"You don't," she was told.
"Ever?"
"You'll be up on the screen with the others so it looks like he's talking to all of you at once," the busy technician explained.
"Where are the others?"
"The booths on either side."
"Shouldn't we be seated all together?"
The technician shook his head. "We did that in the early days. Had too many on-camera punch-outs and hair pulls. Just think of the camera as Ned's face and you'll do fine."
The technician shut the soundproof door before Tamayo thought to ask, "What others?" Didn't she own the story? Who else was there? And how important could they possibly be?
All at once, she could feel the flop-sweat oozing up through her pores, pushing aside her facial makeup. The network lights were a lot hotter than affiliate lights.
The director of the FBI would have given his pension to avoid it all.
"Nightmirror" was no place for the mentally un- nimble. He'd seen bureaucrats mousetrapped live and sweating by Ned Doppler more times than he could count. He did not want to be one of them.
But when "Nightmirror" called, even the director of the FBI had to answer. Especially with the nation lurching toward panic and needing answers.
The President of the United States had personally put it to him this way: "You go on."
"The Bureau's investigation is in its earliest stages," he protested. "We'd be at risk of tipping our hand."
"What do you have?"
"We're still sorting it all out, Mr. President. But the mail-truck bomber in New York has been identified from dental records as the suspect in the string of re- lay-box explosions. Guy named A1 Ladeen."
"You go on. Otherwise, I'll have to. And I don't have any more answers than you do."
"Yes, sir," said the director of the FBI, realizing that he had been demoted to sacrificial lamb.
The postmaster general took his seat in the remote broadcast booth that was in reality not thirty feet from the set where Ned Doppler nightly deconstructed guests with a twinkle in his eye and a stiletto up his sleeve.
It was a problem. But it wasn't a big problem. All Doppler had was rumor and half-assed reportage.
Damon Post had the two mightiest tools in a bureaucrat's arsenal—the ability to stonewall, and utter and total deniability.
They should be more than enough to hold off the smug bastard for thirty minutes, minus commercials.
Then the strident "Nightmirror" fanfare began, and the red tally light eyed him warningly.
In the bell-tower meditation room in their Quincy, Massachusetts, home, Remo Williams and the Master of Sinanju both reached for the clicker at the same time, Remo to switch from the overfed Bev Woo and Chiun to shut off the set for the evening.
"I want you see what they're saying on 'Nightmirror,' " Remo explained.
"It is your bedtime," Chiun argued.
"Smith said to stand by in case we have to fly out on short notice."
"Which is why you need your five hours of sleep."
"I'm not sleepy and I want to know what the latest is, the same as the rest of America."
"I cannot sleep with this machine yodeling, so I will watch with you."
"You just don't want me sneaking a peek at the nice Bev Woo."
"I would tolerate this so long as you do not seek out the false wiles of Tamayo Tanaka."
"Not a chance," said Remo as the "Nightmirror" fanfare started to blare and the cobalt blue computer animation went into its inevitable cycle.
Ned Doppler's puffy face came on.
"Tonight on 'Nightmirror'—Bomb scare. The terror in Manhattan. With me are the postmaster general of the U.S., Damon Post, Gunter Frisch, director of the FBI, and Tamayo Tanaka, the woman who may have broken the story of the bizarre link between a hitherto-unknown terror group and one of the oldest and most respected organs of our government, the United States Postal Service."
"Argh," said the Master of Sinanju, tearing at the cloudy puffs of hair over each ear.
"Let's hope our names don't come up," Remo said unhappily.
"First a recap of the day's events. At approximately 12:20 EST today, simultaneously in Oklahoma City and midtown Manhattan terror struck. The vehicle—men and equipment of your postal service. And tonight in Boston, a postal worker with the vaguely familiar name of Mohamet Ali leaped to his death before TV cameras and a crowd of witnesses. Are these events connected? What does it mean? Joining us in our Washington studio is the man heading the investigation, Gunter Frisch. Mr. Director, what can the FBI tell us?"
"Our investigation is at a sensitive stage, and I would rather not get into details, Ned."
"I understand," Doppler returned smoothly. "We don't want to jeopardize the investigation for ratings, not even for the public's right to know. But I must tell you there are wire-service reports that an FBI roundup of suspect postal workers is under way at this hour."
"I have ordered no such roundup," the director said quickly.
"So that means what? You're denying these reports?"
"My answer stands, Ned."
"Given that a reported eight or nine relay boxes literally blew up in New York City today, could we not assume that postal workers are being looked at?"
"We at FBI overlook no suspects in our efforts to get to the bottom of this matter. I would stress that nothing is being ruled in or out at this juncture."
"On that careful note, I would like to bring the postmaster general into this discussion," Ned Doppler said smoothly.
Damon Post came on the screen, replacing the FBI director.
"Mr. Post? No sense dancing around it. Has the postal service been compromised?"
"Absolutely, categorically not."
"Yet someone planted infernal devices in midtown relay boxes. Someone wearing a letter-carrier uniform burst into an Oklahoma City courtroom and literally massacred some twenty people. I don't have any more facts than you, but come on, it looks bad, doesn't it?"
