Hostile Takeover

Destroyer 81: Hostile Takeover

By Warren Murphy apir

Chapter 1

The panic started in Hong Kong.

It was ten A. M. Hong Kong time. Trading was light on the floor of the Hang Seng Stock Exchange. Red-coated traders were shouting buy and sell orders in what was their normal controlled frenzy of trading. It was a day like any other. At first.

Loo Pak was the first to notice the news coming in over his pocket Quotrek computer.

Pak wore his Quotrek clipped to his belt, like an oversize pocket pager. He had just bought sixty shares of IBM and decided to check the black device. He pressed a button and the liquid crystal display came to life. The device was tied into an electronic subscription service provided by the British news agency Reuters. For a hefty monthly fee, Loo Pak had access to minute-by-minute news bulletins and stock transactions critical to doing business in the fast-moving world of global finance. It was news that as often as not would not see print for days-if ever.

To the average citizen, the Reuters bulletins were often fragmentary or meaningless. Not to Loo Pak. To him, the price of wheat in Chicago or the situation in Cambodia could have instant impact on his livelihood. The Reuters service acted as an early-warning device as important as radar.

Loo Pak blinked as he watched the black LCD letters form a headline. His eyes went wide. The headline was brief: "GLB DOWN 27 POINTS IN NIKKEI TRADING."

To Loo Pak that curt string of symbols held a world of meaning. It meant that the price per share of the hitherto fast-rising Global Communications Conglomerate had lost an unprecedented twenty-seven points on Tokyo's Nikkei Stock Exchange. It was dropping like a stone.

Loo Pak was heavily invested in GLB. He had already lost thousands of U. S. dollars in the four seconds it took him to absorb the bad news.

Loo Pak jumped up, waving both hands.

"Glob to sell!" he cried in English, the world-wide language of business. "Glob" was the pit term for GLB. "Any takers?"

A trader offered him fifty-five per share. He obviously hadn't gotten the news. Loo Pak took him up on it. In a twinkling, with no more than a staccato exchange of terse sentences and a few scribbled notations on their traders' books, Loo Pak had divested all his GLB stock and the other trader was positioned to eat a big loss. Unless GLB rebounded.

GLB didn't rebound. The new price hit the big electronic ticker tape. Word raced around the exchange floor that GLB, the world's largest communications conglomerate, was heading for the cellar. Anxiously, sweaty-armpitted traders conferred with their pocket Quotreks. Sell orders were shouted, and accepted. In the time that it took to execute them, the value had dropped another five points. The room began to heat up.

And on the electronic ticker overhead, the string of stock codes and numbers began to drop lower and lower. Not just for GLB, but for virtually every stock being traded.

It had begun. And once begun, there was no stopping it.

Within fifteen minutes, over two thousand professional traders were scurrying around the paper-littered floor of the Kabutocho Exchange in Tokyo, Japan. Their Quotreks were warning that Hong Kong's Hang Seng Index had dropped a stunning 155 points-dragged down because of heavy sell-offs of Global Communications Conglomerate stock by investors and mutual funds. Computerized trade programs kicked in. And were executed. In a twinkling, massive blocks of stock moved like ghostly juggernauts-impelled by the shout of a voice, the touch of a button. Not a coin was offered. Not a single stock certificate was touched by a human agency. No securities physically changed hands. Nor would they. The exchanges might as well have been trading in air. Only abstract numbers changed. In traders' books. On computers and in international bank accounts.

But those numbers were all-important. For they represented more than mere gold or jewels. They represented man's faith in other men and the rules that governed international commerce.

And it was all about to unravel.

With the frenzy of sharks, Tokyo began unloading GLB holdings. And within ten minutes, Singapore and Melbourne were doing the same. Milan's Palazzo Mezzanotte trading floor buzzed with rumors as the opening bell was delayed twenty minutes. Frankfurt and Zurich markets started buying dollars, and then, realizing that the New York Stock Exchange was only hours away from opening, reversed themselves and sold.

By the time London's Financial Times Stock Exchange opened, it was a tidal wave. It washed over London's financial district like an invisible storm, beggaring major investors in a matter of minutes. And then, having wrought its soulsickening carnage, it continued on, moving west, unseen, impalpable, unstoppable-but as devastating as a firestorm.

Overhead, orbiting recon satellites snapped photographs of a placid blue cloud-wreathed planet. The earth spun as it always had. Precision lenses recorded ordinary October weather-a sandstorm in the Sahara, a hurricane forming off Puerto Rico, rainstorms in the heart of Brazil, and the first snowstorm in upper Manitoba.

The lenses did not-could not-record the greatest upheaval in modern world history. Because it was panic, fueled by fear and kept alive by sentinel communications satellites as they squirted bursts of news back and forth between the continents.

And then the two-way message traffic changed ominously. The flow shifted west. Frantic telexes, cables, faxes, and transcontinental phone calls choked every line of communication known to modern man. Every one of them contained a single word.

It was a common word, but in the context it was being transmitted, it held the potential to plunge the world into an abyss of darkness and despair.

The word was "Sell."

Chapter 2

His name was Remo and he held the clusters of varicolored balloons in front of his face as he entered Tallahassee, Florida's State House.

The guard at the door noticed the balloons immediately and called over to Remo from his security desk.

"I knew this was a bad idea," Remo muttered under his breath. He shifted his position so the balloons floated between him and the guard.

"What's your business here?" the guard wanted to know.

"Balloongram for the governor," Remo said. He didn't bother to disguise his voice. His voice wasn't the problem. It was his face. And his thick wrists. The wrists were, if anything, more of a giveaway than his high-cheekboned face. That was why his Chicken Wire uniform was two sizes too big for him. The cuffs bunched up around his freakish wrists, hiding them.

"I'll check with his office," the guard said, reaching for his station phone.

"You can't do that," Remo said hastily. A sea-green balloon bumped his nose.

"Why not?" the guard asked, looking up. He clutched the receiver in his beefy hand.

Remo thought fast. He didn't want to hurt the guard. The man was only doing his job. And Remo was here to hit the governor. No one else.

"Because it's a surprise," Remo whispered through the balloons. "It's his birthday."

"It won't hurt if I check with his secretary," the guard said, tapping buttons on the telephone keypad.

"Yes, it will," Remo said. "Trust me."

The guard hesitated. "How's that?"

"The governor's wife sent them."

"So?"

"I guess you haven't heard," Remo whispered conspiratorially.

"Heard what?"

"The governor and his secretary. They're, you know, intimate. "

"No!" The guard breathed. "I hadn't heard that." He was looking at Remo through bubbles of elastic balloon. He saw a face that was broken up into distorted translucent coral-pink, ocher, and burgundy spheres. He wondered what had happened to primary colors.

"If you let the secretary know I'm coming," Remo went on, "she'll probably tell you it's not the governor's birthday or something. You know how jealous secretaries are."

" I wish," the guard said. "Still, I gotta call. It's my job."

"Suit yourself," Remo said. "But I warned you."

The guard completed his call and spoke quietly for nearly a minute. Remo heard both sides of the conversation, so he was prepared for the guard's response.

"She says it's not the governor's birthday."

"See! What'd I tell you?"

The guard rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "I dunno. Maybe I shouldn't let you go up. You could be a nut."

"Do I look like a nut?" Remo asked sincerely through the soap-bubble cluster of balloons.

"Well, no . . ." the guard said. Nuts carried guns or knives, not balloons.

"Look at it like this," Remo suggested. "If you let me through, you might catch hell from the secretary, but she sure couldn't hurt you. But if you don't, the governor's wife is going to raise hell to the governor that her balloons didn't get delivered, and look where you'll be."

"You're right," the guard said. "I'm better off taking my chances with that hussy of a secretary. Okay. Go ahead."

"Thanks," Remo said, making a beeline for the elevator. He got an empty cage and rode it up to the governor's floor. The hallway was polished and busy. Swift-moving government workers noticed Remo coming off the elevator. A suntanned blond asked, "For me?" and laughed as she disappeared into an office.

Remo frowned. He was attracting more attention than if he'd come in street clothes. But Upstairs had warned him to make certain that no one got a good look at his face. Not that Remo gave a hang about orders anymore.

He shifted the balloons in front of his face as he weaved between the workers, and backed into the governor's office, the balloons strategically positioned. Inside, he turned and spotted the secretary through the chinks between two blueberry-colored balloons.

"Balloongram for the governor," he announced in a bright voice.

The secretary was a sultry Latina, about twenty-three years old, her face already getting fleshy around the jowls. Her eyes flashed as she caught sight of Remo standing behind his balloons.

"What are you doing here!" she snapped. "I told that guard not to let you up."

"It's from his wife," Remo said, unperturbed.

"Oh," the secretary said, subsiding. Remo wondered if the governor had been carrying on an affair with his secretary, after all. Remo had no information on that-any more than he knew when the governor's birthday was.

"It's an anniversary balloongram," Remo said firmly.

"The guard said birthday."

"You know how guards are," Remo said with a shrug.

"Very well. Give them to me."

Remo backed away from the secretary's outstretched hands. She had long red nails that flashed like bloody daggers.

"No can do. It's a singing balloongram. Has to be delivered in person."

"I can't let you just walk in on the governor without an appointment."

"Tell that to the governor's wife." Remo said pointedly.

The secretary looked nervously from the governor's closed maplewood door to the balloon cluster.

"I'll announce you," she said tightly.

"It's supposed to be a surprise, Remo hinted.

"I've never had this happen to me before," she said, fidgeting with her hands.

"Trust me," Remo said. "I'm a professional."

"Very well," the secretary said. "What do you normally do?"

"You just open the door and I'll walk in. I guarantee that after I'm gone you won't hear a word of complaint from His Honor."

"Okay," the secretary said. She took the double doors' brass handles in her immaculately manicured hands and threw them open.

Remo breezed past her, shifting the balloons to hide his profile. This was a real pain, but so far it was working.

The governor of Florida looked up from his desk in surprise. His eyebrows jumped off his eyelashes as if pricked by pins.

"What?" he said in a startled voice.

"Balloongram," Remo sang off-key.

"We'll see about this," the governor growled, reaching for his intercom.

"It's from your secretary," Remo whispered. " I think she's sweet on you or something."

"Oh?" the governor said in surprise. Then, as the thought sank in: "Oh." It was a very pleasant "oh." It told Remo that the Florida governor was not having an affair with his gorgeous Latina secretary, but was open to the prospect. The governor's hand withdrew from the intercom and he leaned back in his chair.

"Well, go ahead," he prompted. "Sing."

"I hope you don't mind a cappella."

"just do it."

"You have to hold the balloons. I'm Italian. I can't sing unless my hands are free."

The governor came out from behind his desk and took hold of the balloons.

"Use both hands," Remo warned, "or they'll get away from you. I think they cooked the helium too long or something. "

The governor grabbed the knotted-together strings, and when he had a firm grip Remo fused his hands together with a sudden two-handed clap.

The governor winced at the unexpected stinging sensation. When he tried to pull one hand away from the other, it felt as if his hands had been welded together with Krazy Glue.

It was an absurd thought, but still it was the only explanation that presented itself to the governor's mind. And he voiced it.

"Krazy Glue?" he asked.

"Sinanju. "

"But it's the same thing, right?"

"Wrong," Remo said, pushing the governor back in his high-backed brass-studded seat. The governor did not resist. The novelty of having his hands fused to a batch of bobbing balloons was overwhelming the natural fear response.

He looked up, for the first time seeing Remo's face. He took in Remo's dark, deep-set eyes, his thin, insolent mouth, and the full black hair topping an angry expression.

His eyes were attracted to the red stitching over the tunic pocket of Remo's Chicken Wire uniform. The stitching said: "REMO WILLIAMS."

"That name . . ." the governor began.

"Sounds familiar?" Remo prompted. "It's my name, although I haven't used it much in, oh, maybe twenty years or so.

"I can't quite place it," the governor admitted.

"You signed my death warrant last month," Remo said, his voice going from upbeat to flint-edged in a breath. "Come back to you now?"

The bone-white pallor that settled over the governor's face told Remo that it had.

"You got a call from a guy named Norvell Ransome," Remo went on. "He told you that unless you pulled the strings that bumped my execution to the top of the list, he'd tell the world that you were in bed with every drug trafficker north of Medellin."

The governor's response was so political that Remo almost laughed in the man's suddenly sweaty face.

"Of course, I know nothing about these baseless allegations. "

"Yes, you do. And you know I escaped before they could strap me into the electric chair. You're probably wondering how I know all this."

"All what?"

"Norvell Ransome-the late Norvell Ransome, I should say-was temporarily in control of an organization called CURE. You probably never heard of CURE." ,

"I categorically deny ever hearing that name."

"Good answer. Pat. Saves me a lot of boring chitchat. CURE was set up back in the early sixties to take care of guys like you. Corrupt politicians. Crooked union bosses. Cops on the take. Judges on the make. The man who was selected to head CURE-never mind his name-ran it for years as a clearinghouse for domestic intelligence. CURE would tip off the authorities, and the bad guys would go to the slammer. But CURE wasn't enough. You see, there were too many guys like you. So it was decided, to deal with them more directly. That's where I came in."

"If you have legal authority to arrest me," the governor of Florida said sternly, "I must insist on seeing your credentials."

Remo did laugh at that one. "Sorry, pal. I'm outside of legal authority. I'm what is known as an enforcement arm. Unofficially, I'm an assassin. I never liked my job description, but those are the cards I've been dealt."

"Assassin?" the governor said weakly.

"You see, when you signed my death warrant, here's what you didn't know: I was already dead. Not dead-dead. Officially dead. I was strapped into an electric chair up in New Jersey, about twenty years back. When I woke up I wasn't dead. I was working for CURE. I didn't like it, but it beat going back to death row.

"Until, of course, I did go back to death row. That in itself is a long story. The short version is that my face was plastered all over the front page of the National Enquirer. My cover was blown. My superior saw the thing and keeled over into a coma. The President had to replace him. He picked your friend Ransome. Only Ransome was a bad apple. He sandbagged me in my sleep, wiped my memory clean back to my death row days and shipped me off to your charming little death row. It was his way of getting me out of the way."

"That story is so bizarre I cannot believe it," the governor said tensely.

"Actually, it wasn't Ransome's scheme," Remo said. "It was my superior's wacko idea of a retirement program. Send me back to where I came from. No one would know any different. Except while I didn't remember CURE, I did remember Sinanju."

"Krazy Glue?"

"I can see why you went into politics. You have the attention span of a pollster. Nope, not Krazy Glue. I already explained that. Sinanju is out of Korea. It's a martial art.

"Like karate?"

Remo frowned. "If it were like karate, your hands would be sacs of shattered finger bones instead of painlessly welded together. Comparing Sinanju to karate is like comparing your rubber ducky to a swan. Guess which one is the swan?"

The governor looked at his hands.

"You can separate them, can't you?"

"Search me," Remo said cheerfully. "No one I've ever done this to has lived long enough to request the operation. That's one thing about Sinanju. Even when you know it, you don't really know it. It taps into something inside you that you can't explain. You can only show."

Then it sank into the governor's mind.

"You're here to assassinate me."

"No," Remo corrected. "I'm here to execute you. Kennedy was assassinated. Gandhi was assassinated. You, you're a slimy crook who opened your state up to the scum of the earth. You take money so the cocaine kings can sell their junk on the streets you're supposed to protect. Nope. You get executed."

"I have money," the governor said quickly.

"Take it with you," Remo said coldly, reaching under the governor's blue jawline. He pressed with his thumb and forefinger and the governors mouth locked in the open position.

"The thing is," Remo said, lifting the governor out of his chair by the throat, "I've never done a governor. Judges, yeah. Foreign heads of state, from time to time. I think I did an assemblyman once for arson. Never a governor."

Remo looked around the room.

"You don't have a microwave around here, do you?"

The governor shook his head frantically. An "uh-duh" sound came out of his open mouth. Remo squeezed tighter and the sound ceased.

"Just as well," Remo said absently. "I hear they don't work unless the door is closed. Even if your head fitted inside, it wouldn't cook."

The governor tried to pull away. Remo transferred his hand to the back of the man's neck. With the other, he pulled the balloons from the governor's frozen grasp. They floated to the ceiling as they toured the room.

"It's too bad there isn't an electric chair in a closet somewhere," Remo said. "I think that would be appropriate, don't you? No answer. I guess you agree. Now, let's see. What are some of the popular methods of capital punishment? Hanging? No. Lethal injection? You'd need a syringe. Besides, I hate needles. Gas is out. This office doesn't look airtight. In fact," Remo added, noticing the windows for the first time, "it's kind of stuffy in here. What say we get some fresh air? Might help us think."

The governor's feet made tiny steps as Remo led him to one of the windows. Down below, traffic flowed noisily. Remo unlatched the window and shoved up the sash. A breath of lung-clogging humid air wafted in.

"Smells bracing, doesn't it?" Remo asked brightly. "Here, you look kinda pale. Suck down a good whiff."

Remo forced the governor's head out through the window. He rested the man's bobbing Adam's apple on the casement sill.

Holding it there, Remo continued speaking in a thoughtful voice. "Let's see. Firing squads are passe. I don't carry a gun, anyway. Or a knife. I think we're running out of options. Maybe you have an idea?"

The governor tried to shake his head. Remo felt the muscular spasms through his sensitive fingers.

"What's that?" Remo asked. "A guillotine? Now, where are we going to get a guillotine? What's that you say? Improvise? With what?" Remo leaned closer.

"I can't hear you," Remo said. "Must be all this traffic." And Remo slammed the window shut so fast the glass cracked into an icy spiderweb, holding the governor in place.

Whistling, Remo retrieved the balloons from the ceiling and positioned them in front of his face as the governor's feet jerked and twitched. The pulpy sound of something heavy hitting the sidewalk several stories below was lost in the slam of the door as Remo left.

The governor's secretary looked up quizzically as Remo emerged, his face masked by a cluster of balloons.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"He vetoed the balloons," Remo said sadly. "Said he didn't like the color."

"Which color?"

"All of them. He wants black balloons next time."

"Oh, my God, am I in trouble?" She started for the door. Remo stopped her with his voice.

"I wouldn't go in there just now. I started singing and he lost his head. Between you and me, I think his marriage is on the rocks."

"Oh," the secretary said, returning to her seat.

Remo kept the balloons before his face all the way down to the lobby and past the guard.

"Wouldn't see you, huh?" the guard said smugly.

"He's not seeing anyone right now," Remo said solemnly.

Out on the sidewalk, Remo walked briskly up the street. He noticed that people were staring at him. Or rather, at his balloons. He ducked down a side street and almost stepped on the late Florida governor's head as it lay on the sidewalk. Remo looked at the dripping red stain oozing down from the governor's closed office window.

He looked around. There was no one in sight, so he knelt down and tied the balloon strings to the governor's hair. Returning to his feet, he let go.

Remo waved good-bye to the governor's head as it bobbed up past the State House, where a muggy breeze caught it, carrying it from sight.

As he walked away, Remo stripped off his uniform jacket, exposing a tight black T-shirt. He stuffed the jacket in a dumpster after rending the nametag stitching to shreds, and wondered what the National Enquirer would say about this one.

Then he went looking for a taxi. There were a lot of them in the streets, but every one was occupied. Remo kept walking. He turned a corner and was surprised to see a knot of people in front of a window. They looked anxious.

Curious, Remo drifted up to the crowd. He read the sign over the window: "PRUDENT BROKERAGE." The storefront contained a small electric ticker tape.

"What's going on?" Remo asked of no one in particular. "Somebody famous die?"

A man in a gray flannel suit called back without turning around, "The stock market is crashing. Again." He had a frog in his throat.

"Really?" Remo said. "Oh, well, it's not my problem." He went in search of a cab.

Chapter 3

Dr. Harold W. Smith wore his face like a wax mask.

He sat behind an oak desk, his face shiny with a thin film of perspiration. A tiny bead formed at the tip of his nose and clung there, held by static tension. Smith didn't notice it. His tired gray eyes were boring through rimless glasses at the computer terminal on his desk.

A green cursor raced across the screen, spewing strings of data. Sell orders being cabled to the New York Stock Exchange from all points of the globe.

They had been coming all morning, in waves like invisible missiles. Unlike missiles, they struck without sound or flash or concussion. Yet each hit wounded America as deeply as if they were rockets cratering the New York streets. Every strike landed in the vicinity of Wall Street.

