"Get this, Smitty, the majority leader in the state senate? He's a compulsive shoplifter! And he steals nothing except frozen meat!"
"Remo, please."
"Hey, don't get mad at me, I'm not making this shit up."
"I don't care! Can we please address matters of importance?"
"Yeah. Sure. But you won't top my frozen-meat story."
Mark Howard was watching his map of the United States of America and feeling despondent.
So many electronic dots. Each one indicated corruption of one kind or another among the public officials. And there were hundreds of dots.
Some were as minor as the doughnut-eater in Chicago, while others were vast and sophisticated systems of extortion or theft that involved many people, including some of the highest ranking tax-paid personnel.
This was not some Third World nation where payoffs were a part of the culture, where graft was simply standard operating procedure, where politicians were underpaid to the point where they had no choice but to take bribes to survive.
This was America, one of the world's richest nations. Where politicians were supposedly accountable to the voters.
So why was there so much underhandedness? Was it all for money? Was it all for power? Did power always result in corruption, as the old cliché said?
No, he knew that wasn't true. He had delved into many of these accusations and found that many were just that—accusations, without foundation. The targets weren't necessarily guilty, but there had to have been some publicity that led the population to believe they might be.
For the most part, the murder victims had been shown, after they died, to have in fact been guilty of their crimes, but without more intense scrutiny, they couldn't be absolutely sure that the evidence was genuine. And they didn't have time for that now.
All they had time to do was sit and sift through the hundreds of potential targets and look for the likeliest first strikes—or wait for the Folcroft Four to point out a strike as it occurred.
Mark Howard heard the tiny electronic tone that brought his attention to the map again, where one of the red lights was blinking. He began pounding commands into the keyboard, brought up the details and snatched at the phone.
"Mark here," he said, knowing Dr. Smith was on the line with Remo. "Sorry to interrupt. We've got a flagged incident in San Francisco."
"I see it," Dr. Smith responded quickly, bringing up Mark's quickly organized window of data about the event. He would see it on his own screen just as Mark did—and see the possible implications of the attack. If it was an attack. "Remo, I'm ordering an Air Force transport for you. How soon can you get to the airport?"
"Like I know," Remo responded. "I have no clue where it even is. You tell me, Smitty."
There was a moment of furious keystrokes, then Smith announced, "Twenty minutes from where you are now if you find immediate transport."
"Should I find immediate transport?"
"We need you in California as fast as possible, Remo, if we're going to stop further attacks."
"I'll get a cab. Here, Chiun wants to talk to you."
Mark was barely listening as he read the details of the first attack. The indications of corruption for San Francisco were many and tightly spaced. How in the world were they going to pick out the likely next target? It could be any of them.
"Dr. Smith. Prince Howard." It was Master Chiun, using his most melodious voice, which was usually reserved for preparing them for the asking of special favors.
"Master Chiun," Dr. Smith said brusquely, "there is no time to talk now. You and Remo must get to California immediately."
"I understand many important events are afoot, Emperor," Chiun practically sang. "But there is a matter equally important of which we must speak."
"No time now, Master Chiun," Dr. Smith insisted.
"Ah, but now is the optimal time," Chiun replied, but the beautiful, songlike quality of his demurring voice was shattered by a raucous mechanical screech.
"What in the lord's name was that?" Dr. Smith asked.
Chiun sighed in disgust. "Remo is holding a cab."
"Do you mean hailing a cab?" Smith asked.
"No, I do not mean that," Chiun said.
"Who are you jokers?" asked the air force officer who was the highest ranking officer on duty.
"Schneiders and Kurosawa. Glad to meet you but we're in a hurry."
"What the hell kind of an ID is this?" the major barked. "Says here you're from the DOJ, Mr. Schneiders."
"He's Schneiders," said the dark-haired Caucasian man, pointing a thumb at the tiny Asian.
"Sure, you are."
"Kurosawa is a Japanese name, and I am most certainly not Japanese," declared the Asian.
His partner added, "Like I said, we're in a hurry."
"How come I never heard of you?"
"Dunno. We're supposed to be meeting a liaison with General Norton."
"Oh, really?" The officer leaned against the guard post windowsill, and he threw a smile and a wink at the guard inside. The guard moved his hand discreetly to the control that would call for more backup. This pair might be packing who knew what. Hell, the little Asian named Schneiders might have explosives under that robe of his. This was only a small military terminal at the Topeka airport, but who knew who might want to take it out.
"Did not the emperor handle this?" the Asian demanded of his taller partner.
"He always does."
"You have forgotten a password perhaps?" the little
man said. "You have failed to approach the correct entranceway to this outpost? Think, Remo! In what way have you failed?"
The major was stiff now. The clown act had gone into full gear, and his instincts told him it was a distraction from the real action—any second now something big would get sprung on him. A busload of America haters, probably, and might be from anywhere. France, Germany, and four out of any five Asian, Middle Eastern or South American nations held grudges against the U.S.
