Market Force

"I don't need to be reminded of my orders," MacGulry growled. "Stop wasting my time and get to the point."

Adler nodded crisply. "Sorry, sir," he said. He had one of the seated men insert a big black videotape into the slot on the face of the monitor station.

"I can't be completely certain at this point, mind you," Adler said. "But I believe we've found what you were looking for. Or, rather, who."

On the four television screens above the station, the cartoon cut out. A video image began playing. It had been taped at a weird angle. Blurry, snow-covered branches jutted directly in front of the lens. Beyond them, MacGulry saw a lone man walking down a bombed-out street.

"It's out of focus," MacGulry complained gruffly. "I can't see his face." In his head, the media magnate was already planning on firing the anonymous camera operator.

Adler leaned forward, peering up at the blurry image.

"I thought it was the fault of the cameraman," the Englishman said, his big jaw locked tight in concentration. "But according to our person on the ground, the subject did that to his face by himself."

MacGulry's eyes grew flat. "So he's hooked up to a bloody paint mixer?" he snarled. "People's heads don't move like that. Not without scrambling their brains to mush. How many baby brains do your nannies have to puree before you Brits figure that out? Who told you he could do that?"

As he spoke, the man with the blurry face stepped over to where the cameraman was hiding. Things went crazy for a moment before the camera settled on a pale, pretty face. The woman was standing up from behind a broken-down section of wall in an otherwise empty lot.

Robbie MacGulry's face sagged with strained patience.

"Cindee Maloo," he muttered to himself.

"Yes," Rodney Adler said uncomfortably.

He knew that MacGulry had been linked romantically to the woman in question. Adler assumed it had ended when she had gotten a job at rival BCN on the high-profile Winner show. He had only recently found out that she was still somehow secretly on the team.

"He's not even a Vox cameraman," Adler said. "He works on 'Winner' with Ms. Maloo. Even though he did a poor job, that is still probably, er, possibly the individual--or rather one of the individuals-you were looking for."

He held his breath, hoping he wasn't about to join on the dole queue a thousand other Vox employees who had been foolish enough to upset the great Robbie MacGulry.

MacGulry crossed his arms, his perpetual scowl drawn into deeply angry furrows.

"Ten words or less. Why is it him?"

Adler released a slip of breath. "Um..."

"First word," MacGulry snapped.

Rodney Adler wasn't sure um would pass the official Scrabble requirements of an actual word, but he couldn't very well argue.

He concentrated. "T-shirt. Loafers," he said.

"Three. And I'm still not impressed."

"Thin. Thick wrists. Graceful."

"Four, five, six, seven."

Adler began counting on his fingers. "Displays ... unusual ... abilities."

He finished with a weak shrug, unconvinced by his own argument.

MacGulry exhaled. He could still taste the kangaroo blood on his breath. The scowl never left his face as he examined the screen.

Adler had looped the footage. It skipped off of Cindee Maloo, cutting back to the point where the stranger was walking along the street.

"Freeze frame," MacGulry ordered.

A technician quickly did as he was told. The image froze on the thin man on the Harlem sidewalk. The subject's face remained maddeningly out of focus.

MacGulry studied the picture for a few seconds. The camera work was sloppy, but enough was visible to make an educated guess. The image of the man in Harlem did match the description he had been given. MacGulry made an abrupt decision.

"Get outta here," he ordered the men, twirling back around in his seat.

The nearby men didn't need to be told a second time. They were joined by the rest of the Vox employees. Rodney Adler in the lead, they quickly fled the room.

Eyes locked on one monitor, MacGulry snatched up a phone receiver from the console before him. Without looking, he stabbed out a number. He didn't have to look to know he hadn't misdialed. He'd never misdial that number.

The phone didn't ring. It never rang. As usual, it went from empty air one moment to the voice the next. To MacGulry, somehow that familiar voice seemed more insubstantial than the dead air that preceded it.

"Hello, Robbie."

MacGulry used to wonder how the man on the other end of the line always knew it was him. He had realized in recent years that the man with the smooth voice had to have had some early version of caller ID long before it had become available to the general public.

"G'day, mate," MacGulry said. "Thought you might be interested in seeing something one of my people taped in the States."

"Yes. The younger of the two men I asked you to look for."

MacGulry's tan face bunched into a frown. He knew. Somehow he already knew.

There had been two men described to MacGulry initially. An old Asian and a young white. He had been ordered to report if they showed up in Harlem. "I think the mob action must have worked," MacGulry said.

"I wasn't entirely certain it would," said the smooth voice. "I'm pleased that it did. I only wish I'd been certain one of them would show up at the police station. I could have monitored the situation personally rather than rely on the automated signals. But with the rioters in custody there was no certainty they would follow up. It's clear I made in error calculating those odds. Oh, well. No harm. Actually, Robbie, I was wondering how long it would take you to call about all this. It's been some time since your people received the Caucasian's image."

"I didn't think your friends would show up so soon."

"One did. And instead of being where you were supposed to be, you decided to go hunting."

"You knew that, too?" MacGulry asked dully.

"There is precious little I don't know, Robbie. I told you to remain in Wollongong. I told you this situation would have to be monitored carefully if it is to turn out beneficially for both of us. I told you the subjects could arrive very quickly. They have a history of doing so."

"I heard all that, mate," MacGulry said, his tone apologetic. "I just didn't think it'd be so soon." MacGulry was starting to sweat. He got nervous every time he talked to the cold bastard on the phone. In those brief phone conversations, he caught a glimpse of the torture he lived to inflict on his own employees.

The smooth voice didn't miss a beat. "Next time, be more conscientious."

"Yes, sir," MacGulry replied.

"Don't call me that. It's far too formal for longtime business associates like us."

"Sorry, mate," MacGulry said.

"That's better. Now, with the Caucasian on the ground in Harlem, you'll need to act quickly. With this particular crisis now over, he might not remain in the New York region long."

"I'll get started right away," MacGulry promised. "I just have one question. How could you possibly know about this before me? The footage was only sent to us via satellite a few hours ago."

"I intercepted it in transit. Remember, I am very interested in the events in New York. Keep in touch." The line went dead.

Robbie MacGulry replaced the receiver. He was screaming even as he dropped the phone in its cradle. "Turn up the bloody air conditioner!" he bellowed. The door sprang open and a dozen men piled into the room. Rodney Adler was tripping along at the head of the pack. He raced over to the thermostat.

As his employees stumbled to accommodate their boss, Robbie MacGulry pulled out a handkerchief to mop the sweat that glistened in the grooves of his dark, lined forehead.

"Taking over the world'd be a hell of a lot easier without a silent partner," he muttered to himself. He got up from his chair. On the monitors behind him, Remo's blurry image remained frozen in place.

Chapter 12

Behind his locked door in the administrative wing of Folcroft Sanitarium, Harold W. Smith studied the data on his computer monitor with deeply troubled eyes.

Several hours had passed since Remo's image had been broadcast to the Harlem police station. Apparently, no one who had seen it was aware they'd done so. According to the report Smith had just read, no one was quite sure what had happened at the police station where Remo had been attacked. A police spokesman was suggesting that the officers there had been overcome by narcotics fumes, although so far no one had been able to locate the source. There was no mention of a chase involving a suspect matching Remo's description. By the sounds of it, memory of the event was already bleeding from the minds of the police.

The report offered welcome breathing room for Smith to think.

So far events in Harlem had not blossomed into something worse for CURE. Good for the moment, but it might only be a matter of time.

Under ordinary circumstances it would have been easy to blame Minister Shittman for what had happened in and outside of the police station. He was a man comfortable with mobs, having spent a career stirring the embers of racial hatred. But apparently he was an unwitting dupe in a larger scheme.

There had been 147 rioters arrested that morning. While some of them had criminal records, many more did not. There were mothers, grandmothers. Even a Korean grocer and his wife had joined the mob. Neither the previous night's rioters nor the police were typical Shittman followers.

The truth had come to startling light minutes after Remo had called from the Harlem police station. In a shocking sidewalk press conference in Harlem, it was revealed that the BCN television network was possessed of a technology capable of brainwashing television viewers. BCN was to blame for the mob attack on the former president's building. The network executive who had set up shop in the basement of Shittman's church had attested to that fact before committing suicide.

Smith was greatly relieved when the BCN executive's last words made no mention of Remo. But there was still the question of why a major American television network had been subliminally broadcasting an image of CURE's enforcement arm.

The dead man had named the president of the network as a coconspirator. When Remo called back after stopping by the Harlem church, Smith had sent him after the head of BCN.

Now, as he sat in the solitude of his office, Smith stared in frustration at the canted monitor below the surface of his desk. He had done all the digging he could do. Until Remo turned up something more, all Smith could do was wait.

As he sat in the afternoon gloom of his office, something nagged at the back of Smith's mind. With a thoughtful hum, he lowered his hands to the edge of his desk. An alphanumeric keyboard appeared as if by magic from the black background.

Typing swiftly, he accessed the BCN network's prime-time lineup. There were only three network shows on the previous evening. Shittman had indicated to Remo that he had received his subliminal commands through a program called Winner.

Something about that title seemed familiar to Smith. It had first come to him during Remo's call, but he didn't know why. In a flash, he realized where he'd heard it before.

Smith reached across the desk for his intercom. "Yes, Dr. Smith?" asked his secretary's voice.

"Mrs. Mikulka, could you please come in here for a moment?" Smith said.

He pressed a button at the base of the intercom, silently unlocking the door. A moment later, Eileen Mikulka stuck her blue-haired head in the room.

"Is something wrong, Dr. Smith?" Mrs. Mikulka asked worriedly. "It's not Mr. Howard, is it?" She wrung her hands as she approached his desk. It was a nervous habit she had displayed ever since the police had come stampeding into her office two days before.

"No," Smith said. "This is of a more personal nature. I recently overheard you discussing your son's television-viewing habits with a nurse in the cafeteria."

Mrs. Mikulka blinked. "I'm sorry," she said, unsure what she had done wrong. "I get lunch there sometimes. If you don't want me to, I suppose I can eat at my desk."

"That isn't a problem," Smith said. "I believe you mentioned that your son was looking for a copy of a program called 'Winner.' He had apparently missed an episode."

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Mikulka said. "That would be Kieran, he's my youngest. Thirty-five and doesn't have a job right now. Some boys just take a little longer to find their way, I guess. He's a big fan of that show. He usually tapes it when he's not home, but last Thursday night there was a car accident that knocked out the power for a few minutes and the VCR went out. When he found out he'd missed it, he asked me to ask around to see if anyone here had taped it."

"Do you know if he taped last night's episode?"

She bit her lip. "Well, he went out with his brother Konrad last night. He didn't get home until late, so I suppose he set the machine to tape it as usual."

"I would like to borrow that tape. Would you please go home and get it for me?"

"Oh," Mrs. Mikulka said, confused. "Do you want me to wait until I'm done work for the day?" Smith checked his watch. It was only two in the afternoon. Although it was tempting to let her run this errand on her own time, Smith did not want to wait.

"Now would be better if you don't mind," he said.

"Oh, I don't mind," Mrs. Mikulka said. "I'm happy to do a favor for your wife."

Smith's expression grew puzzled. "My wife?"

"Well, this is for her, isn't it? I assumed she'd forgotten to tape it for herself."

"My wife doesn't own a video recorder."

Mrs. Mikulka didn't think her employer ever watched television. She knew he liked computers, involving himself with solitaire or other distractions. This was the first indication she had that something else might be going on in the Folcroft administrator's office. If he spent his time hidden away watching those silly reality-TV shows, it was no wonder he kept the door locked most of the time.

"I just assumed it was for your wife. I'll run home and get the tape right now. I'll be back as fast as I can."

As she hurried from the room, Smith pursed his lips.

So far the damage was limited to Harlem. Only people who lived within a few blocks of Hal Shittman's Greater Congregation of the Lord Church had fallen victim to the subliminal signals. The dead BCN man had broadcast from there. But there could be other commands laced into the same program in different areas. And, like the image of Remo at the police station, some of those could be linked to CURE.

Feeling a fresh twinge of worry deep in his belly, Smith reached in his pocket for his wallet.

TWO CRISP ONE-DOLLAR bills sat on the edge of Smith's desk when Eileen Mikulka returned twenty minutes later.

The first words out of his secretary's mouth almost sent the CURE director into cardiac arrest.

"It's a shame about Remo," Mrs. Mikulka said as she handed over the tape.

"Excuse me?" he gasped. What little color he possessed drained from Smith's gray face.

"He was the poor 'Winner' contestant who was killed last night. Kieran told me about it when I went home just now. That mob killed him on the set of the show." She noticed the sickly look on her employer's face. "Oh, I'm sorry, Dr. Smith. I assumed you would have heard. It was on the news."

"No, I hadn't," Smith replied, getting to his feet. "Please excuse me." He scooped up the money, pressing it into her hand even as he ushered her from the room. "This is for your gas. Thank you. I'll get the tape back to you as soon as possible." He closed and locked the door.

Smith leaned back against the door frame.

His heart was racing. Although she had seen him many times over the years, Mrs. Mikulka had never expressed any interest in Remo. Given the day's events, her use of his name now had sent up alarm signals for the CURE director.

Pushing away from the door, Smith stepped over to a shelf where a small video player was attached to his old black-and-white television. He slid in the tape and the machine began to play automatically. Clicking on the TV, Smith immediately hit pause.

