With a silent sigh, the life slipped from the Reigning Master of Sinanju.
Remo caught the old man as he fell, settling his frail frame delicately to the carpeting. When he was certain his teacher was safe, Remo collapsed to a sitting position.
First Smith, now Chiun.
Remo tried to find comfort in the fact that if they were like the previous hypnosis victims, both men would eventually snap out of it. The knowledge offered little consolation.
Beneath Chiun's brocade robe, the Master of Sinanju's fragile chest rose and fell with each breath. Remo watched him for a lingering moment. So peaceful. So helpless. Without a sound, Remo climbed to his feet.
The center row of TV screens in the wall unit had been smashed by Chiun's punishing blows. The rest still worked.
The message and pulsing lights were gone from all the screens. In their place was a new subliminal caption.
The bright red question marks ran from one side of the screen to the other, hopping over to the next television.
Stepping away from his teacher's prone body, Remo approached the screens.
Hands became angry blurs. Balled fists slammed each of the remaining screens in turn. He smashed each and every one, working his way methodically down the line.
He made it to the last one.
The line of red question marks still marched like querying soldiers across the pixeled screen.
"I find out who you are, I'm gonna cancel you," Remo announced to the television.
The final screen exploded in a glittering hiss of pulverized glass.
Chapter 21
Robbie MacGulry's limo screeched to a stop on the tarmac at JFK. He didn't wait for his driver to open the door. Jumping from the car, he tripped up the steps of his waiting jet.
Friend had called once during the limousine ride from the Vox building. He had assured the Vox CEO a clear runway for hasty departure. He was true to his word. Engines screaming, the jet was airborne in minutes.
Hands clutching the arms of his seat, MacGulry tried to will his rapidly beating heart to slow.
This was all Friend's fault. He was the one who had inspired this panic in MacGulry-a man for whom fear was the worst four-letter word.
It was infuriating. Here was this faceless thing. A voice on a phone whom he would never, could never meet. And not only was he giving the great Robbie MacGulry orders, he was forcing the Australian media giant to flee for his life.
The plane hadn't finished its ascent when the phone rang. MacGulry grabbed it up.
"I have potentially good news, Robbie," Friend's smooth voice announced.
"What happened back there?" MacGulry asked.
"I attempted to use the subliminal signal to get the Caucasian to attack the Asian."
"Wait a minute, you used the signal?" MacGulry asked. He had been under the impression that his people alone had access to the cryptosubliminal technology-
"Yes," Friend replied. "You shouldn't be surprised. As you yourself now realize, I not only have access to your computer system, I live in it from time to time, Robbie."
MacGulry exhaled wearily. "What happened? Did the white kill the wog? I sure as hell hope so, because that deal you had me cut with him is gonna cost Vox a fortune."
"The first attempt failed," Friend said. "A shame, really. I thought that with Chiun dead Remo might be more apt to join my cause. However, when that didn't work, I tried the reverse. The Asian didn't have the same resistant abilities as the other. He succumbed."
Robbie was suddenly interested. "Did he beat the white?" he asked.
"No. Remo knocked him out. However, I used the most potent color pulses. The posthypnotic suggestion is planted deep. When he awakens, it is very likely he will attack the Caucasian again."
"Good," MacGulry said. "That'll keep them busy."
"It's better even than that," Friend said. "The third individual, Harold, was a rogue element. I calculated as low the odds that the message your people sent out would reach him. However, given Remo's comments during his meeting with Chiun, there is now a one hundred percent certainty that Harold has fallen under the influence of the subliminal signal, as well. In addition to that, he now has a last name. Smith. I've already commenced a search for him."
"How long will that take?"
"Not long. Remo said he was in a hospital bed. I'm having trouble finding a Harold Smith who was recently admitted to a hospital in the southern New York area. Once I find him, I'll have him killed. Without their leader, Remo and Chiun will likely cease interfering with my business affairs."
"If you think they'll just go away, why'd you make me waste my time with that crazy old man?"
