Angry White Mailmen td-104

by Warren Murphy

  Then the rival Channel 7 had hired another Asian anchorwoman, coincidentally also named Bev Woo. The second Bev Woo was young, slim and Remo found her passably attractive. It wouldn't have mattered much except Remo had once remarked to Chiun that the new Bev Woo was an improvement over the old.

  Chiun had retorted, "Are you mad! The new Bev Woo is scrawny and underfed!"

  "The old Bev Woo is dumpy and round."

  "At least you cannot count her ribs through her clothes, like the new Woo."

  "The old Woo is built like a Mack truck."

  "The old Woo is built to bear babies, as a woman should. This new Woo is a mere slip of a girl."

  "I'll take her over the old Woo."

  "You cannot have her. I forbid it!"

  "For crying out loud, I don't want her, Chiun. I'm just talking."

  "You are babbling. To compare this new, upstart Woo to the wise and substantial Woo of old-"

  "Look, I don't want either Woo. But if I'm going to watch one on TV, I'd rather the new Woo."

  "From this day forward," Chiun had proclaimed, "I forbid the face of the new Woo on my TV screen." And from that day on, Remo had made a point of tuning in to the new Bev Woo whenever possible, even though he would have much preferred the brunette on Channel 4. But this was a matter of pride. He was a grown man and a Master of Sinanju, besides. He would watch whomever he wanted to watch.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, Chiun dashed into the bell tower and snatched up the remote control. He aimed it at the screen. On came Channel 5 and the old Woo in all her doughy glory.

  Laying the clicker on the hardwood floor as he sat down, Chiun watched the newscast intently.

  Remo took his place beside the Master of Sinanju. Chiun's attention was focused on the big screen. Surreptitiously Remo's hand took up the clicker. "If you point that device at the old Woo, I will break it," warned Chiun without looking away from the screen.

  Remo thought about that a minute. They had been through all this before, but Remo wasn't about to give in so easily. It was a matter of pride. After all, it was his house, too. And his TV.

  Willing his forehead to perspire, Remo waited until the sheen of his forehead was reflected in the dark parts of the TV screen.

  Then he said, "I'll promise not to point the clicker at the TV if you promise not to break it or change the channel for the rest of the evening."

  "Done," said Chiun.

  And holding the clicker so it pointed at his own shiny reflective brow, Remo pressed the 7 button. The infrared signal hit his forehead and bounced back.

  The channel flicked over to 7, and the pretty face of the new Woo appeared.

  "What is this! What is this!" Chiun howled.

  "Must have pressed the button by accident," Remo said, face bland.

  "You changed the channel."

  "I didn't point it at the screen," Remo said quickly.

  "What white talk is this? Change it back this instant."

  "I'd like it the way it is, and don't forget your promise."

  Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed suddenly. "Why do you perspire?"

  Remo shrugged. "Why not?"

  Chiun's eyes squeezed almost shut. His papery lips thinned. "You tricked me!"

  "I outwitted you. Maybe. Now settle down. I want to hear what she's saying."

  Redirecting his attention back to the screen, Chiun made a sour face. "How can you stand that thin, pasty face?"

  "It's makeup, and her face has a nice shape."

  "She has the head of a turnip. And she is sunken of cheek and hollow of eye."

  The graphic over the new Woo's head showed an explosion. The words Bomb Scare labeled the explosion in scary, shattered red letters.

  "Hold on. This may be it," said Remo, reaching for the clicker to turn up the volume.

  "Remember your promise," hissed Chiun.

  "Oh, right," said Remo.

  "And I will not be silent until I have the old Woo back in all her oblate glory."

  "Chiun, this is important."

  "So is the correct Woo."

  "How about we compromise and watch Channel 4?" Remo suggested.

  Chiun hesitated. "I may be willing to compromise as long as I am spared the horrid sight of the new Woo," he allowed thinly.

  "Good," said Remo, lifting the clicker again.

  "No. I must do it. You have made a promise."

  Remo hesitated.

  "I have promised," said Chiun. "And you have promised. We are prisoners of our promises."

  "Okay," said Remo, handing over the remote control.