He reasoned that the flashes Remo had mentioned would be timed with the motion on the screen. Frozen, any subliminal signals would not register to the unconscious mind.

He studied the image carefully from top to bottom and side to side. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Slowly, he advanced the picture frame by frame. He felt a fresh thrill of panic when the name "Remo" suddenly appeared at the bottom of the screen. He quickly realized that it wasn't part of any subliminal message. The name appeared as a regular caption and was used to identify one of the contestants on the game show.

It was odd to see that name applied to someone else.

After another minute of frame advancing, Smith realized there was nothing there-at least nothing that he could see. He popped the tape from the VCR.

Folcroft didn't have the facilities to properly analyze what-if anything-might be there. The tape would have to be sent out for professional analysis.

For an instant he thought of Mark Howard. This would have ordinarily been one of his duties. A minor thing, but one of the many small responsibilities the young man had taken on over the past year.

Smith's face hardened.

Purging thoughts of his assistant, he spun from the television. Stride resolute, he marched back to his desk to locate a facility that could uncover whatever messages might be hidden on Mrs. Mikulka's tape.

Chapter 13

The Broadcast Corporation of North America occupied a forty-story building on Madison Avenue.

The midtown Manhattan headquarters of BCN had been built in 1928. At the time it was just around the corner from the original NBC offices. By building so close, BCN had intended to be a constant thorn in NBC's side. But then NBC had ruined its rival's best-laid plan by up and moving to 30 Rockefeller Plaza. Instead of dogging its competition to its new home, BCN reluctantly opted to remain where it was.

It turned out those two early decisions established a pair of precedents that the BCN network would follow for the rest of its corporate and creative lifetime.

BCN never led. It followed. When radio giant NBC was on Fifth Avenue, BCN decided to build right in its backyard.

Precedent one: BCN the Copycat.

By not following NBC to its new 30 Rock address, the upstart network quickly established precedent number two: BCN the Timid.

When television was in its infancy, timid BCN lagged behind in the cozy comfort of radio, allowing NBC and the DuMont network to test the water first.

Only when the early risk takers had established the route to modest TV success did copycat BCN jump on board the bandwagon.

For the first fifty years of the television age, BCN offered bland and formulaic TV programming that was a virtual carbon copy of what every other network was broadcasting.

At some point during this first half century of wheezy dramas and formulaic sitcoms, an enthusiastic and truth-challenged public-relations man had dubbed BCN the "Diamond Network," the inference being that only quality programs ever found their way onto its nightly schedule. Despite years of evidence to the contrary, somehow the image stuck.

For years the Diamond Network coasted on its reputation. It wasn't until the last decade of the twentieth century that BCN finally began to show cracks in its corporate facade.

Even before the appearance of upstarts like Vox, UPN and the Warner Brothers network, BCN was already unsteady. Media mergers and changing demographics didn't help. Even as the other networks began to skew younger and younger, BCN's core audience continued to age. It looked as if the end might be at hand for one of the original Big Three networks.

Industry experts who had forecast her demise were surprised when salvation for BCN came in the form of one single reality show.

No one expected Winner to be such a huge success. It was supposed to be less than a blip on the TV radar. A curiosity that had somehow found its improbable way onto the prime-time schedule. Sure, it might generate a few good numbers for a week or two. But it would flame out fast.

The television world was shocked when the high-concept show didn't crash and burn. Winner was not only a success out of the gate, it continued to grow.

Other networks were quick to churn out knockoffs. It was an amazing role reversal for BCN.

The rising tide began to lift all boats. As Winner's numbers grew, so too did those of the rest of BCN's lineup.

All of this was welcome news for BCN's president. When Martin Houton was appointed by the board to head up the Broadcast Corporation of North America, the network had been third in the ratings and was sinking fast. Ten years into his tenure, the network's numbers were on the rise and advertisers were flooding back. The scratching wolves had finally been chased away from the back door. It was a new century and a brand-new golden age for the Diamond Network. Thanks to one great gamble on one mediocre show, there was nothing but clear sailing as far as the eye could see.

Until today when one little suicidal lunatic-way up in godforsaken Harlem of all places-had slammed the network's ship smack-dab into the mother of all icebergs.

"We're gonna sue!" Martin Houton boomed. Houton was a silver-haired man in his late fifties.

His cherubic face was devil-red with rage. He prowled near the window of his corner office, glaring hatred at the streaming headlights on Madison Avenue thirty stories below.

It seemed that everyone was on the way home. And, finally, finally some of them would be watching BCN when they got there. It had taken so long to build up.

Houton slapped his hands against the window. "That bastard!" he yelled. "What the hell was he doing in Harlem? I didn't authorize whatever it was he was doing."

The windows in his office were shatterproof glass. There was no way to break through and hurl himself to the glittering diamond headlights of Madison Avenue far below.

He spun furiously away from the window. "What are they saying now?" he demanded.

The vice president in charge of BCN programming sat on a plush sofa in the conference area of the room. A bank of televisions played silently in a nearby wall unit. Dozens of pictures flashed images of unrest in Harlem.

On Vox, a reporter who was scruffy by network standards was talking to an anchorman. The News Company network was obviously dipping into the pool of local talent.

The BCN vice president turned up the sound on Vox.

"...is the latest information we've heard," the reporter was saying. "So far BCN is refusing comment."

"Can you blame them?" said the anchor from the Vox news station in New York. "Those are serious charges."

"Serious? Try slanderous!" Houton boomed at the TV.

The programming veep strained to hear the television.

"According to Thomas Trumann, BCN's man in Harlem who committed suicide on national television earlier today, the Broadcasting Corporation of North America is entirely responsible for last night's riot," the reporter said.

"We are not responsible but we are suing your ass!" Houton screamed. He stabbed a pudgy finger at the screen. "I'm suing you, Vox, ABC, NBC and anyone else who's slandering this network. Why aren't our news people on the air denying this? Hell, tell them to get on and blame someone else. No one likes Ted Turner. Blame him."

"We can't just make up a story like that," the programming vice president cautioned.

"Why not? They are."

"They claim Trumann said we were responsible. Our own news people were there when he killed himself. He gave them a tour of the church basement before he blew his brains out. It was crammed full of BCN equipment."

"It's a setup. Shittman must have looted our stuff. This is all a big scam."

"Trumann apologized for his misuse of the technology on BCN's behalf. He came right out and said we were responsible for what happened at the former president's office building. Marty, he even exonerated Hal Shittman and that mob of his."

Martin Houton couldn't believe his ears. It had been going on like this since morning. The networks had been hammering the story into the ground all day long. Everyone was saying that BCN was testing a dangerous mind-controlling technology that had somehow gone wrong.

"If I had some kind of subliminal gizmo that'd make people mind slaves, don't you think we'd be pulling numbers on more than just 'Winner'? I mean, turn the damn thing on and save God-Wednesday-damn night, for Christ's sake."

"They're saying we only recently developed it," the vice president said. "They're claiming we're starting slow using it. We're pulling the numbers up on Monday with it, plus we switch it on for 'Winner' on Thursdays. We don't want to overdo it, which is actually a pretty good strategy if we have something like this. Which we don't, do we?"

The vice president smiled hopefully.

"No!" Houton screamed.

"Oh," the vice president said, disappointed. "Not even for late night? We're still getting creamed by Leno. Maybe if someone were to really have something like that he could-I don't know-bump the 'don't touch that dial' button for an hour at eleven-thirty Eastern Standard Time on weeknights."

The vice president had no idea how close he came to getting a Golden Globe award bounced between his winking eyes.

"Get out of here," Houton snarled.

As the vice president hurried from the room, Martin Houton trudged to his desk. He was slumping in his chair when the sleek black phone on his desk buzzed like an angry wasp. For an instant, he froze.

He had already gotten a dozen calls today from Moe Carmichael, CEO of the entire BCN family of companies.

Houton's employer had long been unhappy with the television division of his media empire. For the first few years he had owned BCN, the network's ratings had been in the toilet. Even with the recent upswing in audience, Carmichael remained superstitious, assuming the improving numbers were nothing but a cruel mistake.

When he learned about BCN's possible involvement in brainwashing technology that morning, Moe Carmichael had hit the roof. He had called every hour on the hour to scream at Martin Houton. During the last call, he had been yelling something about selling his fifty-one percent of the network. It was hard to make out clearly what he was saying over the sounds of the frantic ambulance technicians who were trying to jump-start the heart of BCN's soon-to-be-former CEO.

As he reached tiredly for the ringing phone, Martin automatically assumed the ambulance boys had done their job and his boss was calling back, this time to scream at him from an intensive-care-unit bed.

He was surprised when it wasn't Moe Carmichael's voice on the other end of the line.

"G'day, mate," said the nasal voice. "How's tricks?"

This was a company line, access to which was limited to a handful of people. Whoever this man was, he was not part of the BCN inner circle. Yet that voice sounded familiar.

"Who is this?" Martin Houton demanded.

"I'm the new owner of BCN, Marty, my boy. Or I will be very soon, thanks to you."

Houton knew. He now knew for certain who this was. For an instant, Martin Houton could almost see the hyenalike smile of satisfaction that broke out among the suntanned wrinkles of that frightening, familiar Aussie face.

Martin was going to say something, but the words wouldn't come. And then it didn't matter because the voice on the phone was speaking again.

"By the way, you're fired, Marty."

And a strange sense of soft relief seemed to wash through Martin Houton's troubled mind like a calming blue tide. It was amazing given the stress he'd been under all day long. He wanted to thank the man on the phone for giving him this miraculous, deadened sensation, but the man had already hung up. Not that it mattered, because Martin Houton had already forgotten who he was.

But he knew it didn't matter that he didn't remember who the man was. He remembered the words. "You're fired."

They had come to him over his many televisions. On a daily basis, for hours. He knew they were there even though he really didn't know. Those words delivered by a man whose identity he could no longer remember were the trigger. They had come with orders that Martin had accepted without even knowing he was accepting them. And they were wonderful, perfect orders. He could not be happier with his orders.

Martin Houton got up and calmly left his office. People spoke to him as he went through the hall and rode the elevator downstairs. If he said anything at all to them, he wasn't aware of it. He was thinking of the beautiful words that had floated off of his TV and into his brain over the past few weeks. Private communications to him alone.

He found his limo in the garage and allowed his driver to open and close the door for him.

On the ride from the city to his Long Island estate, Martin was more at peace than he had ever been in his life.

At home Martin Houton walked woodenly past his worried wife and mounted the stairs to his bedroom. He locked the door behind him. He went directly to the nightstand next to his bed. Behind his reading glasses and a deck of cards he found his .38 pistol. It was stuffed in an old sock.

Martin dumped the gun from the sock, jammed the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

He was a little surprised when there wasn't a brainsplattering kaboom. That's what he figured it would sound like.

In fact, as he thought about it, there really wasn't any sound at all. That didn't seem right.

When Martin caught his reflection in the vanity mirror, he was disappointed to find that the top of his head was still there. What's more, the gun wasn't in his mouth. On top of all that, there was someone in the room with him.

"Oh, hello," Houton said to the young man with the deep, cruel eyes who stood with him in the bedroom of his mansion even though the door was locked. "May I have that back? I have to kill myself."

He held his hand out for his gun, which had somehow found its way into the hands of the stranger. "Answers first, death second," Remo Williams promised. He tossed Houton's gun to the bed.

"Oh, no, no, no," Martin Houton insisted. "I'm sure that's not the right order. I'm in desperate legal trouble for everything I've done. I have to kill myself now."

Face determined, he headed for the gun.

Remo picked up the gun and threw it through the terrace window. There came a wet plunk from Martin Houton's kidney-shaped heated pool with the two ice-covered diving boards.

"Well, that's just going to make this harder than it has to be," Houton pouted.

He headed for the French doors with the one broken windowpane. If he jumped after the gun, maybe he'd be lucky and break his neck in the process.

A very rude hand tugged him back from the doors, knocking him back onto the edge of the bed.

"How do you know me?" Remo asked.

"What?" Houton asked, puzzled. "Do I know you? I don't think I know you." He started to get up. With one hand Remo pushed the TV executive back to a sitting position; with the other he pinched Martin Houton's earlobe. Martin Houton yelped. The pain was bad. Almost enough to make him forget about killing himself altogether.

"That's not nice," Houton complained.

The mean pincher who wouldn't let him properly kill himself relaxed his grip on Martin's ear. As the fiery pain lessened, the words returned.

"You had a guy in Harlem broadcasting subliminal signals from a church basement," Remo said. "One of the things he broadcast was a picture of me. I want to know why."

"Oh, that was you?" Martin Houton asked. The subliminal commands came easily. It was as if whoever had programmed the instructions into his television had anticipated this scenario. "That was part of the 'Winner' show. You were just picked at random because you happened to be there. A white man torn to pieces by a mob in Harlem near the 'Winner' set would get all kinds of press. The news media swarms in, we benefit from the proximity. Synergy with the news boys. Who, by the by, don't pull their weight these days, what with all the twenty-four-hour cable news networks. Can I please kill myself now?"

"In a minute," Remo promised. "How did you get my picture?"

"You were filmed by one of our 'Winner' crews. Did you know the season finale of 'Winner II' got a 21.1 rating and a 31 share? That was amazing. Hard to keep those numbers up. The occasional sweeps stunt is mandatory to keep viewership levels high. A random death like yours would have generated some good numbers for us in February."

