"Oh, no, no, no," Martin Houton insisted. "I'm sure that's not the right order. I'm in desperate legal trouble for everything I've done. I have to kill myself now."
Face determined, he headed for the gun.
Remo picked up the gun and threw it through the terrace window. There came a wet plunk from Martin Houton's kidney-shaped heated pool with the two ice-covered diving boards.
"Well, that's just going to make this harder than it has to be," Houton pouted.
He headed for the French doors with the one broken windowpane. If he jumped after the gun, maybe he'd be lucky and break his neck in the process.
A very rude hand tugged him back from the doors, knocking him back onto the edge of the bed.
"How do you know me?" Remo asked.
"What?" Houton asked, puzzled. "Do I know you? I don't think I know you." He started to get up. With one hand Remo pushed the TV executive back to a sitting position; with the other he pinched Martin Houton's earlobe. Martin Houton yelped. The pain was bad. Almost enough to make him forget about killing himself altogether.
"That's not nice," Houton complained.
The mean pincher who wouldn't let him properly kill himself relaxed his grip on Martin's ear. As the fiery pain lessened, the words returned.
"You had a guy in Harlem broadcasting subliminal signals from a church basement," Remo said. "One of the things he broadcast was a picture of me. I want to know why."
"Oh, that was you?" Martin Houton asked. The subliminal commands came easily. It was as if whoever had programmed the instructions into his television had anticipated this scenario. "That was part of the 'Winner' show. You were just picked at random because you happened to be there. A white man torn to pieces by a mob in Harlem near the 'Winner' set would get all kinds of press. The news media swarms in, we benefit from the proximity. Synergy with the news boys. Who, by the by, don't pull their weight these days, what with all the twenty-four-hour cable news networks. Can I please kill myself now?"
"In a minute," Remo promised. "How did you get my picture?"
"You were filmed by one of our 'Winner' crews. Did you know the season finale of 'Winner II' got a 21.1 rating and a 31 share? That was amazing. Hard to keep those numbers up. The occasional sweeps stunt is mandatory to keep viewership levels high. A random death like yours would have generated some good numbers for us in February."
Remo disregarded the executive's TV babble. "I made it so I couldn't be seen," he insisted.
"Technology is amazing, isn't it? Your tape was pretty bad. But they're able to take points of reference from a poor-quality recording like yours and computer enhance a solid digital image. Say, maybe I should jump off the roof. Three stories down from the terrace might not do it."
"The pool's below the terrace. Aim for the concrete and you should be golden," Remo said.
"Thanks," Martin Houton said. "You're not such a bad guy after all."
He started for the terrace. Remo collared him and flung him back into a chair.
"Who else was in on this subliminal crapola?" he asked.
"Well, I signed off on it," Martin Houton said, a lie that seemed so much like the truth he actually believed it himself. "Thomas Trumann developed the technology. He's the guy who shot himself in that church basement this morning."
"No one else?"
"Nope, that's it," Houton said agreeably. "Only two men in the entire BCN establishment. Had to keep it quiet. If it panned out, we would have been aces in the ratings. Right now Mondays have been okay for us with it, and Thursdays are holding their own. But we hadn't been using it at any other time and our ratings showed it. Now thanks to Trumann, I guess we're back to hemorrhaging viewers to cable and video."
"How about those orders to the rioters? Why didn't they go out nationally?" Remo asked.
"Our satellite fed to Trumann in the church. Harlem is where we've been testing the technology for a while, so mostly we were local. But flip a switch, and he could send the signals back up to the satellite and make them national. There's a transmitter in the church steeple. That's what we were using for 'Winner.' Just started it on a few more shows."
His Sinanju training gave Remo the ability to sense when someone was lying. Martin Houton was clearly a nit, but he was a nit who was telling the truth.
"Can I kill myself now?" Houton asked hopefully.
"Knock yourself out," Remo said.
Houton rubbed his hands together determinedly. He was getting up from the bed when, as an afterthought, Remo gave another good squeeze to the TV executive's earlobe. Bolts of pain shot through Martin Houton's clouded brain.