But the damage would spread in ripples unless something happened to reverse it.

Smith tapped a key, and got an alphanumeric readout of the current Standard es. They were not good. He tapped the key again and watched the cable orders. If anything, they were intensifying. The Dow had plunged over three hundred points since the opening bell. Trading had been halted once. It was now nearly noon-only two hours later.

Smith knew it would be only a matter of time. As the head of CURE, he could do nothing to affect the situation without presidential authorization. And he could not ask for that authorization until it was almost too late.

Smith leaned back and closed his eyes. He felt tired. The droplet of perspiration trickled down the notch under his nose.

The intercom buzzer sounded. Without opening his eyes, Smith keyed it and spoke.

"Yes, Mrs. Mikulka?"

"Dr. Smith. A call for you on line two," said Eileen Mikulka, who knew nothing of CURE. She was Smith's secretary in his position as head of Folcroft Sanitarium, a private hospital. Folcroft was the cover for CURE.

"Who is it?" Smith asked. His voice was strained. Ordinarily it carried a lemony New England tang; today it was as dry as a crisp graham cracker.

"A Mr. Winthrop. He's with the law firm of Winthrop and Weymouth."

The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Smith had no time to deal with Folcroft matters now.

"Take his number and ask the nature of his business. I'll return his call later."

"Yes, Dr. Smith."

Smith allowed his eyes another half-minute of respite, and when they snapped open again, they gleamed.

The computer screen continued revealing incoming sell cables. They were being transmitted to the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, the San Francisco Stock Exchange, and brokerage houses all over the country. The Toronto Stock Exchange began showing signs of uncertainty. And the Mexico City exchange was inundated.

It meant that Wall Street was unable to bear the load.

Smith clutched the padded armrest of his chair. He knew it was inevitable. The global economy was experiencing another meltdown. This one worse than the Crash of '87. Still, he could not act.

Smith opened the top-right-hand drawer and lifted out a red telephone. It was a standard AT xcept that there was no dial. He set it close to him and reached back into the drawer. It was a reflex, when he was under stress, to reach into that drawer. Some days it was aspirin. Other days, Alka-Seltzer or one of three other varieties of antacid.

Smith lifted out a tiny canister of foam antacid, returned it with a lemony frown, and lifted a bottle of children's aspirin he'd gotten as a supermarket sample. He hadn't even looked at the label. Now he noticed for the first time the trademark. It was a gold oval surrounding what seemed to be a black gap-toothed mouth with a pendulous uvula. Smith read the brand name. It meant nothing to him.

He set the aspirin in easy reach beside the red phone. He didn't need it-yet. He was simply too drained to feel anything. But he knew he would need it before the day was over.

Then it came. The cable traffic intercepts winked off as a warning program kicked in. The computer began beeping.

Smith's eyes flew open. For the first time, they reflected fear.

"It's started," he said hoarsely.

The system, which had surreptitiously logged onto mainframes in brokerage houses and financial institutions all over the nation, was picking up the next wave. The first warnings were coming from the East Coast, where the brokerage computers were reaching hysteresis. Automatic trading programs, set up to sell stocks when they fell below a certain price, were emitting warnings that the Dow prices were approaching those null points.

Smith reached for the red telephone. He waited as the ringing on the other end began. He felt so very tired.

"Smith?" a familiar nasal voice asked.

"Mr. President, you are undoubtedly aware of the situation on Wall Street."

"From what I understand, it's not just Wall Street. It's the whole world."

"I cannot affect the global market, but I may be able to arrest the dropping Dow. Before trading is halted again."

"You, Smith? How?"

"During the near-crash of '87 I worked out a system to counter the effects of computerized trading, which was approved by your predecessor."

"Correct me if I'm off base here," the President said, "but didn't they abolish computerized trading last year?"

"That's the popular belief. In fact, what was done was this: the computerized stock-trading programs were augmented with warning points. If a program was set to sell when a stock price dropped to sixteen and one-eighth per share, for example, the computers would flash a warning at sixteen and three-eighths.

"Then they would shut down, is that it?"

"No, Mr. President. They would not shut down. They simply flashed the warning. The sell-off would still kick in at the designated price.

"That's pointless."

"No, Mr. President. That's Wall Street."

"I don't understand. The problem is still there. We just get a warning. Is that it?"

"Precisely. And the first lag warnings have flashed to my computers."

"How much time do we have?"

"None," Smith said flatly. "In the time it has taken me to explain, several of those programs have already executed. If this continues, there will be more stocks being sold than there are buyers for them."

"Meltdown," the President said in a sick voice. Then, his voice rallying, he added, "You said something about a plan."

"After 87, I set up a shell corporation called Nostrum, Inc. It exists purely for this eventuality. Using CURE's financial resources, I can begin buying up large blocks of the afflicted stocks. It's a gamble. But the stock market is driven by rumor and trend. If Nostrum's purchases reach Wall Street ears in time, it might affect the panic psychology prevailing down there. Other buyers may jump in and help avert this rout."

"A rally?"

"That may be too much to expect. Arresting the decline is my hope."

"I can see why you had to ask me, Smith, even though CURE has autonomy in most operational tasks. If you fail-"

"If I fail," Smith said quickly, his eyes flicking to his watch, the stock market will be no worse off. But the United States government will technically own all the depressed stock. I'll be buying it with the CURE operating budget. If that's not enough, I'll be forced to siphon funds from the Social Security Trust Fund. This is your choice. "

"My God," the President said tightly. "I can't let the market fall apart like this, but if this goes wrong, we will have bankrupted the government on top of everything else."

"This is why the previous President approved oversight on this decision. You must decide now, Mr. President."

There was silence over the line. Harold Smith heard the President of the United States' shallow breathing. He said nothing. This was not his decision. He did not wish to influence it in any way.

"Do it," the chief executive said, and hung up.

"Thank you, Mr. President," Harold W. Smith told the dead line, and replaced the receiver. It was the decision he had hoped for but dared not ask. His fingers flew to the keyboard. The computer logged off its current feeds, and the words "Nostrum, Inc.," in ragged black letters on a green screen, flashed across the top.

Smith began transmitting buy orders to the headquarters of Nostrum, Inc., where its employees-none of whom had ever heard of Folcroft Sanitarium, never mind CURE-shook their heads and began buying up blocks of stock in quavering voices. They began with the most troubled stock, the rapidly declining Global Communications Conglomerate.

South of Rye, New York, nervous stock traders watched their overhead Quotron tubes with sick, shocked eyes. Every few seconds prices dropped another point or two. It was a rout.

Then, buy orders began coming in on Global Communications.

"GLB'S going up!" someone shouted above the roar. His voice was not heard. But the Quotron's silence spoke louder than any voice in the pit.

Global stopped dropping. Then other buy orders began coming in. The price stabilized at fifty-eight and five-eighths, climbed to sixty, and dropped briefly to fifty-eight and five-eighths again.

Back in Rye, Dr. Smith watched his Quotron window and allowed himself a dryish smile. It was a long way to the closing bell, but it was a start. He ordered Nostrum to buy another block of GLB and to pick up other bargains. He hoped that by day's end they would be bargains. He had spent most of his adult life serving his country. He didn't want to go down in history as the man who single-handedly bankrupted the United States of America.

Chapter 4

P. M. Looncraft whispered old money, from the cut of his Savile Row suit to his tasteful Rolex watch. He lounged in the back of his white Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud as it turned the corner of Broad Street onto Wall. As the Rolls slithered past the statue of George Washington, its brass plaque commemorating the spot where, in 1787, he was inaugurated as the fledgling nation's first chief executive, Looncraft's prim mouth curled disdainfully.

Reaching into a leather cupboard, Looncraft lifted a pocket memo recorder to his long, lantern-jawed face.

"Memo," he said in a precise adenoidal honk. "When this is over, have that infernal statue taken down and demolished. Perhaps broken into pieces and turned into something useful. Such as a fireplace."

Almost soundlessly the Rolls whispered to the curb in front of Looncraft Tower.

"Call for me at seven sharp, Mipps," Looncraft said, alighting from the car. Briskly he strode into the marble lobby, pleased to see the uniformed guards posted by the elevators.

He nodded to them as one obligingly pressed the up button and reached in to hit the button marked: "LD&B."

The elevator was empty as it whisked P. M. Looncraft to the thirty-fourth floor. Two additional guards met him at the glass-walled foyer. They tipped their caps smartly, and Looncraft allowed them a curt nod as he swept past.

"No problems, I trust," he said smoothly.

"A few upset customers, sir. That's all."

"Carry on," P. M. Looncraft returned as he walked past the gold lettered wall that said "Looncraft, Dymstar d, Investment Brokers." He stepped onto the trading floor, where short-sleeved brokers worked their phones, banks of blinking buttons flashing insistently.

"Get off my back!" one shouted at another. " I don't have to take anything off you!"

Looncraft strode up to him and laid a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder. He turned, his face angry. His features quickly softened as he recognized his employer's dour face.

"Oh, sorry, Mr. Looncraft," he muttered. "It's pure pandemonium, sir. The Dow's off three hundred points. It's a bloodbath out there. "

"Stay the course, young man," Looncraft said soothingly. "Stay the course."

"I will. Thank you, sir," the broker said, wiping his brow with a striped shirtsleeve.

Looncraft raised his long arms to call attention to himself, and called encouragement to his soldiers in finance.

"Take heart," he shouted. "By evening this will be over. Do not let fear rule you. Your jobs are secure. Looncraft, Dymstar d has a bright future, as have you all. We will survive this day."

The moment his voice fell silent, the brokers burst into heartfelt applause. Then, at a gesture from Looncraft, they returned to their phones, faces tight, fingers nervously testing the elasticity of their identical red suspenders. Not for nothing was P. M. Looncraft hailed as the King of Wall Street.

Looncraft marched to his office, his back ramrod straight, his long jaw jutting forward with determination, and glanced briefly over the pile of messages on his desk. None were important. He activated his Telerate screen and gave the current market quotes a brief glance. Global was hovering at fifty-eight and five-eighths. It jumped up, and then down, surprising Looncraft, who had expected a precipitous drop by this time. He wondered if he might have come in too early. He did not wish to subject his delicate nerves to the turmoil of a wildly gyrating stock market. It was enough to call for additional guards to be posted at opening, as a hedge against irate investors who might wish to settle their losses with handguns and other piddling weapons.

Looncraft looked away from the Telerate screen. Global had a long way to go before he needed to act. He picked up the two-star edition of The Wall Street journal, neatly folded beside his telephone, and opened it casually, one eye on the frantic activity on the trading floor, visible through the glass inner-office wall.

An hour later he looked up from the paper and to his surprise, saw that Global was now at fifty-nine and three-eighths. He blinked, grabbed the telephone.

"Ask the floor manager-his name escapes me at the moment-to give me a report on the last hour's worth of GBL activity."

"At once, Mr. Looncraft. And his name is Lawrence."

"Whatever," Looncraft said dismissively. In fact, he knew the name of every employee on the payroll of Looncraft, Dymstar d, right down to the boy who had started working in the mailroom two days before. Some of the firm's best people came up from the mailroom. Looncraft had made it his business to know their names. He subscribed to the ancient superstition-it was actually more than that-that held that the ability to call a person or thing by its right name conferred power over that person or thing.

The intercom beeped.

"Mr. Lawrence on line one, Mr. Looncraft."

"Who?"

"The floor manager."

"Oh, of course." Looncraft pressed line one. "Go ahead."

"Global issues are rebounding from a low of twenty-one and an eighth," Lawrence said crisply.

"Who's buying?"

"DeGoone Slickens, for one."

"What!" Looncraft exploded. "That scoundrel! He wouldn't dare. Who else?"

"Nostrum, Inc., was the first. But others have jumped in."

"Nostrum! Never heard of them."

"I think they're venture capitalists. Their own stock trades on NASDAQ. Do you want me to look into it?"

"Later. Is this a rally, or just a short-term run-up?"

"The entire market seems to be stabilizing. Volume is at five hundred and eighty-nine million shares across the board. I think we're going to pull out of this tailspin. Could be the start of a dead-cat bounce."

"Blast," Looncraft said under his breath.

"Sir?"

"Buy Global," Looncraft snapped. "As much as you can get your hands on. Now. Then find out whatever you can about these Nostrum interlopers."

"Yes, sir."

"Damn," P. M. Looncraft said angrily. "This is the limit." He reached for the telephone, hesitated, and then, thinking that even his vice-chairmanship of the New York Stock Exchange did not exclude him from SEC investigation, moved his caster-wheeled chair to a personal computer on a gunmetal typewriter stand.

He logged on and got an electronic bulletin board. The legend across the top read "MAYFLOWER DESCENDANTS" in ragged block letters. His fingers keyed like twitching spiders.

"Knight to Bishop Two," he keyed. Then he logged off.

Within moments the Telerate screen began to show a dramatic rise in Global's selling price. Looncraft's undertaker's face frowned darkly.

It held that expression well into the afternoon, as the stock market rebounded slowly. Frequent calls from his secretary were met with a curt, "Take a message." Until her voice came over the intercom with even more hesitancy than usual.

"Ronald Johnson to see you, sir."

Looncraft's eyebrows lifted in astonishment.

"Who?" he asked, momentarily taken aback.

"He's one of your floor traders."

"Cheeky sort, isn't he?" Looncraft muttered. Only ten years ago a Wall Street trader would have been beneath his notice. But not these days. The whole financial world had been turned turtle after a decade of leveraged buy-outs and junk bonds.

"Show him in," Looncraft said. He did not say, "Show him in, Miss McLean." It was better if his employees thought he didn't know them by name, as if such minutiae were beneath his lordly notice.

Johnson stepped into Looncraft's spacious office like a nervous poodle. Looncraft silently waved him into a black leather chair and tented his long aristocratic fingers.

Looncraft waited for the young man to sit down, and then looked at Johnson with eyes that invited explanation rather than asked or demanded it. Looncraft had an inkling why a mere floor trader would leave his post at such a hectic time. Johnson handled the Global account.

Ronald Johnson cleared his throat before speaking. He wore the uniform of a broker-striped shirt, red suspenders, and a haircut that reinforced his poodlelike demeanor.

"Mr. Looncraft, sir," he said deferentially, "I realize that I may be out of line asking to speak with you at a time like this, but-"

Looncraft cut him off with a wave of his hand that made his Rolex flash in the late-afternoon sunlight coming through the thirty-fourth-floor window.

"But," the young man continued, "as you may know, I handled the Global transaction, and I'm puzzled by the buying we've done."

"Puzzled? In what way?"

"Sir, we liquidated our Global positions this morning at forty-six. Now we're buying back at fifty-eight. It makes no sense. We'll take punishing losses."

"Oh?" P. M. Looncraft asked, with just the right arching of his right eyebrow. Behind him, portraits of past owners of Looncraft, Dymstar d hung in massive gilt frames that could be considered tasteful only because of their great age. There were no Dymstars or Buttonwoods on the wall. Only Looncrafts. The Looncrafts had forced out the Dymstars and Buttonwoods generations before keeping only their reputations. The Looncrafts looked down with imperious glares, making the young trader in the black leather chair even more nervous than he would have been. Just as P. M. Looncraft knew they would. That was why they hung along the walls of the office: so that wherever a visitor looked, he either stared at a Looncraft-living or dead-or kept his eyes on the floor.

"Yes," the young man said. "I wonder if in the heat of the meltdown-"

"There is no meltdown," Looncraft snapped. "The Dow is rebounding. The system is very resilient. We are merely experiencing a correction."

"Excuse me, sir. You're right, of course. But I couldn't help but wonder if in the excitement, the buy orders weren't miscommunicated."

"They were not," Looncraft said flatly.

"I see," Ronald Johnson said vaguely. He adjusted his neat blue tie.

"No, you do not see," Looncraft said. He knew that in trader's logic, a transaction was either profitable or unprofitable. In that way, they were as binary in their thinking as his computer. Buy cheap and sell dear was their prime directive. So when the chairman of LD and rebought the same shares at significant cash losses, it simply did not compute. "And you would like to know why," Looncraft added.

Ronald Johnson leaned closer, his eyes almost feverish.

"Is this something new?" he asked hoarsely. Looncraft suppressed a smile. He knew that shine. It was greed. He had seen it in younger eyes than Johnson's-seen it grow brighter as the eyes behind it grew dimmer. He saw it in the mirror every morning.

"No," P. M. Looncraft said. "It is not a new market strategy. "

Ronald Johnson's face fell. He was disappointed.

"As you know, we divested ourselves of all Global stock when the price reached forty-six points."

"Yes, sir. I executed that liquidation personally."

"While I was out of the office," Looncraft added pointedly. "Had I been in the office, my curious young man, I would have overridden that move. For I have heard rumors of an intended takeover of Global."

"By whom?" Johnson blurted out.

Looncraft shushed him with a wave. "It would be illegal if I were to tell you. But I heard it. I heard it perfectly."

Ronald Johnson smiled. He knew that when P. M. Looncraft said he heard rumors of an intended takeover, it was gospel. And Looncraft knew that within minutes of leaving his office, Ronald Johnson would buy as many shares of Global as his personal portfolio could absorb.

"When I arrived at the office," Looncraft continued, "the damage had been done. I've been monitoring the situation with care. I first thought that I would wait until just before the closing bell and buy back Global at rockbottom prices. A happy accident-although I disliked not enjoying a solid position in Global for the brief hours that was true."

"But when the market rebounded . . . " Ronald Johnson said.

" I had no choice. Obviously, the takeover rumors I had been hearing had reached other ears. Thus the hasty and admittedly costly buy order."

"Yes, yes," Johnson said eagerly. "It makes sense. Those shares will be worth much more. But it's still a tremendous amount of stock. Too much. What if the price drops again?"

"There is no such thing as too much stock," P. M. Looncraft said severely.

"Perhaps you're right, sir. But it is risky."

"That is why it's called risk arbitrage, and why the term 'junk bond' was invented."

Ronald Johnson blinked. He realized his superior was not simply talking about acquiring soon-to-be-hot shares. He was hinting that LD self be involved in a takeover of Global Communications.

He cleared his throat. " I think I understand."

"You are a very bright young man."

"But our position is massive. If the stock falls again, we could be ruined. All of us."

"Negative thinking," Looncraft clucked. " I do not believe in negative thinking. I would appreciate it if you did not spread such sentiments around the trading floor-or at one of those watering holes you traders like to frequent after hours."

"No, sir. Count on me, sir."

"I will," said P. M. Looncraft, touching his intercom. "Send Lawrence in. Instantly."

Almost before Looncraft's gaze left the intercom, a tall management type stepped into the room. He wore conservative gray pinstripes and a gold silk tie. A complacent expression settled over his clean-shaven face as he said, "Yes, Mr. Looncraft?"

"Give Johnson your tie," said P. M. Looncraft.

The complacent expression fell apart. "Sir?"

"Your tie. Give it to Johnson." Turning to the floor trader, he added, "Johnson, would you please lend this man your tie for the remainder of the day so he will be presentable?"

Ronald Johnson came to his feet, beaming. "Yes, sir, Mr. Looncraft. Of course, sir. I appreciate this, I really do. "

"But, Mr. Looncraft," Lawrence moaned, his face dropping like that of a man whose proposal of marriage has been rejected, "I am supposed to have this another three days."

"Let me remind you that the gold tie belongs to the firm," Looncraft said aridly.

"But, sir, I earned it. This is my month to wear the gold tie. "

"It belongs to Johnson now," Looncraft told him. "He has earned it by his concern and ernestness during a most unsettling business day. Johnson has performed with great presence of mind, and LD o recognize that service."

Lawrence stiffened. His hands stayed at his sides. He ignored the offered blue tie.

"I must remind you, sir," he went on hoarsely, "that company policy expressly stipulates that the gold tie may be worn for thirty days before an employee is required to surrender it." Tears were streaming from Lawrence's eyes now. This was a humiliation. He was being degraded for no reason that he could fathom. " I must protest this in the strongest terms."

"I accept your protest," P. M. Looncraft said evenly. "Now, give Johnson your tie."

Lawrence whirled on Johnson like a cornered animal.

"Johnson! What is Johnson? A sniveling wet-behind-the-ears trader. I have been with LD twenty years, and the first time you call me by name is to ask me to surrender the tie. I have attained the gold tie seven times. That is an LD

"Duly noted. Now, give Johnson your tie," Looncraft repeated. His voice remained even.