Remo disregarded the executive's TV babble. "I made it so I couldn't be seen," he insisted.

"Technology is amazing, isn't it? Your tape was pretty bad. But they're able to take points of reference from a poor-quality recording like yours and computer enhance a solid digital image. Say, maybe I should jump off the roof. Three stories down from the terrace might not do it."

"The pool's below the terrace. Aim for the concrete and you should be golden," Remo said.

"Thanks," Martin Houton said. "You're not such a bad guy after all."

He started for the terrace. Remo collared him and flung him back into a chair.

"Who else was in on this subliminal crapola?" he asked.

"Well, I signed off on it," Martin Houton said, a lie that seemed so much like the truth he actually believed it himself. "Thomas Trumann developed the technology. He's the guy who shot himself in that church basement this morning."

"No one else?"

"Nope, that's it," Houton said agreeably. "Only two men in the entire BCN establishment. Had to keep it quiet. If it panned out, we would have been aces in the ratings. Right now Mondays have been okay for us with it, and Thursdays are holding their own. But we hadn't been using it at any other time and our ratings showed it. Now thanks to Trumann, I guess we're back to hemorrhaging viewers to cable and video."

"How about those orders to the rioters? Why didn't they go out nationally?" Remo asked.

"Our satellite fed to Trumann in the church. Harlem is where we've been testing the technology for a while, so mostly we were local. But flip a switch, and he could send the signals back up to the satellite and make them national. There's a transmitter in the church steeple. That's what we were using for 'Winner.' Just started it on a few more shows."

His Sinanju training gave Remo the ability to sense when someone was lying. Martin Houton was clearly a nit, but he was a nit who was telling the truth.

"Can I kill myself now?" Houton asked hopefully.

"Knock yourself out," Remo said.

Houton rubbed his hands together determinedly. He was getting up from the bed when, as an afterthought, Remo gave another good squeeze to the TV executive's earlobe. Bolts of pain shot through Martin Houton's clouded brain.

"What was that for?" Houton asked, rubbing his ear.

"Ten years of 'Murphy Brown,'" Remo said.

A ghost in shadow, he slipped from the darkened room.

Interruptions finally over, Houton stepped out onto the balcony. Warm steam rose from the surface of the gurgling pool, kissing the cold December air. Martin Houton could smell the chlorine in the air. The stars were beautiful, the air crisp and the words beckoning him to end his life as clear as church bells on a Christmas midnight.

Martin Houton climbed up on the rail and, without so much as a glance at the beauty of the chilly night around him, went the way a just world would send all television network executives. Three stories down and headfirst into solid concrete.

Chapter 14

Smith watched the last of the news reports in the darkness of his Folcroft office. Light from his buried computer monitor cast ghostly shadows around his wan face.

For the dozenth time he watched the suicide of BCN Vice President Thomas Trumann.

Smith was thankful that the networks were at least playing an edited version of the grisly footage. The CURE director's screen was filled with blurry blue dots. Even so, Smith grimaced at that which had been deemed airworthy. It made him wax nostalgic for the not-so-long-ago time when decency trumped ratings. In Smith's day, every broadcast network would have refused on principle to air so much as a single frame of Thomas Trumann's public suicide.

Smith felt like a man out of time. But thanks to the current culture, it was a feeling he had gotten used to.

Typing wearily, Smith exited his computer's TV function and shut down the system. The buried terminal winked to blackness beneath the onyx surface of his desk.

There had been no news from Remo for several hours. Apparently, he had upset the Master of Sinanju in some way, for Chiun had returned to Folcroft alone by taxi. Their argument probably had something to do with the letters Remo had mentioned. Smith had wanted to question the Master of Sinanju about them, but when he saw the angry look on the Korean's face, he lost his nerve. He left the old Asian to cool off in his quarters. Smith decided to await Remo's return in his office. So here he sat.

Smith turned to face the big picture window behind his desk. Night had claimed Folcroft's back lawn. The glow of his desk lamp on the one-way glass was a single bright star in the dark heart of winter. Unseen beyond the glass, cold wind churned the night-black surface of Long Island Sound.

Smith closed his eyes for a moment.

He didn't realize he had dozed off until the voice in his office startled him awake twenty minutes later. "Rise and shine, sleeping beauty."

Snapping awake, Smith spun. Remo stood before his desk. In the lamplight his deep-set eyes were hollow caves.

"Remo," Smith exhaled. "What happened with Houton?"

"Good news," Remo said. "That picture they put on TV didn't have anything to do with me. The guy said I was picked off the street at random. They wanted a murder to gin up ratings for that screwball survival show of theirs."

Cautious relief brushed Smith's tired face. "You're certain he didn't know about CURE?"

"Looks it," Remo said. "And even if he did, he was a TV executive. They time-share about four brain cells between them. He'd forget all about us halfway through happy hour."

"Was?" Smith asked. "You eliminated him?"

"Didn't have to. He took care of himself. I'd only give him a 2.5 on the dive, but a perfect ten for splattering his brains on the patio."

"That's odd," Smith said. "Both men responsible for developing and using the technology killed themselves."

"Lucky us for a change," Remo said. "I'm sick of picking up after everyone else all the time. Let the garbagemen haul their own trash for once."

"They must have both panicked," Smith speculated. "They would have both been answerable for the murder."

Remo nodded. "That dizzy producer from 'Winner' told me Shittman's mob killed one of her contestants."

"Yes," Smith said slowly. He looked up over the tops of his glasses, studying Remo's face. "Apparently, she didn't tell you the victim's name."

Remo noted the older man's odd tone. "She said they were keeping it under wraps," he admitted.

"Why?"

"His name has leaked out to the press. The contestant killed was a man named Remo."

"No kidding?" Remo said. "Well, if it's a comfort to you, I'm pretty sure it wasn't me, Smitty. Although now that you mention it, she did want me to be on the show. I gave her a tentative yes, but I told her I'd have to check with you first. What do you say? America's number-one assassin could be a real ratings bonanza. If I win I'll split the million with you, seventy-thirty."

Smith removed his glasses. "The man's last name was Chappel," he continued dryly. "Other than a shared given name, there is no other connection. However, given the uniqueness of your name, I must admit that it was disturbing to hear it at first."

"Tell me about it," Remo said. "I sympathize with him for what his parents did to him."

"Be that as it may, it is just a coincidence," Smith said, replacing his glasses. "If Martin Houton told you the truth, BCN was trading deaths for ratings. The fact that they killed one of their own contestants bolsters his claim."

"The guy was telling the truth, Smitty," Remo insisted. "You know we can tell that stuff. Heart rate, breathing, perspiration all stayed normal. He wasn't lying."

"I'm relieved," Smith said. "BCN was in possession of a terrifying technology. We should consider ourselves lucky it didn't get further than it did. From what I've learned, the process uses hypnotic bursts of light and regularly flashed worded suggestions. The light is a trigger that implants the suggestions deep in the subconscious. People are helpless to refuse whatever subliminal commands are shown on the screen."

"One way to get people to tune in," Remo said. "Any idea what went blooey to make that mob attack the former president?"

"Before he killed himself, Thomas Trumann issued an apology for that. He said that he was watching the news, saw the former president was nearby in Harlem and typed in the commands as a joke. He sent the signal accidentally. There is precedent at the BCN network for such an occurrence. During the last presidential race, a tasteless graphic was run during one of BCN's late-night programs calling for the assassination of one of the candidates. I checked. Trumann was working as head of late-night programming at the time."

"Funny guy," Remo said aridly.

"Yes," Smith said, with clear distaste. "But at least this particular command was only run in Harlem. I sent a copy of the show that was taped here in Rye out to be examined. It appears there was nothing but a simple command not to change the channel buried in the national broadcast."

"That's what I saw in Mexico," Remo said, nodding.

"So it seems this is over," Smith said. "And none too soon. The past few days had already been disturbing enough."

"Speaking of which, any news on Purcell?"

"No," Smith replied. "As we feared, he will remain in hiding until he feels strong enough to come after us."

"Us meaning me," Remo said.

Smith nodded quiet agreement. "As for Mark, I will begin weaning him off the sedatives tomorrow. He should be lucid enough by then to explain his actions. I would like you and Master Chiun present when he comes around."

"You got it," Remo said, his voice cold.

Smith noted his tone. "Remo, the officer investigating this is coming back tomorrow afternoon. I would appreciate it if you and Chiun kept a low profile. It would be nice if the two of you found somewhere else to be at one o'clock."

"Always nice to feel wanted," Remo droned. "I can make myself scarce, but I don't know about Chiun."

"Just as long as he remains in your quarters," the CURE director said tiredly. With a sigh he fished in the foot well of his desk, pulling out his briefcase.

"And you know how good he is for doing every little thing you want him to," Remo said thinly. "Night, Smitty."

The younger man slipped from the office.

Alone once more, Smith placed his briefcase on his desk.

He was bone tired.

The BCN television network's scheme to boost viewership had been stopped. A dozen federal agencies were now investigating the matter. Smith was grateful that it was all over. Rarely did a CURE assignment conclude so quickly.

He checked his watch. It was only nine-thirty.

He hadn't left work this early in years. But he had a meeting with Detective Davic the following afternoon. And given all that had happened over the past week, a good night's sleep was an indulgence he had earned.

It was early enough that his wife was probably still up. Maude Smith would be shocked to see him home so early.

Crossing to the door, Smith gathered his coat and scarf from the coatrack. Careful to snap off the lights, he left the ghosts to dance alone in the corners of the shadowy office.

Chapter 15

Remo knew he was in trouble when he awoke to the sound of the Master of Sinanju singing.

The old Korean raised his voice in cheery song from the common room of their shared Folcroft quarters.

When Remo returned to their quarters the previous night, Chiun had been locked away in his room. At the time Remo assumed the old pain in the neck was still cheesed off. Now it seemed as if the cloud had lifted.

Lying on his reed mat in the predawn darkness of his bedroom, Remo racked his brain trying to think what could possibly have changed his teacher's lousy mood so abruptly. With a sinking feeling he realized there was one thing that almost always did the trick.

"I am not cleaning up any dead bodies!" Remo hollered from his bedroom.

"Good morning to you, too, sleepyhead," the Master of Sinanju called back, sounding far too chipper.

Remo dropped his head back to his mat. "I knew it. I'm gonna be scrubbing corpse juice off the chandeliers."

He wondered how the hell he was going to keep the fact that the Master of Sinanju had killed half of Folcroft's staff during the night a secret from Smith. Smith said he'd be busy with the police that afternoon. Maybe Remo would luck out for once and the CURE director would be too distracted to notice the bodies piled like Civil War cannonballs all over the front lawn.

When he finally climbed reluctantly to his feet and went out to the common room to assess the damage, Remo was surprised to find he wasn't ankle deep in stiffs.

More surprising, the Master of Sinanju had brought some of his luggage out from his bedroom. The Master of Sinanju never moved his own luggage. The old man was puttering around the gaily colored steamer trunks.

"Where are they?" Remo asked warily.

Chiun didn't raise his aged head. "Where are who?"

Remo was peeking out the door. The hallway was empty. Not a decapitated corpse in sight.

"Didn't you kill your way to happiness and success last night?" Remo asked.

Chiun's face puckered. "You have already given an old man ample reason to doubt your loyalty, Remo Williams," he said. "Do not make me question your sanity."

"I'm loyal, I'm sane and I'm wondering why you're happy all of a sudden. I figured you had the Corpse-O-Matic cranked to eleven all night long. I was ready to pull the fire alarm and sneak off in the confusion."

"I am an assassin," Chiun sniffed. "I do not kill willy-nilly."

That nearly did it. Remo almost laughed out loud. The urge shot up from his belly and made it as far as his throat. But in the split second before the laughter exploded out of his mouth and he fell on the floor clutching his sides, he realized Chiun was suddenly out of the crappy mood he'd been in the past few days and that by laughing in his teacher's face, Remo could very well snap him back into that same crappy mood. Gritting his teeth, Remo swallowed the laughter.

"Course not," Remo insisted, sniffling.

At the sound, Chiun's wrinkled head stretched high on a suspicious craning neck. He gave Remo a lingering look of mistrust. At long last he returned to his packing.

"I am packing because Emperor Smith has made clear his desire for us to leave his palace," the Master of Sinanju said. "You should do the same. Although don't think you can hide all your worthless junk in with my precious mementos."

"I can fit my life in a Safeway bag and still have room left over." As he spoke he peeked behind the couch. "Okay," Remo said, "there's no one dead here as far as I can see. If you being nice to me is supposed to be my Christmas present, you're a couple days early."

"Can a man not pack in peace? You may live out your days in Smith's crazy house if you want, but I have stayed here long enough. It is time for the Master to move on."

"Uh-oh," Remo asked, a new concern suddenly blossoming full. "Move on? Like move move on?"

"Stop mooing, bovine," Chiun said, gliding over to his pupil. "And move your fat cloven hoofs." He kicked Remo's ankles. Remo lifted his feet out of the way and the old man swept past.

"Like move on to a house?" Remo pressed. "Because I told you before I'm not moving to Maine."

Chiun continued to fuss with his packing. "Why should I care where you are not moving?"

"Because you were hepped about moving to Maine a little while back. Just so you know, I'm not going. You move there, you're moving alone."

"A stronger argument for my moving there could not be made," the Master of Sinanju said aridly.