"I know how it looks, Ned. But we lose master keys to theft from time to time. And letter-carrier uniforms can be purchased through the manufacturer without proof of employment in USPS."
"Imposters, until proved otherwise. The mail system has not been compromised by militia, Muslims or any other group, as certain irresponsible reports have it."
"But you don't know that, do you?" Doppler prodded.
"I don't know my relay drivers aren't Martians, either. But I don't worry about the possibility."
"Yet in recent years, there have been, to put it charitably, certain violent incidents involving postal workers. Have there not been?"
"Stress is a big part of everyone's lives these days. I run a first-class operation, and in a first-class operation, people have to hustle. Some people just don't hustle well. They crack. We try to keep these things to a minimum."
"You do see a connection between these personnel failures and the events today?"
"None whatsoever."
"And the man who jumped to his death in Boston. What was he? Just another letter carrier who took a swan dive into hard concrete rather than face another irate customer? And not a Muslim terrorist? Tell me."
The postmaster general struggled with his glower. "There are no terrorists in the Boston office," he said tightly. "The American public is perfectly safe."
"Unless they walk past a relay box that just happens to blow up. Or have the bad luck to be standing under a falling postal employee," Ned Doppler suggested with an irritating lack of sarcasm.
"That's not fair, Ned, and you know it. You don't burn down the whole orchard because of a few wormy apples."
"The question of Muslim terrorists aside, what are you doing about the stress level among your people?" Doppler asked.
"We've instituted a broad-based five-year plan to ensure that psychological decompensation levels at- trit at a predetermined rate until achieving parity or near-parity with comparable package-delivery comp
anies."
"What's that mean in layman's language?"
"We're weeding out the problematic people."
"So you admit there are problematic workers?"
"There are problematic workers driving school buses and frying up Whoppers," Damon Post said tightly.
"Granted. But you're artfully dodging the issue at hand. Forgive me for putting too fine a point on it, but even if we accept as dubious the proposition there are no terrorists in the postal service, there are Muslims, aren't there?"
"I imagine so. We don't discriminate at USPS."
"Are you looking into the backgrounds of these people, just on the off chance that they, shall we say, studied in the Bekaa Valley?"
"We're migrating in that direction," the postmaster general admitted cautiously. "But I would like to assure the general public that all employees of the postal service are required by law to be U.S. citizens."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't U.S. citizens behind the Oklahoma City bomb blast last year?" Doppler countered.
"Yes. But they were military wackos."
"I'd like to call your attention to a fax our news department received in the last few hours, purportedly from a group calling itself the Messengers of
Muhammad. I won't read it all, but they hint strongly and unmistakably that the events of today were their work and they are preparing to strike again if Abeer Ghula is allowed to remain in this country."
"Who's Abeer Ghula?" Remo wondered aloud.
The Master of Sinanju waved the question away.
"I wouldn't put much stock in an anonymous fax," the postmaster general countered brittlely. "Anyone can send a fax."
"And on that note, let me bring in the third person in this mystery, Tamayo Tanaka."
Tamayo Tanaka's sultry face replaced that of the postmaster general.
"It's great being here, Ned," she said.
"Thank you. I only wish the circumstances had been more pleasant."
"I'll take a network debut any way I can get it."
On the screen, Ned Doppler tightened his face and pressed on. "You broke the post-office-terrorist connection before the first faxes were received. What was your source?"
"I'm afraid I'll have to invoke my journalistic prerogatives on that one, Ned. But they are unimpeachable until events suggest otherwise."
Doppler cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "Sounds like you're hedging a little."
"No, I'm not hedging. Just being careful. I trust my sources. I just refuse to name them."
Remo turned to Chiun and said, "Looks like we get to keep our jobs."
"This was never in doubt."
"If she fingered us, we'd be history."
"No, Smith would only alter your plastic face once again."
Touching the tight skin over his high cheekbones, Remo said, "I don't think I have another plastic surgery in me."
"Let me ask you this," Ned Doppler was saying. "Does your information square with what the major news outlets have been getting?"
"I'm a psycho-journalist, Ned, and I can only tell you, based on my knowledge of the psychological profiles of postal workers who snap, that unless something serious is done, and soon, we could be facing a reign of terror that will make what we've seen today look like a third-grade pajama party."
"Is she crazy?" Remo exploded. "She's going to start a panic."
"Why do you say that?" Ned Doppler asked.
"Again I don't want to get into sources, but imagine the deadly combination of trained terrorists and crazed postal workers."
"Well, they have to be one but not the other. I mean, I've never heard of a trained psychotic."
"Ned, this is bigger and juicier than Watergate and O. J. Simpson combined."
An exasperated voice said, "Ned, can I get a word in here?"
The postmaster general's annoyed face popped onto the screen.
"I would like to add my input," the FBI director inserted off camera.
"One at a time. You first, Mr. Post."
"This is outrageous and irresponsible. None of these allegations are true."
"I second that," said the FBI director. "We do not want panic."