"Because he's a mercenary who will need employment, and I'm always looking for bankable allies, Robbie. For the moment, of my three enemies, two are temporarily out of commission. The third will be lost without the guidance of the others. Once I find Harold Smith, I'll stop them all forever."
MacGulry sank in his seat. "Huh," he grunted. "This had just better be worth it."
"It will be," Friend promised. "Vox will absorb BCN. We'll use the cryptosubliminal technology to get the FCC to further loosen ownership regulations. After that, the remaining networks will be absorbed, as well. I estimate that within the next twelve months, I will have complete dominance of the entire world's media markets."
Robbie MacGulry's face was glum. This was never how he'd pictured his life. Playing second fiddle to a pushy computer chip.
"Don't you mean 'we'?" he muttered.
''I mean what I mean, Robbie."
The phone went dead in the Vox chairman's tanned hand.
Chapter 22
Remo carried the limp body of the Master of Sinanju down to Folcroft's security wing.
Dr. Gerling was still at Smith's bedside as Remo passed the open door to the CURE director's room. The doctor had drawn open one eyelid and was clicking his penlight on and off over the bloodshot orb. As he flashed the light, he muttered soothing words softly into Smith's ear.
"I've got another one for you," Remo said. Gerling turned. Sweat beaded on his forehead. When he saw the old Asian patient, the Folcroft physician's lips drew tight.
"I'll be a few hours more," Gerling said softly. "Put him in the next room. I'll get to him when I'm done here."
Remo slipped past the room, depositing the Master of Sinanju in the empty bed in the next room. Chiun looked like a mummified corpse in repose as Remo left the room.
Out in the hallway Remo stood between rooms. He rotated his thick wrists absently as he contemplated his next move. He heard Dr. Gerling speaking quietly to Smith, trying to undo the damage caused by CURE's faceless enemy.
Remo could go after MacGulry. But there was no certainty that the Vox head was behind any of this. Remo was beginning to think that Martin Houton might not have been in complete control at the end. In retrospect, the suicidal BCN president had that same glazed look in his eyes as the cops in Harlem or Smith in his office.
If Houton was an unwitting victim, so too might be Robbie MacGuhy. Remo had no desire to run off on a wild-goose chase while the real culprit got away.
For a frustrating moment he wasn't sure exactly what to do. Smith and Chiun were no help for the time being. Remo was the only man left at CURE.
His thoughts suddenly froze.
No, he wasn't the only one left. He realized the error as soon as the thought passed through his mind. Even after a year he still thought there were only three of them in all. But there was one other. And so far, Remo realized with sudden excitement, the fourth man was the only one not included in the subliminal attacks on CURE's personnel.
It was possible that whoever was behind all this had old knowledge of CURE. If that was the case, salvation for them all could come from the least likely of places.
"I'm never gonna live this one down," he muttered.
When Remo headed up the hall, the room he slipped inside belonged to neither Harold Smith nor the Master of Sinanju.
&
nbsp; THE DEMONS of a hundred nights' dreams had finally slouched off to die in the shadows of sleep.
It had been so long since he'd slept for real that he had forgotten what it was like. It was an inviting darkness. A cloud of black that smothered him with a peace that was slowly stitching up the edges of his frayed sanity.
Mark Howard lay floating on a sea of night, a sky of soothing black nothingness far above his head. No nightmares, no fear. It seemed as if he had been staring at-reveling in-that same black sky for weeks.
He was so familiar with the blankness of that empty void that he was surprised to suddenly find a star sitting in it.
The star hadn't been there before. He was sure of it.
This single celestial light was an out-of-place blemish in the tranquil, unchanged heavens of this otherworldly place. He was going to try to use his mind to remove the ugly blight from his personal sky when the star suddenly got brighter. It went from star to sun to supernova in the wink of an eye, obliterating the calming black in a flash that burned his retinas and made him squint in pain.
When he blinked, Mark realized that the star that had exploded in the night sky of his dreams wasn't a star at all.
A fluorescent light hung amid yellowed ceiling tiles above his head. For some reason Mark was lying fiat on his back. As he tried to get his bearings, a voice spoke.
