Smith exhaled a sigh of relief. That meant Chiun had not been harmed. There was no mention of Remo. Another relief. No mention meant that Remo was neither dead nor being questioned. That was all Smith needed. He had long ago programmed his computers to flag any news reports of anyone named Remo, regardless of last name. Five minutes per day were spent scanning news reports of newsworthy Remos from coast to coast, but it was worth it.
At the end of the digest, there was a curious addendum. It was a single sentence: "Police could not explain why the assailants were dressed in pre-Revolutionary military uniforms."
Smith blinked. "Pre-Revolutionary?" he muttered to himself. "Which revolution? Russian? Chinese? Filipino?"
That was one of the problems of relying on news digests. Important details were often squeezed out by the automatic digest program.
The report on the Global acquisition was even more astonishing. According to it, P. M. Looncraft had announced an eighty-dollar-per-share buy-out offer for Global Communications Conglomerate. He had obtained financing from the Lippincott Mercantile Bank. And within an hour of the public announcement, arrangements had been made to obtain large blocks of GLB owned by Crown Acquisitions, Limited, and the infamous DeGoone Slickens. The financial world was abuzz, the report concluded, with the speed with which Looncraft had obtained Slickens' holdings, because it gave him the edge he needed to absorb Global.
"This is very odd," Harold Smith told himself.
The intercom buzzed again.
"Yes?" Smith said distractedly.
"It's Mr. Winthrop again. He says it's urgent."
"Urgent? Ask him his business."
Smith recalled the Looncraft bulletin once again and went through it. His secretary's voice interrupted once more.
"He says it's personal and private, but won't say any more."
"Take his number," Smith snapped. "I'll get back to him. "
"Yes, Dr. Smith."
By the time Dr. Smith finished rereading the Looncraft bulletin, he had already forgotten about Winthrop's call.
Hours later, he still had not returned it, as other bulletins came to his attention. P. M. Looncraft had moved quickly to take control of GLB, promising that new programming would begin at once, and would consist of significant blocks of foreign programming designed to broaden America's cultural horizons. Existing news programs would continue as before, Looncraft had assured Global News Network subscribers.
On the Nostrum massacre, the first identifications were coming in on the dead. The assailants who had been positively identified included a Connecticut real-estate broker named William Bragg, a Princeton classics professor named Milton Everett, and other people of middle- and uppermiddle-class backgrounds. They appear unconnected except that they all fitted the typical stock-market-investor profile.
There were no further reports about their odd costuming, and Smith decided it was probably one of the wild details that often find their way into early news accounts, and usually prove erroneous.
Smith put in a call to the President of the United States after five o'clock.
"Mr. President," he began, "I am updating you on the Nostrum operation. As you know, the market has stabilized."
"What's this massacre thing about, Smith?" the President asked in his twangy voice.
"I am unsure. My reports indicate the assailants were disgruntled investors. This often happens in the wake of drastic market upheavals. My operatives are safe and I expect Nostrum to continue to act as a moderating influence on the market."
"Good. As soon as this thing settles down, start selling off its holdings. We can't have all this government money tied up in private enterprise."
"I understand, Mr. President. Expect another update within the next forty-eight hours, regardless of events."
Smith had no sooner hung up the dialless red telephone than his intercom buzzed like an angry hornet.
"Yes, Mrs. Mikulka?" Smith said in a much calmer voice than before.
"The downstairs guard wants you to know that they are on their way up."
"I understand," Smith replied. Remo and Chiun.
"And Mr. Winthrop is on line two. Do you want to take it?"
Smith hesitated. He had meant to deal with that annoying intrusion, but not with Remo and Chiun on their way to see him.
"Give him my apologies. I'll try later."
Smith quickly got out of his chair and pushed it aside. He pulled the wheelchair behind his desk so hastily he cracked his shin. When he sat down, he really needed its support.
Remo and Chiun entered his office, grim-faced.
"I have heard the reports," Smith told them without preamble.
"Barbarians!" Chiun said angrily. "They have always been barbarians!"
"Who have?" Smith asked.
"Let me tell it," Remo said quickly. "Here's the scoop, Smith. I went over to Looncraft's to put a scare into him, but he wasn't in."
"I know. He was putting together a deal to take over GLB. He succeeded."
"The fiend!" Chiun said.
"I left Looncraft a message," Remo continued. "He must have got it, because before I got back to Nostrum, they'd been hit. It had to be Looncraft. Who else has a motive?"
"No, it was not Looncraft, despicable as he is," Chiun said. "His soldiers would have spoken his name rather than die in the agony I visited upon him."
" I still say it was Looncraft. Who else is there?"
"There are the British," Chiun spat. "Rome should have slain them all when they ruled that miserable island."
"The British?" Smith said in a dubious voice.
"They wore British army uniforms."
"The new reports said nothing about that," Smith blurted. "Were they Royal Army? Or SAS?"
"Not modern military uniforms," Remo explained. "Revolutionary uniforms. You know, the kind the British wore when they fought Washington, when they were called lobsterbacks."
"That makes absolutely no sense," Smith said. "Those uniforms are two centuries out of date."