"What was that for?" Houton asked, rubbing his ear.
"Ten years of 'Murphy Brown,'" Remo said.
A ghost in shadow, he slipped from the darkened room.
Interruptions finally over, Houton stepped out onto the balcony. Warm steam rose from the surface of the gurgling pool, kissing the cold December air. Martin Houton could smell the chlorine in the air. The stars were beautiful, the air crisp and the words beckoning him to end his life as clear as church bells on a Christmas midnight.
Martin Houton climbed up on the rail and, without so much as a glance at the beauty of the chilly night around him, went the way a just world would send all television network executives. Three stories down and headfirst into solid concrete.
Chapter 14
Smith watched the last of the news reports in the darkness of his Folcroft office. Light from his buried computer monitor cast ghostly shadows around his wan face.
For the dozenth time he watched the suicide of BCN Vice President Thomas Trumann.
Smith was thankful that the networks were at least playing an edited version of the grisly footage. The CURE director's screen was filled with blurry blue dots. Even so, Smith grimaced at that which had been deemed airworthy. It made him wax nostalgic for the not-so-long-ago time when decency trumped ratings. In Smith's day, every broadcast network would have refused on principle to air so much as a single frame of Thomas Trumann's public suicide.
Smith felt like a man out of time. But thanks to the current culture, it was a feeling he had gotten used to.
Typing wearily, Smith exited his computer's TV function and shut down the system. The buried terminal winked to blackness beneath the onyx surface of his desk.
There had been no news from Remo for several hours. Apparently, he had upset the Master of Sinanju in some way, for Chiun had returned to Folcroft alone by taxi. Their argument probably had something to do with the letters Remo had mentioned. Smith had wanted to question the Master of Sinanju about them, but when he saw the angry look on the Korean's face, he lost his nerve. He left the old Asian to cool off in his quarters. Smith decided to await Remo's return in his office. So here he sat.
Smith turned to face the big picture window behind his desk. Night had claimed Folcroft's back lawn. The glow of his desk lamp on the one-way glass was a single bright star in the dark heart of winter. Unseen beyond the glass, cold wind churned the night-black surface of Long Island Sound.
Smith closed his eyes for a moment.
He didn't realize he had dozed off until the voice in his office startled him awake twenty minutes later. "Rise and shine, sleeping beauty."
Snapping awake, Smith spun. Remo stood before his desk. In the lamplight his deep-set eyes were hollow caves.
"Remo," Smith exhaled. "What happened with Houton?"
"Good news," Remo said. "That picture they put on TV didn't have anything to do with me. The guy said I was picked off the street at random. They wanted a murder to gin up ratings for that screwball survival show of theirs."
Cautious relief brushed Smith's tired face. "You're certain he didn't know about CURE?"
"Looks it," Remo said. "And even if he did, he was a TV executive. They time-share about four brain cells between them. He'd forget all about us halfway through happy hour."
"Was?" Smith asked. "You eliminated him?"
"Didn't have to. He took care o
f himself. I'd only give him a 2.5 on the dive, but a perfect ten for splattering his brains on the patio."
"That's odd," Smith said. "Both men responsible for developing and using the technology killed themselves."
"Lucky us for a change," Remo said. "I'm sick of picking up after everyone else all the time. Let the garbagemen haul their own trash for once."
"They must have both panicked," Smith speculated. "They would have both been answerable for the murder."
Remo nodded. "That dizzy producer from 'Winner' told me Shittman's mob killed one of her contestants."
"Yes," Smith said slowly. He looked up over the tops of his glasses, studying Remo's face. "Apparently, she didn't tell you the victim's name."
Remo noted the older man's odd tone. "She said they were keeping it under wraps," he admitted.
"Why?"
"His name has leaked out to the press. The contestant killed was a man named Remo."
"No kidding?" Remo said. "Well, if it's a comfort to you, I'm pretty sure it wasn't me, Smitty. Although now that you mention it, she did want me to be on the show. I gave her a tentative yes, but I told her I'd have to check with you first. What do you say? America's number-one assassin could be a real ratings bonanza. If I win I'll split the million with you, seventy-thirty."