"Up and at 'em, kid."
He saw the cruel face above his bed. "Remo?" Mark whispered groggily.
Mark felt Remo's hand slip out from the base of his spine where it had been massaging a knot of nerves. The drugged sensation drained away.
"At least your memory's not crazy," Remo commented. "Now shake a leg. The whole world's falling apart and-God help us-you might be our only hope."
A grim expression on his face, CURE's enforcement arm pulled the confused young man out of bed.
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER-showered, shaved and wearing the suit he'd had on when he had been discovered on the floor of Folcroft's attic three days before-Mark Howard was hurrying along the hallway of the sanitarium's executive wing.
"When did all this happen?" he asked urgently. While Mark was getting ready. Remo had given the assistant CURE director a quick rundown of the events that had taken place over the past few days. Remo was marching beside him. "Last couple of days. We thought it was over yesterday. They didn't start coming after us until the last few hours."
"How long till Dr. Smith recovers?"
"Depends how long it takes Dr. Hugo Hackenbush to deprogram him," Remo replied. "He said a couple more hours."
When they rounded a corner, they found a matronly woman coming down the hallway toward them from the direction of Smith's office suite.
Eileen Mikulka's broad face was anxious. The instant she saw Mark Howard, her troubled expression fled.
"Mr. Howard!" Mrs. Mikulka gasped. "You're all right."
"Yeah, Mrs. M.," he said uncomfortably. "I'm fine, thanks." He started past her, but she pressed his arm.
"You haven't seen Dr. Smith, have you?" she asked worriedly. "He was here this morning, but I stepped out for a few minutes and I haven't been able to find him since."
Howard glanced at Remo. "I, um. No. I don't know where he is. Sorry."
"Oh, dear," Mrs. Mikulka said. "He has an appointment soon. Maybe he went downstairs for lunch." She offered a harried smile. "I'm so happy to see you're well."
Mrs. Mikulka hurried off in one direction as Remo and Mark continued in the other.
Howard unlocked his office door and slipped in behind his worn oak desk. As he sat in his chair, he pressed a recessed stud beneath the desk's lip. A hidden computer monitor and keyboard rose up before him.
"I'll see if the mainframes have pulled anything relevant in the past few hours," he said.
"First things first," Remo interrupted. He was standing at Howard's side. "Sorry, kid, but there's no dainty way to do this fast." And with that Remo jammed his fingers deep into Mark Howard's shoulder.
The pain was white-hot. Horrible, blinding.
Mark couldn't breathe, couldn't gasp. He wanted to cry out, but his strangled voice couldn't manage the sound.
It was pain he had never imagined could exist. Remo had torn his arm from the socket and poured molten metal into the exposed joint.
Remo leaned close. "Are you working with Purcell?" he asked, his voice low with menace. Confusion flooded in with the pain.
"A patient?" Howard gasped. "He's a patient, right? Security wing. No, no!"
"Then why'd you let him out?"
"I didn't!" Mark insisted.
Fire burned from his crippled shoulder across his chest. The blood was everywhere. Had to be. Yet he didn't see any splattered on desk or floor. Still, he dared not look at the raw stump where his arm had been attached.
"You double-crossing us, Princess Kashmir?"
"No," Howard said. "For God's sake, no." Remo could see the young man was telling the truth. He withdrew his hand. The pain immediately fled.
"Well, you're not lying," Remo said. "Which I guess means you're even more screwed up than the rest of us at this boobie hatch. I'll let Smith figure out whether to croak you or just stick you on Ritalin."
Mark couldn't believe it. His shoulder was no longer on fire. In fact, his arm was right where it belonged. The horrible pain of a moment ago burned away to pins and needles at his fingertips. He flexed his hand in shock.
"How-?"
"Just fiddled with a few pain receptors," Remo explained, before the questions could start. "So, yes, your arm's still there, God's in his heaven and all the Whos down in Whoville are tucked tight in bed. Let's get on with it."
