"No," Smith said. "This is of a more personal nature. I recently overheard you discussing your son's television-viewing habits with a nurse in the cafeteria."
Mrs. Mikulka blinked. "I'm sorry," she said, unsure what she had done wrong. "I get lunch there sometimes. If you don't want me to, I suppose I can eat at my desk."
"That isn't a problem," Smith said. "I believe you mentioned that your son was looking for a copy of a program called 'Winner.' He had apparently missed an episode."
"Oh, yes," Mrs. Mikulka said. "That would be Kieran, he's my youngest. Thirty-five and doesn't have a job right now. Some boys just take a little longer to find their way, I guess. He's a big fan of that show. He usually tapes it when he's not home, but last Thursday night there was a car accident that knocked out the power for a few minutes and the VCR went out. When he found out he'd missed it, he asked me to ask around to see if anyone here had taped it."
"Do you know if he taped last night's episode?"
She bit her lip. "Well, he went out with his brother Konrad last night. He didn't get home until late, so I suppose he set the machine to tape it as usual."
"I would like to borrow that tape. Would you please go home and get it for me?"
"Oh," Mrs. Mikulka said, confused. "Do you want me to wait until I'm done work for the day?" Smith checked his watch. It was only two in the afternoon. Although it was tempting to let her run this errand on her own time, Smith did not want to wait.
"Now would be better if you don't mind," he said.
"Oh, I don't mind," Mrs. Mikulka said. "I'm happy to do a favor for your wife."
Smith's expression grew puzzled. "My wife?"
"Well, this is for her, isn't it? I assumed she'd forgotten to tape it for herself."
"My wife doesn't own a video recorder."
Mrs. Mikulka didn't think her employer ever watched television. She knew he liked computers, involving himself with solitaire or other distractions. This was the first indication she had that something else might be going on in the Folcroft administrator's office. If he spent his time hidden away watching those silly reality-TV shows, it was no wonder he kept the door locked most of the time.
"I just assumed it was for your wife. I'll run home and get the tape right now. I'll be back as fast as I can."
As she hurried from the room, Smith pursed his lips.
So far the damage was limited to Harlem. Only people who lived within a few blocks of Hal Shittman's Greater Congregation of the Lord Church had fallen victim to the subliminal signals. The dead BCN man had broadcast from there. But there could be other commands laced into the same program in different areas. And, like the image of Remo at the police station, some of those could be linked to CURE.
Feeling a fresh twinge of worry deep in his belly, Smith reached in his pocket for his wallet.
TWO CRISP ONE-DOLLAR bills sat on the edge of Smith's desk when Eileen Mikulka returned twenty minutes later.
The first words out of his secretary's mouth almost sent the CURE director into cardiac arrest.
"It's a shame about Remo," Mrs. Mikulka said as she handed over the tape.
"Excuse me?" he gasped. What little color he possessed drained from Smith's gray face.
"He was the poor 'Winner' contestant who was killed last night. Kieran told me about it when I went home just now. That mob killed him on the set of the show." She noticed the sickly look on her employer's face. "Oh, I'm sorry, Dr. Smith. I assumed you would have heard. It was on the news."
"No, I hadn't," Smith replied, getting to his feet. "Please excuse me." He scooped up the money, pressing it into her hand even as he ushered her from the room. "This is for your gas. Thank you. I'll get the tape back to you as soon as possible." He closed and locked the door.
Smith leaned back against the door frame.
His heart was racing. Although she had seen him many times over the years, Mrs. Mikulka had never expressed any interest in Remo. Given the day's events, her use of his name now had sent up alarm signals for the CURE director.
Pushing away from the door, Smith stepped over to a shelf where a small video player was attached to his old black-and-white television. He slid in the tape and the machine began to play automatically. Clicking on the TV, Smith immediately hit pause.
He reasoned that the flashes Remo had mentioned would be timed with the motion on the screen. Frozen, any subliminal signals would not register to the unconscious mind.
He studied the image carefully from top to bottom and side to side. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Slowly, he advanced the picture frame by frame. He felt a fresh thrill of panic when the name "Remo" suddenly appeared at the bottom of the screen. He quickly realized that it wasn't part of any subliminal message. The name appeared as a regular caption and was used to identify one of the contestants on the game show.
It was odd to see that name applied to someone else.
After another minute of frame advancing, Smith realized there was nothing there-at least nothing that he could see. He popped the tape from the VCR.
Folcroft didn't have the facilities to properly analyze what-if anything-might be there. The tape would have to be sent out for professional analysis.
For an instant he thought of Mark Howard. This would have ordinarily been one of his duties. A minor thing, but one of the many small responsibilities the young man had taken on over the past year.
Smith's face hardened.
Purging thoughts of his assistant, he spun from the television. Stride resolute, he marched back to his desk to locate a facility that could uncover whatever messages might be hidden on Mrs. Mikulka's tape.
Chapter 13
The Broadcast Corporation of North America occupied a forty-story building on Madison Avenue.