Lawrence looked at the impassive face of his superior, then at the outstretched hand of the eager young trader, Johnson. " I won't have this," he sniffled. " I won't be treated like this. I quit!"

And Lawrence flung off the gold tie, throwing it in Johnson's shocked face before storming out of the office blubbering.

Ronald Johnson gingerly picked up the tie from the maroon rug, and after apologizing for his coworker's unfortunate outburst, began to tie it around his neck in a standard foulard knot.

"I can't tell you how much this means to me, Mr. Looncraft," Johnson said fawningly.

Looncraft rose from behind his desk. "I understand," he said, smiling humorlessly as he shook the trembling hands of his young employee. "Now, I want you to get back to work. You needn't trouble yourself with these well-intentioned concerns of yours. You have a bright future with us."

"I know," Ronald Johnson said, his eyes bright with that familiar gleam.

P. M. Looncraft returned to his desk, knowing he had chosen well. He had selected Johnson to manage the Global account because the man was, whatever else, conscientious. This was as it always was with conscientious men. Offer them mere money to ignore an irregularity and they would spurn it with ill-disguised distaste. But offer them recognition or glory, and they were your servants. It had worked since the early days of Looncraft, Dymstar d. It had worked for his ancestors, back in the days before there was a United States of America. His ancestors would simply wave a sword over a man's head and call him knight, and the man would give up his life for that title and those who conferred it upon him. It was the same with the gold tie. It was just a silk tie. Anyone could buy one. But when P. M. Looncraft dubbed it the company tie and forbade any employee to wear one like it, every man on the floor doubled his productivity to vie for the gold tie. Status-hungry traders who couldn't be bothered to earn raises because they were already earning obscene amounts in commissions were slaves to their desire to wear three feet of golden silk around their necks.

Still, Looncraft was disappointed in Johnson. He had not tied his tie with a full Windsor, and that was the mark of a slacker. Ah, well, the man was probably Scandinavian. Most Johnsons were.

Looncraft turned his attention back to the Telerate machine. The Dow Jones Industrial Average was holding just over nineteen hundred. He keyed in on Global. It remained unchanged at fifty-eight and five-eighths.

Looncraft cursed under his breath. The Dow would close significantly below opening quotes, but not as low as Looncraft had expected. Or wanted.

"Tomorrow is another day," he told himself glumly.

Chapter 5

Remo Williams pulled his blue Buick coupe into the driveway of his Rye, New York, home. He got out and started for the back door, holding a newspaper in front of his face like a mafioso arriving in court.

"Ah, the hell with it," Remo said suddenly. He stopped, lowered the paper, and doubled back. "I'm sick of this." He paused at the front door, not caring who saw him, and boldly checked his mailbox.

He found only junk mail, which did not surprise him. The bills-what few there were-were made out to a James Churchward. That was the name on the box. There was no such person as James Churchward. It was a cover identity he'd used to buy the house.

Remo inserted the key in the lock and entered. The nearly bare living room greeted him with its slight odor of incense and candle wax. It smelled like a Chinese church.

Remo noticed that the only piece of living-room furniture-a large-screen TV was a shambles of wood and electronics.

"Chiun! Are you at it again?"

A bedroom door opened like a book, framing a tiny figure in aquamarine silk.

"I found another of Smith's insects," said Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju and Remo's trainer. He lifted a silvery disk between delicate fingernails. The nails were exceedingly long. His eyes were hazel almonds in the network of wrinkles that was his face. The puffs of white hair over his tiny ears were like thinning steam.

Remo accepted it as Chiun joined him, his aquamarine kimono skirts rustling.

"You mean a bug," Remo said. "This is a listening device. And this is getting ridiculous. We find them, and he plants new ones."

"He has gone mad."

"You've been saying that for years," Remo said, rubbing the bug between compressed palms until he got a sound like gravel in a sifter. He walked over to a wastebasket and spanked his hands together. What remained of the listening device sprinkled into the receptacle like powdered aluminum.

"We're going to have to talk to him," Remo said fiercely.

Chiun cocked his head. "I understood you vowed never to speak with Smith again," he said.

"I did. But I'm going to make an exception, just this once. "

"You are still angry with him over the unfortunate incident?"

"You bet I am. After all these years of working for that old tight-ass, I find out he's got my house rigged with listening devices and a gas-delivery system so anytime Smith wants, he presses one of his damn computer keys and I'm anesthetized in my sleep. It would have happened to you too, you know, if you hadn't been in Korea when Smith lowered the boom."

"Smith did not lower the boom, as you call it," Chiun corrected. "It was that villain Ransome."

Remo threw up his hands. "Smith. Ransome. Who cares? It was Smith's boom. Ransome lowered it. And I'm retired to death row with my memory wiped clean back to Johnson's presidency. I don't even know if I have all my original memories back."

Chiun's wrinkled face started.

"I had not considered that possibility," he said slowly. His child-bright hazel eyes refocused on Remo.

"Do you remember that illustrious day when I saved your life?"

"I remember a couple of times that happened. What of it?"

"And the promise you made to me of your own free will?"

Remo's eyes narrowed. "What promise?" he asked warily.

"That you would not rest until Cheeta Ching became my bride."

"Cheeta? You mean the TV anchorwoman?"

Chiun took an involuntary step backward. He sucked in his parchment-dry cheeks with mock horror.

"No!" he cried. "It is true. That fiend Smith deprived you of your most treasured memories. Come. We must confront him with this latest proof of his perfidy. We will demand that he restore you to your full faculties."

"I never made any such promise," Remo said evenly.

Chiun stopped halfway to the door. He whirled, his kimono skirts swirling. The pattern was carnation. It looked like a bathrobe purchased from a Ginza street stall.

"Worse than your memories, he has absconded with your gratitude," Chiun proclaimed in a bitter voice.

"I never promised you Cheeta Ching. Even if I had, how do you expect me to deliver? Abduct her?"

"No, entreat her. Tell her of the riches that will be hers if she becomes my bride."

"You're twice her age," Remo pointed out. "Besides, she's married."

"To become the consort of the Master of Sinanju, she would gladly divorce that unworthy person. I would shower her with gold and jewels. She would spend her days basking in the reflected glory of my awesome magnificence."

"She makes a cool three mil a year. She doesn't need your gold, and she's famous all by herself."

"This is an impossible country," Chiun spat. "The women are paid fabulous sums for looking into the TV camera and reading unimportant words."

"Can it, Chiun. If you have a crush on Cheeta Ching, do your own courting. Now, let's go. We're having a showdown with Smith."

The Master of Sinanju watched his pupil storm past him, his face a mask of elemental rage. He tucked his hands into draperylike sleeves and padded after Remo on silent feet.

As they got into the car, Chiun put a quiet question to Remo.

"What do you intend to say to Smith?"

Remo started the engine and threw his arm across the back of his seat as he backed out of the driveway. He shifted to forward gear and sent the car slithering down the street.

"I've had it," Remo said after a long pause. "Ever since that Enquirer story broke, my life has been an open sore. It was bad enough being dumped onto death row again. But to find out that Smith hadn't mellowed over the years-just gotten better at hiding his cold-bloodedness-that's it. No more."

"It was not Smith's nature that was hidden. It was that you allowed yourself to become blinded to it. All emperors are cruel."

"Smith's no emperor. He's just a bureaucrat. And let me finish, will you?"

Seeing the intensity of his pupil's words, the Master of Sinanju swallowed his planned rebuke.

"My house has been violated," Remo went on tightly. "All my life I've wanted a home of my own. I get one and now its filled with Smith's low-rent spy-movie junk. He's been watching us all along. For Christ's sake, we live next door to him. I knew it was a mistake to move into his neighborhood. "

"I agree. But I do not hold it against you," Chiun said levelly. "We all make mistakes."

"Against me!" Remo flared, taking a corner on screeching whitewalls. " I don't remember that being my idea."

"Perhaps it is another lost memory," Chiun sniffed as he absently arranged his skirts.

Remo fell silent. They had left the city behind and turned onto a wooded road. The salty fresh tang of Long Island Sound, occasionally visible through breaks in the treeline, filled their nostrils.

"You still have not told me what you intend," Chiun said at last.

"I don't know yet," Remo admitted. "I told him months ago I was through with the organization. But you're still under contract, aren't you?"

"Technically, yes," Chiun admitted. "But I too am disappointed in Smith. He claims that he is helpless in the matter of Cheeta Ching. He swore he would arrange a private meeting between us."

"Then we walk. It's that simple. We don't need Smith, or America. We're the top assassins in the world. We can write our own ticket. Go anyplace. Live high. Be appreciated. "

Chiun's eyes shone with pride. "I have longed for you to speak those words for many years, Remo."

"Then you're with me in this?" Remo asked.

"Yes," Chiun said. "No matter what entreaties Smith makes, no matter the quantity of his blandishments. We will stand together on your decision. Our decision."

"Done," Remo said firmly. His lips thinned as the austere stone lion heads mounted on either side of the Folcroft Sanitarium gate came into view like dim beacons of hopelessness.

He pulled through the open wrought-iron gates, handed the guard an ID card that said "Remo Mackie," and parked in the administrative parking area.

"Well, this is it," Remo said as he got out of the car. "The showdown."

"Fear not," Chiun said, floating beside him as they entered the spacious Pinesol-scented lobby. "We are resolute."

"Smith is going to have a fit when he sees us," Remo muttered as they rode the elevator to the second floor. "I've been trying to lie low ever since that Enquirer thing. Coming to Folcroft will really upset him.

"No more will we hide our faces like common executioners," Chiun said loudly. "In China we will have an honored place beside the throne."

Remo looked down at Chiun. "China? Who said we're going to China?"

"There is need of us there. The population is restive. There are whispers of plots, treasons, even open revolt."

As they stepped off the elevator, Remo hushed Chiun. "I got a problem working for the Chinese government, but we'll talk it over later."

Mrs. Mikulka looked up from her file cabinet as they approached the anteroom outside Dr. Smith's office.

"We're here to see Smith," Remo said sharply.

"Dr. Smith left express orders that he's not to be disturbed," said Mrs. Mikulka. She knew Remo as a one time groundskeeper of Folcroft and Chiun as a patient, now cured of delusions of grandeur.

"Too bad," Remo said, going through the door anyway.

"Pay no attention to him," Chiun whispered to Mrs. Mikulka. "He is overwrought. A cruel accident has robbed him of his most precious memories."

"Amnesia?" asked Mrs. Mikulka sympathetically.

"Worse. Ingratitude."

Ignoring Mrs. Mikulka's protests, Chiun went in and closed the door behind him. Remo stood inside the door, his fists clenched. Chiun drifted up to his side.

Across the Spartan office, Dr. Harold W. Smith's coathanger-thin shoulders showed on either side of his desktop terminal. The top of his head was also visible, the hair white and crisp as frost. The tapping of his fingers on the keyboard came like the beginning of a rainstorm.

"He is engrossed in another of his follies," Chiun said softly. "He is not aware of us."

"I'll change that," Remo said tersely. He raised his voice. "Smith!" he said coldly.

"What?" Smith's worn face poked out from around the terminal like a bespectacled gopher peering from its hole. It retreated instantly. "Not now," Smith said querulously. "The stock market is in danger of collapsing."

"What is he babbling about now?" Chiun asked Remo.

"Stocks and bonds."

Chiun nodded. "Oh, the tulip-bulb mania."

"Tulips?" Remo asked.

"Before it was stocks and bonds, men gambled in other illusions. The Dutch had tulips. The Japanese bartered rice. The Indians, dung."

"Dung? Really?"

"It was very important to them. They used it to cook their food. That is why you should always avoid Indian foods. There is no telling what filth enters the cooking process."

"Good point," Remo said, advancing on Smith's desk.

"Smith, I want a word with you," Remo said sharply.

Smith was hunched over the terminal so far that it seemed as if his spine would crack. He didn't look up. He was keying furiously now.

Remo looked at the screen. He saw three-letter stock symbols and numbers marching in parallel lines like alien creatures in a video game.

"The stock market can get along without you," Remo said, hitting a key at random. To his surprise, the screen winked out.

"My God!" Smith said hoarsely, inputting furious commands. "Five minutes. just five more minutes."

"No. Now!"

Smith whirled his chair around, crying, "Stand back. The nation's future is hanging in the balance."

Remo blinked, shocked by the vehemence of his superior's voice-but even more shocked by the realization that Smith wasn't seated in his usual leather chair. He was in a wheelchair. Smith gripped the wheel rims tightly as if he were prepared to run Remo down.

Remo raised his palms in surrender. "Okay, okay," he said, taken aback. "Five minutes."

"Thank you," Smith said crisply. His hands returned to the keyboard. He leaned into the machine as if looking through a portal to some horrifying world.

Remo drifted back to Chiun's side.

"You didn't tell me he was still in a wheelchair," he whispered.

"He has been very ill," Chiun confided. "When that toad Ransome took over the organization, he denied Smith medical treatment. He is recovering. But his legs are still weak. "

"There's nothing wrong with his nerve," Remo said. "He acted like he was going to bite my head off." The anger had seeped from his face. He watched Smith in thoughtful silence.

Finally Smith withdrew his hands from his keyboard.

"Thank God. It's four o'clock."

"Quitting time?" Remo asked.

"The stock market has closed. At last."

"I heard it crashed. Again."

Smith rubbed his tired gray eyes. "Not quite. But it was a near thing. I did everything in my power to reverse it. The Dow lost over five hundred points, but it had been down as low as one thousand."

"Tough."

"It was nearly economic ruin," Smith said. His eyes began to focus on his surroundings. He looked at Remo as if seeing him for the first time. "Remo! What are you doing here! You are not supposed to be seen in public. If someone should recognize you . . . !"

"Tough. I'm here. I got tired of staring at the walls. By the way, I got the governor."

"You went to Florida?" "Yeah, I was sick of waiting for you to give Chiun the green light. So I took care of him."

"My God," Smith said, hoarse-voiced. "You assassinated the governor of Florida! Without authorization?"

"Authorization, my ass. It was personal. And he was a legitimate target. He was in bed with half of the coke importers in the hemisphere. He tried to have me executed. Remember?"

"We were building a case against him. One that would stand up in the courts," Smith said coldly. "What will I tell the President?"

Remo folded his lean strong arms. "Whatever you want. I don't care anymore. I've had it with you, and with America. You, for rigging the so-called retirement plan that landed me back on death row, and America for electing governors like that jerk who signs death warrants without regard for due process."

"Remo, I can understand your feelings. But you know how it is. CURE doesn't exist. Officially. You don't exist. When your face was made public, it was a crisis-made doubly troublesome because I was in a coma. The retirement program was meant to take you out of the public eye until the situation stabilized. Were it not for my replacement's lust for power, you would have spent, at most, a few inconvenient weeks in prison."

"Inconvenient!" Remo came around the desk like a man possessed. " I got news for you, Smith. Prison isn't inconvenient. It's pure hell. Let me remind you, I was a cop before all this. CURE framed me the first time. Walking the last mile to the chair once was enough for one lifetime. I've had it. I'm leaving America."

"Actually, that may be a good idea," Smith said slowly. "For now. Perhaps after a few more months, memories will dim. No one will recognize you as the face from the newspapers. I was going to suggest plastic surgery as an option."

"No chance," Remo said bitterly. "And I'm not talking about a freaking vacation. Get it through your head: this isn't a temper tantrum. I quit!"

Smith's lips thinned. He looked past Remo to Chiun, who had been standing silent and impassive, his hand hidden in his joined sleeves.

"And you, Master of Sinanju? What have you to say about all this?"

" I am letting Remo do all the talking," Chiun said stiffly.

" I see," Smith said. He took hold of his chair wheels and rolled out from behind his desk. He looked up at Remo with unflinching eyes. "You have chosen a difficult time to abandon your country."

"You mean the stock market?" Remo asked. "There's nothing I can do about that. I'm an assassin, not a stockbroker."

"No? What if I told you that CURE just prevented the worst economic collapse since the Great Depression?"

"CURE? You mean you and your computers?" Remo said, pointing at Smith's silent terminal.

"What if I further told you that the near-collapse was no accident?" Smith added. "But a deliberate action taken to wreak economic hardship?"

"Who would do that? Who could do that?"

"That is what I intend to spend the weekend learning. For even though I helped avert a catastrophe, at nine-thirty Monday morning the cycle could begin again."

"Just a minute ago, you wanted me to leave the country," Remo pointed out.

" I still do. According to my computers, this crash originated on the trading floor of the Hong Kong Stock Exchange. It began with a panic selling of shares in the Global Communications Conglomerate, which is considered the IBM of this decade. It's in everyone's investment portfolio-which is why when it tumbled, everything else came down with it. Hong Kong claims that they were responding to a panic on the Tokyo market. Tokyo said it began with Hong Kong. And it did begin in Hong Kong."

"Remo and I are willing to go to Hong Kong," Chiun said quickly.

Remo turned to Chiun. "We are?"

"We can look into the employment situation in China," Chiun whispered, "and Smith will have to pay our air fare."

"Not me. My career ends here."

"As you wish, Remo." The Master of Sinanju faced Smith. "Emperor, I withdraw my offer. Remo will speak for us."

"Thank you," Remo said. He looked back at Smith, who was trying to get the childproof cap off a bottle of children's aspirin. Impatiently Remo reached out and took the bottle from Smith and opened it with a simple upward motion. Tiny spurts of burned plastic sent out an acrid stink. Remo looked at the label. It said "Free Sample" on the front just under the yellow oval that seemed to frame a snaggle-toothed mouth.

"I thought this was aspirin," Remo said, puzzled.

"It is," Smith said, taking the bottle. He popped two pills down dry. He started coughing and Remo went to the water dispenser and came back with a paper cup of spring water.

"Here," he said. He noticed the same openmouthed symbol on the cup. "What is this thing?" Remo asked, holding up the cup. "The Folcroft crest?"

Chiun craned his neck to see.

"It is a bat," he said. "Anyone can see that."

"I don't," Remo said. "Does this look like a bat to you, Smith?"

"No," Smith said, his cough subsiding.

"Anyone can see that it is a bat," Chiun said peevishly. "A bat inside a yellow circle."

Remo looked again. "Oh, yeah. I see it now. It's kinda like an optical illusion. I see it as a yellow oval with a black mouth in the middle."

"And I see it as a bat within a golden circle," said Chiun.

"I see a black blob in a yellow disk," Smith said, lemon voiced. "Now, may I have my water? I assume it is for me."

"You know, Smith," Remo remarked, handing over the cup at last, "you have the imagination of a snail."

"Thank you," said Harold W. Smith, who had been picked to head CURE for precisely that reason-among others. He drained the cup and lifted bleary gray eyes. His face was pale, with an undertinge of grayishness. He looked as healthy as a beached flounder.

"Are you certain you intend to leave?" Smith asked gravely.

"My mind is made up. Chiun's too."

"Remo speaks for both of us," Chiun said firmly.

"I cannot stop you. Especially in my present state. But perhaps I can stop these people from ruining our economy without you."

Remo frowned skeptically. "You? How?"

"When you were interrupting me, I was running a CURE offshoot, a shell corporation called Nostrum, Incorporated. It was something I created after the so-called Wall Street meltdown of 1987. You see, I suspected that that crash was engineered, but I could not prove it. So I created Nostrum. It was designed to shore up the market by buying key bluechip stocks during a future panic-such as today's. I am pleased to say that it worked. Nostrum employees, of course, have no idea they work for CURE."

"I know exactly how they feel," Remo snapped.

Smith cleared his throat. "Today's panic seems to have some of the same earmarks of having been engineered," he went on. "I mention the confusion over who started the initial sell-off-Tokyo or Hong Kong. They happened almost simultaneously, but my analysis is that Hong Kong started it, and Tokyo followed the trend. The difference is less than fifteen minutes, but is there. Hong Kong claims that they received a Reuters report of the Tokyo sell-off fifteen minutes before it actually began."

"I don't follow," Remo said vaguely. "High finance isn't my strong suit."

"The Reuters report was false," Smith said firmly. "Possibly even fabricated. My task-the task I was about to give you-is to follow up on that. Find out how Reuters could have reported an event that did not begin until fifteen minutes after it transpired."

