The program ended on a wistful note, lamenting the separation of the poor colonies from Mother England. The narrator sniffed and reached for a handkerchief, which he used to dab at his eyes.
" I can't believe what I'm seeing," Remo said.
A news break followed. It led off with a soundbite from Britain's House of Commons, shown over a still photograph of Parliament's richly appointed chambers. The prime minister was addressing the lower house to a chorus of boos and hoots of derision coming from what the newscaster described as the Labour back bench, mixed with cheers of "Hear, hear!" from the Tories.
"Tories," Remo said. " I thought they died out after 1776. "
"The Black Death still thrives in certain backwaters too," Chiun noted curtly.
Then there was a clip of the chancellor of the exchequer's soothing voice pronouncing the latest economic earthquake as passed.
When the news ended, Remo asked, "What happened to America? Global is supposed to be an American station. Didn't we make any news today?"
The next program was called Canada, Gentle Northern Giant. Remo got up and turned off the set with an angry punch that cracked the screen.
"I think we should call Smith on this," he said firmly.
" I leave that to you, my secretary."
"I'm not that kind of secretary," Remo snapped, grabbing a phone off the cabin wall.
"Then why are you making the call?" Chiun said, smiling broadly.
Dr. Harold W. Smith entered his modest Tudor-style home in Rye, New York, his eyes bleary from a full day before a computer screen. He clutched his ever-present worn briefcase in one hand.
"Maude?" he called.
"In the den, Harold," Mrs. Harold W. Smith's frumpy voice returned. It was clogged with emotion and Smith moved quickly into the den.
There Mrs. Smith was dabbing her eyes with paper tissue. She was seated before the television set in an overstuffed chair. The set was black and white. Harold Smith did not believe that color was worth the extra money. Black and white was just as watchable.
" I just watched the most interesting program," Mrs. Smith sniffled.
Harold Smith watched the news break, which began with the Parliament report and concluded with the chancellor of the exchequer.
"Must be sunspots," he remarked. "This is BBC programming. "
"It's that Global network," Maude Smith told him. "They have the most wonderful new programs."
"Global?" Harold Smith said. His eyes grew intent as Canada, Gentle Northern Giant began with an upper-class British voice-over against a map of Canada, which extended deep into the Ohio Valley.
"Once this gentle giant of a nation stretched from the Arctic Circle down to include present-day Ohio, but rather than enter into conflict with its beloved southern neighbor, the formerly rambunctious colonies, Canada in its infinite wisdom ceded all that valuable land rather than shed blood."
"I didn't know that," Mrs. Smith gasped.
"You didn't know it," Harold Smith snapped, "because it's not true. We fought a war more than a century ago over that border."
"Do you mind if I watch the rest of this before I put on supper?" Mrs. Smith said, as if she hadn't heard.
"I won't be eating supper home tonight," Harold Smith said, turning on his heel.
"Thank you, Harold," Mrs. Smith said absently, her voice lost in the impeccable consonants of the narrator's voice.
On his way back to Folcroft Sanitarium, Smith heard the cellular telephone in his briefcase buzz.
Smith answered it with crisp authority.
It was Remo.
"Smith," Remo said. "I was just watching Global, and you'll never guess what."
"I know what. I saw it too."
"Which program?"
"Canada, Gentle Northern Giant."
"I bailed out when that one came on. This is crazy."
"No, it's propaganda. Looncraft is up to something."
"You think Chiun's wild British plot is our answer?"
"It makes no sense. I see no point to it, but I'm on my way back to Folcroft to dig further."
"Want me to lean on Looncraft?" Remo asked.
"Yes," Smith said, tight-lipped. "Don't forget the suit."
"How could I?" Remo said acidly. "I scratch myself every time I think of it."
Smith hung up the phone and pressed the accelerator. He went right to the edge of the speed limit, which for Harold W. Smith was tantamount to speeding.
Simultaneously, miles away in Manhattan, P. M. Looncraft picked up the telephone in his rapidly darkening office. It was after-hours, but Looncraft had been too busy to leave early. He pointed a remote control at a corner TV set and turned off Canada, Gentle Northern Giant. He had already seen it. In fact, he had supervised its filming, as he had other documentaries that would soon air nationwide over the Global News Network.
