Terminal Transmission td-93

by Warren Murphy

  "Who are you?" Rebello demanded of the agent who appeared in charge.

  "Hostage negotiation team."

  "You're a little late. Agent Reynolds took care of it. Talked the guy out clean."

  "Reynolds?"

  "Yeah. One guy. Never seen anything like it."

  "I don't know any agent Reynolds."

  "First name Remo. The guy was slick. Deserves a commendation."

  The hostage negotiation team conferred among themselves. No one had heard of a Remo Reynolds.

  "He must be with some other office," Lieutenant Rebello suggested in a tone that suggested diminishing confidence.

  "We were told to liase with Division Chief Bundish."

  "He was around here earlier. I haven't seen him since Reynolds . . ." Lieutenant Rebello swallowed. "That's right! Bundish. What the hell happened to him?"

  Then, a voice called out, "Hey, there's a guy sleeping in this alley in his underwear," and Lieutenant Rebello's promising career in law-enforcement took a sharp, sudden drop into the toilet. In later years, he swore that at that exact moment he heard a distinct flushing sound.

  Chapter 23

  Remo Williams ditched the unmarked car and street clothes on Park Avenue South, his face tight with anguish.

  In his earlier life, he had been a cop. An ordinary cop. Nothing special. Except that he had been honest. He knew what it was to put on the blue uniform and stand between society and lawlessness. It was a long time ago, so long Remo had forgotten all but the rough outlines of those days when he had worn an extra twenty-five pounds and a face that had not been altered by plastic surgery and had espoused a simple, if naive, concept of justice.

  What he had found in the basement of the ANC building had left him sickened: The sight of the Master of Sinanju standing red-faced and steely-eyed among a pile of headless corpses.

  "Jesus Christ, Chiun!" Remo had exploded when he came upon the carnage. "What are you trying to do? Get us both killed?"

  "It is not I who am at fault," Chiun had said tightly. "I have been attacked from the moment I set foot in this den of unrepentant Canadians."

  "You killed cops. Honest, hardworking cops."

  The Master of Sinanju looked down upon the piled dead.

  "How do you know they are honest?" he asked.

  "Skip it. Look, I gotta get you out of here in one piece. Those cops out there are hot to shoot you on sight."

  Chiun drew himself up proudly. "I am not afraid."

  "You'd better be. If they all come charging in-hey, who's this?" Remo asked, noticing one body in particular.

  "Who is what?"

  "This dead guy," Remo said pointing to a pair of bare legs sticking out from under a pile of miscellaneous dead. The legs were half-covered in gray knee socks, but they weren't what had caught Remo's eye.

  He reached down and grabbed the body by the ankles and pulled it free, fully exposing a brown tartan kilt. Remo continued pulling and found that the rest of the body was attired in a cheap coat and tie.

  The body had no head.

  "Where's the head to this one?" Remo had asked, looking around for the missing item.

  "Why do you wish to know?" Chiun had asked thinly.

  "Because it's important," Remo snapped, lifting up head after head and tossing them aside after a moment's examination.

  "Why is it important?"

  "Look, we don't have much time. The place is completely surrounded. There are sharpshooters on every roof. There's no way out of here unless you come out as my prisoner."

  "Never! What would Cheeta think?"

  "That's another thing. There are cameras everywhere. We can't just walk out in full view of everyone. Even if we make it out alive, Smitty'll have us both under a plastic surgeon's knife by sundown."

  Chiun stamped a sandaled foot.

  "I am not leaving until Cheeta is brought to me. Such are my demands and I must abide by them or be shamed."

  "Will you cut the crap?" Remo had said, continuing to look for a matching head. There were too many heads. And they were too scattered about. It was as if everyone had blundered into a head-husking machine, which dropped the bodies where they stood but sent the heads flying.

  "Look," he said, giving up, "just do whatever I say and we'll work this out."

  The tightness in Chiun's visage had loosened at that point. "I will go along," he had allowed, "but I will defend myself if provoked-even against the blue centurions of Emperor Smith."

  "Okay, just sit tight," Remo had said. "I'll negotiate safe passage. And don't kill anyone else."