"I get it now," Remo said suddenly.

"You do?" Smith asked in surprise.

"Sure. It's from that dippy movie. Batman."

"What is?"

"The cup. The aspirin. They're Batman merchandise. Like the T-shirts and caps I see everyone wearing these days. I hear they've made a couple of billion in merchandising bucks on this little design alone."

"They did?" Chiun asked, suddenly interested.

"Sure. They slap this thing on everything from baseball caps to soft-drink cups and they get a royalty each time. A nickel here, a dime there, but it adds up."

"Billions?" Chiun's voice was awestruck.

"Yeah. Now that we're unemployed, maybe you can figure out a way to merchandise Sinanju the same way. We'll never have to work again."

"Billions!" Chiun said feverishly. "Think of it, Remo. The symbol of the House of Sinanju on every coin in the world. We will be billionaires."

"Forget it, Little Father. The sign of Sinanju is a trapezoid bisected by a slash. It just doesn't cut it."

"And this does!" Chiun shrilled. "A mere bat, which, if you look at it wrong, looks like a broken-toothed mouth?"

"It's not the bat that people are buying, it is what it symbolizes. Batman. He's a guy who goes around-"

"Yes, yes. I have seen that insipid TV show."

"The TV show is history. This is the new Batman. He kicks ass. Kids love him."

"How anyone could love a man who dresses like a winged rodent is beyond me," Chiun said dismissively.

"Trust me. Or better yet, rent the video. But enough of all this. Smitty, this is it. I'd say it's been fun, but that was before you booby-trapped my house."

"I do not share Remo's bitterness," Chiun said loftily. "I forgive you for such minor transgressions. It is your failure to bequeath me Cheeta Ching that I find unconscionable. But this sad ending to our association lies on your head. Had you fulfilled the terms of our last contract, I would be bound to service."

"I understand," Smith said, spinning his wheelchair toward a green file cabinet. He pulled a folder from a lower drawer. "Before you go," he added, pulling a sheaf of stapled papers from the file, "there is one last bit of unfinished business to transact."

"Yeah?" Remo said sourly.

"I must have the Master of Sinanju sign a document. It is a mere formality."

"What is this document?" Chiun asked, approaching Smith.

"The firm I mentioned earlier," Smith said. "Nostrum, Inc. For security reasons, neither I nor any Folcroft employee could be listed in its papers of incorporation. I took the liberty of using your name, Chiun."

"My name?" Chiun asked, accepting the papers.

"Yes. Simply sign this release, signing over control of Nostrum to me, and you are free to leave. I will attend to all the legal details."

"One moment. I wish to read this document," Chiun said.

"Come on, Chiun," Remo said impatiently. "We've wasted enough time here."

"Speak for yourself, Remo," Chiun snapped.

"I thought I spoke for both of us," Remo retorted.

"That was before I discovered I was the president of an important corporation."

"It's a shell corporation," Smith explained. "Of course, it does own an office building and has assets of over seven million dollars."

"Seven million?" Chiun gasped. His wispy beard trembled. "Mine?"

"Technically, yes," Smith admitted.

"Oh, no, you don't!" Remo said, snatching the documents from Chiun's clawlike hands. "I can see where this is going. You're going to dangle this under Chiun's greedy nose, and he's going to take the bait. Nice try, Smitty, but we quit."

"You have quit, Remo," Chiun said, snatching the document back. "I have not."

"What happened to I-spoke-for-both-of-us?" Remo demanded hotly.

"You spoke for Chiun, CURE employee. Not for Chiun, CEO of Nostrum, Inc."

"CEO?"

"It means chief executive officer," Smith supplied.

"I knew that!" Remo snapped.

"But I did not," Chiun returned. "Emperor Smith, I cannot sign away my rights without conferring with my attorney."

"Oh, here we go!" Remo wailed. "You don't even have an attorney."

"This is true," Chiun admitted, lifting a long fingernail. "Therefore I must remain in Smith's employ until I can find one and this matter is settled with correctness and fairness."

Remo groaned an inaudible word.

"Emperor," Chiun asked Smith, "am I correct in assuming that I have an office in this Nostrum entity?"

"Yes, it has never been used, but your name is on the door. "

"Then I wish to inspect my office and my building. I must know that it was not being run into the ground during my unavoidable absence."

"I can arrange that. But if the stock market crashes on Monday, it won't matter. All of Nostrum's assets are tied up in stocks and other securities."

"Sell!" Chiun cried. "Sell them immediately. Buy gold. Everything else is mere paper. Gold is eternal. It cannot be burned, or lost, or made worthless by manipulative men."

"We cannot sell until Monday," Smith explained. "The market is closed. Your best protection is to help me uncover these unknown stock manipulators."

"I will crucify them on their own worthless paper," Chiun raged. "The baseness of them. The perfidy. Attempting to ruin my wonderful company."

"I'm not hearing this," Remo said weakly.

"Shall I book you on the next flight to Hong Kong?" Smith inquired.

"At once," Chiun said, furling the Nostrum documents and slipping them up one sleeve for safekeeping.

"And you, Remo?"

Remo was leaning into the wall, his eyes closed in pain.

"Okay, okay, I'm going to Hong Kong. But don't count on me coming back."

"I know you'll do the right thing."

"Come, Remo," Chiun said imperiously floating from the room.

Remo started for the door, then doubled back. He advanced on Smith with such purposeful violence that Smith reached for his wheel rims and sent the chair retreating to the wall.

Remo leaned over.

"You've gotten very clever at manipulating him," he said in a chilly voice.

"I need him," Smith said simply. "And you."

"Just don't try to manipulate me anymore. Got that?"

"Yes," Smith croaked. He watched Remo leave the room with tired eyes. He wondered how much longer he could keep the organization together. It was falling apart.

Then, as he sent the chair rolling to the safety of his desk, he caught a glimpse of his wasted face reflected in the one-way picture window that looked out over Long Island Sound. He wondered how much longer he could hold up.

He looked over to his cracked leather office chair, sitting forlorn and forgotten in one corner of the room, and abruptly stood up. He pushed the wheelchair aside and dragged the chair back to its rightful place.

When he sat down, he felt immensely more comfortable. He made a mental note to remember to be back in the wheelchair when Remo returned.

Chapter 6

Remo Williams endured the flight across the continental U. S. in smoldering silence. He spoke not a word to Chiun during the Pacific crossing. He now stood with his lean arms folded outside Hong Kong's Kai Tak Airport as Chiun disdained the taxicabs in favor of a bicycle-powered pedicab.

Remo climbed into the rickshawlike rattan pedicab seat silently. The driver, who straddled the bicycle front, listened as Chiun rattled off incomprehensible directions, and started off.

Remo kept his mouth shut as Chiun hectored the driver, who nearly collided with a red-and-cream double-decker bus during the congested ride.

As they passed the junk-littered waterfront, the stink of the harbor invaded Remo's sensitive nostrils. Even Chiun sniffed. Remo suppressed his breathing so that the atmosphere-borne pollution particles didn't trigger his olfactory receptors.

But the stink was stronger than his self-control. The harbor stench mingled with the ever-present odors of rotting cabbages and sweaty human bodies.

Finally Remo could stand it no longer.

"China," he said in a brittle voice, "is definitely out!"

"Did you say something, Remo?" Chiun inquired in a disinterested voice. There was no point in allowing Remo to come out of his funk without having to work at it. A little.

"I said we're not moving to China. It stinks here."

"This is not China. This is Hong Kong."

"I've been to China. It smells exactly like this. It's congested like this. Look at these streets. There are more people than pavement."

"The same as New York," Chiun said coolly.

" I don't want to live in New York either. China is out."

"We could live in the countryside. Inner Mongolia is much like my village of Sinanju."

"Great. A clam flat decorated by barnacle-encrusted rocks. No, thanks."

"Your tone is bitter," Chiun said, not looking at Remo. The sea of Chinese faces passed by like unbaked rolls. "Could it be you are unhappy with me?"

"I'm unhappy with everyone," Remo said.

"Ah," said Chiun.

"Especially you," Remo added. "Smith I can understand. You sandbagged me back in his office." Remo snorted. "I-spoke-for-both-of-us, my foot."

"This is business," Chiun said. "You have no head for business. It is up to me to safeguard our financial security."

"Smith conned you."

"I own an important company. It is my duty to protect it. When this assignment is done, we will be done with Smith."

"Promise?"

"Promise. "

The tension stayed in Remo's face, but he unfolded his arms. Chiun rearranged his skirts. He was wearing a simple gray traveling robe, unadorned but for three red roses across the chest-which for the Master of Sinanju was dressing plainly.

The pedicab pulled up before a modern office building in the heart of Hong Kong's Central District, near the monolithic China Bank with its guardian lions.

The sign outside said "REUTERS NEWS SERVICE."

"This must be the place," Remo said, alighting. Chiun paid the pedicab driver in American dollars.

"Not enough!" the driver protested in English.

Chiun fired back a stream of singsong Chinese. The driver's face broke out into a sick-eyed grin. Remo recognized that grin. It was universal throughout Asia. It masked anger, fear-sometimes hate. The driver tried to protest, but Chiun cut him off in his own language.

Finally the driver mounted his pedicab, stone-faced, and scooted away.

As they entered the glass lobby of Reuters' Hong Kong branch, Remo asked, "What was that all about?"

"He overcharged us."

"How do you know that?"

"I refused to pay his demands and he only protested twice. The certain mark of a cheat. Remember that if we go to China."

"We're never going to China," Remo said flatly.

"Remembering will cost you nothing."

"Forgetting even less," Remo said, looking around.

The Reuters branch was all glass walls and computer-equipped cubicles. It hummed with ringing telephones and men and women scurrying from desk to desk like, it seemed to Remo, mice in a laboratory maze.

Remo grabbed a tweedy British-looking man as he hurried by.

"Excuse me, pal," Remo started to say. "I'm looking for the head of Reuters."

"See the clerk," the man said in a thick British accent, pronouncing it "clark." He pointed back over his shoulder. "And it is pronounced 'Roiters,' not 'Rooters.' " He disappeared through a blank door.

Remo looked back at the beehive of activity. He cupped his hands over his mouth.

"Which one of you is Clark?" he called.

Eighteen out of a possible twenty-seven hands went up.

"Must be a popular name," Remo muttered. He pointed to the nearest upraised hand. "You. Come here."

The man came up to him, saying, "May I be of assistance?"

Remo flashed an ID card. "Remo Farris. SEC. I'm investigating rumors that the stock-market problem started in this office."

"Highly improbable, sir. But you'll have to speak with Mr. Plum about that matter. I'm only a clark."

"What do you mean, only?" Remo asked. "And what does your name have to do with anything?"

Chiun stepped in.

"Please excuse Remo," he said. " I am Chiun, his interpreter. I will translate your words for him."

"What do you mean?" Remo said. " I speak English."

"No," Chiun corrected. "You speak American. It is not the same. This man is a clerk. The British pronounce it 'clark.' It is not his name."

Remo turned to the man. "Is that true?" he asked.

"Quite so, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience. Shall I tell Mr. Plum that you wish to see him?"

"Sure."

"Come this way."

They followed the clerk to a cluttered desk, where he opened a file in a computer.

"State your business," the clerk said to Remo, his fingers poised over the keyboard.

"I already did."

"Again, please. For our records."

Remo sighed. He explained again his SEC cover story, his purpose, and his fictitious name.

"Will there be anything else, then?" the clerk asked.

"Not unless you give out prizes for waiting," Remo said in a bored voice.

"Very good, sir." The clerk pressed a button marked "Send" and waited.

"Where did you send that?" Remo wanted to know.

"To Mr. Plum's office. Naturally."

"Where is that?"

"In the office across the hall."

Remo looked. The clerk was pointing to the office where the tweedy man Remo had first accosted had disappeared.

"This Plum," Remo said. "Is he about six feet tall, sandy hair, and built on the lean side?"

"I believe he is, sir. Ah, here comes the response now."

A block of text appeared on the screen. Remo tried to read it over the clerk's shoulder, but the man had already digested the text and was erasing it by holding down the delete key.

He turned in his swivel chair and expressed his regrets with a pointed smile.

"I'm sorry, sir. But Mr. Plum is not available to callers at this time. If you'd like to leave your name . . ."

"I already did. Remember?"

"I fear I no longer have that particular information on my terminal. I shall have to take it again." His fingers lifted over the keys. "Mere formality. It shan't take long."

"It's already taken too long," Remo grumbled. "Come on, Little Father."

Remo skirted the profusion of desks and went through the unmarked door. Chiun floated after him, serene of face.

Clive Plum, manager of Reuters' Hong Kong branch, was in the middle of a phone conversation, his eyes on the interoffice computer transmission, when the office door opened with a bang. Remo appeared before him as if teleported there.

"My dear man," he said, rising involuntarily. "I don't believe you have a proper appointment."

"The name is Remo," the man said curtly in a rude American accent. "And I'll settle for an improper appointment. Just so long as we get this done."

"I see," Plum said. His eyes went to the phone clutched in his hand.

"I won't be a mo," he said. Into the phone he said, "Knight to Queen's Bishop Three." And then he hung up.

"I play chess by phone," he explained self-consciously.

"I'd be embarrassed to admit it too," Remo said casually. "And you're holding up my retirement with small talk. You people reported a Hong Kong stock sell-off fifteen minutes before it happened. Where did that report come from?"

" I must tell you, my dear fellow," Plum said, "that the SEC does not have jurisdiction here. This is Hong Kong, a crown colony. We are subject to British authority. And British authority only."

Remo leaned over and took the telephone receiver in one hand. He squeezed. The plastic creaked. When Remo replaced it on the cradle, it resembled a dog's chew bone.

Remo smiled without humor. "Right now," he said, "you're subject to American intimidation."

"I see," Plum said weakly. "Well, all reports such as this go through our computer room. Perhaps it was a computer malfunction."

"Perhaps you'd better show me," Remo said in the same too-polite tone. He gestured toward the door.

Plum stood up, adjusting the cut of his charcoal-gray Edwardian suit. "I really must protest-"

"Protest all you want-after we're done. Call the SEC. Call the President. Just don't waste my time. Got that?"

"I believe I do," Plum said, coming around the desk.

Remo followed him with his eyes, noticing for the first time that Chiun wasn't in the room. On the way out of the room Plum picked up a silver-headed cane from a wooden rack by the door.

Remo followed him into the hall, where Chiun was engaged in conversation with a pair of white-gloved Hong Kong police officers. They were speaking in Cantonese, so the trend of the conversation was lost on Remo.

"I say . . ." Plum began, lifting his stick in the direction of the police.

Plum broke into a relieved smile as the police surged toward him. The smile went south-along with the faces of the two officers. As they passed the Master of Sinanju, they inexplicably tripped over their own feet.

It was one of the oddest sights Plum ever recalled seeing. Not only did both men trip, but they tripped in perfect synchronization, without having encountered any impediment in their path.

Most remarkably, they did not rise again.

"Ready, Little Father?" Remo asked.

"I would watch this one," Chiun said, drawing near. He nodded in Plum's direction. "He signaled for police in some fashion. But they will not bother us for a while."

"Meet Chiun," Remo told Plum.

"Charmed," Plum said through a frozen polite smile. It stayed on his face like a 3-D tattoo all the way to the computer room, six floors above.

"Where is Ian?" Plum asked a white-coated technician.

"I believe Ian is in the loo, sir."

"What's a loo?" Remo asked Chiun.

"The lavatory."

"Now that I know what a loo is, what's a lavatory?"

"I believe Americans call it the bathroom," Chiun said.

"Tell you what," Plum offered. "As Ian's superior, why don't I fetch him?"

"Just make it snappy," Remo said sourly.

Plum did. He came out almost as quickly as he went in. "Summon the police," he said, aghast. "Ian has been murdered."

"What!" Remo went into the rest room like a rocket. He found a young man seated on the toilet, his pants down around his knees, his forearms clutching his stomach and his eyes staring into eternity.

Remo smelled the blood before he saw it. It was dripping from the man's crossed forearms. Remo separated the arms. There were a dozen puncture wounds in Ian's naked abdomen.

"Damn," Remo said, stepping back into the computer room. He accosted Plum. "Who do you think did it?"

"Obviously it is a plot of some kind," Plum said. Remo looked past Plum and noticed Chiun's nose wrinkle distastefully.

"I smell blood," Chiun squeaked.

"I'm not surprised," Remo told him. "The dead guy is bleeding like a stuck pig."

"The blood I detect is not coming from that room, but from this man."

"I believe I may have touched him," Plum said. "Possibly got a spot of blood on my hands. Nasty business, murder. It offends the sensibilities."

Plum shifted his walking stick to his other hand and pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He used it to give his hands a brisk rub, his stick tucked under his arm. Remo noticed a drop of blood spatter from the knob. Another drop joined the first on the immaculate floor.

"Your stick appears to be bleeding, sport," Remo said.

"Ah, so it is," Plum said. "Thank you for pointing it out to me. I shall have to give it a thorough cleaning."

"He must think we're both idiots," Remo told Chiun.

"He is half-right," Chiun said.

"I don't quite follow," Plum said looking about his person for a place to put his bloodied handkerchief.

"Follow this," Remo said. "You killed Ian."

"Preposterous!" Plum sputtered. He took the other end of his stick in hand, twisting it anxiously. Remo could tell by that, that his guess had struck home. So he was prepared for what happened next.

Plum was twisting the walking stick nervously. Suddenly the stick slid apart, revealing a rapierlike blade. It was red for a third of its gleaming length.

"Watch it, Chiun!" Remo warned. "He's got a sword."

The blade came up in Remo's face. He didn't flinch as Plum slashed the air menacingly. The fine blade made the distinctive flutter and swish sound only the best swords produce.

"Give it up, Plum," Remo warned. "Or I'll get rough."

"Stay back. I am a master swordsman, I will have you know. Sandhurst and all that."

"Hey," Remo said, lifting both hands as if to surrender. "I'm unarmed."

"Capital. Then I shall run you through."

Plum lunged. Remo let the blade slide between his arm and rib cage. He clamped the blade with his armpit and twisted at the waist.

The tempered steel snapped. Plum withdrew, staring at his maimed blade.

"I say," he said stupidly. "This is quite unsporting. This sword cane has been in my family for generations."

"Sorry," Remo said in a mock-contrite voice.

"I demand satisfaction."

"Demand all you want," Remo said, plucking the tip of the sword from under his arm and breaking it into bite-size shards with quick finger movements, "but you're going to volunteer answers."

"I think not," Plum said stiffly, his eyes darting all around the room. He started to retreat, his broken sword still raised defensively.

"Shut the door, Chiun," Remo said. The Master of Sinanju closed the computer-room door. He stood there, his hands disappearing into his sleeves.

Remo advanced on Plum, who edged back toward a bank of windows.

"You killed him to cover up something, didn't you?" Remo said evenly. "Whatever it is, you're part of it. Wince if I'm getting uncomfortably close."

"I have only one thing to say to you, rebel!"

"Rebel?" Remo asked.

"Rule Britannia!" Plum shrieked, and threw himself into the window glass.

"Damn!" Remo said, leaping for the man. He had been prepared for another attack, not suicide. Plum went through the window headfirst. His polished shoes were going over the windowsill when Remo grabbed one. The shoe came off in Remo's hand. He recovered and got the silk-stockinged ankle.

"Give me a hand, Chiun," Remo barked. "He's fighting me."

The Master of Sinanju was already sweeping across the room at full sail.

Remo stuck his head out of the shattered panel. Below, the ant-farm congestion of Hong Kong traffic blared and hummed.

"Come on, Plum," Remo said. "You don't want to go this way."

"Let go of me, you blighter!" Clive Plum was kicking at Remo's free hand. Remo transferred his grip to Plum's other ankle.

Plum started kicking with the other foot, his face turning red as the blood rushed to it. A vein on his forehead was swelling as if about to burst.

Chiun took hold of the other ankle.

"Okay, let's reel him in," Remo said.

Plum abruptly stopped struggling. He hung limp as Remo and Chiun pulled him up over the sill.

"Watch the broken glass," Remo cautioned. "Don't want to cut him."

They pulled Plum's shoulders to the casement, and then he started to fight again. He held on to the casement, heedless of the glass slicing his fingers.