"Ah, quality programming," he muttered to himself as he punched out a number. "It's a breath of fresh air."
"Pugh here," a young man's voice said.
"Pugh, this is Looncraft. I have been watching tonight's lineup. Quite good."
"Thank you, Mr. Looncraft. I'm pleased you like it."
"Like it? I love it. This dreary land has been culturally starved far too long, don't you agree?"
"Absolutely," Pugh said nervously. "When are you going to come down to meet with the staff?"
"Not soon, Pugh. Things are hectic right now. I just wanted you to know that you have my full confidence as director of programming."
"Thank you, Mr. Looncraft," Pugh said quickly. "I'm very relieved. Some of us had expected you to install your own people."
"If something's not broken, I don't fix it. And I would never replace good Anglo-Saxon stock with some foreign-born person."
Pugh's nervous laughter returned. "As a matter of fact, I am of British extraction. But my family's been in America for over a hundred years."
"It's the blood, man. The blood always tells. Princeton?"
"Yale, actually. "
"Good school. It's not Princeton, but then, what is? Carry on, Pugh."
"I will."
"And, Pugh?"
"Yes?"
"If any of your staff complain about the format change, fire them instantly."
"I won't hesitate, Mr. Looncraft."
Smiling bloodlessly, P. M. Looncraft went to his deskside computer and logged onto the Mayflower Descendants bulletin board.
He pecked out rapid words: "SUCCESS. READY FOR NEXT PHASE."
The reply was almost instantaneous: "PROCEED."
Looncraft logged off and went to his desk Rolodex. He picked through the cards until he came to the home number of the chairman of the New York Stock Exchange.
"P. M. Looncraft here," he said crisply. "Paul, I have just received the most disturbing news. It seems there is a rumor about of a problem with tomorrow's auction of treasury bonds. A scarcity of buyers."
"My God," the chairman sputtered. "That's never happened before!"
"It may mean that the investors who fled the market are worried about the government's solvency. The deficit, the trade imbalance, and things of that sort."
"I'll look into it. But if no one shows, and the word gets out..."
"It would represent the ultimate failure of faith," Looncraft put in solemnly. "The market will crash. And we can't have that."
"Thank you for alerting me, P.M."
"Think nothing of it. Cheerio."
P. M. Looncraft hung up, rubbing his lantern jaw thoughtfully. The chairman would check with his usual sources, who in turn would go to theirs. Soon it would be all over the street. The media would seize upon it like a pit bull. No amount of denial would kill the story once that happened.
Then, like a house of cards, the American economy would begin to totter.
P. M. Looncraft left his office feeling quite chipper, unaware that he had forgotten to remove his powdered wig.
He missed the bear by only six minutes.
Chapter 20
Remo W
illiams stood in P. M. Looncraft's empty office, redolent of formaldehyde, trying to figure out how to scratch a sudden itch behind his left knee without bending over and popping the seams in his bear suit. He focused his breathing, and the nerves behind his knee went quiescent.
Then he got an itch under his right armpit. That itch, he simply scratched.
The office suite of Looncraft, Dymstar d was completely unoccupied. Remo clawed through Looncraft's Rolodex until he found the man's home phone number.
The butler answered. "I am sorry, but Mr. Looncraft is not in."
"Are you sure about that?" Remo asked.
"I beg your pardon?" the butler said unhappily. "Who is calling?"
"How's your back?" Remo asked coolly.
The butler's tone of voice lost its aplomb. "Oh! It's you. Mr. Looncraft is not in. Really, really not in. Please believe me, sir, when I say that I do not know when to expect him."
"I believe you," Remo said unhappily. He hung up.
Disgusted, Remo left the Looncraft Tower and joined Chiun, who sat quietly in the passenger seat of Remo's Buick. It was parked on a side street.
Remo got behind the wheel. He had to slouch to avoid crushing the ornamental bear's head mounted on his hairy head.