"Don't ask me to explain it, but there it is," Remo added. "I saw them with my own eyes."
"The police theorize that they were crazed investors bankrupted by the market meltdown," Smith said.
"Makes perfect sense to me," Remo said. "One kept shouting at us, calling us 'traders.' "
"No, 'traitors,' " Chiun snapped. "I heard them clearly. They accused my minions of being traitors."
Smith's frown furrowed like cloth. "Traitors? To what?"
"They didn't say," Chiun admitted.
"Maybe they were on some kind of patriotic kick."
"I have a report that the police found discarded clothing in the Nostrum lobby," Smith said slowly. "The jackets all had U.S.-flag pins on the lapels."
"They were British," Chiun insisted.
"They had American accents," Remo said. "Will you get off this kick of yours?"
"This is not a kick. My workers have been killed, my business is in ruins, and those responsible will have to account to me."
"Please, please, both of you," Smith said, lifting placating hands. "Let us stay on the subject."
"Fine," Remo said, throwing a flapping length of computer printout onto Smith's desk, "Check this out. I got it off Looncraft's computer."
Smith took up the sheets. He carefully pulled away the perforated carrier strips and dropped them in a wastebasket before looking at them, causing Remo to roll his eyes in impatience.
Smith lifted the continuous form to his eyes. It was filled with a double-column list of names and numbers. One column was headed "LOYALISTS." The other said "CONSCRIPTS."
Smith scanned the list. The names meant nothing to him. The numbers might have been social-security numbers. Then he realized that could not be. They were one digit too long. They might be long-distance phone numbers, he realized.
Smith looked up and adjusted his glasses. "These names mean nothing to me," he admitted.
"Keep looking. Your name is on the list."
Startled, Smith returned to the list. He found his name on the third sheet, under "CONSCRIPTS": Harold W. Smith.
"Not me," Smith said. "The world is full of Harold Smiths."
"But not Harold W. Smiths."
"It does not say Dr. Harold W. Smith," Smith said reasonably. "And there is no reason I would be on a Looncraft, Dymstar d client list. I do not invest in the stock market."
"Well, there's more," Remo said. "The computer I got that off had a chess move displayed on the screen."
"Yes?" Smith said doubtfully.
"That Reuters guy." Remo snapped his fingers impatiently. "What's his name?"
"Plum, O brilliant one," Chiun sniffed.
"Right, him. When I cornered Plum in his office, he was on the phone. He said 'Knight to Queen's Bishop Three' before he hung up. Said he played phone chess-if there is such a thing."
"And Looncraft plays computer chess?" Smith asked.
"That's right. Get it? There's a connection."
Smith shook his head. "Coincidence. Many people play chess by long distance. Playing through the mail, for example, is quite common."
Remo's face fell. "I'm telling you, there's more to this. And it connects Looncraft with the Reuters guys."
"Do not listen to him," Chiun said firmly. "When was the last time Remo was correct in anything?"
Remo opened his mouth to retort. He blinked. Nothing came to mind, so he shut it unhappily. He fell onto the couch and folded his arms under his glowering face.
Smith addressed the Master of Sinanju.
"Master Chiun," he said. "The stock-market situation is stabilizing. With the killings at Nostrum, I suggest you begin selling off your stock holdings carefully over the next several weeks. If there is no more volatility, then we will close down Nostrum."
"I will not close down Nostrum until my employees have been avenged," Chiun said harshly.
"If the police reports are correct-"
"And they are not!" Chiun snapped.
"-then the massacre was an unfortunate aftermath of the market meltdown," Smith finished stubbornly.
"If you will not listen to reason," Chiun said huffily, "then I will prove it to you." Chiun turned. "Come, Remo."
Remo paused by the door on his way out.
"If you take another look at that list," he said evenly, "you'll see that the President of the United States is on the list, too."
Smith looked. He found the President's name under
"CONSCRIPTS. "
"What of it?" he asked Remo blankly.
"And the Vice-President's name."
Smith looked again. He found the Vice-President listed under "LOYALISTS."
"Looncraft, Dymstar d is very prestigious," Smith said calmly. "It does not surprise me to find their names on a list of the firm's clients. I see other prominent names here. Businessmen. Educators. Here is a senator from Illinois. And a Maine congressman."
"Well, it means something," Remo said.
"Yes," Smith returned coolly. "It means they are LD "
"Fine," Remo said. "Be that way. Just remember what I told you."
"I will," Harold W. Smith promised.
Remo slammed the door after him. It sounded like an anvil falling.
Chapter 19
"It's Looncraft. It was Looncraft all along."
"And I say it is the British."
"That's crapola. Whoever's causing this, they almost dragged down the British economy along with our own."
Remo folded his arms angrily and looked out the circular porthole at the clouds sliding below the Nostrum corporate jet's silvery wing.
The Master of Sinanju sat on a mat in the middle of the cabin, disdaining the leather chairs. One yellow hand rested on a plastic-wrapped package beside him.
"You yourself once said that Looncraft was British," he pointed out.
Remo frowned. "No, I said he sounded British."
"Ah-hah!" Chiun cried triumphantly.