"Grab his hands!" Remo said. "He's cutting them to ribbons. "

A spurt of blood went past Chiun's wrinkled face. It came from Plum's punctured wrists.

"He is doing this deliberately," Chiun said, reaching for a flailing wrist.

"I got him," Remo said. He captured Plum around the waist in a bear hug. Plum went limp. His head still hung out the window. Remo pulled, and felt a stubborn resistance.

"I thought you had his hands," Remo complained.

"I do," Chiun insisted.

"Then what's he holding on with-his teeth?"

"I will look."

Chiun leaned his head out to see Plum's face.

He came back solemn-faced.

"You may let go."

"Why?"

"Because this man is dead," Chiun explained quietly. "He has impaled his throat on a glass tooth."

"Damn," Remo said, letting go. He put his head out the window.

Clive Plum was staring out at the Hong Kong skyline. He had the same glassy-eyed stare that Ian had had on his face. The main difference was that Ian was tight-upped in death. Plum's mouth was open. That was because the glass shard that had punctured his throat had also impaled his tongue and forced itself all the way to the roof of his mouth.

Blood was filling his mouth, reddening his teeth-a thick blood-and-saliva river that started to overflow at the corners of Plum's mouth.

Remo came back into the room.

"Great. Now they're both dead."

"You are not doing well today."

"Me? You're not exactly Johnny-on-the-spot with help." "I am only the interpreter," Chiun sniffed.

"Let's see what we can salvage out of this debacle," Remo said. Off in one corner, two computer technicians cowered. Remo crooked a finger in their direction. They looked at one another.

"Both of you," Remo called.

Obediently they approached, trembling like beaten dogs. "I take it all the Reuters bulletins go through this room," Remo said.

"That is correct, sir."

"Who was in charge of it?"

"Ian."

"Is he the dead guy?"

"That is correct."

"Know anything about the rumor that rocked the market earlier today?"

"Yesterday. It was yesterday, our time."

"Just answer the question."

"No. Neither of us does. That was Ian's province."

"Who does he take his orders from?"

"Mr. Plum, sir.

"Who's Plum's boss?

"The home office."

"Where's that?"

"London, sir. "

"The London stock market took a big beating too, didn't it?"

"The entire global market is in a sorry condition. As you know. "

Remo turned to Chiun. "What do you think?"

"I think we have accomplished little enough here," Chiun said. "We must go elsewhere for our answers."

"Sure, but where?"

"Smith will tell us."

"Just as long as you handle Smith," Remo said in disgust. "I'm sick of him, invalid or not."

Chapter 7

Dr. Harold W. Smith didn't consciously hear his intercom buzz. His face frowned when the buzz came again, but it still didn't intrude upon his concentration as he watched the lines of green data scroll up on his computer terminal.

The third time did.

"What is it?" Smith snapped into the intercom.

"They're here to see you, Dr. Smith," Mrs. Mikulka said imperturbably.

"Who is?" Smith asked, not taking his eyes from the screen.

His secretary's voice dropped to a near-whisper. "You know. Those two."

"Show them in," Smith said curtly. He knew exactly whom his secretary meant, and so he was not surprised when the Master of Sinanju breezed into the room. Remo followed him, lugging a red-and-gold-lacquered trunk. Smith recognized it as one of Chiun's traveling trunks and for a moment feared that he was about to lose the Master of Sinanju.

"Greetings, Emperor Smith!" Chiun proclaimed. "I come bearing the solution to all your worries."

"You found something in Hong Kong?" Smith said hopefully.

"That's the bad news," Remo said sourly, dropping the trunk onto the bare floor. "No."

"What happened?" Smith asked anxiously.

"A minor setback," Chiun said, casting a sharp glance in Remo's direction.

"The guy in charge of Reuters' computers was skewered by his boss. Obviously a cover-up."

"My God. Then it is a plot. What happened to the murderer?"

"He committed suicide."

Smith's eyes went sick. "This is bigger than I thought. They have plants in Reuters."

"How do you know this isn't a Reuters plot?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Remo. Reuters is a renowned and respected international news service."

"And Wall Street is an American institution," Remo said acidly. "And it almost went belly-up because of a wild rumor. "

Chiun clapped his hands sharply. "Enough of this trivia. It is time to speak of important things."

"What could be more important than the threat to the world's economy?" Smith asked, blank-faced.

"Nostrum, Inc.," Chiun said loftily. "I wish to take possession of it." Chiun drifted up to Smith's desk, one hand held palm-up. "The keys, please."

"Keys?"

"You do have the keys?"

"You don't need keys to enter the building."

"What! You have left my precious corporation unguarded!" "No, of course not. Trusted employees take care of security matters."

"We will see how trustworthy they are after I have met them," Chiun said harshly.

"The door to Nostrum is open to you at any time," Smith assured the Master of Sinanju. "You have only to walk in the front door."

Chiun frowned.

"In fact, I would like you to take possession of Nostrum immediately."

"You would?" Chiun said suspiciously.

"Sounds too easy, Chiun," Remo called out mischievously. "I'd be careful if I were you. Could be a trap."

"Nonsense," Chiun said. "Do not listen to him, Emperor. He does not speak for me."

"And never has," Remo muttered, sitting on the trunk.

"While you were in Hong Kong," Smith said, " I have been monitoring the fallout from the meltdown. As you know, it began with rumors regarding Global Communications Conglomerate, the largest multimedia group in the world."

"Don't they own that cable network?" Remo asked. "The one that's all-news?"

Smith nodded. "The Global News Network, as well as a movie arm and several newsmagazines. They own some newspapers involved in an FCC effort to force divestiture."

"I do not understand any of this," Chiun sniffed.

"It does not matter," Smith told him. "What does matter is the redistribution of Global stock. It has been concentrated into the hands of a small group of corporations and investment houses, including our own company, Nostrum."

"My own company," Chiun corrected.

"Ahem. Yes," Smith went on. "Putting aside the small amounts of stock that appear to have been snapped up by bottom-fishers, five investors now own large blocks of Global. Aside from Nostrum, there are P. M. Looncraft's brokerage firm, his financial adviser, the Lippincott Mercantile Bank, DeGoone Slickens, the corporate raider, and an offshore company I have never before heard of, Crown Acquisitions, Limited. Each one of these investors has been heavily involved in the troubling hostile-takeover and junkbond mania of the last decade. It's probable that one of these people, at the very least, is after Global, and the others are simply grabbing up stock because they have inside information that Global is a takeover target. Clearly something is in the wind, because Looncraft and Slickens are bitter business enemies."

Chiun looked to Remo in perplexity. Remo just shrugged, as if to say: It's Greek to me too.

"It stands to reason that since Global was the primary target of this rumor, and of the market-meltdown accidental fallout from the maneuver, then one of these companies is responsible for the plot."

"Then Remo will descend upon them and shake the truth from these devious curs," Chiun shouted.

Remo jumped up. "Me?" he asked hotly.

"I would do it myself, but I will be overseeing my vast financial empire," Chiun said importantly.

"No way," Remo said.

"I would like to go along with your idea," Smith said sincerely, "but Remo's intransigence aside, we still have the problem of his face. CURE security demands that we keep him out of the public eye."

"Which brings me to the solution I spoke of earlier," Chiun said brightly. He turned to Remo, who was still seated on the lacquered trunk. "It lies in the trunk you see before you."

"Really?" Smith asked. His eyes went to Remo.

"Search me," Remo admitted. "I don't know what's in it either. But I wouldn't get your hopes up. It smells like a taxidermist's footlocker."

"Silence," Chiun said. "You will open the trunk, Remo."

Reluctantly Remo got up and undid the brass latches. He lifted the lid.

Smith leaned forward, then, remembering that he was in a wheelchair, sent it rolling out from behind his desk.

With a flourish, the Master of Sinanju dipped both hands into the trunk and raised a shaggy brown patch of hide.

"Behold," he cried, beaming.

"It looks like a bearskin," Smith said, puzzled.

"Smells like one too," Remo put in.

"This is not ordinary bearskin," Chiun said. "For it was the hide of the terrible brown bear slain by my ancestor Master Ik."

"Named, no doubt, by the smell his kimono gave off after he returned from the hunt," Remo said smugly.

"Ik is a proud Korean name," Chiun said huffily. Smith rolled up to the skin. He fingered the hide carefully. It felt rough and scratchy. In places the fur was matted. The head was attached by a tube of skin. It lolled over the hide drunkenly, its eye sockets empty. Feet and paws hung from the main portion by furry flaps.

"What is this?" Smith asked, pointing to a beaten gold oval to which a string of bear teeth was attached in joined arcs.

"That is the symbol that will soon make the evildoers quake in their boots," Chiun said proudly. "I made it myself. "

Remo came around to the front, curious.

"That looks kinda like-" he started to say.

"Correct! The dreaded emblem of Bear-Man."

"Bear-Man?" Smith whispered. Remo started edging for the door.

"Yes!" Chiun cried. "Soon to be a registered trademark of Nostrum, Inc."

"I fail to comprehend," Smith said blankly.

Remo called back from the half-open door, "You two sort this out."

"Hold, Remo," Chiun shouted. "For this concerns you."

"No, it doesn't," Remo said quickly. "And there's no way you're getting me to put on that rug."

Sudden comprehension broke over the craggy features of Harold W. Smith.

"Ah," he said.

"You understand?" Chiun asked Smith hopefully.

"Yes, and I'm afraid I must agree with Remo. The problem with his doing investigations has to do with his conspicuousness. His face could be recognized by anyone."

"That's settled," Remo said, coming back from the door.

"Exactly," Chiun continued. "This mighty costume will convert that from a problem into a solution. And incidentally, make us all billionaires. Think of it, Smith. If Americans can believe in the fearsomeness of the lowly bat, what will they think of the awesome Bear-Man, scourge of Wall Street?"

"They will think the circus is in town," Remo said quickly. "Right, Smitty?" Smith didn't answer. His brow was furrowing in thought. Remo started to edge back toward the door again.

"It could work," Smith said slowly. It was almost inaudible, but the words reached Remo clear across the room.

Chiun turned his head. "Remo. Put this on. Show Smith how formidable a figure you cut as the mighty Bear-Man."

"I am not-repeat, not putting on that flea-bitten thing,"

Remo insisted. "It looks ridiculous."

"In my homeland," Chiun explained, "the bear is the most formidable animal. Unlike the bat, which flutters like a mere rag in the wind."

Smith looked up from his thoughts.

"It's absurd," he said, "but it could get us through the weekend. Until the stock market opens again."

"No," Remo said firmly.

"Remo, listen to me," Smith said fervently. "We have only the weekend in which to work. It may be all over by then if the stock market tumbles once more. I've a three-pronged attack in mind. I will conduct an investigation of this Crown Acquisitions, Limited by computer. Chiun will manage Nostrum, which I believe may be the target of a hostile takeover because it owns significant Global stock, without which Global cannot be merged or absorbed."

"Have no fear, Smith," Chiun said sternly. "There is no threat that I cannot fight."

"This one may be different. You've never gone up against a hostile takeover."

"I spit upon those who dare try."

"The third line of attack is to investigate those who bought up large blocks of Global stock. Remo is the perfect person to do this."

"Not me. I don't know anything about stock."

"But you do know about persuasion."

"So does Chiun. He can persuade paint off a fence."

"I must be at my desk to fend off those who would assault my office building," Chiun inserted.

"And I am bound to my desk as well," Smith said. " I would go into the field myself, but as I am now in a wheelchair, I'm afraid my effectiveness is limited. And I am still subject to weak spells. I really shouldn't be under this strain."

Chiun turned on Remo.

"Remo!" he shouted loudly. "How dare you imperil your emperor's health by your stubbornness."

"He's not my emperor," Remo said flatly. "Never was."

"Yet he needs you," Chiun said.

"Your country needs you," Smith added. "And the world. For that is what lies in the balance."

Remo's unhappy expression wavered. He looked from Chiun to the bear suit to Smith and back to the suit again. Chiun held the suit higher so that its dangling-bear-tooth emblem rattled like an Indian talisman.

"All right " Remo said at last. "I'll pitch in. For the world. Not for Smith or the organization."

"Excellent," Smith said.

"But I'm not wearing that cockamamie suit," Remo added firmly. "And that's final."

Chapter 8

Douglas Lippincott was in banking. His father had been in banking, and before that his father had been a banker.

The difference between Douglas Lippincott and his ancestors was, as Douglas Lippincott saw it, that he never foreclosed on widows and orphans.

Douglas Lippincott, president of the Lippincott Mercantile Bank, foreclosed on corporations. Douglas Lippincott was an investment banker. When he lowered the boom, individual families weren't put out on the street. Instead, entire towns went on welfare.

As a result of foreclosures, Douglas Lippincott presided over a multinational corporation that cut timber in Alaska, raised minks in California, processed shale in Kentucky, and made money everywhere else.

He was seated in his plush office sixty floors above lower Manhattan, contemplating his moral superiority over his widow-abusing forebears, when there came a crashing noise outside his office. Lippincott, of the Providence Lippincotts, was old-money. He loved old things. Although the Lippincott Building was barely a decade old, he eschewed the glass and steel of its ultramodern exterior for maple paneling and a solid oak door which shielded him from the eyes of his underlings. Thus he could not see what had caused the commotion, any more than his employees could see into the sanctity of his well-appointed office.

Lippincott ignored the crashing sound. If it was important, he knew, one of his assistants would bring it to his attention. He went back to picking his nose with a personalized silver tool handed down through generations of Lippincotts so they needn't sully their hands pursuing everyday personal hygiene.

The crash sound was repeated, causing Lippincott to cut his septum with the scraping edge.

"Blast it!" he said, reaching for a silk handkerchief to stem the blood.

He forgot all about the handkerchief and his nose when an office worker opened the door with his skull. The door banged open and seemed to catapult the man into a bookcase. The books came out of the shelves like quarters from a slot machine. They struck the man on the head. Lippincott winced. Not for the man, but for the books, which had been in the Lippincott family since before the Revolution. Many were first editions.

Lippincott reached for his intercom and then forgot about that too.

His widening eyes went to the towering hairy apparition that lumbered into the room. It stood upright on two hind legs and had a bear's head mounted on its forehead. The face under the bear's head was enveloped in a bearskin helmet with two ragged holes excavated to expose the eyes.

The eyes were mean.

"Who . . .what are you?" Douglas Lippincott demanded uncertainly. Miss Manners had never, to his knowledge, written on the subject of conversing with bears.

"You've heard of the bear market?" the apparition rumbled.

"Of course."

"I'm the bear."

"Is this a joke?"

"I wish."

"Come again?"

"Your company brought up over nine thousand shares of Global," the bear said, pointing an accusing claw directly at Lippincott.

Lippincott clutched the edge of his desk. He got a grip on his voice before he spoke again. "Possibly. What of it?" he asked quietly, his eyes going to the door. He hoped that some brave loan officer would rush to his rescue, but all he saw were frightened sheep running for the doors. A few did not run. They sprawled across untidy desktops. A head stared out from over the top drawer of a file. Lippincott wondered where the rest of the man was.

"Someone is up to no good," the bear said. "And I'd better not learn it was you."

The bear turned to go.

"Wait," Lippincott called after him. "Is that all?"

"That's the message."

"This is most unbusinesslike," Lippincott said. "What is your name?"

"Just call me Bear-Man, cleaner-upper of Wall Street."

"I don't suppose you have a card?"

"Thanks for reminding me," the bear said, lumbering back into the office. He reached up and yanked a bear tooth off his chest shield. He clapped it into Lippincott's open palm.

"What is this?" Lippincott demanded, looking down at the discolored tooth.

"A warning tooth. Don't screw up or you get the next one through the brain. Bear-Man warns only once."

Lippincott looked up at the retreating creature and demanded, "My God, man, couldn't you have just faxed this?"

Bear-Man didn't answer.

Douglas Lippincott closed the door to his office and waited an hour. When no one came in or called, he ventured out again. The outer office was empty, except for poor Peabody, whose head was sticking up from a file cabinet. His eyes were closed.

Lippincott approached carefully, and hearing the sounds of breathing, went in search of a glass of water. He came out of his private washroom carrying a full glass and threw it in Peabody's face.

Presently Peabody opened his eyes. They blinked, focused, and then went stark.

"Is it gone?" Peabody demanded anxiously.

The file cabinet shook with his agitation, which reassured Lippincott that Peabody was not merely a disembodied head in a drawer. He was worried about the company insurance premiums.

"What happened?" Lippincott demanded.

"The . . . the bear . . ." Peabody said shakily.

"Yes, yes, I saw it. Don't fret. It's gone now."

"Thank God," Peabody said. "I tried to stop it, sir, but it insisted upon seeing you."

"Did it state its business?"

"It refused. And when I told it to make an appointment, it . . . well, you can see for yourself what happened."

"Precisely how did you get into this . . . predicament?" Lippincott demanded curiously. He pulled on the top drawer and looked in. Somehow, Peabody's body had been forced into the cabinet, so that the lower drawers had been forced out to make room for his imprisoned body.

"I don't recall, Mr. Lippincott. One moment I was speaking to that . . . bear. The next I was . . . stuck. I don't remember any intervening action."

"I see," Lippincott said. "I suppose we shall have to get you out of this."

"I can't move my arms or legs."

"I'm afraid a blowtorch may be the only solution," Lippincott said. "Wait here."

"Where else would I wait?" Peabody said without a hint of humor or irony. His eyes still stared anxiously. He had never been filed bodily before.

DeGoone Slickens had made his money in Texas oil. With a two-hundred-dollar stake he had started an oil company in partnership with two other wildcatters. Slickens waited until the company started to get into debt-as all new companies invariably did-before he announced that he had been diagnosed as suffering from liver cancer.

"The doc gives me three years," Slickens had informed his ashen-faced partners that day in the Amarillo office. "Three and a half, tops."

"What you gonna do, De?" one of them asked.

"Make the best of my remaining days," he told them sincerely. "I want out of the company. My buy-out price is a quarter-million."

The other two swallowed and looked at one another with expressions even sicker than those that had greeted the news of Slickens' impending demise.

"You know we can't carry that kind of debt, De. We're in hock as it is."

"Those Hidalgo wells will pay off in time," Slickens assured them in his aw-shucks voice. "You can haul the debt fine. I'll tell you what sign a two-year note, and if it gets sticky here and there, I'll let you slide on a few payments."

The men signed eagerly. But when problems with a dry hole made it necessary to ask for an extension, DeGoone Slickens didn't return their calls. Instead, he issued a demand letter calling for the whole note, adding at the bottom how his condition had worsened and his three years were now only two.

His partners defaulted and DeGoone Slickens ended up owning the entire company. Out of the profits, he paid his doctor a six-figure hush-money payment. For DeGoone Slickens had never had cancer of the liver. His true medical condition was his lack of a heart.

DeGoone Slickens made so much money in oil during the 1970's that he started buying up other companies. Whether they were for sale or not. The maneuver was called risk arbitrage, and DeGoone Slickens was its apostle.

By the time the Texas oil boom went bust, he was known across the nation as a corporate raider, operating out of Manhattan, where his country-boy twang made other CEO's dismiss him for some kind of cowboy idiot. Which was exactly what DeGoone Slickens wanted. He had built his career on being underestimated by business adversaries.

More than one of these CEO's ended up on the street with DeGoone Slickens sitting in their saddles.

Nobody liked DeGoone Slickens, which was why he had two bodyguards sitting outside his office at all times. They were former Dallas Cowboys whom Slickens had hired because, in addition to being a two-man Berlin Wall, they were nice status symbols. And when he was stuck sitting with them in traffic, they regaled him with football yarns.

DeGoone Slickens considered them an excellent investment.

Until one of them came charging into his office unannounced. He slammed the door behind him, putting his broad back to it, huffing and puffing for all the world like he'd just been sacked at the ten-yard line.

"What's the matter?" DeGoone said, seeing the look of horror on the former linebacker's flat face.

"Bear!" he cried, struggling to catch his breath.

"What?"

"There's a bear out there. It got Tomaski."

"What're you handing me?"

"Really, Mr. Slickens. It's a bear. Big as life."

"You have a gun," Slickens pointed out in a no-nonsense voice. "Go out there and shoot the varmint."

"Can't. It took my gun from me."

"A bear?"

"A talking bear."

"Are you drunk?"

"I know it sounds crazy, but it was asking for you."