"Looncraft's gone. The whole place is deserted."
"Let us go, then, to his home."
"I got a better idea," Remo said, starting the car. "Let's see Faith."
"That is a better idea?" Chiun asked as Remo pulled away from the curb.
"I called his house. He's not home either."
The blue-blazered security guard at Faith's apartment-house lobby looked up at Remo and Chiun as they entered and assumed a smirking demeanor.
"Back again, I see," he chirped. "And who is this?" He pointed to Chiun. Remo had left his bear suit in the car. He dug into the small of his back with a thumb, pulling out a stiff hair.
"My chaperon," Remo told him.
"Well, I'm afraid you brought him out of the rest home for nothing," the guard said. "Miss Davenport left strict instructions not to be disturbed. She was caught up in that Nostrum massacre, you know."
"She'll see us," Remo said firmly.
"Sorry," the guard said.
Chiun lifted on tiptoe so he could see over the top of the high circular security desk.
"I demand you announce us, hireling, for I am Chiun, chief of Nostrum."
"No can do."
"Sure, you can," Remo said brightly as he vaulted the horseshoe-shaped desk.
The guard reached for a buzzer as Remo joined him. Remo hit the buzzer first. It sprang from its mounting like a jackin-the-box.
"Broke," Remo said. "Now, announce us."
"No, I will not," the guard said shortly.
"Then I'll do it," Remo said. He went to the fax machine, found Faith's name beside a speed-dial button, and pressed it.
"That won't do any good," the guard sneered. "You have to put something in the fax."
"I was coming to that," Remo said, taking the guard by the scruff of his blazer. Remo mashed the protesting guard's face into the fax window and held it there.
"Anytime you feel like pressing the appropriate button," Remo sang out, "feel free."
The guard stabbed the "Send" button.
Remo held him there until the phone rang. He scooped it up.
"This is Miss Davenport in Twenty-one-C. I just received this weird fax. Is anything wrong?"
"This is Remo. I guess the guard pressed the wrong button or something. I'm down in the lobby. Can I come up?"
"Up?" Faith said pleasurably. "You can come up, down, or anywhere you want."
"I'm on my way," Remo said, wondering if he had made a mistake.
Faith met them at the door, wearing only a smile and holding up two bottles of mineral water.
Remo took in the sight of her nakedness without surprise and with both hands stuffed into his chino pockets.
"Thank goodness you're safe," she cooed.
"Chiun and I are safe," Remo corrected, pulling the Master of Sinanju into view by his sleeve.
Faith's eyes went to Chiun. Chiun's hands went over his eyes in mortification. He gasped.
The stars went out of Faith's eyes and she made an eek of a surprise noise like a cartoon mouse. She hopped back behind the door.
"Why don't I handle this alone?" Remo suggested.
"I did not know she was like that," Chiun said, taking his hands from his shocked eyes.
"Must be the stress of high finance."
"I will wait here," Chiun said. "Do it quickly."
"It may take a while to pump her."
"That was not what I meant," Chiun said disgustedly, turning his back.
Remo closed the door behind him. "Hello?" he called.
Faith came out of the bathroom holding a towel around her shapely body.
"Where's the chief?" she asked.
"There are some things that upset him. He decided to wait in the hall."
The smile returned to Faith's face. She dropped the towel, revealing, among other things, possible evidence that she was a natural blond.
"Let's not keep him waiting," she said, reaching for Remo's hand, the better to guide him into the bedroom. Remo kept his hand in his pocket.
"Actually, I came to ask you about Looncraft. I think he was behind the shooting today."
Faith stopped. "Looncraft? Why?"
"We don't know why. But it was something to do with the British. Do you remember anything that would connect Looncraft to the British government or any British agent or interest?"
"I doubt it. He was always humming patriotic songs under his breath. You know, 'My Country', 'Tis of Thee,' 'The Star-Spangled Banner.' Stuff like that."
"Doesn't add up," Remo muttered. "Are you sure about that?"
"I think better when I'm lying down," Faith suggested, arching a provocative eyebrow.
Remo sighed. "Okay, whatever works."