  Remo had worked it all out, but he was still sick about it. In the earlier days of their association, these things tended to happen a lot. Bellboys maimed for nicking Chiun's luggage, telephone repairmen killed for interrupting his soap operas. Gradually, the Master of Sinanju had become accustomed to the odd ways of America-including the difficult-to-comprehend concept that ordinary citizens-peasants, he called them-were actually considered valuable and were not to be killed.

  Such inconvenient incidents had long ago tapered off, but the occasional security guard, soldier, or police officer still managed to meet an untimely end. Usually when they caught Chiun in a foul mood.

  This, however, was major even by Chiun's standards.

  "Look, think hard," Remo was saying as he hailed a cab. "The guy in the kilt-who was he?"

  "They were so many . . ."

  "But only one in a freaking kilt. Now come on."

  The cab slid to a stop. The cabby looked happy to see them. His radio was hissing static.

  "Airport," said Remo.

  "Which?"

  "The nearest one. We're not fussy."

  "Newark it is."

  As they rode uptown, Remo asked in a tight low voice. "Now tell me who wore the kilt."

  "It was that ballast," Chiun said.

  "The what?"

  "You know-the one who reads news."

  "The anchor?"

  "Yes. The deceiving Canadian anchor."

  "You decapitated Dieter Banning?"

  "He refused to confess his crimes. I demanded to know the whereabouts of Cheeta the Fecund, and he resisted, showering vile curses and imprecations upon my person. So I snuffed him."

  "You put pressure on him first, right?"

  "Correct."

  "And he still insisted he had nothing to do with any of it?"

  "He did not say that. He cursed me."

  "You've been cursed at before. Usually you remove a few fingers. Sometimes a tongue. What's the big deal?"

  The Master of Sinanju grew silent. His lower lip pouted out. "He spoke ill of Cheeta. He called her a slant-eyed goop."

  "He ranked her out and you went ballistic?"

  "I avenged the honor of a fellow Korean," Chiun sniffed.

  "And lost the only lead we had."

  "He was no lead. He had nothing to do with anything."

  "Says you."

  "No one holds his tongue whom the Master of Sinanju holds by the throat. You know this."

  Remo said nothing. He did know it. No one could possibly resist the awful, agonizing pain Chiun was capable of inflicting. If Dieter Banning knew anything about Cheeta Ching, Chiun would have gotten it out of him. No question.

  Ordinarily, that would have settled that. But Banning had been wearing a kilt when he died. And Cheeta Ching's abductor had been wearing a kilt too. What the hell did it mean?

  At the Newark Airport, Remo called Harold Smith from a payphone. The Master of Sinanju hovered close.

  "Smitty, Remo."

  "What is the situation, Remo?"

  "We ran into a little trouble."

  "What kind?"

  "You haven't heard?"

  "No news is getting out."

  "Well," Remo said, lifting his voice. "Chiun-who's here with me now-went on ahead to-ANC without me. It seems Cheeta Ching has been kidnapped by Captain Audion."

  Hearing this, Chiun raised his voice. "Remo was too slow, Emperor Smith. I
dared not wait for him with Cheeta Ching in peril."

  "Chiun blew into ANC and-"

  "I was attacked the moment I entered the building," Chiun shouted. "I had to defend myself. The place is a viper's nest of Canadians. Vicious, antiAmerican Canadians."

  Smith groaned. "There are casualties?"

  "Piles of them," Remo admitted.

  Smith groaned again.

  "Chiun tried to get Dieter Banning to talk. Banning wouldn't. He insulted Cheeta. So Chiun wasted him."

  "Remo, are you certain of this?"

  "I saw the body myself. Of course, it didn't have its head, but it was wearing a kilt."

  The Master of Sinanju held his breath.

  No sound came from the receiver.

  Then, in a low voice, Harold Smith asked, "A kilt?"

  "Yeah," Remo said guardedly. "A kilt."

  The Master of Sinanju looked from the silent receiver to his pupil.

  "Why is this kilt important?" he asked suspiciously.

  "Who said it was important?" Remo asked in a too-innocent voice.

  "The tone of your voice."

  Smith said, "Put Master Chiun on, Remo."