"Me?" said Slickens, startle-faced. "What would a talking bear want with me? I'm a coon hunter."

"I don't know, but I wouldn't recommend letting him in. He pulverized Tomaski."

Then there was a loud knocking on the door.

"Open up," a rumbling voice warned, "or I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow this door down."

"What should I do, boss?" the ex-linebacker asked.

"Get ready," Slickens said, taking a Winchester off the wall. He jacked a shell into the breech and pointed it at his linebacker bodyguard.

"Open it," Slickens said. "And jump out of the way."

The linebacker unlocked the door and flung himself to one side.

The bear came through the door, claws raised high.

DeGoone Slickens fired.

The bear kept coming, its matted fur untouched.

Slickens whacked another shell into the chamber and fired again.

The bear bounced to one side, unhit.

"Dung it!" Slickens roared. "I can't draw a bead on him. You, Barker. You played football. Tackle him."

"Not me!" the ex-linebacker said, diving out the open door. "I quit."

"Looks like it's just you and me," the bear said casually.

DeGoone blinked. His jaw dropped. He looked at the bear carefully.

"Wait a minute," he said. "You're not a real bear. You're just a guy in a mangy suit."

"Obviously you're smarter than the average bodyguard. They thought I was a real bear."

"They're ex-football players."

"Too much steroids, I guess. Now, let's get down to business. And put that thing down. I can get pretty rough when my fur is rubbed the wrong way."

DeGoone hesitated. He brought his Winchester up to eye level again and squinted down the barrel. He did it quickly, but with the practiced care of a backwoods hunter.

In the time it took him to shut one eye, one of the pseudo-bear's paws swiped out and relieved him of his rifle.

DeGoone Slickens stood behind his desk holding empty air. His trigger finger tightened on nothing. That's when he realized he had been disarmed. It had happened that fast.

As DeGoone watched, the bear took his rifle in both paws and bent it double against his chest. Then he threw the horseshoe-shaped rifle at a moosehead, scoring a ringer on its antlers.

"I'm Bear-Man," the bear said, jerking a thumb at his chest. "I'm the spirit of Wall Street. Every time there's a crash, I come out of hibernation. And my message this time is: it had better not happen again."

"Why tell me?"

"Someone's screwing around with Global stock. You bought a carload of it. If you're responsible, Bear-Man comes back and shreds your face. Rowwrr!"

Bear-Man's claws lifted in the air in warning. DeGoone Slickens backed away until he fell into his chair.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about," he said. "And if you know I bought Global stock yesterday, you should also know that I trade in blocks of stock like that every damn day of the week."

"Just remember my warning. Here," the bear added, ripping something off his chest and tossing it onto the desk.

DeGoone caught it. It was a bear's tooth.

"What's this for?" he demanded.

"It's a magic bear tooth. Put it under your pillow. And if you're pure of heart, I won't visit you again."

And with that the bear lumbered out of DeGoone Slickens' office. Slickens waited until he heard the hum of the descending elevator clearly before picking up the telephone. He started to dial 911. He never dialed the second 1.

"Shoot, what am I doin'?" he muttered. "Who's gonna believe a walkin' tall tale like that?"

He put the phone down and walked to the corner of the room, where a computer sat draped under a plastic cover. He removed the cover and fired it up. When he got a bulletin-board logo that read "MAYFLOWER DESCENDANTS," he attacked the keyboard with two stubby fingers.

Wall Street runs on rumor and speculation. After the first two sightings of the so-called Wall Street Bear, phone lines and faxes hummed with further news of the grizzly apparition as it made its way along New York's financial district. Wall Street, ever sensitive to its image of fiscal sobriety, circled the wagons at every media attempt to obtain a printable quote. But among themselves, Wall Street's movers and shakers buzzed about the phenomenon known as Bear-Man.

They also took precautions, under the guise of preparing for possible investor backlash over the near-meltdown that Business Week had christened "Dark Friday."

So it was that when Remo Williams approached the Looncraft, Dymstar d Building, he could see the sentinel security guards stationed throughout the lobby.

He shifted the formaldehyde-scented paper-covered bundle under his arm and changed plans. The phone booth outside the building was out. It was one of those alcove-style stations. Remo had no stomach for changing in a glass booth anyway. He had never understood how Clark Kent avoided getting hauled off to the can for public exposure.

Remo found a narrow alley between two buildings and undid the package. He stepped into the bear suit like a boy climbing into his Dr. Denton's through the seat trap. His loafers fitted snugly into the attached bear feet. His fingers slid into the dangling bear paws. That left only the hard part.

Remo reached back to the flap of bear hide that was supposed to go over his head. The weight of the hard bear's head mounted on top pulled it halfway down his scratchy back. The bear paws didn't make grabbing it any easier.

"Damn Chiun and his wild hairs," Remo grumbled.

Finally he snagged the bear's head by its black nose. He pulled the whole rig up and over his head, positioning the ragged eye holes so he could see clearly. Or as clearly as it was possible to see with stiff bear hairs sticking into his field of vision.

Now garbed as the ferocious Bear-Man, Remo jumped out of the alley and padded for the Looncraft Tower. Startled passersby fled. One offered him five hundred dollars for his autograph. Remo ignored him.

Remo went up the side of the building like a bear after a honeycomb. But the honey Bear-Man wanted was on the thirty-fourth floor.

Remo clung to the thirty-fourth floor and slipped along the tiny ornamental ledge with extra care. Not only were the attached claws getting in his way, but the thought of taking a thirty-four-floor nosedive to his death while dressed as a bear created vivid images in his mind.

He found the trading floor on the north side of the building.

Getting in presented a problem. Not only was the window glass fixed, but a crowd was gathering inside. Laughing traders gaped at him like they were at a zoo. One separated a honey-and-peanut-butter sandwich and slapped one slice, honey-side-out, against the glass in front of Remo's snout.

That did it. Bear-Man reared back with one paw and punched the glass.

It cracked like so much ice. Remo leaned in. He took the pane in with him in one crunchy shatterproof section.

As Remo got off the floor and brushed himself off; the LD shrank back, their laughter turning nervous and gaspy.

"Oh, my God!"

"It's true!"

"He's for real."

One trader approached cautiously. "Are you a bull or a bear?"

"Are you blind or just stupid?" Remo snapped back.

"It's true!" a woman gasped. "It does talk!"

"I meant are you bullish or bearish?" the trader pressed.

"Definitely bearish," Remo growled. "And I'm looking for your boss, Looncraft."

"Oh, he just stepped out," someone said. "Why do you want to see him?"

"Bear business," Remo said, lumbering forward.

The knot of traders separated before him like water beading on a hot skillet. Remo stumbled around the trading room, his clumsy bulk knocking over phones and Rolodexes, and once, a computer terminal.

Every eye followed him. A few pointed out that when the bear passed certain computer screens, the phosphorescent letters swam like water disturbed by a stick.

P. M. Looncraft's office was clearly labeled. It was also constructed of glass-walls and door. Remo put his big black nose to the glass because his vision was obscured by hair.

The desk was unoccupied. P. M. Looncraft was definitely not in.

"Okay," Remo said, facing his wide-eyed audience. "When's he due back?"

Glances were exchanged. Shoulders jumped in unknowing shrugs.

"No one knows," a woman volunteered.

"Okay" Remo, said snapping off a bear claw and tossing it to the woman who spoke. "You tell him I was here. I'll be back."

A shaky male voice lifted above the crowd, warning, "No, you won't."

Remo tilted his bear helmet doggy-style, the better to see the source of the warning.

A blue-uniformed security guard stepped through the crowd, a gun held before him. The gun was as shaky as his voice, maybe shakier, Remo saw. Remo rested defiant paws on his furry hips.

"You got a license to hunt bear?" he demanded of the guard.

The guard crept forward.

He sneered. "You're no bear."

"That's no bull," Remo shot back. "Okay, you got me. I surrender," he added, throwing up his paws.

"Good," the guard said, lifting out of his careful half-crouch. "Do as I say and you won't be hurt."

"Exactly what are you going to do?" Remo wanted to know.

"Handcuff you," the guard said firmly.

Remo's paws dropped together, outstretched. "My wrists are yours," he said.

Reaching behind his gunbelt, the guard pulled out a clinking pair of handcuffs.

Remo waited patiently. He didn't want to spook the nervous guard into any wild shooting. When one wristlet flopped into his arm, Remo swiped the gun from the other's grasp. The paw tangled up in the trigger guard, and the gun fell to the floor.

The guard reached down.

Remo stamped on the weapon, thinking the guard was going for it.

Unfortunately, the guard was going for his ankle-holstered backup gun. He brought it up and snapped off a hasty shot.

Remo sidestepped to the left. The bullet passed to his right, striking an acoustical ceiling panel. The guard corrected his aim. Remo slid aside so fast the guard was aiming at the spot where his eyes told him Remo was. But he wasn't there anymore.

The guard snapped off a shot he never heard. Remo's paws took him by the face and squeezed his nose and mouth shut. The guard fainted long before he would have lapsed into unconsciousness from asphyxiation.

Remo let him drop to the floor, and lifted quelling paws.

"Don't worry," he called out. "He just fainted. And I'm outta here. But keep watching the windows. I'll be back. "

Remo crawled out the window as a Polaroid camera flashed, capturing his buttoned-up rear end for posterity.

After he had vanished, the employees on the trading floor of Looncraft, Dymstar d took a hasty poll.

The consensus was that they would clean up the mess and not breathe a word of any of this to humorless P. M. Looncraft when he returned. There were no dissenting votes, not even from the security guard after he woke up screaming.

Chapter 9

Remo Williams was surprised that the address of Nostrum, Inc. was a modern twelve-story chrome-and-blued-glass building near Wall Street. He stopped in front of the building, thinking that he had misremembered the address Smith had told him.

"Smitty's too cheap to own a nice place like this," he muttered, going through the revolving door.

Remo went to the lobby directory. A maintenance man had the glass front open and was replacing white plastic letters.

"Say, buddy," Remo asked him, "is there a Nostrum, Inc. in this building?"

The workman finished what he was doing and closed the glass before answering.

"That's the old name," he said. "Now it's Nostrum, Ink. "

"What's the difference?" Remo asked.

"Take a look for yourself," the man told him, jerking a thumb at the directory.

Remo looked. He found a "NOSTRUM, INK" listed on the eighth floor.

"I hate to tell you this, but 'Ink' is misspelled."

"That's a matter of opinion. When the chief says to change it, I change it. We don't question the chief around here. "

"This chief," Remo inquired. "Would he be about five feet tall with the complexion of an eighty-year-old walnut?"

"That's the chief, all right. 'Cept he doesn't look a day over seventy-five."

"I guess I've got the right address after all," Remo said, catching an upward-bound elevator.

On the eighth floor, Remo walked down a very long corridor, at the end of which a woman squatted on the rug under a brass plaque that read "NOSTRUM, INK." A fax telephone, Rolodex, and open appointment book lay before her crossed legs. The nameplate by her knee read

"FAITH DAVENPORT."

"Someone steal your desk?" Remo asked, giving her the benefit of a friendly grin.

The grin was returned as a polite smile. She was a clean-scrubbed ash blond in a charcoal Lady Brooks pantsuit. Her eyes were the same blue as the sky, but Remo decided her uptilted nose was her best feature.

"The chief has liberated us from the tyranny of chairs and desks," she told him in a crisp voice. "We're very close to the earth here at Nostrum, Ink. Do you have an appointment?"

"Actually, no," Remo admitted.

The smile stayed in place but the warmth in Faith's eyes went cool. "I didn't think so," she said, eyeing Remo's T-shirt and chinos.

"I'm a friend of Chiun's," Remo explained. "You can tell him I'm here, and I'm sure it'll be all right. The name's Remo."

"Last name?" the blond said, picking up the phone.

"He'll know who it is," Remo assured her.

"Mr. Chiun," Faith said after a pause. "There is a gentleman here who claims to know you. Remo. He won't give his last name."

Faith looked up. "He insists upon having a last name."

"Oh, give me a break," Remo said. "Tell him it's Remo . . . Stallone."

"Remo Stallone," Faith said into the receiver. She listened briefly. "I understand." She hung up. "He asks that you make an appointment," she told Remo.

"He what?"

"The chief is a very, very busy man."

"All right, I'll play along. When's he free?"

"Actually, he's free right now. He hates appointments." Faith looked at her watch. "It's eleven-thirty-two now. Why don't we pencil you in for, say, eleven-thirty-three?"

"Are you serious?"

"Please take a seat," Faith said, gesturing to a bare spot by the wall.

Remo settled on the spot. In his head, he counted off the seconds until Faith called to him. Her watch was five seconds late by Remo's internal clock.

"I'll announce you now," she said, picking up the phone. "Mr. Chiun, Remo Stallone to see you. Yes, he does have an appointment."

Faith hung up. "Go right in."

"Thanks," Remo said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I thought you looked Italian," she called after him.

Remo walked into a large room where suspender-festooned young workers sat behind banks of computer screens. The screens were on the floor. So were the telephones and other office impedimenta. Not to mention the workers. They looked uncomfortable, and a few could be heard complaining about their backs.

Remo breezed past them to a door on which the word "CHIEF" was painted in black lettering. He entered without knocking.

Inside, the Master of Sinanju looked up from his tatami mat on the bare floor.

"Remo!" Chiun said brightly. "Welcome to Nostrum, Ink. "

"I see you've got everyone dancing to your tune," Remo said, closing the door.

"Why not?" Chiun returned proudly. "I am their chief. My employees are very loyal to me. It is all very tribal."

"I'm glad you're settling in so well."

"It is not all easy," Chiun said. "I have had to fire some of them already."

"Embezzlers?"

"Poor spellers. They could not properly write a simple word such as 'ink.' It was unbelievable, Remo. Everywhere I look, the signs said 'Nostrum, Inc.' With a 'c.' "

"Pitiful. The U.S. educational system is to blame."

"I blame Smith," Chiun sniffed. "He hired cheap help. But I am well on my way to setting things right."

"So what does Nostrum do, anyway?"

Chiun looked to the closed door. He leaned closer.

"It makes money," he said low-voiced.

"No kidding?" Remo said, suppressing a smile.

"No, really. Look." Chiun picked a sheet of paper from a pile and handed it to Remo. Remo took it.

It was a stock certificate in the name of Nostrum, Inc.

"I think you'll have to reprint these," Remo said. "It still says 'Inc.' With a 'c'."

"This is an old one," Chiun said. "We sell these."

"Yeah, that's how it works, all right."

"You do not understand, Remo. We also print them. In this very building. We print them, and people pay vast sums for these worthless things."

"Maybe they like the design."

"I thought of that too," Chiun said, taking the certificate back. He looked at the face. "But in truth it is an ugly design. I am having that changed as well."

"Well, maybe Smith can explain it. I've been running around town all morning and came up goose-eggs. "

"You wore the suit?" Chiun asked anxiously.

Remo sighed. "Yeah, I wore the suit."

"Where is it now?"

"I stashed it in a locker in Grand Central."

Chiun looked hurt. "What?"

"Hey, take it easy. I'm in my civilian identity."

"Ah, I understand," Chiun said. "I watched the video. I know how these things work. After terrorizing the villains, you have assumed your true identity, the better to safeguard yourself from their cowardly attacks upon your person. "

"Something like that," Remo agreed.

"You did terrorize them?" Chiun asked in concern.

"They'll have bear nightmares into the year 2000," Remo promised. "But I don't know what good it will do. Nobody broke down and confessed or anything. But all Smith wanted was for me to shake them up. Maybe one of them will make a move."

The intercom buzzed. Chiun touched a button with a delicate finger.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Chiun-"

"I told you to call me 'Chief,' " Chiun said querulously. "I am your chief executive officer. You must use the proper form of address."

"Sorry, Chief," Faith said.

"That is better," Chiun said importantly as Remo rolled his eyes ceilingward. "Now, what is it?"

"Two messengers just arrived with shipments."

"I will be right out," Chiun said.

He stood up. "Come, Remo. I will show you how to run a business. Someday Nostrum may be yours."

"This ought to be good," Remo said, following him out through the busy workroom, where suddenly every worker sat up straight and began talking in a loud voice about how comfortable the floor was, and into the reception area-such as it was.

A pair of uniformed armored-car messengers stood there, arms resting on hand trucks stacked with wooden crates. They were breathing hard. One of them rubbed a sweaty brow with a green bandanna. Chiun drifted up to the two, his arms tucked into his kimono sleeves, saying "I am Chiun, chief of Nostrum."

The man with the green bandanna finished with his forehead and puffed, "Delivery from Goldman Sachs. Two hundred and fifty ingots."

"Ingots?" Remo said.

"Hush, Remo," Chiun told him. To the messenger he said, "Open the crates and I will count them personally."

"Sure thing." The guard pried the lid off the top crate with a short prybar. One by one, he counted out fifty small gold ingots, stacking them in neat piles. The other man waited his turn until all 250 ingots lay open for display.

Chiun counted them three times before he turned to Faith at her reception mat.

"Issue this man three hundred shares of preferred," he said.

"Yes, Chief." Faith picked up the phone and began talking.

"Who is next?" Chiun asked.

"I am. Salomon Brothers. One hundred ingots."

"You know, Little Father," Remo said as the second set of ingots was brought forth, "I don't think this is how they normally do it on Wall Street."

"It is the way I do it. Do you know that when I arrived this morning, they were selling my obviously priceless stocks for mere money? Often credit. It was unbelievable. I asked to see the Global stock we owned, and my hirelings told me that although we owned it, we did not have possession of it. I asked when we would take possession and they told me that was not how it was done. The stocks would remain in the hands of a third party. We owned it in name only. It is a ridiculous system these people have. The money changes hands, but not the property. I put a stop to that at once."

"I'll bet you did."

A green-suspendered clerk came out of the office with a sheaf of stocks. He handed them over to the Goldman Sachs messenger, who went away just as Chiun finished counting the second gold shipment.

After the other messenger had left with his stock, Remo put a question to Chiun.

"Does Smith know how you're running this place?" he asked.

"I have not spoken with him all day," Chiun admitted. "But I am certain he will be delighted. I have sold more Nostrum stock today than in the previous month."

"Really?" Remo asked.

"I will let you in on a secret," Chiun said conspiratorially as clerks came out to gather up the gold in mail carts and wheel them into a side room. "Men will pay incredible sums if they believe a thing is valuable. Smith offered Nostrum stocks for mere credit, and few bought. I insisted upon gold, paid in full upon delivery, and they are beside themselves to own it."

"Little Father," Remo said sincerely, "I think you've got the hang of how they do business on Wall Street."

Chapter 10

P. M. Looncraft came into his office late. This time, it was not considered unusual by his employees. It was a Saturday.

On the way to his office, Looncraft stopped to lay a firm hand on the pink-striped shoulder of Ronald Johnson, who wore the gold tie of Looncraft, Dymstar d proudly.

"How are we today?" Looncraft said, low-voiced, knowing that every man on the floor would notice the personal interest he was taking in Johnson. He made a point of not calling Johnson by name-the better to keep the man in line.

"Excellent, sir."

"And Global?"

"I've acquired over five thousand shares for the company. They will execute Monday morning at the opening price."

"Hmmm. Only that?"

"I did buy some for myself," Johnson admitted.

"Good man. How many shares?"

"One thousand, sir. It will empty my bank account."

"Brave soul," Looncraft said in sympathy.

"Sir?"

"We may have to divest. I hear rumblings about Global."

"What kind?" Johnson squeaked. Catching himself, he lowered his voice. "I mean-"

"I know what you mean," Looncraft whispered. "It seems Global may be having FCC difficulties. And they are overleveraged. They may have to divest. Possibly downsize significantly."

"But . . . but my entire savings is in Global," Johnson croaked.

Looncraft clapped a hand on Johnson's shoulder. "You are a loyal employee, Johnson," he said magnanimously. "I value you. LD rb losses better than you. The firm will buy your shares at market, if you wish to sell. "

"Yes!" Johnson said fervently, tears coming into his eyes. "I'll execute it immediately."

"Wise man. No sense being long and wrong, as they say."

"Thank you, sir."

Looncraft started to walk away. Johnson's voice brought him up short.

"Mr. Looncraft. One moment, please."

"Yes?" Looncraft asked, making sure to suppress the greedy grin on his cadaverous face before he turned around.

"Nostrum. You asked me to look into them."

