Chapter 11

Raw video feeds are broadcast via satellite around the world, from production teams in the field to news organizations that turn the raw video into news segments.

“That’s an encrypted feed, mate! You can’t send that for any poor sap with a dish to be picking up!” the field producer couldn’t argue anymore. He was throwing up again.

“Guess what will happen if you don’t send it?” Remo asked.

The field producer swallowed, hard. He wished like hell he had never agreed to videotape this exclusive footage for the killer in the T-shirt.

The man had come to him after the violence in National Square, claiming he could give the man exclusive access to the remains of four of the grand prix racers who were involved in the takeover.

He was a freelance video producer with experience in some nasty situations. He had seen dead bodies. He had never witnessed a freaky nightmare like this before.

When he reached the place, he found four demolished grand prix racers and four very dead racers. Standing guard over them was an ancient Asian man in happy- day colors—but the old man was not happy. He was very old and very displeased. Although he looked frail, he wasn’t frail. Somehow, the videographer could see he was exceedingly strong.

But the old man was nothing compared to the younger one. The one with wrists like steel girders.

“You killed them?” He took one look at the bodies and tried not to take another.

“First I talked to them. They didn’t know anything. They were just scum, hired for some dirty work.”

The videotaping required him to look at the remains again, and that was what started the vomiting. He broadcast the footage back to his contact at one of the big networks stateside.

“Let me use your phone,” Remo said. The videographer tried to hand it to him. “No. You dial. Call the U.S. Ask for Hershey, Pennsylvania, information, for WUNT radio.”

“I’m from Pennsylvania. I never heard of WUNT.”

The killer didn’t say anything. The cameraman was sorry he’d said anything. The old man seemed to be in some sort of his own never-never land and wasn’t aware of anything going on around him. The cameraman dialed without further back talk and asked for information in Hershey, Pennsylvania.

“There is no WUNT radio here in Hershey,” said the pleasant information operator.

“Just look,” snapped the cameraman.

“Yes, sir.” The nice operator became cold and officious in a hurry.

“Well, what do you know. Here’s the number.”

“Connect, me directly,” the cameraman said. “Please.”

When the phone started ringing, he handed it to the killer.

Remo heard the phone ringing and an obnoxious man answered with, “WUNT Radio, Home Of Today’s Hottest Hits.”

“I want to hear ‘Sugar Sugar’ by the Archies and I want it dedicated to my girlfriend, Edith.”

“This is a joke, right? We don’t play no music that ain’t new, dude.”

“Get me Smitty. Cause I’m not in the mood to argue with a young punk. Even if it is a computer-simulated young punk.”

“You called me, dude.”

The banter feature was a feature of the computer system put in place by Harold W. Smith and Mark Howard to allow the CURE field operatives to contact the home base. It involved some sort of a voice verification system.

Once upon a time it had been very easy to call CURE. Because of Remo’s notoriously poor recall when it came to phone numbers, Smith had concocted a system that allowed Remo to phone home by holding down the number 1 on any phone, almost anywhere in the world.

But Remo had himself forced Smith to abandon that system. Part of his recent labor action. His methods—Smith called them “extortionary actions”—were successful, but now Remo was once again forced to use more complicated methods to contact his employer. The latest strategy was to have Remo phone a nonexistent business, at which point the voice verification would identify him and patch him through to CURE. Nonmatches would end up talking to the computer-simulated person and the nonexistent place of business.

Remo was always amazed at the accuracy of the human voices on the other end—so much so he was starting to doubt they were, in fact, computer simulations. They even made natural breathing sounds. But he rarely had the patience to chitchat with the role-playing computers,

“Listen, dude,” Remo growled, “give me Smitty or I call an honest-to-God radio station and talk to them.”

“Hello, Remo, I am happy you called,” Smitty replied. The CURE director never sounded happy about anything, but there was a note of relief in his sour voice.

“Glad I could make your day,” Remo replied. “This place has gone to hell. We were too late to stop it I think you can write off the ministers of Ayounde.”