"Major Wylkes!" came a call from behind him, along with a rush of fast-moving vehicles. Wylkes spun fast, realized he'd just turned his back on the intruders and spun back, only to find Schneiders and Kurosawa standing motionless, watching his antics curiously. Then Wylkes realized who he had just seen coming at him in a big hurry in a jeep and he spun back again. The vehicle came to a hard stop beside the guard shack. General Norton stepped out quickly and snatched the IDs out of Major Wylkes's hand.
"Mr. Kurosawa?" the general addressed the small Asian man.
Before the Asian could respond, the tall man said, "I'm Kurosawa. He's Schneiders."
"General Norton. There appears to have been a lapse in communication. My assistant did not realize you would be arriving this quickly. We came as fast as we could, but..."
The general nodded disapprovingly at the jeep. His driver was a stone-faced statue, but a young officer in the back seat was staring at the floor like a fourth-grader being shamed by the teacher.
The Asian shook his head, clucking gently. "I sympathize, General," he said. "A competent lackey is a rare thing indeed."
The. barrel-chested general laughed quietly. "Isn't that the truth? Let me know if you ever find one."
"I shall, but do not stop breathing in anticipation of my call," said the small Asian, apparently delighted with himself, and then he gave a sharp, disapproving look at the dark man called Kurosawa.
The general ushered the pair of oddballs into his jeep. The general's assistant was ordered out to make room for them.
"Could you have the suits brings the trunks, General?" the dark one asked.
"Suits?" the general grunted.
"Blacksuits." The younger one pointed up, down, around.
"I don't understand," the general grumbled.
The younger man stood in his seat, leaned out, and his arm seemed to reach an impossibly far distance to extract a Special Forces commando who had slithered on the scene in response to Major Wylkes's silent alarm. The commando splutt
ered, but realized he was facing a general and went rigid when he was lowered to his feet.
"Oh," the general said, as surprised as the commando, and he and Major Wylkes stared at one another for a long moment, knowing they would never, ever speak of this incident again. "Yes, Wylkes, have the trunks brought to E-pad. Now."
"Yes, General."
"But no scratches!" declared the old Asian, Schneiders, as the jeep rumbled off.
There were three crew on the small military jet. It was used to transport top bureaucratic brass and visiting foreign VIPs around the country, so it was outfitted like a passenger jet for wealthy businessmen. The cabin had a communications system designed for civvies, which meant no complicated protocols. It was almost as simple as a regular telephone.
"Doesn't work," said the dark-haired man.
"What number are you trying to dial?" asked the helpful Air Force officer who served as steward.
"Can't tell ya. Have to kill ya."
"I can get you an outside line again and you can try dialing yourself one more time."
The dark-haired man shrugged. "No, thanks. They'll call me. I'll wait."
The steward explained that the aircraft was one of the most highly secure in the world, with a dynamically shifting communications array so that it communicated with the world on varying wavelengths and frequencies and even different technologies, shifting frequently and unpredictably, and there was no way somebody was going to know how to dial in...
The phone rang. The steward picked it up, then handed it to Remo, face reddening.
"Agent Kurosawa here."
"Your ETA is seventy minutes," Smith said without greeting. "We've narrowed the possible number of follow-up targets to thirty-one."
"Whoa. What're we supposed to do about that?" Remo asked.
"Canvass as many as possible," Smith answered dryly. "We can only hope we'll get lucky."
"We're developing a patrol itinerary that should have you reconnoitering the maximum number of targets in the least time," Mark Howard added. "Are you seeing the map?"
Remo looked for help from Chiun, who stared into space with his hands in his sleeves as if his thoughts floated in another universe, but Remo knew he heard every word. Chiun nodded briefly at the wall behind the conference table, where a small panel was embedded. The steward was well-trained in security protocol and knew enough to not be in the compartment, so Remo had only himself to rely on. He jabbed at the words at the bottom of the screen, then at the tiny pictures above the words, and the screen came to life with a computer image.
"We see it," Remo reported, grinning with self-satisfaction. Anyway, he saw something that looked like a map of San Francisco.
"Less than two hours ago a board of elections judge was murdered in a Greek restaurant in San Francisco— that's the red icon," Smith reported. "From that central location, we foresee a number of possible targets, the blue icons."
"Hold on," Remo said. "An election official? Like one of nice retired folks in the neighborhood who makes sure you stick the ballot in the box right-side up?"
"Only the first move by the local cell," Smith assured him. "They always strike a number of targets, and they always include some local figures in the mix. It's their way of connecting with the people on the street."
"The locals who get axed are always corrupt?" Remo asked.
"There is always a high-profile accusation of corruption," Mark Howard said.
"So somebody can always say he or she was a crook and got what was coming to him," Remo finished. "But you think some of the accusations are false, Junior?"
"They have to be," Mark Howard said. "There are so many victims, such a wide range of crimes, there's no way that even CURE resources could find a definitive answer on all of them."
Remo considered that, feeling grim. "Tell me about the election judge," he said.
"She's of no consequence now," Smith said. "We need to think about the next target."
"Tell me about her."
"Remo—"
"You have a date, Smitty? You said we have more than an hour, so tell me about the election judge."