The midtown Manhattan headquarters of BCN had been built in 1928. At the time it was just around the corner from the original NBC offices. By building so close, BCN had intended to be a constant thorn in NBC's side. But then NBC had ruined its rival's best-laid plan by up and moving to 30 Rockefeller Plaza. Instead of dogging its competition to its new home, BCN reluctantly opted to remain where it was.
It turned out those two early decisions established a pair of precedents that the BCN network would follow for the rest of its corporate and creative lifetime.
BCN never led. It followed. When radio giant NBC was on Fifth Avenue, BCN decided to build right in its backyard.
Precedent one: BCN the Copycat.
By not following NBC to its new 30 Rock address, the upstart network quickly established precedent number two: BCN the Timid.
When television was in its infancy, timid BCN lagged behind in the cozy comfort of radio, allowing NBC and the DuMont network to test the water first.
Only when the early risk takers had established the route to modest TV success did copycat BCN jump on board the bandwagon.
For the first fifty years of the television age, BCN offered bland and formulaic TV programming that was a virtual carbon copy of what every other network was broadcasting.
At some point during this first half century of wheezy dramas and formulaic sitcoms, an enthusiastic and truth-challenged public-relations man had dubbed BCN the "Diamond Network," the inference being that only quality programs ever found their way onto its nightly schedule. Despite years of evidence to the contrary, somehow the image stuck.
For years the Diamond Network coasted on its reputation. It wasn't until the last decade of the twentieth century that BCN finally began to show cracks in its corporate facade.
Even before the appearance of upstarts like Vox, UPN and the Warner Brothers network, BCN was already unsteady. Media mergers and changing demographics didn't help. Even as the other networks began to skew younger and younger, BCN's core audience continued to age. It looked as if the end might be at hand for one of the original Big Three networks.
Industry experts who had forecast her demise were surprised when salvation for BCN came in the form of one single reality show.
/>
No one expected Winner to be such a huge success. It was supposed to be less than a blip on the TV radar. A curiosity that had somehow found its improbable way onto the prime-time schedule. Sure, it might generate a few good numbers for a week or two. But it would flame out fast.
The television world was shocked when the high-concept show didn't crash and burn. Winner was not only a success out of the gate, it continued to grow.
Other networks were quick to churn out knockoffs. It was an amazing role reversal for BCN.
The rising tide began to lift all boats. As Winner's numbers grew, so too did those of the rest of BCN's lineup.
All of this was welcome news for BCN's president. When Martin Houton was appointed by the board to head up the Broadcast Corporation of North America, the network had been third in the ratings and was sinking fast. Ten years into his tenure, the network's numbers were on the rise and advertisers were flooding back. The scratching wolves had finally been chased away from the back door. It was a new century and a brand-new golden age for the Diamond Network. Thanks to one great gamble on one mediocre show, there was nothing but clear sailing as far as the eye could see.
Until today when one little suicidal lunatic-way up in godforsaken Harlem of all places-had slammed the network's ship smack-dab into the mother of all icebergs.
"We're gonna sue!" Martin Houton boomed. Houton was a silver-haired man in his late fifties.
His cherubic face was devil-red with rage. He prowled near the window of his corner office, glaring hatred at the streaming headlights on Madison Avenue thirty stories below.
It seemed that everyone was on the way home. And, finally, finally some of them would be watching BCN when they got there. It had taken so long to build up.
Houton slapped his hands against the window. "That bastard!" he yelled. "What the hell was he doing in Harlem? I didn't authorize whatever it was he was doing."
The windows in his office were shatterproof glass. There was no way to break through and hurl himself to the glittering diamond headlights of Madison Avenue far below.
He spun furiously away from the window. "What are they saying now?" he demanded.
The vice president in charge of BCN programming sat on a plush sofa in the conference area of the room. A bank of televisions played silently in a nearby wall unit. Dozens of pictures flashed images of unrest in Harlem.
On Vox, a reporter who was scruffy by network standards was talking to an anchorman. The News Company network was obviously dipping into the pool of local talent.
The BCN vice president turned up the sound on Vox.
"...is the latest information we've heard," the reporter was saying. "So far BCN is refusing comment."
"Can you blame them?" said the anchor from the Vox news station in New York. "Those are serious charges."
"Serious? Try slanderous!" Houton boomed at the TV.
The programming veep strained to hear the television.
"According to Thomas Trumann, BCN's man in Harlem who committed suicide on national television earlier today, the Broadcasting Corporation of North America is entirely responsible for last night's riot," the reporter said.
"We are not responsible but we are suing your ass!" Houton screamed. He stabbed a pudgy finger at the screen. "I'm suing you, Vox, ABC, NBC and anyone else who's slandering this network. Why aren't our news people on the air denying this? Hell, tell them to get on and blame someone else. No one likes Ted Turner. Blame him."
"We can't just make up a story like that," the programming vice president cautioned.
"Why not? They are."
"They claim Trumann said we were responsible. Our own news people were there when he killed himself. He gave them a tour of the church basement before he blew his brains out. It was crammed full of BCN equipment."
"It's a setup. Shittman must have looted our stuff. This is all a big scam."
"Trumann apologized for his misuse of the technology on BCN's behalf. He came right out and said we were responsible for what happened at the former president's office building. Marty, he even exonerated Hal Shittman and that mob of his."