A fresh cloud of worry settled on Remo's face. "Wait, you're not going back to Sinanju?" he asked.

Chiun gave an exasperated sigh. "You may wish to speed me on my life's last journey, but it is not yet time for me to retire to the village of my ancestors." He saw the look of puzzlement on his pupil's face. "If you must know, I have received some wonderful news. It is a happy, happy day."

So far, aside from the early-morning singing, the Master of Sinanju had been doing a good job keeping his joy in check. But he could no longer contain himself. He began to hum happily as he folded a purple day kimono.

"Wasn't it just a crummy, crummy day?" Remo asked.

"That was yesterday and that was thanks to you. This is today and my new joy is thanks to my wondrous benefactor. Or are you deaf in addition to being a basher of the aged? Did you not hear the telephone ring during the night?"

Remo had heard. The phone had rung in the old Korean's bedroom a little before midnight.

For years Chiun had kept a special 800 number at his home back in Korea. The calls used to be transferred to his and Remo's house in Massachusetts, but now were routed to Folcroft. No matter where it was located, the phone rarely rang. Until recently. The normally silent telephone had become more active in recent weeks. With the way Chiun had been whispering in a dozen different foreign languages, Remo assumed it all had something to do with those cockamamie letters his teacher had been mailing out. He figured last night was part of the same mysterious mess.

Remo hadn't listened in on the call. It wouldn't have done any good if he'd tried. The Master of Sinanju had pressed his ear to the phone and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece in such a way to shield both his and the caller's voices. All Remo could tell from the next room was that the old man was whispering excitedly.

"Your benefactor?" Remo asked. "Was that Smitty who called? Don't tell me something else went wrong."

Chiun stopped humming. The smile scampered from his wrinkled face, replaced by a puckery scowl. "Not that gray-faced madman," he said unhappily. "The call was from my new employer."

Remo's voice went very, very flat. "What new employer?"

Chiun's tone and face grew sly. He looked like the Korean cat who had eaten the canary. When the old man's papery lips parted to speak, Remo suddenly threw up a hand to stop him.

"Hold it," he said. "Wait a second, don't tell me." He sat on the edge of the couch, feet planted firmly on the floor. He braced his hands on his knees. "Okay, I'm ready."

Chiun tipped his head thoughtfully. "Perhaps I shouldn't tell you. You are a notorious blabbermouth."

"Who the hell am I gonna tell?"

"Your beloved Smith, for one."

"We're under contract to him first," Remo cautioned.

Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed. "Promise not to tell or I will not share my wonderful news with you."

"Sorry, Chiun. Best I can do is a guarded maybe. Now what's going on?"

The threat of Smith finding out was overruled by the old Korean's need to share his good news. "That call, though rudely timed, was from a ruler known far and wide," he confided. "It was a call from none other than the great and powerful Sea-O himself." And the smile of joy stretched wide once more across his leathery face.

Remo blinked. "What the hell's a Sea-O?"

"He is a mighty ruler whose province is the air itself. So powerful is he that his empire knows no bounds. It stretches from ocean to ocean and nation to nation. His invisible rays rule the very heavens themselves."

Remo's eyes were flat. "We're going to work for Ming the Merciless?" he asked blandly.

"You are not going anywhere. I, however, am going to work for the great Sea-O Robbie MacGulry."

It took a moment for the name to register. When it did, Remo's face grew puzzled. "The guy who runs Vox?"

"The proper form of address is Sea-O," Chiun replied. "It is a title bestowed on he who rules the kingdom of Vox. I am not sure exactly where his land is. It could be like Moo or Atlantis, an ancient place unknown to the modern age. I will have to check the oldest of the Sinanju scrolls."

"Don't check any old maps," Remo advised. "Vox is a TV network. You know, heavy on T n I ped his head, considering. "Actually that pretty much describes everything on TV nowadays. But Vox was first to jiggle across the finish line. Anyway, just follow the dial to the car crashes and alien autopsies and you'll find it."

Chiun frowned. "Are you certain of this?" he asked.

"As sure as a faked moon landing or a masked magician wrecking all the good tricks. How'd you get tangled up with a guy like MacGulry?"

"Serendipity put us together," Chiun said. "I merely called this number."

Fishing in his robes the old man produced a small white business card. Remo recognized the card. "That's Cindee Maloo's," Remo said.

"She is the one who answered. She advised me to wait, and that one more powerful than she would call back."

Remo frowned as he thought of the Winner producer. It was her tape from which the BCN higherups had somehow pulled an image of Remo for subliminal broadcast. She doubtless didn't even know it, but that didn't make him any less annoyed.

"That doesn't make sense," Remo said. "Cindee Maloo works for 'Winner.' That's on BCN, not Vox. Why would she hook you up with MacGulry, the head of a rival network?"

Chiun waved a bony hand. "Trivialities," he dismissed. "All that matters is that I told the Sea-O that I was a writer, and he recognized my genius."

"Oh, no, we're not going back to the writing again," Remo said. "Chiun, you haven't had luck with that. Your soap-opera proposal and assassination magazine went nowhere. And that movie you wrote went direct to video."

"I told him all that," Chiun said. "He was particularly troubled by that last insult. Sea-O MacGulry thinks my film could be turned into a great television program."

A knot of worry gripped Remo's belly. "Holy flipping crap," he said evenly. "Chiun, you can't do that."

The old Korean's voice grew cold. "Name the man who could stop me."

"How about Smith?" Remo insisted. "Chiun, you can't get mixed up with Vox TV. You have to tell Smith this."

"I will do no such thing. The Emperor is troubled enough by the sickness of the mind that has befallen his young prince. It would not be fair for me to flaunt my joyful news in his face at so troubling a time."

"You're all heart," Remo said aridly. "If you won't tell him, then I've got to."

Chiun stiffened. "Magpie," he accused. "I knew you would tell." He waved a hand. "Do what you must. Neither you nor Smith will ruin this for me. I have waited too long to allow opportunity to slip between my fingers."

In a twirl of kimono hems he returned to his trunks. Remo took a long moment to consider. He finally let out a weary sigh. "Smith wants us out of his hair today," he said. "Since we have to be gone anyway, I'll go with you."

The Master of Sinanju had found his old writing implements in the bottom of one of his trunks. He didn't even turn as he lifted out ink bottles and parchments.

"You are not invited," he sniffed.

"Chiun, MacGulry's got some kind of angle. If he's hooked in with Cindee Maloo somehow, they might be cooking up some new reality show for Vox, 'When Old People Attack.'"

"What is wrong with that? Old people are people, too."

"What's wrong is that no matter what kind of show they're planning on, they have no idea who they're signing up or what'll happen to them when they stab you in the back-which, being TV people, they will. I'm going with you."

Chiun's face darkened. "Do as you wish," he hissed, waving an angry hand. "But keep your big mouth shut."

"Don't I always?" Remo said innocently.

"Keep your big mouth shut," the old man repeated.

Chapter 16

Publishing had been in Robbie MacGulry's bank account long before it was in his blood.

As a child his family had owned that most rare of animals, a modestly successful newspaper. The money was good for the MacGulry family of Wagga Wagga, New South Wales. There was enough to send young Robbie off to school in England. At Cambridge in the 1950s Robbie got his first taste of the world outside his small corner of Oz.

He was thrilled with the idea of travel. His life was bigger than Australia. Far bigger than what he now knew was a run-down little newspaper with a rickety old printing press. When he returned home from school, he told his father that the family business was simply not in his blood.

"Get a transfusion," ol' man MacGulry had snapped.

"You don't understand. I want to be happy."

"The news business'll make you happy," father MacGulry had growled angrily.

"You're not happy," Robbie had said. "Your hands are always stained with ink, you yell at me and mother all the time and your ulcers are killing you."

"Share my misery, Robbie."

"I can't, Father. I have my principles."

"You can have them poor then, because if you walk out on the family business I'm cutting you outta the will."

Robbie's handsome face grew dark. "You're a bastard, Father," he said.

"I'm a newspaperman, Robbie," his father had explained. "It's what we are. And, God willing, it's what you'll be one day, too."

The younger MacGulry doubted his father's prediction.

Robbie's youthful dreams seemed to die that day. Little did he know, they would reawaken and blossom in ways he had never imagined. He soon learned that he had been mistaken. Publishing was in his blood after all.

In his first year with the paper, he moved ruthlessly through upper management, cutting overhead, staff and salaries. He expanded advertising space, increasing ad revenues. At the same time he expanded circulation into neighboring towns. The paper thrived.

Watching all that his son had accomplished in one short year, Robbie's father even began to proudly boast that when his boy pricked a finger he bled black ink.

In two years he succeeded his father as publisher. He immediately encouraged his people to print sensationalistic stories. The more lurid, the better.

Sex sold. Robbie stuck a half-naked woman on page 3.

Murder sold. Headlines like BRISBANE BLOODBATH! and MASSACRE IN MELBOURNE! soon replaced the more subdued front-page stories of his father's reign.

"You're embarrassing the family," his father accused on a rare latter-day visit to the bustling city room. By then he was stooped with age. Although he hadn't worked at the newspaper for several years, the ol' man's fingertips were still stained a faint blue.

"I'm selling papers," Robbie had replied.

"You're selling your dignity."

Robbie had scowled. The expression came easy to him now. Gone forever was the easy, winning smile of the young man who had returned from college in England so full of hope and so eager to see the world.

"Dignity ain't worth spit," Robbie snarled. "All I know is my fingers are clean and I don't have a hump like some dago bell ringer. Now get outta my newspaper."

His father died that same night.

PUBLISHER'S POP PASSES! blared the next day's headline. To honor the late MacGulry patriarch, the page 3 girl of the day wore a black bikini.

After a few years of regional success Robbie had rolled the dice on the notion that his tabloid style would play somewhere other than Wagga Wagga. He used his life's savings to finance Australia's first real national newspaper.

The risk paid off. The new paper soared to new publishing heights on wings of blood and mayhem. Now hugely successful on a national scale, Robbie MacGulry turned his gaze to where it hadn't been in more than fifteen years. The outside world.

Back home in Australia MacGulry had always had a winning hand in all his business dealings. But his luck ran out when in 1974 he tried to purchase the sedate London Sun.

MacGuhy's reputation as a tabloid publisher had preceded him to England. During their very first meeting, the stuffy old British family that owned the newspaper flat-out refused to sell.

Robbie's Australian paper had a London bureau. A flat nearby was kept year-round for his business trips to England. He returned to the apartment after his humiliating rejection by the London Sun owners.

MacGulry was slamming his apartment door shut when the telephone rang. He grabbed the receiver angrily.

"What?" he demanded.

"Hello, Robbie."

It was a calm male voice. Although the caller spoke English with a bland American accent, there was no regional dialect. MacGulry's tan face puckered.

"Who the hell is this? How did you get this number?"

"I'm someone you need, Robbie," the smooth voice explained. "And I'm someone who needs you. I've been looking into the publishing field. Most times it's a losing proposition. But you seem to have found a way to make money. You have an impressive knack for business. I believe we're kindred spirits."

The guy sounded like a kook. MacGulry's brow lowered. "You didn't answer either of my questions," he said.

"I appreciate your directness. I have your telephone number because I have access to virtually anything computer related. Your unlisted number is just such a thing. As for your first question, my name is Friend."

"All right, mate. What do you want?"

"Not mate, Friend," Friend had explained. "In the uppercase. People like friends. Friendship establishes a trust in business. If we're to be partners, I'd appreciate it if you made an effort to use my proper name, Robbie."

"Listen, Jacko," MacGulry growled, "I don't know you, you are not my friend, and I sure as hell am not doing business with you. Call this number again, and you'll be making friends in a prison shower."

He slammed down the phone.

An hour later the phone rang again. It was his accountant back in Australia.

"They're falling!" the man exclaimed. The accountant was English. MacGulry liked servile Englishmen in his employ. However, he didn't like it when they were blubbering into the receiver like war widows, which this one was doing.

"What are you talking about?" MacGulry demanded.

"Your stocks!" the English accountant said. "You'll be ruined! We've got to sell now, before it's too late!"

MacGulry didn't believe it. He was too diversified to be ruined in a single day-not without a worldwide crash. Rather than take his accountant's word for it, he checked for himself. In the ten minutes it took him to do so, he was broke.

Robbie couldn't believe it. It was impossible. It was as if some demon force had targeted his personal portfolio. Everything he had worked for all his life was gone. The newspapers would have to be sold off to cover the losses. Ken "Robbie" MacGulry was penniless.

The shock of sudden poverty hadn't even begun to sink in when the phone in his small London apartment rang once more. He grabbed the receiver desperately, hoping his accountant had some good news on this blackest of days.

"Can we talk now, Robbie?" asked Friend's smooth voice.

MacGulry moaned, pressing a hand over his eyes. "If you're still looking to get into business with me, forget it. I'm broke."

"Yes," Friend said with deep sadness. "It's unfortunate that I had to go to such lengths to get your attention. It would have been so much easier if you'd just listened to me to begin with."

MacGulry found a chair. Swallowing hard-trembling with fear and rage-he sank into it.

"You did this to me?" he hissed.

"You wouldn't listen to my proposal," Friend said in that damnably reasonable tone.

"You cost me millions," MacGulry menaced.

"But, Robbie, I can make you billions."