“No, they’re alive,” Smith said tersely. “There’s a news conference going on right now. Michele Rilli himself is speaking.”

“Oh, Rilli? I’d been hoping he was one of the drivers we snuffed in the square. Where is he?”

“It does not matter where he is now,” Smith replied. His voice sounded hard, as if he were girding for battle. “He has most of the surviving ministers with him, including Prime Minister Beila.”

“Yeah? And?” Remo had a bad feeling about this. “Sir Rilli is invoking British colonial law, just like in Newfoundland, and he’s named himself governor of Ayounde, based on his legal rights from the Proclamation of the Continuation of the British Empire. The independence treaty of 1964 was declared null and void, again claiming validation from the proclamation.”

“Uh-huh. Why all the disclaimers, Smitty? You’re setting me up for something.”

“I am not. I am giving you the information you need.”

“And me not taking notes. Now hit me with the bad news.”

Remo could hear Smith tighten his mouth. He had actually learned to hear Smith get more sour. One of the Sinanju benefits. “British law is invoked. So far, the British haven’t come up with a response to the crisis, so they’re failing to deny the legitimacy of the takeovers.”

“Failing to deny is pure politico-speak. You saying the Brits might actually be supporting the takeover of the colonies they gave independence to?”

“I’m saying they have failed to deny the legitimacy of those takeovers. British law therefore holds in the colonies, and we’re not going to test our relationship with the British by deconstructing the colonies.”

Remo huffed. “That was one of the filthiest bits of claptrap ever to come out of your sour little mouth.”

“Regardless, your work there is done. We see signs of a coup attempt about to occur in Jamaica. I’d like you to head for Kingston.”

“The government of Ayounde is still held hostage,” Remo reminded him.

“CURE will cease activities in Ayounde.”

“You’re pulling us out on a technicality?”

“On a political reality.”

“You talk like a two-bit whore from the Senate floor. I’m gonna wash your mouth out with Zest.”

“Just accept it, Remo.”

Remo hung up the phone. Since he didn’t know how to hang up these new mobile phones with their tiny buttons, he pushed his finger through the middle and watched the color display go dim.

“Oh. Sorry.” He handed it back to the videographer with a bunch of bills. “Will this pay for it?”

“Mate, that’ll buy me fifty phones.” The videographer was nervously expecting some sort of a trap. He wouldn’t touch the stack of U.S. hundreds.

The tiny old Asian went from statue to hawk in a flash, slipping in and snatching the cash from the younger man’s hand. A trio of hundreds fluttered at the videographer’s feet. “More than sufficient,” the Asian squeaked, and the wad of bills vanished, like a magic trick.

The videographer took the bills without complaint. The pair of lunatics walked away from the scene of death and violence without a backward glance.

The videographer wondered who was going to clean up this mess. He decided he had best not be around for it, and he left, too. But he went in the opposite direction.

Amazingly, he spotted the pair of lunatics at the airport. While he was struggling to deal with the chaos and get a flight out of the country, the old Asian and the younger man with the thick wrists were already boarding a chartered Airbus—alone. The gleaming, sleek aircraft was one of the immensely expensive luxury craft.

“They’re the only ones going anywhere,” said the ticket agent in accented English. “All the scheduled flights are running hours late. The security’s searching everything. Nobody knows what the situation is.”

The videographer nodded thoughtfully. “Where they headed?” he asked, nodding at the chartered plane, a white virgin visible through the terminal windows.

“How should I know, sir?”

The videographer prompted her with a twenty-pound note and got the information in a whisper. “They’re going to Jamaica! Believe it? From this mess over to Jamaica, with all-you-can-eat-and-drink buffets! If those boys be friends of yours, now’s the time to ask a favor.”

The videographer considered that, but at that moment the younger one turned, looked directly at him across the vast terminal and spoke in a voice that was somehow as clear as crystal. “Don’t even think of it, bucko.”

“Hey,” said the ticket agent in a quiet voice, “how did he do that, sir?”

“Do what? I didn’t hear a bloody thing.” The videographer ran for a pay phone.