  "A pleasure. Here. Smitty wants to talk to you."

  The Master of Sinanju took up the receiver and said, "I am listening, Emperor Smith."

  "There is a report that Cheeta Ching was abducted by a man who wore a kilt."

  Chiun's eyes narrowed to slits. "A Scotsman?"

  "He wore a kilt. That is my only information."

  "Emperor Smith, you must find Cheeta. Her baby will be born soon. I must attend the birth."

  "I am doing all I can. Please put Remo back on."

  "Yeah, Smitty?" said Remo.

  "Remo, are you certain that Dieter Banning is dead?"

  "Yeah. Definitely."

  "Either Banning is part of this conspiracy or he is not. I am going to get the word out."

  "Yeah?"

  "Perhaps something will happen."

  "Okay, what do Chiun and I do in the meantime? We're pretty hot in these parts."

  "Return to Folcroft. That way you will be convenient to New York if something breaks."

  "On our way, Smitty. Thanks."

  Remo hung up. The Master of Sinanju was looking up at him, his wrinkled face tight and searching.

  "We're going back to Folcroft," Remo said.

  "You are going to Folcroft. I seek Cheeta Ching, defamed by the base round-eye whites whom she had attempted to educate with her nightly songs of truth and purity."

  "Look, we're at a dead end. If anyone can find her, it's Smitty. Let's give him a chance."

  "Cheeta has pleaded for succor. The boy who is to be born is nigh-"

  "Nigher than you think," said Remo.

  "What do you mean?"

  "That bottle of pills we found in Cheeta's office? They're to delay contractions. Cheeta's been holding back. Without her pills, the baby is due practically any minute."

  The Master of Sinanju's anguished wail stopped pedestrian traffic in its tracks.

  "Aiieee! Poor Cheeta. What will become of her?"

  Noticing a prowling police cruiser through the terminal window, Remo said, "Right now, what will become of us is what worries me the most. Come on, we gotta find a rental car."

  Chapter 24

  In his Folcroft office, Harold W. Smith called up the newswire services on his terminal.

  There were sketchy reports of a massacre at the New York headquarters of the American Networking Conglomerate, but no confirmation of dead.

  Logging off, Smith typed out a wire-service-style report that stated that ANC anchor Dieter Banning had been killed. He gave no other details.

  With the deft clicking of keys, the report was simultaneously faxed to terminals at UPI, AP, a dozen major newspapers and news magazines, and the newsrooms of ANC, BCN, MBC, KNNN, and Vox.

  Within seconds, pedestrians were reading it off the ticker at One Times Square.

  At MBC, Tim Macaw ripped the fax out of his office machine and called his agent.

  "They've lost Banning over at ANC," he said in a breathless husky whisper. "See if you can get me a sitdown with their news director."

  Then he hung up, ran the fax through the office shredder and resumed touching up his boyish features with Gay Whisper pancake makeup.

  The news director came bustling up with a sheet of COPY. They re done editing your lead for the 6:30 feed," he said.

  "Oh, good. Any problems?"

  "Yeah, the woman-of-color editor said you can't say black. You gotta say Afro-American."

  "That's ridiculous. It's a blackout. We can't call it an Afro-American-out. It makes no sense."

  "Come up with a better word then. If we don't humor her, she's bound to go on another damn hunger strike."

  "How about whiteout?" Macaw asked.

  "But it's not white. We're not putting out snow. Besides, you know how she is about the word white. Last week, she complained when we used the word whitewash. Went into that whole Why-is-white-always-good-and-black-always-bad tirade of hers."

  "Right, right. How does 'broadcast interruption' sound?"

  "Already thought of that. The woman's editor says broad is N.G. Sounds sexist."

  "Oh, that's right. She brought that up at the last hunkcasters conference." Macaw sucked on a tooth. "Can I call it a transmission failure?"

  "The brass won't like that. MBC failing? Makes us look bad. Try technical difficulties."

  "Won't the technical union have fits?"

  "Damn. Good catch, Tim. Work on it. We've still got four hours until our signal's restored."

  At the end of another hour, Tim Macaw thought he had two viable options: Signal-challenged transmission or Deemptive nontelecast.