"Miss Tanaka?" "I stand by my sources," Tamayo Tanaka said firmly.
"Is her left eye drooping?" Remo asked Chiun.
"No, her right eye is straightening."
"Looks like the hot lights are decompensating her makeup job."
"If she is unmasked for all the world to see, it will be her own fault, the brazen hussy."
"Shh. I want to hear this."
The President of the United States didn't want to hear any more. He was watching his reelection plans disintegrating on network television as some New England anchorwoman he'd never even heard of calmly and almost maliciously predict that the American public was risking life and limb every time they mailed a postcard or checked their porch mailbox for bills. And the idiot FBI director and postmaster general were letting her get away with it.
When in the second segment, Ned Doppler got the postmaster general to concede that if the postal service were infiltrated by Muslim terrorists he couldn't take action until they actually committed a crime, the President excused himself from the First Bed and ran to the Lincoln Bedroom to call Harold Smith.
Smith answered on the second ring. "Yes, Mr. President?"
"I'm watching 'Nightmirror' and they're showing the headline for tomorrow's New York Times."
"I know," said Smith.
"It reads Postal Apocalypse."
"What if these threats are true?"
"You can deport Abeer Ghula. I believe you have grounds." "Tell that to the First Nag. She signed on to this."
"It may be that Abeer Ghula could be useful to us."
"How?"
"She is an absolute magnet for the wrath of these people. She may draw them out. We still have a handful of suspects not yet in FBI hands.''
"That reminds me. Last time I spoke with the FBI director, he didn't say anything about a roundup. And he's denying it now."
"He has nothing to do with it," Smith said crisply.
"Then who does?"
"I have pulled certain strings."
"You have people in the Bureau?"
"Moles, yes. Informants. But the roundup orders came from this office."
"I would like to know where this office is."
"This information is strictly on a need-to-know basis."
"Can you give me a little hint?" the President wheedled.
"No," Smith said flatly.
"I kinda imagine you in some windowless room on the thirteenth floor of a New York skyscraper that can be gotten into only by a secret door and a keyed elevator."
"You have been reading too many spy novels, Mr. President. I will have my people protect Abeer Ghula. This may buy us time."
"And if it doesn't?"
"One day at a time, Mr. President."
"That's easy for you to say. Nobody gets to reelect you." "The continuity of this office over successive administrations is built into the charter," Smith said thinly.
"Is that a written charter?"
"No."
"Well, keep me informed."
"Of course," said Smith, who hung up the red telephone and immediately picked up the blue contact telephone with the old rotary dial, which Smith favored because he made fewer mistakes than with a push-button phone.
Remo answered. "What's the latest?"
"You and Chiun will proceed immediately to New York City and the Marrioi Marquis Hotel, where you will protect Abeer Ghula from these terrorists."
"What good will that do?"
"She is the most likely target."
"Any sign of Joe Camel?"
"If we are fortunate, the FBI roundup has decimated their ranks, and Camel or one of the other survivors will surface in New York. It will be your job to handle that end."
"What about the Deaf Mullah?"
"I am reliably informed the Deaf Mu
llah is in solitary confinement and it is impossible for him to communicate with the outside world."
"I don't think that terrorist was lying."
"It is entirely reasonable that he was continuing the Deaf Mullah's mandate for jihad. Question more carefully the next terrorist you encounter."
"Will do."
The line went dead. In his Folcroft office, where he was working late, Harold Smith turned up the sound on the TV screen in time to hear Ned Doppler.
Abeer Ghuia had been brought into the discussion. Her sharp, dusky face smoldered at the viewing public.
"I fear no terrorists, for I am under the protection of the Very First Lady and the National Organization of Women, two of the most potent political entities in ail of America."
"Is there anything you can tell us about these Messengers of Muhammad?"
"Nothing. There is nothing to tell. Muhammad is a false prophet. I am the new prophet. With those who follow me, I will sweep across the face of America and then the world like an angry ocean, drowning those who do not believe as I do and carrying believers in Um Allaha to Paradise, where women will liberate the enslaved houris from the dead Muslim males who rape and enslave them cruelly."
An off-camera voice cut in. "I have something to say, Ned."
"I'm still with Miss Ghula, Miss Tanaka."
"But she doesn't know anything about the terrorists. I do."
"Just a second. Your turn will come."
"She has had her turn," Abeer Ghula spat. "I am speaking now."
"This is my story," Tamayo Tanaka said petulantly.
"And this is my show," countered Ned Doppler. "And according to the little voice in my earpiece, we have to take a break."
The camera captured Doppler's fleshy jack-o'- lantern face.
"I'll be back after this." "That means the show's over," said Remo as they cut to a commercial.
"He said he would be back," Chiun argued.
"He always says that to trick people into watching the last three commercials.''
"But he was not done."
"Doesn't matter. He's done."
"We will watch to be certain," said Chiun, confiscating the remote control.
After the commercial break, Ned Doppler's face reappeared. "That's all we have time for tonight. Good of you all to come on 'Nightmirror.'"
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