"That didn't come out right," Remo admitted. "He talked British. He used British expressions. But so does Smith from time to time. I don't know. It's probably New England talk."
"I have sojourned in America nearly two decades," Chiun said quietly. "Yet I am still Korean, not American. No one would dispute that."
"Least of all me," Remo said, looking toward Chiun. "What's in the plastic bag, anyway?"
"That is not your concern," Chiun sniffed, pushing the package behind him.
"I wondered what you were doing in that record store, back in Rye. I never figured you for a music fan. Are you back in love with Barbra Streisand?"
"Cheeta Ching is my one true love."
"Well, you acted pretty mysterious, having me wait outside while you shopped."
"I did not shop," Chiun spat. "Americans shop. I purchase. Do not try to make of me an American. I am not. I am Korean."
"No argument. You are definitely Korean."
"The British were bad enough in their day, but Americans are the lowest."
"Where do you get that crap?" Remo wanted to know.
"When the British had an empire, they tried to force their will on the rest of the world. Spreading their poison."
"I think the opium trade is a thing of the past, Little Father," Remo pointed out. "Lyndon LaRouche to the contrary notwithstanding."
"That was the least of their poisons. I am referring to their ruinous philosophy."
"Give me a clue. Grade school was a long time ago."
"Liberty." Chiun spat the word as if it seared his tongue.
"And what is so bad about liberty?"
"It weakens the social structure and leads to the anarchy of choice."
"Some people like choice."
"The worst thing about British liberty was that it was limited to the British," Chiun said bitterly. "They ruined India-not that the Indians had not already begun the task. They enslaved China with their opium-not that the Chinese weren't addled to begin with. They looted Egypt of their most magnificent treasures-what little the Egyptians had bothered to preserve. They called this wholesale theft their white man's burden. The only thing burdensome about it was the carrying away of their pelf-which they usually forced natives to do for them."
"Do I have to listen to you rant? So you don't like the British. It doesn't make them the bad guys."
"But their worst crime is that they created the Americans, who have replaced the British as the supposed masters of the world. Liberty. I spit upon it." Chiun expectorated on the rug, forcing Remo to turn away.
"It's your corporate jet," he said wearily. He wondered how much longer this would go on.
"That is all right," Chiun replied. " I have lackeys to clean it up. White lackeys. Heh heh heh. White lackeys."
Chiun cackled to himself for a moment, then went on.
"Do not think that I consider the British completely without redeeming qualities. Once they were an acceptable client. Henry the Eighth. Now, there was a monarch. Rude of speech and forever belching from every orifice, true. But he knew how to rule. No, the royal family have become so much popular entertainment, accepting unearned money from the royal treasury like an American ghetto family on welfare. This is one reason why the House of Sinanju has had so little work with the House of Windsor."
Remo threw up his hands. "Another country heard from," he said. "Why don't we simply pack it in for the rest of the flight? Is there a TV in this thing?"
"Somewhere," Chiun said, waving one long-nailed hand vaguely.
Remo went in search of a television. He opened up a row of maplewood cupboards, finding drinking glasses in one, bottles of purified water in another. The third opened on a small TV screen. Remo hit the "On" button and changed channels impatiently.
"Why do you bother?" Chiun said querulously. "There is never anything good on anymore. Not since your daytime dramas began wallowing in sex."
"Wait, here's the Global News Network," Remo said. "Let's see how they report the news of their own takeover." Remo settled back in his seat t
o watch.
The Global News Network call sign showed for a moment and an impeccable voice sounding very much like Alaistair Cooke said, "Next, a retrospective on British-American relations entitled The Mother Country."
"Auugh!" Chiun said, clapping his hands over his seashell ears. "I cannot bear to watch."
"So don't," Remo said, popping the top off a bottle of mineral water and drinking without benefit of a glass.
The narrator's mellow voice launched into a history of early British-American relations, the founding of the early American colonies, and what the narrator referred to in a deepening and doleful voice as "the unfortunate rebellion."
"Does he mean the American Revolution?" Remo wondered aloud.
Chiun's hands pressed against his ears even more tightly. His annoyed eyes closed.
The narrator's voice lifted while describing the eventual forgiveness the crown showed to the wayward American colonies, despite their ungratefulness and the particular provocations that led to the War of 1812, during which the good English refrained from making war on the childlike Americans.
"Am I missing something here?" Remo growled, sitting up. "What happened to burning Washington, D.C., to the ground? And the impressment of Americans into the British navy?"
"I am not listening to this," Chiun said.
"You'd better. Check this out. It's bullshit."
Curious, Chiun uncovered his ears.
"Too late," Remo said. "Now he's talking about the British-American alliance during World War I."
"Paugh," Chiun spat, re-covering his ears. "This is all King John's fault. Had he been a true monarch, he would have run those upstart lords through the heart and buried them with the ashes of their Magna Carta."
"You know, Chiun-"
" I cannot hear you," Chiun said.
"You may have something, after all."
"What?" Chiun said, his hands dropping.
"Global never showed this kind of stuff before. And didn't Smith say that Looncraft was importing foreign broadcasts for the network?"
"Yes. And nothing is more foreign than a British program. "
"Maybe to you, but not to me."
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