"Unconfirmed reports have it that ANC anchor Dieter Banning-a personal friend of mine despite our friendly rivalry for ratings-lies dead tonight, a victim of the faceless, voiceless, thoughtless unknown who calls himself Captain Audion. We here at BCN salute our fallen comrade in arms and say to this cowardly terrorist, the glassy eye of BCN is searching for you. Speaking for the management here, we will never accede to your ransom demand of our beloved Cheeta Ching. And in memory of Cheeta-not that we don't expect her to be returned safely to us-in lieu of our usual closing credits, we will run a retrospective of Cheeta's most recent work. Until our regular newscast tonight, this is Don Cooder, saying 'Courage.' "
A commercial for a home-use pregnancy test kit narrated by Cheeta Ching came on, followed by another for woman's aspirin and a third in which Cheeta extolled the virtues of an intimate moisturizing product.
Only when the BCN copyright notice came on did Harold Smith realize the parade of commercials constituted the Cheeta Ching retrospective.
Face reddening, Smith switched channels. It was scandalous what went out over the air these days.
Chapter 25
Cheeta Ching watched the parade of her commercials that followed Don Cooder's live broadcast in a room that was only slightly larger than the cot to which she had been handcuffed.
The room was lit by a 25-watt bulb on a frayed drop cord. The TV was a tiny portable set and no amount of adjusting could balance out the contrast. Either the tube was going or the power was dimming.
"You jealous bastard!" she shrieked at the screen.
Then she fell back on the bed and let out a shriek of another kind.
The Braxton-Hicks contractions were more closely spaced now.
A rude wooden door rattled, and a man shoved in.
"Y'all right?" a muffled voice asked worriedly.
"I have hot flashes, cold flashes, and heartburn I can feel clear up to my uvula," Cheeta spat. "I'm constipated, my ankles are swollen by preclampsia, and my contractions are making my tonsils pucker, so you'd better let me go, buster!"
"No chance."
Cheeta Ching sat up like the Bride of Frankenstein with a bowling ball lodged in her stomach. Her hair and eyes were wild.
The man in the doorway was dressed in a TV-screen-blue bodysuit with an silvery anchor stitched into a crest on his chest. Where his head should be was a large television set, topped by a pair of rabbit-ears antennae bent by contact with too-low ceilings. The screen was black and in the upper right-hand corner the words NO SIGNAL gleamed whitely.
"Who are you supposed to be?" Cheeta spat.
"Captain Audion."
"Captain Audacious, you mean." Cheeta fell back onto the pillow. "Uhhhrrr."
"Should Ah boil some watah, or somethin'?"
"They only do that in movies, you idiot! Get me a birthing chair!"
The light flickered momentarily and went out. When it returned, the wan glow was dimmer than before.
"Sorry," said the man with the TV-set head. "Power problem. Gotta go."
The door slammed, and as Cheeta Ching writhed on her cot, the mattress soaking up her cold sweat, her own voice was ringing surreally in her ears.
"Vagi-rinse. For the modern on-the-go woman who doesn't have time for yeast infections . . . "
"It wasn't supposed to happen like this!" she wailed.
Chapter 26
Folcroft Sanitarium was all but dark when Remo sent his rented car through the open wrought-iron gates.
In the passenger seat, the Master of Sinanju sat in grim silence, his face stone, his hazel eyes cold agates that seemed hot around the edges.
Remo knew that look. Chiun was seething. Only the complete lack of a solid lead had enabled Remo to talk him into leaving New York.
"Smitty will know what to do," Remo said as he pulled into a visitor's parking slot and turned off the ignition. They got out.
"It will be too late," Chiun intoned, his voice sere.
"Look, I'm sorry about Cheeta."
"You are not," Chiun snapped. "You are jealous of Cheeta, and of the son whose undiluted Koreanness threatens you."
They were walking through the hospital green corridors now. The security guard had passed them upon Remo's flashing an AMA inspector's card. Although they often visited Folcroft, the guard did not recognize them because Smith often rotated personnel.
"I don't feel threatened by a baby," Remo snapped back. "It's just that having Cheeta and the kid move in with us would be a mistake. Big time."