  The Master of Sinanju changed the channel with a quick flourish.

  Instead of the expected brunette, there was a new Asian female reporter doing a remote stand-up on Channel 4.

  "Who is she?" Remo blurted.

  "Aiiee! A Japanese!" shrieked Chiun. "Change the channel."

  "I can't. I made a promise."

  "So have I," gasped Chiun. "Is there a fourth channel?"

  "There's CNN, but you hate them worse than Woo."

  "Not more than Japanese."

  "What's with this mania for Asian news reporters all of a sudden?" Remo wondered aloud. "Channel 5 had Bev Woo, so 7 countered with their own Bev Woo. Now 4 pulls out this one. What's her name anyway?"

  The graphic under the reporter's face said she was Tamayo Tanaka. She was standing against a backdrop of- the Manhattan skyline, hazy with a lowhanging cloud of smoke.

  Chiun lifted an apricot kimono sleeve to shield his eyes and said, "I will listen to the strident voice, but not suffer the sight of Japanese countenances."

  Remo decided that was okay with him as long as he caught the newscast.

  Tamayo Tanaka was saying, "At this hour, the death toll stands at forty-three in midtown Manhattan, where a string of terrorist-style bombings took place during the noon hour today. Authorities are being tight-lipped, but at least thirteen separate explosions took place within a large radius between Pennsylvania Station and the Jacob Javits Center. According to FBI sources, several Middle Eastern terrorist groups have claimed responsibility, but informed sources insist that while they cannot at this time discount a Middle Eastern connection, they are focusing their investigation elsewhere."

  "Sounds like militia crazies," said Remo worriedly.

  "This is good," said Chiun from behind his sleeve.

  "It is?"

  "Yes. If terror has gripped this nation, Emperor Smith will have work for us."

  "How is that good?"

  "He will have no time to fret about Japanese complaints."

  "Hadn't thought of that," said Remo, leaning toward the screen.

  "Tragedy is not limited to Manhattan on this busy news day," Tamayo Tanaka was saying. "In Oklahoma City, an unknown person stormed into a packed courtroom in the new Wiley Post Federal Building and opened fire, killing at least two dozen people. No motive for the massacre has been determined at this hour, but Oklahoma City police are seeking a possible disgruntled postal worker for questioning. It is not known if this postal worker is a suspect or a witness to the killings."

  "Sounds to me like the disgruntled postman is a good bet," Remo said dryly.

  "We are doubly blessed," said Chiun.

  "I don't consider all those innocent victims a blessing," said Remo.

  "We did not dispatch them. They are dead. We cannot bring them back. Their lives are wasted. Why should we not enjoy the bitter fruit of their wasted existences?"

  "I'm not that cold-blooded."

  "At least you despise Japanese."

  Remo grunted. The brunette anchor took back the show and said, "Stay with 'News 4' for more on the events in New York. We are the only Boston station with a reporter on-site in Manhattan."

  "I wish someone would explain why local reporters have to cover national stories," Remo complained. "That's why we have national news."

  Ten minutes into the broadcast, there was a brief mention that the Japanese ambassador to the United States had been rec
alled for consultations.

  "That usually means they're upset with us," said Remo.

  "Not as upset as we are with them," Chiun countered darkly.

  "Maybe this will blow over after all," said Remo. The telephone rang during the weather report, and Remo shot to his feet, saying, "That's gotta be Smith."

  "Convey regrets but not apologies," said Chiun.

  "What's the difference?"

  "Sinanju does not apologize, but we are not above expressing regret on suitable occasions. Such as this."

  Harold Smith's voice was vaguely breathless when Remo picked up the receiver.

  "Remo, I am glad you have returned."

  "We're glad to be back, too."

  "I need you and Chiun here. At once."

  "Why?" Remo asked guardedly.

  "Because the Master of Sinanju understands Arabic, and I cannot get the Arabic-conversion program to work."

  "Huh?"

  "Please hurry, Remo. This situation is urgent." The line went dead.

  "We're wanted at Folcroft," Remo told Chiun as he replaced the receiver.