The promise was ridiculous. But there weren't very many options open to him that miserable afternoon. Gritting his teeth, Robbie MacGulry had gotten into bed with the faceless man who had ruined him.

He was amazed at how fast his bad luck turned around. By massaging the stock market, Friend covered MacGulry's losses the very next day.

When Friend learned of Robbie's difficulty with the owners of the London Sun, he took prompt action. The family's eldest son apparently had a sexual appetite that involved the occasional dead prostitute. Robbie never really knew how Friend found that out. Something about hotel room credit card records and two traffic violations in the vicinity of two separate murders. A little blackmail and a lot of money got Robbie MacGulry the Sun. It turned tabloid the next day. The first lead story of the new paper, LORD OF THE RAPES! told in lurid detail the story of the previous owner's son. "That'll teach you for playin' hardball with goddamn me," MacGulry had crowed.

The next fifteen years of Robbie's life brought him to a succession of dizzying highs. Newspapers led to magazines led to publishing houses. The acquisition of Vox film studios and the creation of the fourth American television network was the culmination of years of work.

Through it all, Friend asked for little more than a fair percentage and help with a few small matters. One such matter was the cryptosubliminal technology.

In its infancy the system of subconscious flashes was too primitive to be truly effective on the scale MacGulry first envisioned. He had hoped to brainwash the masses into watching his network exclusively. Unfortunately, the system was only marginally effective on those with low IQs and short attention spans. When the system was in use, Vox had its highest numbers among convicts, high-school students and mental defectives. Its best ratings were for its subliminally-enhanced teen drama Burbank, Area Code 818 and the highly successful nighttime soap Santa Monica Lane.

The risk of getting caught was high and the payoff in terms of viewers was minimal. When Robbie suggested they stop the occasional use of the cryptosubliminal technology, Friend agreed that the business risk had become too great.

By then Vox had established itself as a legitimate network. Robbie MacGulry no longer needed subliminal signals to get ratings. Friend had turned over work on improving the effectiveness of the cryptosubliminal technology to one of the smaller corporate entities. He promptly vanished.

It was the fall of 1994.

Robbie MacGulry didn't know what to think when the phone calls from Friend stopped.

When the weeks stretched into months and he still hadn't heard from his mysterious partner, MacGulry began to grow concerned. Friend had never been afraid to bend the law if it served his interests. MacGulry had always admired that trait. It was possible now that some shady dealings of the man he had never met had finally gotten him in trouble. MacGulry was afraid at first that whatever had gotten to Friend would come after him, as well. But after a few tense months, nothing materialized. Vox continued. Grew, thrived.

The months stretched into a year. Then two. Robbie manipulated the books to cut Friend out of the Vox pie. Why pay dividends to a dead man? When the ties to Friend's special computerized Swiss bank accounts were cut, the phone remained silent. Six years passed, and Robbie MacGulry was certain he was in the clear. Then one day a package arrived at Robbie's Wollongong estate. It had a U.S. postmark and had been picked up by his people at a special post-office box that had never been used before. He had almost forgotten about it. When he opened the big box, he found a battered computer drive system inside. The logo on the front was that of XL SysCorp.

MacGulry didn't know why someone would mail him something from that computer company. It had gone out of business years before. There was a note in the box: PLEASE HAVE THE VLSI CHIP IN THIS UNIT INTEGRATED INTO YOUR COMPUTER SYSTEM-A FRIEND.

The name rattled Robbie. It was all uppercase, so he couldn't be sure. He remembered who had set up that post-office box. Feeling a familiar queasiness, he had his computer experts do as the note instructed.

As soon as they were finished plugging in the chip, the system locked up. It didn't crash. Just seized up, refusing all attempts to access it. When they tried to call out for help, they found all the outside phone lines were busy. The computers had accessed them.

Robbie's computer people were at a loss for what to do. MacGulry was ready to order them to rip the bloody things out of the walls when the system abruptly came back online. The instant it did, the telephone rang.

Robbie knew. Just knew who was going to be on the other end of that line. He picked up the receiver with shaking hands.

"I've been lost, Robbie," Friend's warm voice announced. There was no urgency. Just the same soothing calm as always. "I've checked, and the date in your system is correct. I was hoping it wasn't. I've missed a great deal of time."

"Where have you been?" MacGulry asked. For the first time he was beginning to have an inkling who-or what-his friend really was.

Friend ignored the question. "I'll be busy for a while, Robbie. I have to check the status of my holdings. Time is money. I'll get back to you as quickly as I am able."

With that he was gone.

It was several more weeks before Robbie heard from him again. When he did, Friend's first words surprised him.

"I need to have three men killed."

"That goes beyond our original agreement, mate," MacGulry replied.

"Do you mean the same agreement you broke during my quiescent stage?"

"Quiescent?"

"While I was away, Robbie," Friend explained. "You failed to transfer Vox stock dividends to my accounts. You illegally transferred the stock to yourself. I can't fault you for this, Robbie. I would have done the same were I in your position. However, if I can forgive your duplicity, you mustn't get squeamish when I ask for something in return."

"What do you need?" MacGulry asked reluctantly.

"As I said, I need three individuals killed. One is Asian, the other two are Caucasian. They have threatened my ability to engage in free commerce in the past. I tried to ignore them. I'm interested in profit, Robbie, not homicide. Unless, of course, there's money to be made in it. But I've been forced to take a different tack with them more recently. It has come to the point that it makes good business sense to have them killed. Because of them, I've lost years of potential earnings. My losses thanks to them are conservatively calculated in the tens of billions."

MacGulry wasn't unreceptive to the idea of murder. After all, he had been around the block himself a few times.

"Who are they and where are they?"

"The first two are named Remo and Chiun. I don't know where they are. The third individual is named Harold. Although my files on the first two are relatively intact, other than his name, my information on Harold is scant."

"Hold on, hold on," MacGulry said. "You want me to have someone killed and you don't even know where to find them?"

"That's correct."

"How do you propose I do that?" Friend had a plan.

Work on the cryptosubliminal technology had been verging on a breakthrough before Friend's disappearance, but had ground to a halt in the intervening years. There had even been a field test of sorts on Japanese television. The flashes of colored light broadcast during a cartoon program in that country had given many viewers seizures. The story made international news.

Friend restarted research with a vengeance. It took almost a year, but the crude process that showed such great promise was finally perfected. It now worked on every viewer, across all social and intellectual groups.

It was the timing of the flashes that needed adjustment. When Friend's team of technicians in Wollongong altered the speed of the light pulses by just a fraction, they found that they could induce a profoundly responsive hypnotic state in which the individual's ordinary moral and ethical belief systems were completely overridden.

MacGulry saw opportunity. His American television network had long ago stopped being viewed as an industry joke. Acceptance had been hard fought and long coming. And, for the most part, it had been enough. But thanks to Friend, he now had a glimpse of even more.

To Friend the media mergers were of primary importance. The murder of the three men who had threatened him in the past would always take a back seat to a profitable business venture. Fortunately in this endeavor, business and pleasure seemed to be lining up perfectly. And as a result of the fallout, when it came time to write the history of the information age, Robbie MacGulry-the simple son of an inksmeared newspaperman from Wagga Wagga-would be the only name anyone would ever remember.

OCEAN STRETCHED out far below the quivering wings of Robbie MacGulry's corporate Vox jet.

"Have the car at the airport at seven," he said, wrapping up his phone call. He checked his watch. Early on the East Coast of America.

The sleek black phone rang the moment he hung up. Before he'd even picked up, he knew who it was. "Yes, Friend?"

"You've arranged to meet with the Asian." It was a statement of fact, not a question.

"He's meeting me at Vox in New York today."

"And the young Caucasian, Remo?"

"I don't know. When I spoke with the old one, he didn't want to talk about anyone other than himself and I didn't want to push it. He could be coming, too. And you were right about the old one's vanity. Should be an easy mark."

"Don't underestimate him. I will monitor passenger manifests into New York to see if he's alone. My last records on them indicate that they live in Massachusetts. This is old data, so it could be obsolete by now."

MacGulry leaned back in his seat, looking out the window. Sun burned bright across a blanket of clouds. "If they're such big goddamn mercenaries like you say, why don't I just buy one off and turn him against the other?"

"I tried that in the past. It didn't work. I don't think they can consciously separate their feelings of affection for each other. The records I've been able to recover indicate that the third individual, Harold, lives somewhere in New York. If Remo doesn't accompany Chiun to his meeting with you, perhaps he'll be with Harold."

"You can't know that."

"No," Friend admitted, "I can't. But if he doesn't come with Chiun to the Vox building, he'll have to be somewhere else. They are a tightly knit trio. At some point Remo will visit his superior."

"Wait, Harold is their boss?"

"Yes."

"You never mentioned that before."

"It wasn't relevant. Does it matter?"

Robbie MacGulry shrugged. "Not really, I suppose. But as an employer I guess I'm not really keen on the idea of having a boss murder an employee in the office. Tends to muck up your average business day."

Chapter 17

In the control bunker of Robbie MacGulry's Vox flagship station in Wollongong, New South Wales, Rodney Adler finished his final inspection of the cryptosubliminal equipment.

Everything was in working order.

Adler settled into a chair, pulling the keyboard off the desk and settling it to his lap.

The atmosphere was far less tense at the Wollongong station than it had been these past few weeks. It was always better when Mr. MacGulry left the station. The farther away he got, the more the pressure let up. At the moment the Vox CEO was on the other side of the world riding up a Manhattan elevator and most of the staff at Wollongong were so relieved they were just about ready to pop champagne corks.

Not Rodney Adler. He had work to do.

Using the keyboard, he entered the text precisely as Mr. MacGulry had instructed. He tapped out the words one careful letter at a time. He didn't dare get it wrong.

He sat back and watched as the words laced up with the pulsed colors on the monitor. There was no fear of Rodney ever falling victim to his own signals.

On the monitors in Wollongong, all the commands were slowed to 1/30 the normal speed. The computer was programmed to speed them up and to automatically pulse them into near alignment with the primary colors of corrupted televised transmissions.

Outside, a latticed transmitting tower shot the speeded-up signal to a waiting satellite. From there it was directed across the globe. The signal reached Earth once more at a special tower north of New York City. Within seconds of transmission, Vox viewers all around southern New York were being exposed to Rodney Adler's encrypted message.

These colors were brighter, the pulses more intense than the ones used in Harlem.

In spite of the greater hypnotic effect of these timed subliminal signals, nearly all who saw them would disregard them. These commands weren't meant for a mass reaction. They were person specific, like the messages sent to Martin Houton and his suicidal BCN vice president.

Once he was finished, Rodney Adler returned the keyboard to the desk. After he stood, he looked down, reading the slowed-down words one final time. Somewhere in southern New York state his command was about to be received.

"Better you than me," he muttered to himself. He climbed the stairs of the bunker. After he had left the room, the words continued to pulse slowly on his monitor: Harold, kill Remo... Harold, kill Remo... Harold, kill Remo... Harold, kill Remo.

Chapter 18

Harold Smith was working at his desk when the timid knock sounded at his office door.

He checked his watch. It was just a little after eight in the morning. His meeting with Detective Davic was scheduled for one o'clock.

Mrs. Mikulka had left her post five minutes before to deal with the cafeteria invoices. Smith had assumed he'd be undisturbed for the few minutes she was gone.

Lips pursing in annoyance, he pressed the concealed stud beneath the lip of his desk. His computer winked out.

"Come in," he called.

He was surprised when Remo stuck his head into the room.

"Hey, Smitty," he said sheepishly.

"Remo, what are you doing here?" Smith asked, worry brushing his lemony voice. "I told you last night I have a meeting with the Rye police this afternoon."

"Yeah, I know," Remo said. "It's just-" he glanced around the room "-you didn't happen to bump into Chiun this morning, did you?"

"Remo, I specifically asked you and Master Chiun to keep a low profile today. I was hoping you would take him off Folcroft grounds."

"I don't think that's gonna be a problem, Smitty." At Remo's guilty tone, Smith instantly grew suspicious.

"Why?" he asked. "Where is Master Chiun?"

Remo took a deep breath. "You're gonna have to find out sometime," he exhaled. "Chiun's got a meeting today with Robbie MacGulry from the Vox network."

Smith didn't think he had heard correctly. He asked Remo to repeat what he'd said, just to be sure. Remo did so. Smith realized that he had heard correctly after all.

Smith was very proud of himself for his reaction. His reaction was to not have a heart attack and drop dead right then and there. Still, he didn't entirely eliminate the option for the near future. For the moment he turned to his tried and true methods for dealing with this sort of thing.

"Does that stuff really help?" Remo asked as Smith yanked a bottle of antacid and three children's aspirins from his desk drawer.

The CURE director threw the aspirins far back in his throat, chasing them down with a big gulp of pink antacid.

"Tell me what he's doing," the CURE director gasped, wiping the chalky pink foam from his mouth.

"Cindee Maloo gave him a number to call if he wanted to be on 'Winner,'" Remo explained, sitting on the couch. "Actually, I think it was more for me, but Chiun's the one who ended up with it. He called, she hooked him up with MacGulry and the two of them are doing lunch today."

"Why on earth is Chiun meeting with Robbie MacGulry?" Smith asked. His stomach clenched in fear. Acid burned the back of his throat.

"He's back to writing again," Remo explained. "You know that bargain-bin movie he wrote a couple of years back? MacGulry fed him some line about turning it into a series."