"Now, it may not even be," Chiun intoned in a dead hollow voice. It suddenly rose to a bitter keen. "O where is Cheeta now? What anguish frets her perfect features? What thoughts can she be thinking, alone, abandoned, deprived of the wise counsel of the one who brought her to fruition?"
"Oh, brother," Remo said as they stepped off the elevator and onto the second floor.
"Who will cut the cord!" Chiun shrieked to the ceiling.
Harold Smith poked his gray head out of his halfopen office, his face drained of color.
"What was that sound?" he gasped.
"Chiun was just wondering who will cut Cheeta's cord," Remo said dryly.
"Some witless white, no doubt," Chiun muttered darkly. Then, his voice calmer, he said, "Hail, Emperor Smith."
Distaste showed on Harold Smith's lemony face. "I wish you would not call me that, Master Chiun. I am not an emperor."
"Only your lack of ambition stands between you and the Eagle Throne," Chiun whispered. "Speak the word, and this mindless charade called the right to vote will be yours to abolish by royal decree."
Harold Smith returned to his desk and his computer.
"Any progress?" Remo asked, closing the door after him.
Smith shook his gray head. "The jamming signal went down before it could be traced. I am trying to ascertain why. So far, I have discounted a power outage at the transmission site, and other obvious causes."
Remo and Chiun took positions behind Smith and looked over his shoulder at the computer screen.
Smith pressed a key, bringing up a wire frame map of Canada. "The FCC was able to plot out the latitude of the pirate signal."
"So I was right," said Remo. "It was in Canada."
"Foreign enemies are usually the most dangerous," Chiun said thinly. "No doubt they covet your northernmost provinces, Smith."
"Canada is one of our closest allies," Smith pointed out, "and we share with them the longest undefended border in human history."
"You have never been at war with these people?"
"Not since the War of 1812," Smith said, pressing another key. A red line tracked across the map of Canada. When it completed itself, Smith added, "The transmitter is situated somewhere on that line."
"Can't we find it by air?" asked Remo.
"The line runs from the Canadian Northwest to the Canadian Shield. It's desolate country. Like looking for a needle in a haystack. Even if the Canadians would agree to U.S. overflights."
"They won't, huh?"
"They are currently blaming us for this transmission problem."
Remo frowned. "Satellite recon?"
"It will take time to reposition a KH-12 for this task. Normally, we do not spy on Canada."
Chiun lifted his voice. "Cheeta! Why are we not looking for Cheeta?"
"One will lead to another," said Smith.
"These evil Canadians are responsible for this outrage," Chiun said sharply, raising a shaking fist. "No doubt to avenge their inglorious defeat in 1812. It is our duty as loyal Americans to seize their ruler and hold him for ransom."
"Loyal Americans?" Smith said blankly.
"Let me guess," Remo added. "The ransom is Cheeta. "
"Of course," said Chiun, his voice and face bland. "They will surrender her with great ceremony, as befits the high station of the hostages." The Master of Sinanju eyed Harold Smith. "I will be pleased to act as mediator, Emperor Smith. Perhaps certain untraceable poisons can be introduced into the Canadian ruler's food
during the exchange banquet as a subtle hint that this outrage must be never repeated."
"No," Smith said flatly.
Chiun's sparse eyebrows lifted. "No?"
"Absolutely not. We do not know that the Canadians are responsible."
"The proof is in this telecast device," said Chiun, pointing to Smith's TV.
They looked. The BCN Evening News with Don Cooder was on. The sound was off. No one bothered to remedy that situation.
"Explain please," said Smith.
"It is known that the evil transmitter lies hidden in the wicked Kingdom of Canada."
"Canada is a democracy, but yes."
"You have told me that one of the abductors was a known Scot?"
"Yes. And Dieter Banning is a Canadian of Scottish ancestry," Smith corrected.
"A spy in your land," sniffed Chiun. "Whom I vanquished."
"That was unfortunate."
"Was it? Did the evil blackness not cease with his death?"
Smith blinked. He switched to ANC. Ned Doppler was reading copy, red-eyed and obviously close to tears. The screen was edged in black, no doubt the graphic department's idea of a tribute to the late Dieter Banning.