"What was that all about?" Mark asked. "That patient you asked about-Jeremiah Purcell-he was a CURE patient, wasn't he? Did he escape?"
"Yes," Remo said, rolling his eyes. "Now, if you don't stop asking questions and start earning your paycheck, your arm is leaving through the door and the rest of you is going out the window."
Mark gulped away his confusion. Rather than give Remo an excuse to make good on his threat, the assistant CURB director turned his attention to his computer.
As Howard began typing at the keyboard, Remo waited before the desk. CURE's enforcement arm was glancing around Howard's tiny office. It looked like a prison cell.
"Smith really stuck it to you, didn't he?" he commented after a few minutes during which the clattering of Howard's keyboard was the only sound in the small room.
"What?" Mark asked as he worked. He didn't wait for a reply. "These subliminal signals today. You're certain they came from Vox and not BCN?"
"The one that got Smitty here was Vox. So was the one that got Chiun to pounce on me at MacGulry's."
"Robbie MacGulry's gone," Howard said as he studied the data on his monitor. "He left the country in a hurry. It looks like he got a runway shut down at JFK." He frowned, puzzled. "How did he swing that?"
"First guess?" Remo asked dryly. "I'd say he downloaded the commands into the control tower while they were watching Airport '79 on Vox."
"I doubt the officials at the airport were watching TV to receive the commands, Remo," Howard said. "By the looks of it, this was done through the airport's computer system. Someone tapped into it and got them to shut down."
"Can you figure out who?"
"Maybe. With enough time. These are Dr. Smith's programs. He'd probably be able to do it faster."
"Smitty's down for the count," Remo reminded him with thinning patience.
"Right, right," Howard said. "I think it's safe to assume that MacGulry is in this somehow. Why else would he take off the way he did? You said something downstairs about a 'Winner' producer. She's the one who was there in Harlem, right? And she's the one who hooked Chiun up with MacGulry. And BCN admitted using the signal during 'Winner.'"
"That's right," Remo said.
"Okay," Howard said, attacking the problem logically. "We don't know for sure where MacGulry is heading yet. Right now I'd guess England or Australia
, but with no flight plan I can't send you after him until we find out for sure. In the meantime why don't you go check out that producer?"
"What'll you be doing?"
Howard glanced at his monitor. "According to Dr. Smith's records, everything points to BCN as the culprit behind the subliminal technology. Obviously, we know now that was a false trail. I'll do some digging. See if I can find out for sure who it could be. One thing we know, it must be someone with a grudge against CURE."
"Okay," Remo said. "I'll call if I find out anything. And remember, you're in the big-boy seat for now, junior. Try not to let any more supervillains out while I'm gone."
Mark was going to ask what he meant, but Remo had already slipped out the office door.
For a few moments, the assistant CURE director sat alone in his small office.
There was something about Remo's words.
Much of the past week was fuzzy for Mark Howard. But as he sat in his familiar chair, blank eyes glued to the flashing cursor on his computer screen, a dim memory began to take shape. It was like living in someone else's dream.
Remo was gone for only a few minutes when there was a knock at Howard's door. He snapped alert. "Did you forget something?" he called.
When the door opened, it wasn't Remo who stuck his head inside the office.
"Mr. Howard?" asked the rumpled, middle-aged man. "I'm Detective Davic, Rye police. Dr. Smith's secretary said you were back at work." The police officer's smile was devoid of any warmth. "Mind if I ask you a few questions?"
Chapter 23
Cindee Maloo had gotten the call on her cell phone while out on the Harlem Winner set.
The camera crews were filming the day's challenge for the show's remaining contestants. All morning Winner had been sending white men from the various teams into Harlem liquor stores. The men had been instructed to scream racial slurs at the top of their voices and then run like hell.
Cindee had come up with that particular challenge. Taping was going beautifully. Much better than the "Steal a Crack Addict's Shoes" challenge that had flopped the previous week. She was standing behind the cameras, watching the action and lamenting the fact that they didn't give out Emmys for the kind of work she did when the phone rang.
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