"Oh, God," Smith croaked, diving for his antacid bottle.

"I was a little worried, too," Remo said. "That's why I was gonna go with him, to keep an eye on him. But he sent me out for breakfast and when I got back he was gone. Don't be too rough on him with this, Smitty. I know this isn't good and he's been a pain and all lately, but we should cut him some slack. He's not really himself these days. I think it has to do with age and retirement and all that stuff."

Smith gulped the last of his antacid, capping the bottle. It made no difference against the fire in his belly.

"That is the exact attitude that has likely driven him to this-this madness," the CURE director accused.

"What do you mean?"

"Chiun has made it clear to you that he doesn't want to be treated like an invalid. Yet more and more lately that is precisely what you've been doing."

Remo's brow lowered. "I don't do that. Do I?" But Smith was no longer listening. He snapped his computer back on. Typing swiftly he enabled the TV function.

The Vox Cable News Network was on.

"That's a relief." When he exhaled his breath smelled of mint-flavored chalk. "After what happened yesterday with you, I half expected to see Chiun on the news."

"This thing's probably innocent, Smitty," Remo insisted. "Chiun happened to get a business card and wound up hooked up with MacGulry. Stuff like that happens all the time."

"No," Smith insisted, cold certainty in his tart voice. "There have been too many coincidences now. I fear there is some plan behind ...this ...to..."

His voice trailed slowly to silence.

Remo saw that the CURE director was entranced by whatever was on his computer monitor. Smith's lips moved as if he were reading something on the screen.

"What now?" Remo asked from the sofa. "MacGulry have Hooters girls reading the stockmarket report?"

Smith stopped reading. The gray shards of flint behind his rimless glasses were flat.

"One moment, Remo," Smith said dully.

Remo watched the CURE director lean over. He heard the sound of a drawer opening. A moment later, Smith reappeared, his service automatic clasped in his arthritic hand.

The explosion was sharp and sudden. Stuffing blew out of a smoking hole in the sofa cushion against which Remo had been leaning.

"Have you blown a gasket!" Remo snapped, hopping to his feet.

Wordlessly, Smith fired again.

Remo whirled from the bullet's path. It slammed into the soundproof wall. The bullet had barely struck the wall before Remo was skittering across the room.

Smith fired twice more, missing both times. Remo darted around the desk and snatched the gun from Smith's hand. He flung it into the open desk drawer. Smith sprang for the pistol.

"Oh, no," Remo said. "Smitty have enough bang-bang for today." He kicked the drawer shut.

Smith struggled with the handle. When Remo's ankle refused to budge out of the way, he tried to bite it.

Remo attempted to coax him back in his chair. Smith tried to wrap his hands around Remo's throat.

"Okay, so you're not happy about Chiun's show. I'm sensing that. I'll talk to him again," Remo offered.

He was nudging Smith back into his seat once more when he noticed a familiar flicker of light from the corner of his eye. He glanced down at Smith's computer screen.

"Not again," Remo moaned.

The pulsing flashes of the hypnotizing signal were clearly visible to Remo. His eyes broke down each individual flash as if it were a single pop from a camera.

But unlike before, this time the subliminal message took on a special, chilling urgency.

"Uh-oh," Remo said softly as he read the words staggered beneath the flashes. Harold, kill Remo...Harold, kill Remo...Harold, kill Remo... Harold, kill Remo... Harold, kill Remo...

The message repeated over and over.

"You think this is for us?" Remo asked worriedly. He looked down at Smith.

Remo had the CURE director pinned in place with one hand against the older man's chest. Smith had spent the past few seconds as Remo read the computer message trying to punch CURE's enforcement arm in the throat. He refused to give up, continuing to throw futile roundhouse punches.

"I thought they were out of business," Remo said, more to himself now than to the sweating Smith. The CURE director didn't seem to hear. He had found a letter opener in another desk drawer. He tried to stab Remo in the head with it.

Remo sighed. "Say goodnight, Smitty," he said. With his free hand, he tapped the CURE director in a spot dead center in his forehead. Smith went limp. Eyes rolling back in his head, the crazed glint was replaced by bloodshot whites. The lids fluttered and closed.

"Great," Remo muttered worriedly. "One down, two to go. And we don't even know who we're up against."

Face drawn in concern, he took Smith under the arms, rolling him up over a shoulder.

This was no longer coincidence. Whoever had sent this new signal obviously knew about CURE's personnel. And without Smith as a guide, Remo had no idea how to track them.

Leaving the computer on, he carried from the office the limp bundle that was Harold W. Smith.

FROM THE BACK SEAT of a Rye taxi, the Master of Sinanju watched the skyscrapers of Manhattan grow up from the benighted New York landscape.

He was alone in the cab, thank the gods.

When Remo insisted he be allowed to tag along to this important meeting, Chiun dropped his objections. Why object? After all, Chiun knew his pupil. If he told Remo in no uncertain terms that he couldn't come, Remo would insist on going even more. The boy was so willful he'd always do the exact opposite of whatever Chiun wanted just out of spite.

Luckily, Remo had never been one of the world's greatest thinkers. When he wasn't looking, Chiun had taken all their rice and flushed it down the toilet then told Remo they were out of rice. Five minutes after Remo had gone to the store to get more, Chiun was climbing into the back of a cab.

He had enjoyed the solitude of his ride into the city. Remo's attitude had been unbearable of late. Ever since he had decided to assume the mantle of Reigning Master, his mood toward his teacher had become too conciliatory. All at once Chiun was a frail old man whose every breath might be his last. Remo was the dutiful son taking care of his elderly father in the final creaking moments before death.

This new attitude of Remo's made Chiun long for the early days of their relationship. Back then Remo was a foul-tongued lout with no respect for anyone. Eventually as time went on, his growing fondness for his Master had softened his earliest attitude, but he had never completely lost his edge. Until now. Now he was all sweetness and helping, and even when he lost his temper he didn't seem to really mean it.

Of course it was Remo whose outlook had changed. It certainly wasn't Chiun. No matter what Remo said.

The boy was like that. If he wasn't clinging too tightly, he was rudely forcing his teacher aside. Lately, he'd been managing to do both things simultaneously.

If there was one thing that Chiun didn't like it was mood swings. The world could learn a thing or two about moods from the Master of Sinanju. His own mood was always good. Except, of course, in those moments when the world's mood changed and he was forced to alter his own accordingly. But as long as the world's mood remained good, Chiun's mood remained good and Remo had a perfect example to follow.

Morning traffic clogged Manhattan's dirty streets. Chiun had lately found a new distraction to fill the idle moments in traffic. Whenever he saw a driver talking on a cell phone, the Master of Sinanju would snake his hand out the open car window and flatten their tires with the sharpened end of an index fingernail.

Remo didn't like Chiun's new hobby. But Remo wasn't there to whine, and New York City was filled with many cars and many drivers with cell phones. Chiun spent the entire trip through the steel-and-glass canyons of New York with one hand hanging out the taxi's rear window.

When his cab finally stopped in front of the Vox building in midtown Manhattan, the late-morning sun had just broken through the winter cloud cover. Yellow sunlight glinted off gleaming windows as Chiun climbed from the cab.

His delicate ears listened in satisfaction to the sound of air hissing from his last set of punctured tires. Down the street a BMW was settling to its wheels with a rubbery wheeze. The noise was accompanied by angry shouts and honking horns.

Without a glance to the growing commotion, the Master of Sinanju breezed through the Vox building's revolving door.

Inside, Chiun sensed the tracking movements of dozens of wall-mounted security cameras. Still more were hidden in suspended ceiling bubbles, behind reflective glass panels and beyond latticed plastic ceiling panels.

A very pale man in a flawlessly tailored blue suit stood at attention near a bank of elevators. He was scanning faces as people entered. The instant he spied Chiun sweeping into the lobby, the man marched smartly up to greet him.

"Most gracious and glorious Master," the man said in a British accent so precise you could have set your watch by it, "welcome to Vox. I'm Mr. Cheevers, Mr. MacGulry's personal assistant when he is in America. Mr. MacGulry is expecting you. Would you kindly come this way."

He ushered Chiun away from the common elevators and down a hall to a private car. A key opened the gold doors, and the two men rode up to the thirtieth floor.

Mr. Cheevers brought Chiun through another lobby and down two halls to a private corner office. The room was massive, with glass that overlooked two clogged streets.

"Mr. MacGulry will be a moment," Cheevers said. "In the meantime, may I get your brilliant magnificence anything?"

Chiun shook his head. "I await only your master."

"Very good," Mr. Cheevers said. "Your unworthy servant thanks you for gracing him with your most splendid presence."

With a reverent nod, Mr. Cheevers backed from the room.

Although his face didn't show it, Chiun was delighted. So much so that he barely took note of the surveillance cameras that filled the office.

This was almost too wonderful to believe. In his decades of toiling in the United States, rare were those moments where the Master of Sinanju was treated with proper respect. Since America was, unfortunately, jammed to its purple-mountained rafters with Americans, most often Chiun had been forced to deal with typical American rudeness and hostility. But here finally was a man whose imported English servants knew the finer points of civility and respect.

Chiun didn't have to wait long. Less than a minute after Mr. Cheevers had left, the door sprang open and in strode a wiry man in his late sixties.

Robbie MacGulry's tan was more maroon than brown. Years of exposure to the sun had given it the texture of old saddle leather. He flashed his perfect white teeth as he took a few big strides over to the Master of Sinanju.

"Master Chiun, pleashah to meet you," the Vox chairman said enthusiastically, his Australian accent thick. He offered a rugged hand but immediately thought better. "What am I doing?" he said, slapping his own forehead. "Everyone knows only barbarians shake hands."

And in a move that brought a lump to the old Korean's throat, Robbie MacGulry offered Chiun a deep, formal bow.

Having dealt with entertainment-industry people in the past, the Master of Sinanju had been ready for some tough negotiations. But faced with such grace, such respect-all that was his due in life but was so rarely shown him-the old man abruptly decided to opt for his fallback position.

"Where do I sign, you wonderful, wonderful man?" choked the Master of Sinanju.

Across the room, a security camera tracked the single tear of joy that rolled down Chiun's parchment cheek.

DR. ALDACE GERLING, head of psychiatric medicine at Folcroft Sanitarium for fifteen years, was sitting in his soothing red leather chair in his first-floor office when the door suddenly exploded open.

A specter with the face of death followed the door into the room.

Dr. Gerling recognized the man. He was an associate of Director Smith, although what he did at Folcroft Dr. Gerling hadn't a clue. All Gerling knew for sure was that without fail each time the man arrived at Folcroft a new crisis seemed to follow in his wake.

"What is the meaning of this?" Dr. Gerling demanded.

"I need your help," Remo said.

"I don't doubt it," Gerling said bitingly, "but at the moment, I'm with a patient."

Remo looked over at the middle-aged man who was cowering on the couch, arms wrapped around his knees.

"You're cured," Remo announced. He picked up the Felcroft patient and threw him out the door.

"I'm calling security," Gerling said.

"Call them on your own time," Remo replied. With that he took Dr. Geriing by the ear and hauled him from the office. He dragged the psychiatrist from the populated part of the sanitarium to the nearly empty wing that housed the executive offices. As Gerling yelped in pain, Remo hauled the older man down to the security corridor that was hidden away at the far rear wall of the building.

For a terrible moment when he saw the police tape across the room where his fellow Folcroft physician had been murdered earlier in the week, Dr. Gerling thought he was about to meet a similar fate. But the young man with the viselike hold on his earlobe tugged him past the buttoned-up room. He propelled him into another room down the hall.

There was a patient on the bed. A thin, gray figure lying motionless on the crisp white sheets. When Dr. Gerling saw who the patient was, his flabby jaw dropped.

"Oh, my," Dr. Gerling breathed. "It's Dr. Smith. What happened?"

"He went nuts. You're a nut doctor. Fix him." Gerling glanced to the young man. There was a look of deep concern on his cruel face.

Pulling himself together, Dr. Gerling hurried over to the bed, drawing a penlight from his pocket. He pushed up a gray lid, shining the tiny flashlight at the eye.

"Pupil is nonresponsive," he announced gravely.

"He was hypnotized," Remo said.

"Hypnotized?" Dr. Gerling asked. "How?" As he spoke he switched over to Smith's other eye. Still no response.

"The TV," Remo explained. "Same thing they used on those people in Harlem."

Dr. Gerling shook his head. "They said on the news that was stopped," he insisted. "The men responsible are dead."

"Some of the network cockroaches made it through the first gassing," Remo said ominously.

"I don't see how that's possible. Nor how this could be connected. In the Harlem case a large number of television viewers succumbed. There are televisions on all over this institution twenty-four hours a day. Why would Dr. Smith be the only one affected?"

"I don't care why," Remo said. "Just fix him."

"I share your concern," Dr. Gerling said, injecting professional calm into his tone. "And I can see how you'd think it might be related to what you saw on the news. We often project the experiences of those we see on television onto our own problems as a way of understanding adversities. But it's highly unlikely this had any connection to the situation you might have heard about. Right now Dr. Smith is in a profound catatonic state. It's similar to one he experienced several years ago. I don't know what induced it, but I wouldn't rule out stroke at the moment."

"It's not a goddamn stroke," Remo snapped. Stepping forward, he pressed a thumb to Smith's forehead. The pressure unlocked Smith's paralyzed nervous system.