Faith jumped onto the bed so hard she bounced. Remo sat on the edge. He was forced to take his hands out of his pockets. The sight of Remo's fingers sent Faith digging into the drawer of a side table.
"I know that Looncraft had a bug in his ear about people's ancestry," Faith said as she searched. "He asked me once if I had any English forebears."
"Do you?"
"Search me. I guess so. And German and Dutch and maybe a little French. Ah, here it is."
Faith took what Remo at first mistook for an individually wrapped Alka-Seltzer tablet in her mouth and tore the blue foil packet apart with perfect white teeth.
"What's that?" Remo asked.
Faith smiled. She dangled a yellowish rubbery ring under his nose.
Remo made a face. "I hate condoms."
"I believe in practicing safe sex," Faith told him, grabbing Remo by one thick wrist. "Now, put it on. It won't bite you. But I might," she added deliciously.
"First answer a few more questions. Think. Anything British about Looncraft?"
"Well," Faith said slowly, "I do remember one time I brought some reports into his office. He was at his computer. "
"The one on his desk?" Remo asked.
"No. Not the Telerate machine. The other one. He was glaring at something on the screen like he was angry at it. He muttered something about the London relay being down."
"The London relay? Do you remember what was on the screen?"
"Something about a king or queen, or both."
"Could it have been a chess move, like Bishop's King Twelve?"
"That's no chess move."
"Just answer the question."
"Yeah, I think it was a chess move. Satisfied? Can we play now?"
"A deal's a deal," Remo said without joy.
"Oh, goody," Faith cooed, grabbing his wrist again. "Close your eyes and I'll put it on for you."
"Shouldn't I undress first?" Remo wanted to know.
"No. This is my party. We play my way."
Remo closed his eyes. Faith took hold of his
wrist. He heard the condom creak at it was unrolled. He frowned. He didn't feel his zipper slide down. But his forefinger felt suddenly tight.
"Open your eyes," Faith called musically.
Remo opened his eyes. He saw Faith sitting there, her eyes closed, her left wrist held out as an offering.
And Remo's right index finger was sheathed in pale yellowish lambskin.
Sighing, Remo began tapping Faith's wrist with it.
"I hate using these things," he groused.
Five boring minutes later, Remo left the apartment, his face at half-mast.
" I got something," he told Chiun.
"No doubt she did too," Chiun sniffed.
"Hey, I kept my pants on. Honest."
"Do not lie to me, Remo," Chiun scolded. "I heard her disgusting cries of ecstasy."
"Have it your way," Remo said. "Looncraft's getting his computer chess moves from London, or near London. Faith remembered him complaining about the London relay, whatever that is."
"Smith should know," Chiun said.
"We can call him from the Nostrum office," Remo suggested.
Harold W. Smith took the call in the near-darkness of the Folcroft office. The glowing green screen illuminated his pinched, unhealthy face.
"Smith? Remo. I got a lead. Those chess moves are coming from London."
Smith listened to Remo's story. "Take the next flight to London. "
"Then what?"
"Contact me when you get there," Smith said in a distant voice. "I have penetrated Looncraft's computer and believe I can break down his passwords."
"Shouldn't be too hard," Remo said airily. "I got a bunch of files to print out just by pounding a mess of keys all at once."
"I will await your call," Smith said, hanging up. He returned to his task and watched as the screen displayed single words in high-speed sequence. The Folcroft mainframe was attempting to feed the Looncraft, Dymstar d system every possible single-word password in the English language. It was just a matter of time.
The computer beeped and locked on the word "CROWN."
Smith tapped the 'Enter' key.
Columns of file names presented themselves to Harold Smith. He chose one at random. It was labeled "MAP." Smith accessed it with a keystroke.
The sight that greeted Harold Smith's eyes at first appeared commonplace. It was a greenish wire-frame map of the continental United States, divided by states.
Smith was about to abandon the file when he realized there was something odd about the state divisions. He tapped a key which magnified the map. He lost most of the West as it expanded, but the Eastern Seaboard showed quite clearly.
Hostile Takeover td-81 Page 16