"So I did," Looncraft said. "In my office, Johnson."

"Certainly, sir. Let me execute the Global transfer first."

Looncraft started to object, but caught himself. "Do that, by all means."

Looncraft went to his office, telling the secretary, "Johnson will want to see me presently. Keep him waiting ten minutes."

"Yes, sir."

That will teach the upstart, Looncraft told himself as he placed his briefcase beside his desk. He hung his chesterfield coat on an old-fashioned wooden rack. He went to his deskside computer terminal and logged onto a bulletin board that bore the legend "MAYFLOWER DESCENDANTS."

His lantern jaw fell when he saw the message on his screen "CHECK," it said. There was a number next to the message, along with the notation: "MADE REDUNDANT. CAUSE UNKNOWN." It told Looncraft that they had lost the Reuters connection. It was distressing news.

He sat back to ponder the matter. A new element had apparently entered the game. He would have to be prepared. Then his secretary announced the arrival of Johnson.

"Has he been waiting a full ten minutes?" Looncraft asked. When the reply was affirmative, Looncraft said, "Send him in."

"Here is the signed contract," Johnson said, placing a sheet of paper on Looncraft's spacious desk. Looncraft's glance flicked to it, and seeing that it was properly and irrevocably executed he waved for Johnson to sit.

"Tell me about Nostrum," Looncraft said, steepling his fingers. He was looking, not at Johnson, but off toward his great-great-great-great-grandfather H. P. Looncraft.

"They're a NASDAQ stock," Johnson said, reading from his notes. "Very difficult to dig up information on."

"But you did."

"Some, sir. It's very odd. They went public only a year ago, and I had a tip only this morning that their stock is heating up."

"Really?" Looncraft said, swiveling in Johnson's direction.

"I don't know what you make of this, but their stock has been selling like crazy all morning."

"Today? Today is Saturday. The market is closed."

"That's the crazy part. They've bypassed NASDAQ. They're selling it from their offices. No credit, no trading. Strictly cash-and-carry."

"Preposterous!" Looncraft sputtered, leaning forward.

Johnson had his full attention now and pressed the point home. "They accept payment in gold only," he said. "And the price has jumped six times just this morning. They're trading at one-ten a share and upticking."

"Gold?"

"Yes, sir. The rules are, if you deliver the cash equivalent in gold, you come away with the stock."

"The physical stock? Sold over the counter like yard goods? Absurd. No one trades in the physical stock anymore. It's not practicable."

"As I say, they're selling quite a bit of stock in this manner. Rumors are sweeping the street that they're hot. I can't imagine what will be the reaction when the market opens Monday."

"This Nostrum, who runs it?"

"The CEO is a mysterious person named Chiun."

"Just Chiun?"

"I understand he's Korean."

"Hmm. The Koreans are no slackers," Looncraft mused.

"Everybody thinks the Koreans will be the next Japanese."

"That remains to be seen," Looncraft said disapprovingly. "What do they produce?"

"That's the part that's fuzzy, sir. I'm unable to develop any information on their product line-if any."

"Well, they must do something."

"They do generate a healthy bottom line. And it looks like they plan on going places, if traders have to deposit gold in return for their stock."

"How many shares of Global did they acquire yesterday?"

"Quite a bit. My estimate is between seven and eight thousand. Which reminds me. Since acquiring my Global stock, LD over five percent of that firm's outstanding stock. As you know, according to SEC rules, you must declare your intentions in the matter."

"I intend to tender an offer of eighty per share, and I would like you to handle it."

Ronald Johnson jumped up, dropping his notes. "Sir!" he said. "But I just sold you a thousand shares at fifty!"

"Which you were perfectly delighted to do less than fifteen minutes ago," Looncraft said pointedly.

"But I understood . . . I mean, you told me that Global was in trouble."

"It is. It is also the largest communications conglomerate in the world, and I mean to have it."

"I must protest, sir. I believe you've taken unfair advantage of me as an employee."

P. M. Looncraft's eyes narrowed until they resembled the steely eyes on the banks of Looncraft family portraits on the wall behind him. Ronald Johnson suddenly felt as if he were under the multiple gaze of some many-headed hydra.

"Fifteen minutes ago, my good man," P. M. Looncraft said in a voice as steely as his eyes, "I had intended to divest myself of all Global holdings. But your information about Nostrum leads me to deduce that they know something about GLB I do not. Possibly a takeover by that Texas brigand Slickens. I have changed my mind. Had you not panicked, that stock would still be yours."

"I know that, sir, but-"

Looncraft lifted a placating hand.

"And had I not, in my generosity, offered to relieve you of the burden of your position, you might just as easily be sitting on stocks worth far less than what I offered you. You know how this game is played. Timing is everything. A man can sometimes suffer great losses or realize tremendous riches on just a fraction of a point if he buys in at noon and sells by four."

"May I point out, sir," Johnson rejoined, "that it was my information that brought you to this conclusion?"

"So noted."

"Might I not be allowed to share in the investment potential?" Johnson suggested hopefully.

"Of course. Feel free to purchase any shares you can lay hands on come Monday morning. That is how the market functions. One investor feels a stock is overvalued and sells it to another, who feels it is undervalued. It is all calculated risk, magnificently realized."

"But-"

"It's a man's game, Johnson," P. M. Looncraft lectured. "If you're going to play it, be a man."

"Yes, Sir," Johnson said unhappily.

"Now, let's get a tender together on this Nostrum. Say, one hundred and thirty a share. No more, no less."

"Nostrum? What about Global?"

"I will need to take over Nostrum's shares if I am to acquire Global, thanks to that Slickens person. He currently holds more of Global than I do. The rotter."

Johnson stood up. "At once, Mr. Looncraft."

"Keep me updated."

Ronald Johnson turned to go, his shoulders slanted twenty degrees from the horizontal lower than when he had entered the office.

"And, Johnson?" Looncraft said.

"Sir?"

"You have a spot on your tie. Have it cleaned. It is company property."

Johnson's smile was wistful. He was thinking of how much money that tie had cost him.

"Thank you, sir," he said meekly as he left the room.

Looncraft waited until the door had shut before allowing a broad satisfied smile to spread over his angular face. These affected young fogies, he thought. All wanting to play the game. Every one bound and determined to win. And all so very terrified of losing.

It was their fear that always worked against them. And for P. M. Looncraft.

He returned to his computer terminal.

Chapter 11

"It's true!" Faith Davenport was saying. "Rumors are flying up and down the street about it."

"A talking bear?" Remo Williams said in a skeptical voice. "Imagine that." He sat on the rug in the reception area of the newly rechristened Nostrum, Ink. He had come out to strike up a casual deskside conversation with Faith, but the lack of furniture made that difficult, so he sat down on the rug with her.

"They say he demolished Lippincott Mercantile Bank and frightened DeGoone Slickens' staff right into the street," Faith said, spooning peach yogurt into her delectable mouth. Remo watched every mouthful disappear, thinking he now preferred her pretty mouth to her uptilted nose. "They say he's a mass hallucination, but a lot of traders think he's a harbinger of a coming bear market."

"Makes sense," Remo said soberly. "A bear ushering in a bear market."

"Don't smirk, Remo," Faith said, shaking a plastic spoon at his nose. "The street is very superstitious. Something like this could make the traders even more jittery than they are. Besides, it really wasn't a talking bear. It was someone dressed in a bear suit. Called himself, of all things, Bear-Man."

"Is that so?" Remo said, his eyes narrowing. "You know, I'd like you to tell Chiun that."

"The chief, you mean."

"He lets me call him Chiun," Remo said, knowing it would impress Faith. He was having trouble impressing her, which was a rare experience for him. Usually Remo had to fight to keep women away. Most sensed his animal power and followed him around like puppy dogs. It intrigued him.

Remo was about to ask her if she was free for dinner when Chiun burst out into the hall.

"Remo!" Chiun squeaked excitedly. "Quickly! Bar the doors. We are under attack!"

"We are?" Remo said, jumping to his feet.

"One of my minions informs me that forces are massing to conquer us."

"What forces?"

"A conspiracy consisting of a cabal known as Looncraft, Dymstar d."

"The brokerage house?" Faith asked.

"You know these villains?" Chiun asked suddenly.

"I worked for them before I came here. I hated the place. Too stuffy. No one even knew my name."

"Then I hereby promote you to my aide-de-camp," Chiun announced.

"Aid-de . . . ?" Faith said, her yogurt forgotten.

"Your salary is hereby doubled. Now, come, we must plan a counterattack. Remo, see to the doors. Let no one enter who is not known to us."

"Hold the phone, Chiun," Remo said.

"You will address me as 'Chief,"' Chiun said huffily.

"That's not funny," Remo said sharply.

"It was not meant to be," Chiun returned. "These are perilous times. My precious Nostrum is under attack."

"If you'll listen to me a freaking second," Remo retorted, "maybe I can put this in perspective before you go completely off the deep end."

"What do you know about business matters?" Chiun asked skeptically.

"Enough to know that Looncraft Et Cetera isn't a secret cabal of plotters," Remo shot back. "They're an investment house. And they're not going to send in an army to loot and pillage. They're mounting a hostile takeover."

"Yes, that is what my hireling called it. The dastards!"

"A hostile takeover isn't what you think. They just make an offer to buy your company."

"I will not sell," Chiun said firmly.

"You may not have any choice in the matter," Faith put in.

"Right," Remo said. "You explain it to him, Faith. He'll listen to you."

"I am listening," Chiun said, tucking in his chin like a wizened old turtle facing danger.

"Well, chief, it's-"

"Call me 'Chiun,' " the Master of Sinanju said, throwing a smug look in Remo's direction.

Remo frowned.

Faith launched into her explanation. "The way a hostile takeover works is that the raiders-"

"Raiders!" Chiun squeaked.

"It's a business term," Remo said.

"Go on," Chiun said.

"The raiders make a public tender," Faith explained. "Say, Nostrum stock is selling for a hundred dollars a share."

"That was twenty minutes ago. I have since raised it to a hundred and ten."

"Okay, it's a hundred and ten a share. Well, the raider is saying he'll pay fifty dollars above that price to anyone who will sell to him."

"He will?" Chiun cried. "Then I will sell to him."

"Uh-uh," Faith said, shaking her head. "Better not. Because if he acquires enough outstanding stock, he can gain a controlling interest in the company. Don't you know that?"

"Chiun's new to this country," Remo explained.

"Silence!" Chiun said loudly. " I do not understand. I own Nostrum. How could persons who have bought my stock take control? It is merely paper."

"Try reading the certificates sometime," Remo inserted.

Faith added, "To own stock is to have an interest in a company. "

"Their interest I can accept," Chiun snapped back. "Let them regard my magnificent building with envious eyes from afar if they so wish."

" 'Interest' is a business term," Faith said firmly. "It means 'ownership.' They are buying shares in the company's ownership."

Chiun's wrinkles smoothed in his astonishment. "You mean when I have been selling my stock, I have been selling my company?"

"What's the problem?" Faith wondered. "You do retain controlling interest. How much stock do you own?"

"I do not know," Chiun admitted. "I have been selling it so quickly, unaware of its true value."

"Here we go," Remo said. "Congratulations. You're about to go down in corporate history as the CEO who sold his own company out from under him."

"Wrong!" Chiun said triumphantly. "I have the gold."

Remo turned to Faith. "Do you want to tell him or shall I?"

"What? What!" Chiun squeaked.

"That gold is the company's gold," Faith said gently. "It doesn't belong to you."

"But Nostrum is mine."

"It also belongs to the stockholders," Faith told him, "the ones who bought up your shares."

"Which will belong to Looncraft if he succeeds in a takeover bid," Remo added smugly.

Chiun took hold of the puffs of hair over his ears in exasperation.

"What madness is this!" he shrieked. "I have been tricked by that deceiver Smith!"

"Who is Smith?" Faith asked Remo.

"Minority stockholder," Remo said quickly. "Chiun took his advice. Always a big mistake."

"Oh." Faith touched Chiun's shoulder. "It's not too late, you know," she said gently.

"That's right," Remo added. "He may not want Nostrum."

"That's true. These raiders often buy a company just to sell off pieces for profit. Unless Nostrum owns something LD

Remo snapped his fingers. "Global! Maybe he wants your shares of Global. Smith said it could happen."

"Then I will sell Global!" Chiun trumpeted.

Remo took Chiun by the elbow and drew him out of Faith's hearing. "Not a good idea. Check with Smith first."

"This is not Smith's company," Chiun said brittlely. "It is mine."

"Weren't you listening to anything we just told you?"

"Let them sue," Chiun spat. " I will never give up Nostrum, which I built with my own two hands."

"In one morning after you had it handed to you on a silver platter," Remo pointed out. "So let's talk to Smith before this gets any worse."

"I no longer trust Smith. He did not prepare me for the duplicity of corporate life."

"Join the club," Remo said archly. "Look we gotta call Smith anyway. We've been looking for a nibble. This may be it."

Chiun looked toward Faith, who stood with her arms folded, trying not to overhear the conversation.

"Perhaps there is another way," Chiun said. "Perhaps this is a job for-"

"Don't say it!"

"Bear-Man," Chiun whispered. "Consider coming to work for me, Remo. Nostrum, ink, can use a house assassin. I am the best, of course, but as the chief, I cannot stoop to such lowly work."

"What, have we joined the ranks of royalty?" Remo asked.

"Some have greatness thrust upon them-" Chiun began.

"And others have it slip between their fingers because they get greedy," Remo finished.

Chiun's face was stung. "I am still the Master of Sinanju."

"Who's in a dither because some brokerage house is about to buy the rug out from under him."

"This is my castle," Chiun said firmly.

"Not if you've sold most of your stock and Looncraft can buy it up."

"Maybe you should buy it back," Faith interjected. "Top his offer."

"What? Buy back all that worthless paper?"

"It's not worthless if you lose ownership because of it," Remo countered. "I may not know a lot about high finance, but I know that much."

Chiun considered. "Perhaps I will speak to Smith after all," he said.

"Can't hurt," Remo said in a reasonable tone.

Moments later they were in Chiun's bare office. Remo put the call through because it was a secure line which couldn't be entrusted to Faith, who waited outside the office.

"Smith, Remo. Chiun wants to talk to you." Remo handed the phone to the Master of Sinanju.

"Smith! Nostrum is under siege."

"Excellent. Who is it?" Smith asked eagerly. His voice was amplified by a speakerphone attachment.

"A cabal who call themselves Looncraft, Dymstar d."

"Wood," Remo interjected. "Buttonwood."

"I was hoping something like this would happen," Smith said.

"What? You admit betraying me, Smith?"

"No, of course not. But obviously Looncraft is interested in the Global block Nostrum holds."

"Maybe not," Remo put in. "Chiun's changed the rules. He's been selling his stock above the market price. No cash, no credit. Investors have to plunk down gold and they walk off with stock."

Smith groaned. "Oh, no. A move like that is like blood in the water to those sharks. They'll think you're up to something. No wonder Looncraft has become interested in Nostrum. They must believe you're an up-and-coming company."

"So maybe they don't want the Global stock after all," Remo said in disappointment.

"It's very, very likely," Smith replied dispiritedly.

"We will find out," Chiun said. "We will offer them Global and see if they go away."

"No," Smith said quickly. "Global is our bait. It's the only thing we have that will draw out the plotters. Under no circumstance must you sell that stock. Or any of your other holdings. We have a responsibility to the world economy to show faith in the marketplace."

"You cannot stop me, Smith," Chiun warned.

"Perhaps you should call a meeting of the board of directors before you begin," Smith said after a tight pause.

"Who are they?"

"The co-owners of Nostrum. Majority shareholders."

"And who are these people?"

"Remo is one. I believe he's secretary."

"What? Remo owns Nostrum too?"

"I do?" Remo said, surprise on his face.

"And there are others," Smith added. "It's standard corporate organization. Before Nostrum can make any major decisions, such as selling off Global stock, a full board meeting must be convened and the matter voted on."

Chiun fumed. His hazel eyes squeezed into slits of bitterness.

"There will be no need for that," Chiun said in a distant voice. "And since you know so much about these matters, what do you suggest I do?"

"Looncraft wants Nostrum," Smith explained. "That much we know. Why don't you meet with him? Take his temperature. "

"Is he sick?"

"It's an expression," Smith said. "See if his interest is in Nostrum or your Global holdings. The Asian stock markets will open at eight o'clock Sunday night, our time. We must be prepared for a rout. Every moment is precious. There is still time to head off another crash."

"Very well," Chiun said, hanging up. He turned to Remo with smoldering eyes. "Why didn't you tell me you were secretary of Nostrum?"

"Because I didn't know," Remo answered. "And if you want to know the truth, I don't care. This is just another Harold Smith snow job. I don't own anything. And neither do you. This place is a house of cards, and when this job is done, Smith is going to light a match to it. Count on it."

"And Smith will rue the day," Chiun said levelly.

"Okay, so what's our next move . . . Chief?"

"Your next move it to take your rightful place at the reception area."

"Me?"

"Did you not hear Smith? You are secretary. Then you will do a secretary's job and earn your pay."

"I get paid?"

"Two dollars an hour."

"No chance. I gotta have, let me see . . . two dollars and eighty-nine cents." "Two sixty-nine. And not a penny more."

"I'll take it," Remo said, grinning. "Is that what you pay Faith?"

"No," Chiun said seriously. "She has seniority over you. Besides, she is now my aide-de-camp in the bitter conflict to come."

"Anything to keep me out of that itchy bear suit," Remo said fervently.

Chapter 12

P. M. Looncraft drained the last of his afternoon tea before responding to his secretary's intercom buzz. It was nearly six p.m., the end of a busy day. He was in no mood to be interrupted.

Looncraft spoke into the intercom. "Yes?"

"A Mr. Chiun on line two."

Looncraft blinked. "Chiun, of Nostrum?"

"That is what I understand, Mr. Looncraft."

"Tell him I am at a meeting," Looncraft said instantly. "Let the beggar cool his heels."

"Yes, Mr. Looncraft."

P. M. Looncraft leaned back in his black leather executive's chair. He was surprised. This Chiun was contacting him. Imagine. Well, let him stew in his own juices. There was no reason to speak with him, although Looncraft had a tickle of curiosity about this new Wall Street genius who could command gold ingots in return for his stock.

Looncraft attended to a few minor business details and placed all important papers in his briefcase. Before leaving his office, he went to his personal computer and logged onto the Mayflower Descendants bulletin board. It was quiescent, which surprised him. He had expected an update on the Reuters matter.

Gathering up his briefcase, he left Looncraft, Dymstar d with not so much as a good-night to his secretary or any of his employees, who would toil at their desks for another hour. He especially ignored Ronald Johnson.

Looncraft's Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud was waiting for him at the curb thirty-four stories below, his liveried chauffeur standing stiffly by the open door.

"Home, Mipps," Looncraft said. The door closed behind him and Looncraft settled back into the plush interior.

He noticed the smell first. Like a wild animal's scent.

The Rolls started from the curb, pushing Looncraft into the hairy figure seated beside him in the dim limousine interior.

Looncraft recoiled from the unexpected scratching of rough hair as if from a cactus.

"My word!" he said in horror.

"How's it going?" a rumbling voice asked conversationally.

Looncraft touched a light switch. The overhead light revealed a hulking figure swathed in brownish fur.

"Who the devil are you?" Looncraft sputtered.

"You've heard of the Waltzing Bear?"

"Vaguely. "

"Well, I'm the Wall Street Bear. We're cousins."

"Balderdash. I know Wall Street and everything there is to know about it, and I've never heard of you."

"I came by earlier today. Don't tell me you didn't get the message."

"What message?"

"That I came by."

"Are you daft?"

"Are you English?" the bear asked suddenly.

"My ancestors helped to build this country while yours no doubt were living in dripping caves. The Looncrafts were among the first to settle in Plymouth."

"Your accent doesn't sound English, but your lingo does."

"I am a proud descendant of H. P. Looncraft, who came to this country when George Washington was a mere back-alley drabtail."

"You're also the one who wants to take over Nostrum, Ink. With a K."

"There is no law against acquiring a company such as that one. And I've taken a fancy to it."

"Well, unfancy it," the bear told P. M. Looncraft in serious tones. "The CEO of Nostrum doesn't appreciate your interest. And he definitely does not take kindly to interference."