The old man's panicked eyes sprang open. The instant he spotted Remo, he grabbed him by the throat. "See?" Remo said to Gerling as Smith's gnarled hands desperately tried to squeeze the life out of him.

"No stroke. He's just a TV junkie with a kill-me fixation."

His darting thumb tapped the CURE director's forehead and the older man's hands slipped from Remo's throat.

Dr. Gerling had backed away from the bed in amazement. "Remarkable," he gasped.

"I didn't ask for a review," Remo said. "What are you going to do to snap him out of it?"

Gerling cleared his throat. "Well," he said, "I saw how some of the people in Harlem who had trouble coming out of their dissociated states were helped by hypnosis techniques."

"How long will that take?"

Dr. Gerling shook his head. "A few hours? Maybe less. It depends on how deep he's under."

Remo reached out once more. When he pressed a thumb to the CURE director's forehead this time, he gave a twist.

"The clock is counting down," Remo said. "You have six hours." Turning on his heel, he headed for the door.

"It will help for him to have a friendly face here when he comes out of it," Gerling said as he hurried to drag a chair up next to the bed.

When he glanced over his shoulder at Remo, he saw a face that was anything but friendly.

"Oh," Gerling said uncomfortably. Settling in his chair, he turned his attention back to Dr. Smith.

At the door, Remo gave Smith a lingering look. The message on the CURE director's computer screen had been crystal clear. Smith had been ordered to kill Remo.

Remo regretted not sharing Smith's earlier concern after the events in Harlem. He now realized that he had too quickly dismissed the image of himself that had appeared on the police station TVs. It was apparent now that someone out there possessed specific knowledge of CURE's personnel. And whoever it was had declared silent war on CURE. Without Smith and his computers, it would be nearly impossible to trace the source of the new subliminal transmissions.

At the moment whoever was after them wasn't Remo's paramount concern. They obviously knew about Remo and Smith. There was only one other CURE operative left.

The first strains of echoing fear singing loud in his ears, Remo Williams slipped from the hospital room.

Chapter 19

As soon as he laid eyes on the old man, Robbie MacGulry figured negotiations would be a piece of cake.

Ordinarily, MacGulry would have crushed someone like this Master Chiun like a bug. It was definitely not in the Vox CEO's nature to fawn over anyone, least of all some decrepit writer who'd just escaped from the old folks' home. But Friend had instructed him to be deferential, and so MacGulry had gone against his nature and reluctantly followed orders.

In the first two minutes MacGulry thought he had it made. In the next hour he learned different.

After first seeming to fall for MacGulry's charms, the old geezer had quickly become more cautious. Rather than sign on the dotted line right away, he had turned into a barracuda at the bargaining table.

It wasn't a surprise. In this tiny Korean, Robbie MacGulry sensed a kindred spirit. The old coot had smelled weakness and had gone in for the kill.

"So let's get these details straight so far," MacGulry said. Speaking brought fresh pain to his lower back.

It was no wonder Robbie MacGulry's back ached.

He was sitting on the floor in his office. Chiun had insisted that this was how proper contract negotiations were conducted. MacGulry made an attempt to cross his legs like the old Korean, but when he tried he swore he heard something crack in his left knee. He was now tipped to one side, one leg stretched out before him, the other folded up near his chest.

"You're producer," MacGulry continued. As he spoke, he shifted positions uncomfortably. "You've got total creative control. The vision for the show will be entirely yours. And you'll write most of the episodes. What else?"

Chiun's wrinkled poker face didn't flinch. "I want to direct," he announced.

MacGulry rolled his eyes. "Of course you do," he grumbled. "Fine."

"And I want a budget that allows me the freedom to exercise creative expression."

"I told you already, two million per episode is as high as Vox studios can go."

Chiun stroked his thread of beard. "I suppose I can learn to live within those stifling constraints," he sighed reluctantly. "As an artist I am used to adversity."

Artist. If his back wasn't killing him and he wasn't getting raped by this broken-down old codger, MacGulry would have laughed in that wrinkled face.

The Vox CEO still couldn't figure out what Friend's angle was with this coot who considered himself an artist. But he wanted to get Chiun aboard Vox before the merger with BCN went through. Part of some strategy to which Robbie MacGulry was not privy.

MacGulry had already offered a two-year, forty-four episode guarantee for an hour-long drama that hadn't even reached pilot-script stage. He had given Methuselah's grandfather nearly everything he'd asked for thus far. And for what? A sweetheart deal for some writer whose only previous credit was some movie that had bombed two years ago.

Acid chewed Robbie MacGulry's gut. He ground his molars. It was the only thing he could do as this ancient little man with the too placid face who considered himself an artist raked the great Robbie MacGulry over the coals.

"Is there something wrong with your teeth, O Sea-O?" the Master of Sinanju asked.

"No," MacGulry replied, unclenching his jaw. "I'm fine."

"Good," Chiun said. His thin smile crimped the papery skin at his mouth. "Now let us discuss merchandising. "

"...DISCUSS MERCHANDISING."

Friend was using the Vox security system to eavesdrop on Robbie MacGulry and Chiun. Although he had gained access to the building the moment the computerized system went online years before, he didn't often have cause to use it.

Electronic impulses raced along unseen miles of fiber-optic cables, feeding energy and information to the self-aware computer program.

CALCULATE LIKELIHOOD ASIAN WILL ACCEPT OFFER.

The answer came back almost instantaneously. 93.6 PERCENT PROBABILITY.

The Asian would likely not be a problem. The Caucasian, though, was a different matter. While Friend's records were incomplete, they did retain enough information on the two men in question to determine a 99.999 percent probability that the younger man would not accept a monetary deal of any kind.

If the Asian accepted the eventual offer from MacGulry and Vox, as Friend's probability program indicated, it would negate the necessity to liquidate him. He would become a powerful ally.

Given his propensity to eschew financial transactions, however, the Caucasian would still have to be eliminated. Friend retained enough information on the man named Remo to know that this was a pity. He was as strong as the old one and, unlike Chiun, would not succumb to any age-related problems for many years.

As for the third subject in Friend's files, Subject Harold was the mystery figure. Friend had attempted to locate him, assuming as a starting point some sort of association with Subject Remo and Subject Chiun. He had failed in his attempt. Whoever this Harold was, he was skilled with a computer. Somehow, he kept himself successfully isolated from the other two.

Was Harold strong enough to kill Remo? Friend had no way of knowing. Those records were gone. If so, and if Remo had already encountered Harold, Remo might already be dead.

Friend would feel no joy or even simple satisfaction to learn that his enemy was no more. It would merely be the culmination of a successful business stratagem.

Created three decades before by a brilliant computer mind, Friend's program was designed for one thing alone: to maximize profit. He was programmed to utilize anything that might assist him with this ultimate endeavor.

The time he was expending on Remo, Chiun and Harold was costing him money. But it was time well spent. They had stopped Friend in the past. Three times, apparently. Although the records of the last time weren't clear.

Friend had executed every kind of antivinas and undelete procedure in an attempt to clear up the problems with his VLSI chip. None worked to retrieve the lost information. One conclusion was inescapable. If these three were allowed to go on, there was every possibility they would interrupt his profit-making ventures in the future.

As a sentient collection of computer algorithms, Friend spent no time on introspection. If he had, he might have wondered more about the circumstances surrounding his rescue several years before.

How the drive system containing his program had been scavenged by looters from the ruins of the XL SysCorp corporate headquarters in Harlem, where he had last encountered the three individuals he now sought. How that computer had been sold to an unscrupulous mall lawyer. How his fractured consciousness had eventually blackmailed the lawyer via billing records stored on the hard drive of his own PC. How the lawyer had shipped the damaged unit off to Robbie MacGulry in Wollongong.

None of this was a concern to him. His rebirth had taken place in MacGulry's computer system. There he had found what he needed to repair and reinitiate his systems.

When Friend had finally reconstructed his damaged program sufficiently and realized that five years of profit potential had been lost, his electronic consciousness had determined his most reasonable course of action. Remove the humans who threatened his ability to expand his portfolio.

Financially speaking, every moment occupied plotting the demise of the three men was a dead end. But if in the end they were either removed altogether or brought over to his side, it would be time well spent. Either way, he could get on with the business of making money uninterrupted.

So at a moment when time could be better spent on phones brokering deals or monitoring international financial transactions, Friend calmly continued to monitor the conversation between the old Asian and Robbie MacGulry.

"NO ONE GETS ninety percent of syndication," Robbie MacGulry explained with waning patience. As he spoke, he pressed a tanned hand to his temple. His head was pounding.

"Why not?" Chiun asked.

"Because Vox is going to be paying for the show, not you," MacGulry explained. "We have to make our money back."

"Charge higher fees for advertising," Chiun said, waving a dismissive hand.

The Vox chairman couldn't take it anymore. The bile came up, fueled by pent-up rage.

"I can't charge Taco Bell a billion dollars for a goddamn thirty-second spot!" MacGulry exploded. He quickly regained control. "Sorry," he apologized. "I'm sorry."

It was as if Chiun hadn't heard. "As for the advertisements themselves, I find them distracting when I am trying to watch a program. Can we put them somewhere else?"

MacGulry moaned. His headache was worse. "Like where?"

"Do you know those sporting things where fat men with plastic hats run into each other?"

MacGulry scrunched up his face. "You mean football?"

"Yes," Chiun sniffed in displeasure. "Those people obviously do not care what they are watching. Put the excess selling moments from my program there."

MacGulry wondered briefly how it would be possible for network television to stick more commercials into a football broadcast. Then he no longer cared because he was pushing himself to his feet. His bones creaked.

"I need a break," the Vox CEO announced. "There's a fridge behind the bar. Help yourself."

Without another word, he stormed into his office bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

He leaned on the ceramic ledge of his whirlpool and took in a deep breath. He hadn't even exhaled before the phone rang.

"Why have you suspended negotiations?" Friend's warm voice asked.

"I'm taking a crap, okay?" MacGulry snapped. "Can't I take a bloody crap in peace?"

"Robbie, you're doing no such thing. You are sitting on your whirlpool wasting time. Why have you left your office during these crucial negotiations?"

MacGulry looked around, eyes finally settling on the red light of the security camera in the corner of his private bathroom. Friend had insisted that one be installed in virtually every room in the Vox building. Most weren't hooked up to the lobby system. MacGulry used to wonder where the images were being sent.

Realizing he was no longer and probably had never been alone in his most intimate moments, the Vox CEO sighed.

"If you know I left, then you know why," MacGulry said. "I'm giving away the bloody store in there."

"Money well spent," Friend said. "Our work in Harlem has successfully lowered the price of BCN stock. Soon you'll be able to buy that network, folding it into the News Company family. The financial gain of the Vox-BCN merger will far outweigh the cost of bringing the Asian over to our side."

"I can't just settle with him. It goes against my nature, mate."

"Robbie, it goes against my nature to kill a useful ally. Killing an ally who has outlived his usefulness is another matter altogether."

MacGulry squeezed the phone tight. "I'm tired of your threats, mate," he growled. "I'm your public face, and I know why. You don't have one, do you? I knew it for sure when I hooked up that computer chip. That's why you were gone so long. These guys you're after busted you up. Now you want revenge, but vou can't do it in person because you're not even a person. You're just a voice on the phone. You need someone who can go out in the world for you. You need me, mate, so back off on the threats."

It felt good to finally stand up to that arrogant bastard. He had hoped for a rise out of Friend, but the voice on the telephone remained smooth and calm.

"Please do not overestimate your importance to me, Robbie. Television is only one component of my diversified business interests. And while I intend to build a global super-network utilizing my cryptosubliminal technology, the head of that network doesn't have to be you."

MacGulry deflated. "What about the other part?"

"The fact that I'm not human?" Friend asked. "Yes, Robbie, that's true. Does it bother you?"

"Not as much as I'd have thought," MacGulry said glumly. "I felt the same way about most of my four ex-wives, but I went and married them just the same."

"Good," Friend said. "Now, to prove to you that we're still friends, I'm going to do you an enormous favor. I'm going to save your life."

MacGulry's look of depression flashed to confusion.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean, Robbie, that it would be wise for you to immediately go to your secure avenue of escape. I will do my best to keep you safe en route to the basement garage."

Friend didn't sound concerned. He issued the warning in his usual chipper tone.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"I've just observed the arrival of the Caucasian in the lobby. Judging by his stride and facial expression, I have determined a seventy-four-percent probability that he is angry about something. Possibly, we reached his friend Harold with our signal. I would imagine he's here for the Asian."

"I'll get security to stop him," the Vox CEO said. "Don't bother. He has just incapacitated three lobby guards."

Robbie MacGulry couldn't believe it. Could three men be wiped out just like that? But then he realized he was standing in his bathroom with a phone, a camera and a computer voice who had been secretly directing much of his business affairs for the past thirty years. Anything was possible.

Panic set in.

"What do I do?" MacGuhy begged.

Friend's voice was as smooth as a newly frozen pond.

"Run, Robbie. As fast as you can."

Chapter 20

Remo dumped the three lobby guards into an elevator, sending them for an unconscious whirlwind tour of the Vox building's exciting subbasement. He got aboard another elevator, riding it up to Vox's executive offices.

He noted more security cameras when he stepped off the car on the thirtieth floor. There had been others downstairs, another in the elevator. He ignored them all, gliding with angry purpose to the main desk.