Smith removed his glasses. "The man's last name was Chappel," he continued dryly. "Other than a shared given name, there is no other connection. However, given the uniqueness of your name, I must admit that it was disturbing to hear it at first."
"Tell me about it," Remo said. "I sympathize with him for what his parents did to him."
"Be that as it may, it is just a coincidence," Smith said, replacing his glasses. "If Martin Houton told you the truth, BCN was trading deaths for ratings. The fact that they killed one of their own contestants bolsters his claim."
"The guy was telling the truth, Smitty," Remo insisted. "You know we can tell that stuff. Heart rate, breathing, perspiration all stayed normal. He wasn't lying."
"I'm relieved," Smith said. "BCN was in possession of a terrifying technology. We should consider ourselves lucky it didn't get further than it did. From what I've learned, the process uses hypnotic bursts of light and regularly flashed worded suggestions. The light is a trigger that implants the suggestions deep in the subconscious. People are helpless to refuse whatever subliminal commands are shown on the screen."
"One way to get people to tune in," Remo said. "Any idea what went blooey to make that mob attack the former president?"
"Before he killed himself, Thomas Trumann issued an apology for that. He said that he was watching the news, saw the former president was nearby in Harlem and typed in the commands as a joke. He sent the signal accidentally. There is precedent at the BCN network for such an occurrence. During the last presidential race, a tasteless graphic was run during one of BCN's late-night programs calling for the assassination of one of the candidates. I checked. Trumann was working as head of late-night programming at the time."
"Funny guy," Remo said aridly.
"Yes," Smith said, with clear distaste. "But at least this particular command was only run in Harlem. I sent a copy of the show that was taped here in Rye out to be examined. It appears there was nothing but a simple command not to change the channel buried in the national broadcast."
"That's what I saw in Mexico," Remo said, nodding.
"So it seems this is over," Smith said. "And none too soon. The past few days had already been disturbing enough."
"Speaking of which, any news on Purcell?"
"No," Smith replied. "As we feared, he will remain in hiding until he feels strong enough to come after us."
"Us meaning me," Remo said.
Smith nodded quiet agreement. "As for Mark, I will begin weaning him off the sedatives tomorrow. He should be lucid enough by then to explain his actions. I would like you and Master Chiun present when he comes around."
"You got it," Remo said, his voice cold.
Smith noted his tone. "Remo, the officer investigating this is coming back tomorrow afternoon. I would appreciate it if you and Chiun kept a low profile. It would be nice if the two of you found somewhere else to be at one o'clock."
"Always nice to feel wanted," Remo droned. "I can make myself scarce, but I don't know about Chiun."
"Just as long as he remains in your quarters," the CURE director said tiredly. With a sigh he fished in the foot well of his desk, pulling out his briefcase.
"And you know how good he is for doing every little thing you want him to," Remo said thinly. "Night, Smitty."
The younger man slipped from the office.
Alone once more, Smith placed his briefcase on his desk.
He was bone tired.
The BCN television network's scheme to boost viewership had been stopped. A dozen federal agencies were now investigating the matter. Smith was grateful that it was all over. Rarely did a CURE assignment conclude so quickly.
He checked his watch. It was only nine-thirty.
He hadn't left work this early in years. But he had a meeting with Detective Davic the following afternoon. And given all that had happened over the past week, a good night's sleep was an indulgence he had earned.
It was early enough that his wife was probably still up. Maude Smith would be shocked to see him home so early.
Crossing to the door, Smith gathered his coat and scarf from the coatrack. Careful to snap off the lights, he left the ghosts to dance alone in the corners of the shadowy office.
Chapter 15
Remo knew he was in trouble when he awoke to the sound of the Master of Sinanju singing.
The old Korean raised his voice in cheery song from the common room of their shared Folcroft quarters.
When Remo returned to their quarters the previous night, Chiun had been locked away in his room. At the time Remo assumed the old pain in the neck was still cheesed off. Now it seemed as if the cloud had lifted.