There was a pause, then Mark Howard began reading from his screen. "Eleanor George, age seventy- seven, lifelong resident of San Francisco and a prominent society figure. Family has had money for generations and she married more of it. Husband died in 1979, and she began putting her money into facilities to help unmarried mothers. Her centers provided housing, education and job training, that kind of thing. Very outspoken about getting out the vote, and she served as an election judge for twenty years."
Remo considered that. He felt Chiun looking at him. "She's a real troublemaker. Got what she deserved, that's for sure."
"She was accused of vote fraud," Howard added. "Says here one of the other judges turned her in."
"Her heinous crime was?" Remo asked, knowing he wasn't going to like the answer.
"She drove some of the women from her shelters to the polling place," Howard said. "If you're a judge, that's against the rules."
"I see." Remo did see.
"She never got the chance to enter a plea, but in several interviews she admitted doing it. She even said she'd done it in past elections."
"Which undermines the entire electoral process, and so on, and so on," Remo added. "Okay, so what about MAEBE? Who gets a big assist now that this election thrower is out of the picture?"
"Nobody," said Mark Howard.
"Yeah, somebody," Remo agreed.
"We've investigated that angle," Smith said. "Mrs. George was never one to espouse any candidate. She had an agenda, but it doesn't look like she made her views about the coming elections public."
"What about the MAEBE candidates in San Francisco?" Remo asked. "She wouldn't have voted for them, would she? So could this mean MAEBE will put in its own judges?"
"Remo, this is a dead end," Smith insisted. "Mrs. George was simply a convenient target for the local cell. She's just one more name they can add to their list when and if they decide to publicize their efforts to clean up the corruption. There's not much to be learned from her murder."
"She influenced elections," Remo said.
"Indirectly."
"But in a big way, in her section of the city, right?"
"Perhaps."
"Who's the alderman or whatever that's going to be less likely to win if Mrs. George isn't there to get her unmarried mothers to the polling place?"
After a moment Mark Howard said, "There's a Melanie Satz who has been a supporter of Ms. George's causes, and she's running for the state House of Representatives seat in that district," Howard said. "The incumbent state representative is Bruce Griffin, and he's ahead by a lot of points. The MAEBE candidate is Dr. Robin Eomer, a dental surgeon and Baptist minister."
"What kind of skeleton does Griffin have in the closet?" Remo asked.
"None, far as I can tell," Howard said.
"Look harder."
"Remo—"
"Humor me, Smitty."
"I'm seeing a DUI arrest from 1990, but it was thrown out—no conviction."
"Is he connected?"
"I don't know."
"Look!"
The silence was tense. The only sound coming over the phone was from Mark Howard's keyboard.
"What do you know," Howard said quietly. "There was a cover-up. Griffin killed somebody. The judge was later convicted of taking bribes for innocent pleas, but nobody ever connected him to Griffin before—until today. There's a San Francisco Journal article for tomorrow's paper about the conspiracy, and the local TV is going to break it on their evening news."
"Then Griffin's dead meat and it's a race between the boring old Melanie Satz and her out-of-fashion cause to help working mothers, versus the candidate from the wonderful new Party for the People," Remo said.
"Hmm," said Smith. "You may be on to something, Remo."
"Aw, Smitty," Remo said, "you know it's embarassin' when you start gushing all over."
24
Orville Flicker was afraid. Worse than that, he was nervous, and he was acting jittery, and that absolutely wouldn't do, especially tonight of all nights.
Flicker couldn't understand it. His White Hand had been doing its work for months, cleaning up the bureaucracy of the United States at every level, removing one despicable public servant after another from the government payrolls. There had never been a major hitch, not one, and subtle support was growing here and there across the nation. Everything was going exactly as planned.
Now, of all times, as the White Hand began its most important phase of operations and Flicker's political organization became a juggernaut, everything started going wrong. In just days there was catastrophe after catastrophe. The Midwest cell, wiped out at the Bryant assassination. The Continental Divide cell demolished, with only Boris Bernwick surviving and escaping— only to be found dismembered near the scene of the bombing of the drug-lord police chief.
Somebody knew a lot more than they should about the White Hand. The question was, how much did they know about the sponsors of the White Hand?
That was just one of a number of reasons why the big announcement should not happen tonight, but they didn't matter. The stage was set, the expectation level of the nation and the party had been primed to the perfect level. The announcement had to come now, tonight, without delay. Everybody was ready and waiting for the steamroller of events that had brought the MAEBE political party into existence to continue rolling, inexorably, flattening the competition.
Nothing could be allowed to interfere with the momentum that Flicker's carefully orchestrated series of "spontaneous" events had generated. MAEBE had to have unfaltering momentum. There could be no time for the individual parties in this eclectic mix of right- wingers to stop and discuss this course of events.
Discussion, contemplation, a true interchange of ideas—anything along those lines would bring this thundering herd to a dusty halt. If there was one lesson Flicker learned from years of politics, it was that discussion murdered progress.
MAEBE was born when a bunch of small, roly-poly snowballs got nudged into one another at just the right moment to create an avalanche, and if anybody slowed the avalanche it would simply crumble to pieces again.
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