  At BCN, Don Cooder received the fax at his office desk. He had a Caller ID unit on his faxphone and he stabbed the button to see who had sent him a blind fax reporting the death of ANC anchor, Dieter Banning.

  The digital readout read: 000-000-0000.

  Cooder pressed it again and got the same string of ciphers.

  "What kind of phone number is that?" he muttered.

  Then he picked up his desk phone and stabbed out a number.

  "Frank, I want a gut check on a fax that just came in..."

  Harold Smith was listening to the President of the United States with one ear and the TV on his desk with the other.

  It was not difficult to do. The TV was just hissing. The President was speaking in brisk sentences.

  "The FCC are working hard on this thing, Smith. But they claim I'm asking the impossible. You can't trace a signal that isn't there."

  "But it is, Mr. President."

  "What is the source of this information?"

  Thinking of the nameless repairman, Smith said, "That's classified."

  The President cleared his throat unhappily.

  Then Harold Smith groaned.

  "What is it?" the President demanded.

  "BCN is back on."

  "But the seven hours aren't yet up."

  Smith glanced at his watch. The seven hours were far from up. "Mr. President, check with your FCC commissioner. Find out if they were successful."

  "I'll be back with you shortly."

  Harold Smith hung up and turned up the TV volume.

  The screen was full of snow. The snow had come on after a sonorous voice had intoned eleven simple words:

  "We now return control of your television set. Until next time . . . "

  Smith roved the channels. They were all full of snow, except the all-cable stations.

  "What has caused Captain Audion to cease broadcasting?" he muttered aloud.

  The red telephone rang once. Smith caught it.

  "I'm sorry, Smith. They were still working on it when the signal stopped."

  "They confirmed there was a signal?"

  "A powerful one."

  "Unfortunate," said Smith.

  "There is one thing to report, however," the President added.
"One leg of the triangle was plotted."

  Smith perked up. "Yes?"

  "The signal seemed to be coming out of Canada. Somewhere along North Latitude 62."

  Smith pulled up a chart on his terminal.

  "The high north," he reported. "Underpopulated terrain, all of it. A lot to search even if the Canadian Federal government were being cooperative."

  "I've been ducking calls from the Canadian Prime Minister all day. He thinks this is some U.S. Early Warning Broadcast System test gone haywire."

  "The Canadian prime minister is your problem, Mr. President. If the transmitter can be located, my people can destroy it. Until then, we can only await this madman's next move."

  "The FCC are on standby."

  "You might call the prime minister and give him the facts. It may be that the CRTC picked up something."

  "CRTC?"

  "The Canadian Radio-Televisions and Telecommunications Commission," Smith explained. "Their FCC."

  "Oh. Will do."

  Smith hung up. His sharp mind went back to the immediate question. Captain Audion had deliberately ceased broadcasting black. Why?

  On his screen, Smith typed out possibilities.

  POWER OUTAGE?

  Good, he thought. Checking for power outages in Canada might narrow the locus point.

  TO CONFUSE ISSUE?

  Unlikely. Smith realized. Terrorists do not fold their hands before public deadlines.

  FEAR?

  Of what? Smith thought. It was too farfetched. Then it struck him.

  KNOWLEDGE THAT TRIANGULATION HAD BEGUN?

  "Possible," Smith muttered. "Just possible." He had two good leads now. He attacked the first and within twenty minutes had determined there had been no power outages in the vast Canadian landmass.

  That left the other theory. Where did it go? A leak in the FCC? Or was Captain Audion himself FCC? Enormous technical knowledge and resources would be required to blanket the U.S. and its neighbors with a masking TV signal.

  Or was it possible that the Canadians were indeed responsible for this outrage? Smith mused. It was looking more and more likely.

  As Harold Smith mulled these thoughts over in his head, he noticed MBC anchor Tim Macaw on his TV. He turned up the sound.

  ". . . At this hour, no one can explain the reasons for this unprecedented five-hour nonwhite transmission-impaired noncommercial interruption. "

  "The man is making no sense," snapped Smith, changing the channel.

  Don Cooder was on BCN, his voice cracking with emotion.