  "I heard," said Chiun, rising from his tatami mat like a puff of fruity smoke.

  "Then you also heard that Osaka didn't even come up."

  "No doubt Smith intends to ambush us with all manner of complaints. We must concoct a story he will believe, Remo. Something properly grandiose, but plausible."

  Remo suppressed a sly grin. "How about the dog ate our assignment?"

  "What dog?"

  "We'll buy one on the way down."

  "You are not making sense."

  "Look, Smitty sounded worried. And he said something about needing you to translate some Arabic. Osaka's probably the furthest thing from his mind right now. Let's get shaking."

  "Very well. But if we are in trouble with our Emperor, it will be your responsibility as Apprentice Reigning Master of Sinanju to fall on your sword."

  "I don't have a sword," said Remo, shutting off the TV.

  "We will purchase one on the way to Fortress Folcroft," Chiun said blandly.

  Chapter 9

  Dr. Harold W Smith was swearing softly under his breath. New Englanders are a salty class by temperament, and Harold Smith, of the Vermont Smiths, educated at Dartmouth, was as New England as they came. But he had long ago suppressed the urge to curse. Profanity was a wasteful expenditure of breath, he believed. It was impolite. It accomplished nothing. And most of all, it was unseemly. Especially in mixed company.

  The last time Smith had cursed aloud and in anger had been a few years before when he had read that his old college song, "Men of Dartmouth," under pressure from a campus women's group, had been changed to "Alma Mater" and all gender-specific references neutered.

  Smith had read this in the alumni newsletter in the gray privacy of his living room.

  "God damn their bones!" he exploded.

  His wife, Maude, had almost fainted in her overstuffed chair. The Smiths had long ago ceased sitting on the sofa together. Mrs. Smith was watching "Jeopardy" while Harold read. This was their version of sharing quality time.

  Mrs. Smith had severely lectured Harold on his language, and Smith had stiffly apologized. Inwardly he was embarrassed at the loss of self-control, and the next day firmly resolved to cut his annual donation to Dartmouth exactly in half.

  As he now sat at his Folcroft desk with the late-afternoon light streaming in through the picture window of one-way glass at his back, Smith started cursing softly.

  "Blast their souls!"

  He had his desktop system running. On the desk was the captured system of Allah Ladeen, United States postman and suspected terrorist bomber. A cable snaked from the PC system into the kick space of Smith's desk, where it connected to Smith's own system.

  Smith had downloaded the entire hard drive onto one of the Folcroft Four. Normally he should have been able to access the contents by a brute-force mainframe attack on the encryption system. Unfortunately the system was configured to the Arabic language, a fact Smith had discovered after a full hour of fighting what he thought were scrambled codes but was in fact flowing Arabic script.

  Smith's mainframes were configured for English. They had other-language capability, but this was limited to Latin-based languages and Cyrillic Russian. He could not decode Arabic.

  Reaching out to cyberspace, Smith had found and captured an Arabic-to-English automatic conversion program from Yale University's Language Department. But it was bulky. His only hope lay in the Master of Sinanju, and so Harold Smith cursed low and feelingly under his breath as he waited with the afternoon sun sinking at his hunched back.

  "Damn their eyes!"

  OUTSIDE THE CLOSED DOOR to Smith's office, the Master of Sinanju suddenly halted and said, "Hark, Remo. Listen."

  "Damn their eyes!"

  Chiun's hands fluttered with uncharacteristic nervousness.

  "That is Emperor Smith's voice, and he sounds very angry."

  "He sounds more like a pirate with his peg leg caught in a knot hole," Remo said.

  "Perhaps he is angry with us," squeaked Chiun.

  "If he is, we'll just have to take our medicine."

  "Blast their cursed bones!" came Smith's voice, twisted and low.

  Abruptly Chiun got behind Remo and started pushing with both hands. "You go first, Remo."

  "Why me?"

  "Because you are half-white, like Smith. He will not turn on one of his own."

  "Here goes," said Remo, pushing open the door. Harold Smith looked up sharply from his work. No trace of relief touched his patrician features.

  "I am glad you are here, Remo," he said in a voice that contradicted his words.

