"The FEMA account, sir."
"And they are?"
"An agency of the United States government."
Basil Hume had collapsed back into his Corinthian leather chair, leaking a whistling sigh of sheer relief.
"They have no jurisdiction here," he said in an unconcerned tone.
And that had seemed to be the end of that. Later Basil heard through his network of informants in the world banking arena that the US. banking system had been similarly affected at the same time. Somehow all had been put to rights. No one knew how any more than Basil Hume understood how his computers had been corrected. But since all banking-system computers talked to each other electronically, he just assumed some sort of vile virus had been the culprit and the US. Federal Reserve people had squashed that particular bug.
Once the money began flowing through the system again, the telephones had stopped ringing so irately. Nothing like cash to placate the agitated. The threats likewise abated. And not surprisingly not a single customer deserted the bank. Where else would they go? Switzerland? The climate was positively alpine.
Each day Basil Hume had allowed one layer of guards to stand down. Now, some two weeks later, only a slightly stronger than normal complement remained, certainly enough to deal with any lingering bitterness on the part of the depositors. And more than enough should the US. government send their representatives where they were not welcome.
After all, they had no jurisdiction in the Grand Caymans, and without jurisdiction, they were just another depositor. One of the smaller ones, at that. Smaller and without teeth.
THE MASTER OF SINANJU saw the guards with their holstered pistols and their machine guns slung across their shoulders by straps. They wore tropical khaki, which made them look more like soldiers than guards. But they were guards. The way they formed a ring around the glass building in the sun-drenched city called Georgetown told him that. Professional soldiers would know enough not to present themselves like so many khaki ducks in a row.
"This is my destination," he told the taxi driver who had ferried him from the airport.
"Grand Cayman Trust?"
"Yes."
"Odd choice. They don't see much walk-in trade."
"They are a bank, are they not?"
"If you're looking for a place to cash a check," the driver suggested in his accent that blended a Caribbean lilt into a Scottish brogue, "I can take you to a nice neighborhood bank. You don't want to be going in there, sir. It's what they call a B-license bank. Strictly offshore trade-if you take my meaning."
"This is my destination. What is the fare?"
"Thirteen dollars American or ten dollars CI."
"Robber!"
"It is as the meter says, sir."
"The meter lies. I will pay half."
"And if I accept half, I must make up the balance."
"Better half than none."
"If you don't pay, I must call a constable."
"I see many strong and brave police standing before that bank," said Chiun, indicating the guards in khaki.
"You give me no choice, sir."
The cabbie whistled through the gap in his front teeth and waved toward the guards. Three broke ranks to approach. The space in the ring of khaki closed up like a wound healing.
"This old fellow, he won't pay his fare," the driver complained, jerking his thumb at the rear seat.
The three guards in khaki looked back and asked, "What fare?"
The driver craned his head around and saw not even a depression in the seat cushions to show that he had had a recent fare.
"Didn't you see him leave my cab?" he sputtered.
"No."
"But he was just there. A tiny bloke, dressed in an Oriental costume. It was black and gold, rather like the markings of a monarch butterfly."
The guards looked at the driver and opened the rear door.
"He is not hiding on the floorboards?"
"And the back is empty."
"Feel the cushions," the driver implored. "You will certainly feel the heat of his body."
A guard did so. He reported no warmth.
"The cushions are cold," another added.
The immediate vicinity was searched. Despite the fact that the cab had been in full view of the ring of guards at all times and the flamboyance of the missing fare, no one had seen a thing.
The driver was sent on his way, his face a knot of unhappiness, his pockets lighter by the amount displayed on the meter.
THUS did the Master of Sinanju breach the ring of guards that surrounded the stone building he had been sent to penetrate. No one had seen him approach. No hand was raised to stay him. For all eyes were on the frantic, greedy taxi driver and the three guards he was attempting to convince with his stumbling lies.
No one looked up when the Master of Sinanju entered the back lobby. There were minions seated at desks, their faces bathed in the emeralds and the ambers of their computer oracles. They were too intent upon their unimportant toil to notice him.
There was only one teller and one teller's cage. And no customers. Truly it was a bank unlike any other.
The Master of Sinanju glided through the aisles, his silken kimono sleeves fluttering like the wings of the butterfly whose markings they bore. He was a figure calculated to be noticed, yet no one noticed him.
That is, until he came to the door marked Basil Hume, Director.
A tanned young woman sat at a desk beside the door. A secretary. She looked up at the Master of Sinanju only when his shadow deliberately intercepted the overhead lights.
"May I help you, sir?" she inquired, smiling with her teeth but not her heart.
Chiun indicated the door with a long-nailed finger. "I seek audience with this man."