"Chiun sent you?"

"Actually, I'm the spirit of Wall Street. I guard good companies against bad ones. You're the bad one. Nostrum's the good one."

"Rubbish. In business there is no good or bad. Just profit and loss."

"Spoken like a true business pirate. So what's your interest in Nostrum?"

"If you wish to discuss this," P. M. Looncraft sniffed, "see my girl about an appointment."

"Don't need an appointment," the bear said, grabbing a fistful of Looncraft's shirtfront in a formaldehyde-scented paw. "Not while I have you."

"Unhand me, you . . . you cur."

"You've got me confused with the Hound of the Garment District. And are you sure you're not English?"

"I have told you, my forebears-" Looncraft began.

"Forget your forebears. I'm the only bear you have to worry about right now. You didn't accept Chiun's phone call. Big mistake. Now he's mad."

"I do not care. And do you mind releasing my shirt? These are custom-made by H. Huntsman & Sons."

"Sorry. I get excited when no one takes me seriously," the bear told P. M. Looncraft. He let go, his bear paws brushing imaginary dirt from Looncraft's shirtfront. One claw snagged his tie, shredding it.

"Sorry," the bear said again. "Keep forgetting to trim my nails. I just crawled out of hibernation, you know."

"You do not fool me," Looncraft said stiffly. "You are not an actual bear. You are only a man in a ratty suit."

"I guess that's how you got to be a big wheel, huh? I admit it. Under this rug is a live human being. But no one must ever see my face. That's why I had to become Bear-Man."

"Bear-Man?"

"It's a nasty job, but somebody's got to protect the small investor. So let's get down to brass claws. You're after Nostrum. I'm telling you Nostrum's off limits. It has nothing you want-unless you like investing in trouble."

"That is for me to determine," Looncraft said acidly.

"That's the answer I expected, so I'm going to ask you straight out. Are you after Nostrum or just its Global stock?"

Looncraft's prim mouth tightened into a bloodless band.

"No comment, huh?" Bear-Man said. "I think you just answered my question."

"I do not have to speak with you. Return to your master-"

"Chief. He likes to be called 'Chief.' "

"Very well. Return to your chief and inform him that P. M. Looncraft intends to acquire as much Nostrum stock as he can lay hands on, and then he will take very personal pleasure in firing Mr. Chiun as CEO on the day he walks in the door as its new owner. Will you be good enough to deliver that message to him?"

"I will. But believe me, you don't want me to."

"I would appreciate it if you would convey the message, just the same."

"Okay," Bear-Man said. "Have your driver let me off at the next corner and I guarantee your words will be caressing his ears within a half-hour."

"Delighted," Looncraft said through a thin smile. He picked up the speaking tube. "Mipps, pull up at the next convenient intersection. I have a passenger who wishes to alight."

"Excuse me, Mr. Looncraft. You're alone back there."

"Precisely what I wish to speak to you about after we have discharged our passenger," P. M. Looncraft said in a frigid voice.

Remo Williams stepped from the Rolls-Royce and lifted a paw to hail a cab. Or attempted to. Three cabs mistook him for a costumed street mime and ignored him.

The fourth was only too happy to give the newly famous Bear-Man a ride when he jumped on his hood at a red light and climbed in through a window, saying, "Nostrum Building."

"You got pockets in that suit?" the cabby asked suspiciously.

A heavy paw settled onto the driver's shoulder. Claws dug into his flesh with relentless pressure.

"Now, that's a very, very personal question to ask a bear," Remo said.

The driver ran the light in his hurry to get Remo to his destination.

Bear-Man strolled into the Nostrum lobby and bounded into an elevator. But it was Remo Williams who stepped off at the eighth floor. He had the Bear-Man costume rolled tightly under his arm as he slipped into the men's room. He pushed it into a covered trash receptacle and forced the lid irrevocably into place with a quick slap. Unless someone physically removed the receptacle, the suit would be there when Remo next needed it, which he fervently hoped was never. He felt like he needed a shower.

The Master of Sinanju sat on his executive mat in his otherwise bare office. It was growing dark outside.

"You gave Looncraft my warning?" Chiun demanded.

"Yep. And he gave me a message in return. He says he's looking forward to tossing you out on the street when he takes over."

Chiun shot to his feet. His cheeks puffed out like an angry blowfish. "Then it is war!" he raged, shaking a tight fist.

"So what's the battle plan?"

"We will descend on him and smite him for his temerity."

"That will take care of Looncraft," Remo pointed out in a reasonable tone, "but not Looncraft, Dymstar d. Someone will just take his place as the head of that company, and the problem will be the same."

"Then we will kill his successor and every successor thereafter until no one will dare take his place."

"I admire your persistence, but Smith won't like that," Remo said. "Besides, Looncraft as much as admitted that he's really after your Global stock."

Chiun's shaking fist dropped. It disappeared into his joined kimono sleeves. "He did?"

Remo nodded firmly. "He did. And you can't get him off your back without getting Smith's permission."

"I am through with Smith," Chiun announced.

"Good. Let's go to Mexico. Both of us."

"Not until I have seen to this trouble. Get Smith on the line for me."

"You know," Remo said, dropping to the floor and dialing the special number, "this isn't what Smith meant when he told you I was the corporation's secretary."

"No?" Chiun snapped. "Then why are you doing as I bid?"

"Never mind," Remo growled. "Smith? It's Remo. We had a break. Looncraft as much as admitted he's after Nostrum's Global stock."

Remo listened for a while. Then he looked up.

"Smith wants a meet."

"Inform Smith that I have pressing business matters I must first attend to," Chiun said distantly.

"Did you hear that, Smitty?" Remo asked into the phone. He listened some more. To Chiun he said, "Smitty said if the market crashes on Monday, Nostrum won't be worth the concrete it sits on. His exact words."

"Inform Smith that I will attempt to fit him into my busy schedule," Chiun said grudgingly.

Remo passed on the message as "We're on our way, Smitty."

Remo hung up and asked, "Shall I call a travel agency?"

"It will not be necessary," Chiun sniffed. "The Nostrum corporate jet is at our disposal."

"We have a corporate jet? Really?"

Chiun started for the door. "All important personages have corporate jets. Come, Remo."

Remo followed the Master of Sinanju through the trading room. On their way through, Chiun called out in a loud voice, "Toil harder, minions."

Their chorused "Yes, Chief" sounded like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on a bad day.

"My corporate tribe loves me," Chiun said as the elevator door closed after them.

Dr. Harold W. Smith waited until the Folcroft lobby guard flashed the warning that Remo and Chiun had entered the building before switching from his leather chair to the wheelchair. He rolled back into place behind his desk.

Remo and Chiun entered shortly thereafter.

"Master Chiun, Remo," Smith said in his colorless voice.

Chiun's "Emperor" was distant. Remo slouched onto a sofa and folded his arms unhappily.

"I'm afraid this strategy session is necessary," Smith said, unperturbed. "In another twenty-four hours the Tokyo and Hong Kong markets begin trading. Already there are reports of nervousness in the overseas markets. It bodes ill for Monday."

"So what?" Remo said carelessly. "Everyone knows that the little guy dived out of the market in eighty-seven. It's just big companies trading now. Besides, all my money is in cash."

"And mine in gold," Chiun added.

"Please," Smith said. "Let's be adults about this."

"You've got Chiun here-who doesn't know a Rolodex from a Rolex-playing the big wheel, and me running around Wall Street dressed like a bear, and now you want us to act like adults. Sorry, Smith. That train left the station this morning ."

Smith fiddled with a pencil.

"We have made progress," he said. "Up until now we couldn't be certain if this was a general slump or if Global stock was the goal. I believe the latter now. Looncraft would appear to be our best suspect, although it is difficult to believe. Looncraft Dymstar d is one of the premier investment houses in the world. Surely a man as seasoned in high finance as Looncraft would not cause such a financial upheaval merely to obtain a company, no matter how desirable. LD ily invested across the board. They stand to lose more than they gain."

"Since the junk-bond market went belly-up last year, maybe he's gotten desperate," Remo suggested.

"Possibly. But in order to take control of that company, he would have to wrest away not only the Nostrum holdings but also those of the Lippincott Mercantile Bank and DeGoone Slickens. Slickens and Looncraft were bitter enemies all during the takeover mania of the eighties. Once Slickens learns that Looncraft is after Global Communications, he will attempt to hold him up for the moon. Hmm. This would explain why Looncraft hasn't made an overt move for Global. He may be counting on a Monday stock collapse to depress the prices enough that the other holders will be forced to sell."

"I do not understand any of this," Chiun complained.

"Neither do I," Remo admitted. "If Looncraft is willing to wait for a panic sell-off, why is he after Nostrum? He could wait Chiun out too."

"He knows I am cannier than that," Chiun insisted. "My reputation has preceded me."

"No," Smith said slowly. "Remo is exactly correct." Remo shot Chiun a Chesire-cat grin. Chiun flounced around, presenting his colorful back to Remo.

"This requires more thought," Smith muttered half to himself. "There must be more to this business. And where does Reuters fit into this? Looncraft has no connection with them, so far as I know."

"You know," Remo said, "Looncraft struck me as being very English."

"Looncraft? Nonsense. His family has been in America almost as long as my own. Looncrafts helped build this country. Wall Street lore says that when the stock market was first formed in the shade of a tree near what is now Wall Street, a Looncraft was part of the agreement. Today P. M. Looncraft is hailed as the King of the Street."

"Funny," Remo said. "He told me almost the exact same thing-except he didn't mention the part about the tree. "

"Looncraft is as American as I am," Smith said firmly. "Whatever he is up to, he is an American."

"He talked like a Brit," Remo insisted. "Except for his accent. That's the part that threw me. He sounded kinda like a Hollywood actor trying to pass for English. He had the slang down pat, but not the sound."

"His family predates the Revolution. Perhaps he is proud of his lineage."

"Yeah, he did seem pretty smug about the whole thing," Remo admitted.

Chiun spoke up. "A Korean is a Korean," he said sagely.

"What's that?" Smith asked, his brow furrowing.

"I have lived in this country for many years," Chiun explained, "but I have not lost my Koreanness. I have had ancestors who dwelt in Egypt and Siam and Tibet, standing guard at thrones for most of their adult lives. Yet when they returned to Sinanju, to retire or to die or to be buried, no one questioned their Koreanness simply because they had dwelt apart for a span of time."

"What are you trying to say, Master of Sinanju?" Smith asked, interested.

"I am saying that where one dwells does not change what one is," Chiun said. "I have noticed in this country that if one is white, one is considered an American after but one generation. But a Korean or a Chinese or a Turk is considered a Korean or a Chinese or a Turk in his heart, regardless of the number of years he had spent here."

"I still do not get your drift," Smith said, mystified.

"If Remo felt that this Looncraft person was English, perhaps he is," Chiun answered. "In his heart."

"Looncraft is no more English than I."

"You know," Remo put in, "that was the other thing about him. Now that I think of it, he kinda reminded me of you, Smith."

"Hush, Remo," Chiun admonished. To Smith he said, "You hail from the province called New England, Smith?"

"I grew up in Vermont and New Hampshire," Smith admitted. "But New England is just a name now. It has no political meaning. If you mean to suggest that this matter may have British origins, I'm afraid you have a great deal to learn about American culture."

"And you have much to learn about human nature," Chiun retorted.

"I will accept that," Smith said thoughtfully. "Now, this is what I think we should do. If Looncraft's goal is Global Communications, there is no reason, now that we know he's in back of this problem, not to sell him Nostrum's shares. He should back away from Nostrum. Perhaps that will take the pressure off the stock market as well. If Looncraft can consummate a successful takeover of Global, by whatever public means, the market might be encouraged by that transaction."

"Are you sure?" Remo asked. "We could be playing into his hands."

"Above everything else, we must avoid a Monday-morning crash. If Looncraft is our stock manipulator, there will be time enough to deal with him. The stock market comes first. Are you agreeable, Master of Sinanju?"

"Why ask me?" Chiun said in a dry voice. "I do not own Nostrum alone. There is Remo, my secretary, who keeps secrets even from me."

"I told you," Remo said wearily. " I had no idea I had stock in Nostrum."

"And the bored directors," Chiun added, "who are aptly named, for I have never seen any of them."

"Board of directors," Smith said. "And I will obtain their proxy votes. They are just straw men."

"Did you hear that, Remo?" Chiun growled. "I am co-owner of an important corporation with a bear and scarecrows. "

"Hey, I warned you this was a snow job all along," Remo shot back. "Don't complain to me. Complain to Smith."

"I will do as you suggest, Smith," Chiun said at last. "But only to protect my corporation from this duplicitous raider. "

"It is for the best," Smith said. "And I suggest you make the arrangements tonight. The sooner the better."

Remo stood up as Chiun turned on his heel and padded from Smith's office.

"One moment, Remo," Smith called after him.

"Forget it, Smith," Remo called over his shoulder. "I don't work for you. I'm officially on Chiun's payroll now. I pull down a cool two sixty-nine an hour."

"Actually, Remo, I was hoping you might push me to my car," Smith said, rolling out from behind his desk.

Remo stopped. "Oh, I forgot about the chair. Well, why not? It's on the way." Remo got behind Smith's wheelchair and started pushing. He joined Chiun in the elevator and guided Smith out to the parking lot.

"Open the car door, will you, Chiun?" Remo asked.

As the Master of Sinanju opened the driver's door, Remo carefully picked Smith up in both arms-Smith felt surprisingly light-and deposited him behind the wheel.

"Thank you, Remo," Smith said quietly.

"Can you really drive like this?" Remo asked solicitously as he slammed the door closed.

"My legs will not support me just yet, but I can manage the pedals." Smith started the car up. "Please keep me informed," he said, and pulled away.

Remo watched him go, his face sad.

" I feel sort of sorry for him, you know. Even after all he's put me through.

"And me," Chiun said. "Do not forget his base trickery."

"That's Smith for you," Remo said. "Okay, let's get a move on. The corporate jet awaits . . . ."

Chapter 13

The private estate of P. M. Looncraft was a two-story manor in the Great Neck section of Long Island. Designed by a Welsh architect, it was built of firebrick inside and out so that in the event of a fire the ashes could be hauled away, the indestructible walls hosed down, and the old furniture replaced with new literally overnight. The house was also as earthquake-proof as it was possible to make a house. It was built to withstand hurricanes, tornadoes and any other natural cataclysm short of a direct nuclear strike.

A lead-lined fallout shelter fifty feet below the basement awaited that eventuality.

P. M. Looncraft had no more fear of fire than any homeowner, but he treasured his orderly, well-regimented life. He saw no one and engaged in no activity that would inhibit his six-day work week. And in its baronial splendor, his home was designed to shield him from outside intrusion.

Time was money to P. M. Looncraft. But his privacy was sacred.

So when the soft wind-chimelike tinkling of his front doorbell filtered into his cheery living room, P. M. Looncraft's long face collapsed in a disapproving frown. He detested visitors-especially unannounced ones.

Looncraft's butler padded out of the pantry and said in precise Oxbridge English, "I shall see who it is, master."

Looncraft said nothing. That in itself signaled that he neither expected nor welcomed whoever was at his door.

Taking a pinch of snuff from a monogrammed box, Looncraft put the unwanted visitor out of his mind as he delicately inhaled it through each nostril. His butler, Danvers, was a product of the finest English butlering school. No one entered Looncraft's firebrick castle unless Danvers allowed him in.

Danvers' low-pitched voice drifted in from the foyer, politely and precisely informing the visitor-whoever he might be-that Mr. Looncraft was not in to callers. Danvers' voice repeated the sentence in a slightly more insistent voice, and then again in a kind of high girlish skirl.

"Gentlemen, please! You are tresp-"

The abruptness with which Danvers' voice was cut off shocked P. M. Looncraft to his feet. He started for the fireproof safe that occupied one corner of the room. It covered a trapdoor that connected to the bomb shelter with a fire-pole. P. M. Looncraft was keenly aware of the threat kidnappers presented to the modern businessman.

Looncraft got halfway across the room before a cool and casual voice asked him a question.

"Where do you want him?" the voice said.

Looncraft turned. A lean young man of indeterminate age was coming into the room. He carried Danvers, all six-foot-one and 211 pounds of him, under one arm as if carrying a goose-feather pillow.

Even more remarkable, Danvers did not resist. He simply hung there, his arms and legs and neck frozen as if from sudden rigor mortis.

"Danvers! Good God, man! What's happened to you?" P. M. Looncraft called in his precise New England voice.

Danvers' mouth was locked in the open position. His tongue squirmed as if trying to make consonants, but the only sound came from his nose. It buzzed. Rather like a fly.

"What have you done to Danvers?" Looncraft said coldly.

"Long story," the intruder said unconcernedly. "So where do you want him?" He was dressed in his underwear, Looncraft saw to his horror. He wore a white T-shirt and chino pants. "C'mon, I haven't got all night."

"On the divan," Looncraft said. And because he pointed, Remo Williams, who didn't know a divan from Saran Wrap, knew enough to put him on the sofa.

Danvers settled on the cushions in a kind of upended-beetle position. He didn't move, even when he started to tip over. The man pushed him back with a casual if contemptible gesture.

"What is the meaning of this?" Looncraft asked stiffly. He took a step backward. The intruder appeared to be unarmed, but Looncraft knew that certain kinds of men, like other predators, would chase you if you ran from them. Looncraft would not run. He was a Looncraft. Except, of course, to preserve his life.

"Someone wants a meet with you."

"I am going nowhere with you, you interloper."

"That's fine. Because he's come to you."

Then a fantastic figure stepped into the room. He was a little man, of doubtful Asiatic heritage, Looncraft saw. He wore an outlandish blue-and-gold ceremonial garment. His hands were linked like an old-fashioned postcard Chinaman's in his touching wide sleeves.

"I am Chiun," he said formally, his hazel eyes glittering. "Chief of Nostrum, Ink."

"You have some nerve intruding upon my home," Looncraft said, curling his thin upper lip disdainfully.

"I will overlook your impertinence in not accepting my calls, white," the one called Chiun said as the other man folded his arms like some skinny eunuch in a high-school production of The King and I. "For I have come to make peace with you."

"Peace?"

"You covet Nostrum," said Chiun, stepping closer. His sandals made no sound on the bare brick flooring. "Yet I have reason to believe that it is not Nostrum you truly desire, but these."

The joined sleeves parted like a train uncoupling, to reveal a sheaf of folded papers clutched in one ivory claw. Looncraft recognized them as stock certificates.

"And what, pray tell, are those?" Looncraft wanted to know.

"I told you he sounded almost English," the lean man put in suddenly.

"He does not sound at all English," Chiun retorted, not looking away from Looncraft's gaze. "But he speaks like an inhabitant of Gaul."

Looncraft emitted a barking laugh. "Gaul! My dear heathen. "

"Do not call me that," Chiun said coldly. "My ancestors were known throughout the civilized world when yours were painting themselves blue and wearing animal skins."

Looncraft's disdainfully curled upper lip almost disappeared as it locked with his lower lip.

"I offer these stocks to you," Chiun continued, "because I have been advised that it is the prudent thing to do."

"At market or-?"

"In gold," Chiun returned. "No checks."

"I'm afraid I have no gold on hand," Looncraft said in an amused voice.

"Take cash," the man in the T-shirt put in.

Chiun hesitated. His clear eyes narrowed, and Looncraft wondered if he was some kind of half-breed. He detested people of diluted heritage.

"Very well," Chiun said unhappily.

"One moment," Looncraft said, going to his safe. He knelt and twirled the tumblers. Opening a box, he withdrew a stack of hundred dollar bills, broke the bank's paper band, and counted out a precise number of bills.

"If you are surrendering your entire holding," Looncraft said after he closed the safe, "this should cover the transaction."

The two men exchanged sheafs of paper. Chiun ran his fingers along the top of the stack of bills, his eyes focused.

"Not going to count it?" Looncraft said. "Trusting sort, eh?"

"You are right. I should recount," Chiun said. He fanned the bills again and, satisfied, tucked the money in one sleeve.

"These certificates seem to be in order," Looncraft said after going through the surrendered stock. "I trust that concludes our somewhat unorthodox transaction."

"You have what you covet, businessman," Chiun intoned coldly. "Now you will leave Nostrum alone."

"I am a businessman, as you say. I do only what is good for business. And I see you are very serious in your own way."