Smith made a thoughtful face. "That's right. It did. But why?"
"The answer is clear," announced Chiun. "The evil mastermind dead, his minions now cower, dreading your regal justice."
Smith shook his head. "Unlikely. Even if Banning was involved in this, his death would not result in . . ." Smith's voice trailed off.
"What is it?" Remo asked.
"I faxed news of Banning's death to every news organization, print and television. My aim was to elicit some response from Captain Audion."
"But instead Audion shut everything down," Remo muttered.
"I had been pursuing the theory that Audion was aware of our attempts to track down his signal, and cut transmission to avoid discovery," Smith said slowly. "Perhaps that was not the situation at all. Perhaps..."
Smith logged off his Canadian file and brought up a blank screen.
"We have two main suspects here," Smith said, "Jed Burner, president of KNNN and Dieter Banning, ANC's nightly anchor."
"Why are they called 'anchors'?" Chiun asked suddenly.
"Why do they always say 'nightly'?" wondered Remo.
"Not now," Smith said as he typed the names on the screen.
"Don't forget Haiphong Hannah," Remo inserted.
Nodding, Smith added Layne Fondue's name as well.
"According to your description of the events in Atlanta," Smith said absently, "Cheeta Ching was taken away by Burner, Fondue, and a disguised man wearing-"
"Don't say it," Remo said urgently.
"-a kilt."
"What is this? What is this?" Chiun squeaked, his voice shaking as his eyes went from Remo to Smith and Remo again. They stayed on Remo, cold and steely.
"I can explain," Smitty said hastily.
"It is not you who must explain your words, but Remo."
Remo swallowed.
"I tried to tell you back at the house," he said in a low voice.
Chiun's eyes narrowed to steely gleams. "Tell me now."
"Cheeta beat me to KNNN. I guess she was following the same lead Smith fed me. I got there just as they were bundling her into Burner's chopper."
"And you did not stop them?" Chiun said.
"The guy in the kilt had his gun on Cheeta the whole time."
"That would not have stopped a true Master of Sinanju, whose feet are swift as the snow leopard and whose hands are as the lightning whose thunder is not heard until the blow had been struck."
"He was holding the muzzle to Cheeta's stomach," Remo said.
Chiun's facial hair shuddered. His eyes grew heavy of lid, like a serpent. Remo felt the cold sweat return to his hands. He returned Chiun's unflinching gaze with an open unthreatening stare of his own.
"You did the correct thing," said Chiun in a remote voice, but turned his back on Remo. "But only because you have been trained by the best."
Remo let out a sigh of relief and wiped the back of his hand across his brow, leaving it more sweaty than before.
"Not that you are forgiven for not arriving early," he added coldly.
"Which I wouldn't have been if I hadn't wasted time trying to get you to come along," Remo shot back.
Chiun said nothing. Smith said, "Please describe the scene in Atlanta as you recall it."
Remo furrowed his brow. "I got past the guards, heard that Cheeta had beaten me to Burner and heard shooting. By the time I got to the roof, they were all hustling Cheeta into the chopper."
"They were all armed?"
"Only Banning. Burner and Haiphong Hannah were getting into the chopper ahead of them."
"You are certain it was Banning?"
"He wearing sunglasses and a big hat," Remo said. "The only thing I was sure of was his kilt."
"What color was it?"
"Green plaid in Atlanta. Brown plaid in New York."
"They are called tartans, not plaids," Chiun corrected.
Smith consulted a computer file. "Clan tartans do not change color," he said, frowning. "It is possible the abductor was not Banning."
"So why'd Captain Audion shut down when he heard Banning was dead?" Remo asked.
"Perhaps because he wanted to foster the impression that Banning was the culprit, and that this was a Canadian operation."
"Does that mean Burner and Haiphong Hannah are the real bad guys?"
"It is a reasonable working theory," Smith allowed.
"Okay, let's find them."
"All Federal resources are bent toward that purpose. But so far there was been no sign of them, or Burner's helicopter."
"We're at a dead end then?"