Lying on his reed mat in the predawn darkness of his bedroom, Remo racked his brain trying to think what could possibly have changed his teacher's lousy mood so abruptly. With a sinking feeling he realized there was one thing that almost always did the trick.
"I am not cleaning up any dead bodies!" Remo hollered from his bedroom.
"Good morning to you, too, sleepyhead," the Master of Sinanju called back, sounding far too chipper.
Remo dropped his head back to his mat. "I knew it. I'm gonna be scrubbing corpse juice off the chandeliers."
He wondered how the hell he was going to keep the fact that the Master of Sinanju had killed half of Folcroft's staff during the night a secret from Smith. Smith said he'd be busy with the police that afternoon. Maybe Remo would luck out for once and the CURE director would be too distracted to notice the bodies piled like Civil War cannonballs all over the front lawn.
When he finally climbed reluctantly to his feet and went out to the common room to assess the damage, Remo was surprised to find he wasn't ankle deep in stiffs.
More surprising, the Master of Sinanju had brought some of his luggage out from his bedroom. The Master of Sinanju never moved his own luggage. The old man was puttering around the gaily colored steamer trunks.
"Where are they?" Remo asked warily.
Chiun didn't raise his aged head. "Where are who?"
Remo was peeking out the door. The hallway was empty. Not a decapitated corpse in sight.
"Didn't you kill your way to happiness and success last night?" Remo asked.
Chiun's face puckered. "You have already given an old man ample reason to doubt your loyalty, Remo Williams," he said. "Do not make me question your sanity."
"I'm loyal, I'm sane and I'm wondering why you're happy all of a sudden. I figured you had the Corpse-O-Matic cranked to eleven all night long. I was ready to pull the fire alarm and sneak off in the confusion."
"I am an assassin," Chiun sniffed. "I do not kill willy-nilly."
That nearly did it. Remo almost laughed out loud. T
he urge shot up from his belly and made it as far as his throat. But in the split second before the laughter exploded out of his mouth and he fell on the floor clutching his sides, he realized Chiun was suddenly out of the crappy mood he'd been in the past few days and that by laughing in his teacher's face, Remo could very well snap him back into that same crappy mood. Gritting his teeth, Remo swallowed the laughter.
"Course not," Remo insisted, sniffling.
At the sound, Chiun's wrinkled head stretched high on a suspicious craning neck. He gave Remo a lingering look of mistrust. At long last he returned to his packing.
"I am packing because Emperor Smith has made clear his desire for us to leave his palace," the Master of Sinanju said. "You should do the same. Although don't think you can hide all your worthless junk in with my precious mementos."
"I can fit my life in a Safeway bag and still have room left over." As he spoke he peeked behind the couch. "Okay," Remo said, "there's no one dead here as far as I can see. If you being nice to me is supposed to be my Christmas present, you're a couple days early."
"Can a man not pack in peace? You may live out your days in Smith's crazy house if you want, but I have stayed here long enough. It is time for the Master to move on."
"Uh-oh," Remo asked, a new concern suddenly blossoming full. "Move on? Like move move on?"
"Stop mooing, bovine," Chiun said, gliding over to his pupil. "And move your fat cloven hoofs." He kicked Remo's ankles. Remo lifted his feet out of the way and the old man swept past.
"Like move on to a house?" Remo pressed. "Because I told you before I'm not moving to Maine."
Chiun continued to fuss with his packing. "Why should I care where you are not moving?"
"Because you were hepped about moving to Maine a little while back. Just so you know, I'm not going. You move there, you're moving alone."
"A stronger argument for my moving there could not be made," the Master of Sinanju said aridly.
A fresh cloud of worry settled on Remo's face. "Wait, you're not going back to Sinanju?" he asked.
Chiun gave an exasperated sigh. "You may wish to speed me on my life's last journey, but it is not yet time for me to retire to the village of my ancestors." He saw the look of puzzlement on his pupil's face. "If you must know, I have received some wonderful news. It is a happy, happy day."
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