to be scared witless," Remo added in Korean. "So if they put up a fight, just tell them you're South Koreans."
To a man, the villagers made faces and spat into the water.
"South Koreans are unclean and lazy," Pullyang protested.
"They would never believe this lie."
"You'd be surprised," Remo muttered. "Okay," he added, "tell them you're all CIA."
"CIA?"
"Comrades In Arms," said Remo, thinking quickly.
This seemed to satisfy everyone except Chiun, who glared at Remo. Remo disappeared into the water, with Chiun only a half second behind him.
They started at the stern where Chiun's first contact had been made, banging on the hull every six feet or so. Remo got a response.
He then banged out a long series of dots and dashes with his fist, hoping his Morse code was still accurate.
He got a brief banging back he couldn't understand, and then the Master of Sinanju scored a long line along the hull over the banging. He did this by walking backward in a crouch, repeating the process three times, each time cutting deeper into the hull, causing the frangible steel hull plates to peel away, exposing the heavy pressure hull.