Martin Houton couldn't believe his ears. It had been going on like this since morning. The networks had been hammering the story into the ground all day long. Everyone was saying that BCN was testing a dangerous mind-controlling technology that had somehow gone wrong.
"If I had some kind of subliminal gizmo that'd make people mind slaves, don't you think we'd be pulling numbers on more than just 'Winner'? I mean, turn the damn thing on and save God-Wednesday-damn night, for Christ's sake."
"They're saying we only recently developed it," the vice president said. "They're claiming we're starting slow using it. We're pulling the numbers up on Monday with it, plus we switch it on for 'Winner' on Thursdays. We don't want to overdo it, which is actually a pretty good strategy if we have something like this. Which we don't, do we?"
The vice president smiled hopefully.
"No!" Houton screamed.
"Oh," the vice president said, disappointed. "Not even for late night? We're still getting creamed by Leno. Maybe if someone were to really have something like that he could-I don't know-bump the 'don't touch that dial' button for an hour at eleven-thirty Eastern Standard Time on weeknights."
The vice president had no idea how close he came to getting a Golden Globe award bounced between his winking eyes.
"Get out of here," Houton snarled.
As the vice president hurried from the room, Martin Houton trudged to his desk. He was slumping in his chair when the sleek black phone on his desk buzzed like an angry wasp. For an instant, he froze.
He had already gotten a dozen calls today from Moe Carmichael, CEO of the entire BCN family of companies.
Houton's employer had long been unhappy with the television division of his media empire. For the first few years he had owned BCN, the network's ratings had been in the toilet. Even with the recent upswing in audience, Carmichael remained superstitious, assuming the improving numbers were nothing but a cruel mistake.
When he learned about BCN's possible involvement in brainwashing technology that morning, Moe Carmichael had hit the roof. He had called every hour on the hour to scream at Martin Houton. During the last call, he had been yelling something about selling his fifty-one percent of the network. It was hard to make out clearly what he was saying over the sounds of the frantic ambulance technicians who were trying to jump-start the heart of BCN's soon-to-be-former CEO.
As he reached tiredly for the ringing phone, Martin automatically assumed the ambulance boys had done their job and his boss was calling back, this time to scream at him from an intensive-care-unit bed.
He was surprised when it wasn't Moe Carmichael's voice on the other end of the line.
"G'day, mate," said the nasal voice. "How's tricks?"
This was a company line, access to which was limited to a handful of people. Whoever this man was, he was not part of the BCN inner circle. Yet that voice sounded familiar.
"Who is this?" Martin Houton demanded.
"I'm the new owner of BCN, Marty, my boy. Or I will be very soon, thanks to you."
Houton knew. He now knew for certain who this was. For an instant, Martin Houton could almost see the hyenalike smile of satisfaction that broke out among the suntanned wrinkles of that frightening, familiar Aussie face.
Martin was going to say something, but the words wouldn't come. And then it didn't matter because the voice on the phone was speaking again.
"By the way, you're fired, Marty."
And a strange sense of soft relief seemed to wash through Martin Houton's troubled mind like a calming blue tide. It was amazing given the stress he'd been under all day long. He wanted to thank the man on the phone for giving him this miraculous, deadened sensation, but the man had already hung up. Not that it mattered, because Martin Houton had already forgotten who he was.
But he knew it didn't matter that he didn't remember who the man was. He remembere
d the words. "You're fired."
They had come to him over his many televisions. On a daily basis, for hours. He knew they were there even though he really didn't know. Those words delivered by a man whose identity he could no longer remember were the trigger. They had come with orders that Martin had accepted without even knowing he was accepting them. And they were wonderful, perfect orders. He could not be happier with his orders.
Martin Houton got up and calmly left his office. People spoke to him as he went through the hall and rode the elevator downstairs. If he said anything at all to them, he wasn't aware of it. He was thinking of the beautiful words that had floated off of his TV and into his brain over the past few weeks. Private communications to him alone.
He found his limo in the garage and allowed his driver to open and close the door for him.
On the ride from the city to his Long Island estate, Martin was more at peace than he had ever been in his life.
At home Martin Houton walked woodenly past his worried wife and mounted the stairs to his bedroom. He locked the door behind him. He went directly to the nightstand next to his bed. Behind his reading glasses and a deck of cards he found his .38 pistol. It was stuffed in an old sock.
Martin dumped the gun from the sock, jammed the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
He was a little surprised when there wasn't a brainsplattering kaboom. That's what he figured it would sound like.
In fact, as he thought about it, there really wasn't any sound at all. That didn't seem right.
When Martin caught his reflection in the vanity mirror, he was disappointed to find that the top of his head was still there. What's more, the gun wasn't in his mouth. On top of all that, there was someone in the room with him.
"Oh, hello," Houton said to the young man with the deep, cruel eyes who stood with him in the bedroom of his mansion even though the door was locked. "May I have that back? I have to kill myself."
He held his hand out for his gun, which had somehow found its way into the hands of the stranger. "Answers first, death second," Remo Williams promised. He tossed Houton's gun to the bed.
Market Force td-127 Page 12