  "A mastiff ate our assignment!" called Chiun in a loud voice. "We are not to blame."

  "What is this?"

  "Chiun's making a joke, Smitty."

  "I need you both."

  Noticing the blind system on Smith's desk, Remo asked, "Computer crash on you?"

  "I am attempting to enter this captured system."

  "Captured? Who captured it?"

  "I did," said Smith.

  "No kidding. Who'd you capture it from?"

  "If I am correct, the perpetrator of the rash of bombings in New York City."

  "Anyone who would dare bomb one of your most famous cities is indeed rash," proclaimed the Master of Sinanju, stepping into the room. "Greetings, O Smith. How may we be of assistance?" And Chiun bowed formally, his hazel eyes peering upward to assess Smith's reaction.

  "What did you say about your assignment?" asked Smith.

  "Went off without a hitch," said Remo.

  "Good," said Smith.

  "Don't you want to hear about it?"

  "Later," said Smith, tapping his keyboard with frustrated fingers.

  "We dropped a locomotive onto Nishitsu headquarters in the middle of the night. Nobody killed that we know of. Message delivered."

  Smith said nothing.

  "The hotel accommodations were really special," Remo added. "You must have a saved a bundle, you old skinflint."

  Smith nodded his gray head absently and addressed the Master of Sinanju. "Master Chiun, is your Arabic up-to-date?"

  "It is impeccable," said Chiun.

  "Please join me on this side of the desk."

  With a low smile of satisfaction, the Master of Sinanju bustled up to Smith's desk and took a position beside his emperor. His eyes, meeting Remo's, were bright and taunting.

  "I dropped the locomotive, but it was Chiun's idea," Remo continued.

  Chiun's eyes turned venomous. A low hiss escaped his papery lips.

  "We figured Nishitsu'd realize it was the American response to all those train wrecks, and rethink their global marketing strategy," continued Remo.

  "Emperor Smith and I have no time for your prattle," said Chiun quickly. "We have important work to do. Why do you not take a walk?"

  "Where would I go?"

  "There is a short dock at the water's edge. It is a good p
lace for a long walk," said Chiun blandly.

  "No, thanks. I want to watch. This should be interesting. The hard-of-hearing leading the nearsighted."

  Throughout this exchange, Harold Smith continued tapping away furiously. He seemed to have registered none of it.

  "The owner of this system configured it for the Arabic language," Smith started to explain. "I cannot read Arabic. But I have a program that will convert it once I am inside"

  "Inside what?" asked Chiun.

  "The system," said Smith.

  "What system?"

  Smith pointed to the humming hard-drive case on the desk.

  "Impossible!" squeaked Chiun.

  "There is no system I cannot enter once I bypass the security firewalls."

  Regarding the bright plastic case, Chiun said, "If touched by fire, that box would melt quickly."

  "That's not the kind of firewall he's talking about," offered Remo, taking a seat on the green vinyl divan across the room. "He means the system is password protected."

  "Ah. Now I understand. You seek the password?"

  "Yes," said Smith, squinting at his desktop monitor, which was displaying a changing sequence of gibberish. "I believe it is asking me for the password. But I cannot tell."

  "Allow me to gaze into this oracle's innermost recesses," said Chiun, bending to peer into Smith's desktop. "Yes. It is asking for the secret word."

  "It says 'Secret word'?"

  "Yes," said Chiun, laying his jade nail protector against the black tinted glass. "You see this script? It says, 'Secret word.'"

  "I don't see a colon."

  "Arabs retain their colons within their bodies unless put to the sword. But it is asking that you inscribe the secret word in that space."

  "Damnation," said Smith. And Chiun shrank from the soft vehemence of the unexpected word from his emperor's lips.

  "What is wrong?" he asked.

  "My password-attack program takes hours to run. Sometimes days, with a particularly obscure password. The additional step of converting its data base of likely passwords into acceptable Arabic would take weeks-perhaps months with the transliteration problem."

  "Then why not simply guess the secret word?" Smith shook his gray head savagely.

  "That could take years. Only a sophisticated computer system has the brainpower to enter a protected system without knowing the password in question."