At the word dead, the Master of Sinanju sipped in a shocked breath. "Cheeta is at the mercy of Canadians and there is no helping her," he wailed, throwing back his head and placing a clenched fist to his amber forehead.
Remo was looking at Smith's TV set. "Hey, when did you spring for cable?" he asked, indicating the cable box.
"Today. With broadcast television out of commission, it was absolutely necessary. I must stay on top of events in every way I can."
"Don't sound so miserable. Lots of good stuff is on cable these days-if you like stale thirty-year-old sitcoms. Wait a minute, check this out."
Smith looked up. Turning up the sound, Remo pointed to the Quantel graphic floating to one side of Don Cooder's head.
". . . minutes ago received an extraordinary fax signed 'Captain Audacious'-I mean 'Audion.' " Cooder flashed his anemic smile. "A little slip of the tongue which is not meant to cast aspersions on our colleagues over at KNNN," he added with a nervous laugh. "This fax promises that two days from now, the day May sweeps are set to begin, broadcast television will be shut down for a seven day period. Unless each network and cable service pays fifty-that's fifty-million-million with an M-dollars into a numbered Swiss bank account."
"The fiends!" Chiun shrieked. "Was nothing said about Cheeta? Oh, the heartrending suspense!"
"Here with me now for a reaction to this outrageous demand is BCN news director Loone-"
Smith turned down the sound.
"Don't you want to hear what they're saying?" Remo asked.
"I would rather trace that fax," Smith said flatly.
Smith's fingers worked like pale gray spiders along the keyboard. The intensity of his expression brought the Master of Sinanju to his side.
Smith brought up the BCN AT He froze the last hour's worth of incoming calls and put them in a window up in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. Then he accessed the MBC list. This went into the upper left-hand corner. The ANC file completed the screen.
Smith initiated a sort and analyze program.
Only two numbers came up in common. Smith frowned. He accessed the Vox phone records and this added a third common number. Then he went to KNNN. The same incoming number showed up. It was a New York area code. Smit
h isolated it and interrogated the file, murmuring, "This is odd . . . ."
"What is?" asked Remo.
"Of the major news organizations, only MBC does not show a recent incoming call in common with the other networks."
Then Smith saw why.
"My God. The Captain Audion fax came from MBC. "
Remo started for the door. "We're right on it, Smitty."
"No, you are not," Smith said tightly.
"Huh?"
"Thanks to Master Chiun, you are both wanted by the New York City Police. We cannot put you back in the field so soon."
"So what do we-?"
"I am going to MBC," Smith said.
"What about us?"
"You will remain here, by the telephone, ready to move on my signal."
"Emperor Smith," Chiun said suddenly. "I have a brilliant suggestion."
"Yes?"
"Pay the ransom. It is only money and Cheeta is-"
"No."
Chiun turned pale and said no more.
Without another word, Harold Smith went over to a filing cabinet and took from it his briefcase. From the top drawer he extracted an old Army issue .45 automatic and a clip of bullets. He placed these in his suitcase and walked from the office.
After the sound of the elevator came to his ears, the Master of Sinanju turned to Remo and said, "This is all your fault."
"My fault! If you hadn't run ahead to ANC, our faces wouldn't be on every light pole and post office in Manhattan."
"If you had not been late, I would not have had to seek out Cheeta in dangerous places."
"And if you had come with me to Atlanta, we wouldn't have lost Cheeta in the first place!"
The Master of Sinanju froze, his face stung. Slowly, the tight pattern of his wrinkles disintegrated.
"Cheeta! Poor Cheeta! Who will soothe her troubled brow while I am forced to abide in a madhouse among white madmen?"
Chapter 27
There was panic at Multinational Broadcast Company when Harold Smith presented himself, Secret Service photo III in one hand, at the MBC security desk. Staff was pouring from the building as if from a fire.
"What is wrong!" Smith demanded.
"They're running haywire again!" the guard cried, pulling his sidearm free of its holster and pushing against the human tide.
Smith followed him into the building, through a rabbit warren of corridors and cubicles in which secretaries cowered under desks and technical staff hid behind heavy editing equipment.
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