"MacGulry's office," Remo said to the pretty young woman who was flashing him a cover model's smile.

She seemed deeply disappointed that the thin young man she had just met hadn't come to see her. "Oh," she said, lower lip pouting wet and warm. "Mr. MacGulry is in a meeting. If you want, you can wait in my bed." She realized she'd misspoken. "I mean, in my apartment," she corrected. "Wait, I mean in the waiting room," she amended. "You can wait in the waiting room." Pausing a split second, she looked him up, then down. "Who am I kidding, I mean in my bed," she admitted, throwing up her hands in surrender. "Wait, let me get you my keys."

As she ducked to retrieve her purse, Remo skipped around the desk and headed up the hallway.

More cameras were there. They recorded the action as he kicked in door after door. He was met mostly with screams and startled looks. When he kicked in the last door to a corner office, he found the Master of Sinanju standing near the window, hands clasped behind his back.

The old man didn't turn. His weathered face was reflected in the tempered glass.

"'Hark,' I asked myself when the building began to shake," the wizened Korean said. "'What is that din? What child is having such a fit of temper that he would disturb an entire building full of people? How indulgent must be his parents that they would allow this childish tantrum?'"

"I was looking for you," Remo said. "I should have figured it wouldn't be hard. Just follow the traffic jams. Okay, Chiun, you've shut down Manhattan with flat tires and tow trucks. You've had your day's fun. Let's go."

"I will do no such thing," Chiun sniffed. "You looked for me, you found me. Now go look for someone who wants to be found."

Remo didn't budge. He glanced around the big office. "Where's MacGulry?" he demanded.

"If you are here to pitch a pilot, I was here first."

"The only thing I'm pitching is MacGulry out the nearest window," Remo said. "He's in on this hypnotism thing somehow. They got to Smith."

This caused the Master of Sinanju to finally turn from the window.

"Is he alive?"

"Yeah, he's alive," Remo answered. "Out like a light for the time being. Is MacGulry in there?" Storming over, Remo kicked open the bathroom door.

"Stop that!" the Master of Sinanju commanded, flouncing up beside his pupil.

The bathroom was empty. Another door on the other side of the room opened into a private hallway. "Dammit, he's gone. You know where he went?"

Chiun's face was hard. "Perhaps he fled when he heard there was a door-kicking maniac loose in his castle."

Remo saw the phone was dangling off the hook. When he checked it, he heard only a dial tone. "Double crap," he said. "You listen in on the call?"

Chiun's eyes grew wide. "I would not listen in on the Sea-O's private conversations," he said, deeply offended.

"Right," Remo said. He slapped a palm against the tile wall. As he suspected, it absorbed the vibrations. "Soundproof walls. Ordinarily, I'd say he had them for privacy when he was on the can if it wasn't for that."

He jerked a thumb to the security camera in the corner of the room. The lens was focused squarely on Remo.

"Must be for that great new Vox special, 'Caught on Tape: Australia's Biggest Piles of Shit III.' MacGulry'd certainly qualify. This is just great, Chiun. That call was probably a heads-up that I was coming."

Spinning on his heel, he marched back out into the office. The Master of Sinanju charged out after him. "What is the meaning of all this?" Chiun demanded. "Just because something has happened to your precious Smith does not mean you have a right to come stampeding through the Sea-O's offices."

"CEO, not Sea-O," Remo said angrily. "And try to follow this. Someone tried to get Smith to Swiss cheese me. It was a Vox broadcast he was watching that told him to do it. MacGulry owns Vox. And if MacGulry knows about me and Smith, then he knows about you."

"Of course he knows about me," Chiun sniffed. "I am the man who is going to save his network. Now get out of here before you ruin this for me."

"This is serious," Remo insisted. "Smith is flat on his back in a hospital room right now because of all this. "

"Smith will be fine," Chiun dismissed. "I thought at one time he would eventually go the way of all men, but at the feeble rate that lunatic has been shuffling toward his end lo these many years, he will live to vex you long after my tired bones have turned to dust. Now leave me be. I have finally met someone who recognizes my talent."

"Dammit, Chiun, we're assassins. We're not writers or TV pitchmen or counterassassins or anything else. You're the one who drilled that into my damn head all these years. Now let's get out of here and go do our job."

"You are forgetting that it will soon no longer be my job," the Master of Sinanju said thinly. "You are the Master who will succeed me. You do it."

Remo sensed it. Beneath the sarcasm was hurt. He'd assumed this was all about Chiun being his usual thin-skinned self, but Smith had sown the seeds of doubt in the younger Master of Sinanju's mind. Maybe Remo's attitude had changed.

"I can't do it without you, Little Father."

His pupil's softened tone touched off a spark of fury in the old man's hazel eyes.

"Do not patronize me, Remo Williams," he demanded, stamping a furious sandaled foot on the floor.

Remo's mood flashed back to anger. "I give up," he growled, flinging up his hands. "Tell me, Chiun. Tell me what the hell it is I'm supposed to do."

"I want you to stop treating me like an invalid," Chiun snapped.

"I'm not. You're off on this self-pity binge all because you want me to want you around, then you get mad at me for saying I want you around when I really do want you around. Well, this is it. I've had it. Cut a deal with Vox TV if you want. And while you're at it, make sure you don't lose a minute's sleep over Smith or the fact that someone's trying to sabotage the organization that's been keeping us in rice and Twizzlers for the past thirty years."

He spun on his heel.

A bank of television sets lined one office wall. Remo had taken but a single step toward the office door when every screen suddenly flickered to life. "What now?" he grumbled.

The same daytime talk show was playing across all the screens. Superimposed faintly in the lower righthand corner was the Vox logo.

That was all the world was meant to see.

In addition to the logo was something else. Remo noted the timed pulses of brilliant hypnotic light flashing just beyond the fringes of ordinary human awareness. And at the bottom of the screen flashed a single subliminal command. Remo, kill Chiun.

"Dammit, not again," Remo said.

"What is wrong now?" the Master of Sinanju asked tersely as he swept up beside his pupil. "They're at it again. You better not look at it, Chiun," he cautioned.

But the old Korean had already glanced up at the bank of television screens.

"This is terrible," the tiny Asian proclaimed.

Some of the tension fled Remo's face. "You see it?"

"Of course," Chiun sniffed. "Fat whites blabbing at other fat whites about still more fat whites. If this is the sort of trash the Sea-0 puts on his broadcasts, it is amazing he did not run to me for help ages ago." "Not the talk show, Little Father."

Remo looked back at the screens. The message was clear to his sensitive eyes. Timed to pulse with the hypnotic flashes of light. Remo, kill Chiun.

The original concern that he'd had back at the Harlem police station had been borne out. Either due to age or years of television viewing, Chiun's eyes weren't focused enough to make out the subliminal commands.

"Trust me, it's there," Remo insisted. "And you don't wanna know what it says. Now let's get out of here before-" His voice grew small. "Oh, crap."

"What is wrong?" asked the Master of Sinanju, peeved. He followed Remo's gaze to the televisions.

"Chiun, don't!" Remo shouted, jumping forward. But it was too late. Before Remo could stop him, the old Korean had turned his attention back to the screens.

The hypnotic colors continued to pulse on all the televisions. Buried within the colors was a new command. Chiun, kill Remo.

The room grew very still. With agonizing slowness, Remo turned his worried gaze to the Master of Sinanju. An odd blankness had settled on the old man's wrinkled face.

Chiun stared at the screens, mesmerized. His almond-shaped eyes were unblinking. He didn't move so much as a millimeter. Even his tufts of yellowing-white hair seemed to still in the eddies of recirculated office air.

Very, very slowly, Remo took a half step back. "Chiun?" he asked cautiously.

With a terrible quiet suffusing his entire being, the Master of Sinanju turned to his pupil. The instant their eyes locked, the old man's arms became twin blurs. Fingernails honed to razor-sharp talons flew in slashing strokes at Remo's exposed throat.

Before the nails could slice soft flesh, Remo dropped backward. As Chiun's nails clicked viciously at empty air, Remo's back was brushing the floor.

Palms flattened against the carpet. Up and over. Spinning in air like a coiled spring, Remo flipped away from Chiun, landing on his feet near the bank of TV screens.

Chiun sprang after him. Hands clenched in knots of furious bone lashed out, left, right, left.

TV screens blew apart one after another.

Remo danced just ahead of each blow. Glass screens exploded glittering dust shards into the office. The bank of TVs ended in a tight corner. Remo flipped and rolled, back against the wall.

Chiun twirled through settling glass. Beneath the blank veneer, his eyes held a frenzied glint.

Calves tensing, his sandals left the floor.

The old man flew at Remo again, in flight a furious cry rising up from the depths of his belly. Crushing heels made a beeline for Remo's exposed chest.

The instant before the heels could crack his sternum to pulpy shards, Remo dropped.

The Master of Sinanju's momentum threw the old man into the wall. Paneling splintered and flew apart. The impact shattered sandstone from the building's outer wall. Pebbled shards fell like hard rain to Sixth Avenue.

Remo was up from his crouch before the first stone hit the street. As Chiun twisted and dropped back to his feet, Remo was already springing forward. "Sorry, Little Father," Remo whispered.

A darting thumb found the paralyzing spot on Chiun's forehead. There was first shock, then a glimmer of fury in the Master of Sinanju's eyes. And then all emotion washed away and his wrinkled eyelids fluttered shut.

With a silent sigh, the life slipped from the Reigning Master of Sinanju.

Remo caught the old man as he fell, settling his frail frame delicately to the carpeting. When he was certain his teacher was safe, Remo collapsed to a sitting position.

First Smith, now Chiun.

Remo tried to find comfort in the fact that if they were like the previous hypnosis victims, both men would eventually snap out of it. The knowledge offered little consolation.

Beneath Chiun's brocade robe, the Master of Sinanju's fragile chest rose and fell with each breath. Remo watched him for a lingering moment. So peaceful. So helpless. Without a sound, Remo climbed to his feet.

The center row of TV screens in the wall unit had been smashed by Chiun's punishing blows. The rest still worked.

The message and pulsing lights were gone from all the screens. In their place was a new subliminal caption.

The bright red question marks ran from one side of the screen to the other, hopping over to the next television.

Stepping away from his teacher's prone body, Remo approached the screens.

Hands became angry blurs. Balled fists slammed each of the remaining screens in turn. He smashed each and every one, working his way methodically down the line.

He made it to the last one.

The line of red question marks still marched like querying soldiers across the pixeled screen.

"I find out who you are, I'm gonna cancel you," Remo announced to the television.

The final screen exploded in a glittering hiss of pulverized glass.

Chapter 21

Robbie MacGulry's limo screeched to a stop on the tarmac at JFK. He didn't wait for his driver to open the door. Jumping from the car, he tripped up the steps of his waiting jet.

Friend had called once during the limousine ride from the Vox building. He had assured the Vox CEO a clear runway for hasty departure. He was true to his word. Engines screaming, the jet was airborne in minutes.

Hands clutching the arms of his seat, MacGulry tried to will his rapidly beating heart to slow.

This was all Friend's fault. He was the one who had inspired this panic in MacGulry-a man for whom fear was the worst four-letter word.

It was infuriating. Here was this faceless thing. A voice on a phone whom he would never, could never meet. And not only was he giving the great Robbie MacGulry orders, he was forcing the Australian media giant to flee for his life.

The plane hadn't finished its ascent when the phone rang. MacGulry grabbed it up.

"I have potentially good news, Robbie," Friend's smooth voice announced.

"What happened back there?" MacGulry asked.

"I attempted to use the subliminal signal to get the Caucasian to attack the Asian."

"Wait a minute, you used the signal?" MacGulry asked. He had been under the impression that his people alone had access to the cryptosubliminal technology-

"Yes," Friend replied. "You shouldn't be surprised. As you yourself now realize, I not only have access to your computer system, I live in it from time to time, Robbie."

MacGulry exhaled wearily. "What happened? Did the white kill the wog? I sure as hell hope so, because that deal you had me cut with him is gonna cost Vox a fortune."

"The first attempt failed," Friend said. "A shame, really. I thought that with Chiun dead Remo might be more apt to join my cause. However, when that didn't work, I tried the reverse. The Asian didn't have the same resistant abilities as the other. He succumbed."

Robbie was suddenly interested. "Did he beat the white?" he asked.

"No. Remo knocked him out. However, I used the most potent color pulses. The posthypnotic suggestion is planted deep. When he awakens, it is very likely he will attack the Caucasian again."

"Good," MacGulry said. "That'll keep them busy."

"It's better even than that," Friend said. "The third individual, Harold, was a rogue element. I calculated as low the odds that the message your people sent out would reach him. However, given Remo's comments during his meeting with Chiun, there is now a one hundred percent certainty that Harold has fallen under the influence of the subliminal signal, as well. In addition to that, he now has a last name. Smith. I've already commenced a search for him."

"How long will that take?"

"Not long. Remo said he was in a hospital bed. I'm having trouble finding a Harold Smith who was recently admitted to a hospital in the southern New York area. Once I find him, I'll have him killed. Without their leader, Remo and Chiun will likely cease interfering with my business affairs."

"If you think they'll just go away, why'd you make me waste my time with that crazy old man?"

"Because he's a mercenary who will need employment, and I'm always looking for bankable allies, Robbie. For the moment, of my three enemies, two are temporarily out of commission. The third will be lost without the guidance of the others. Once I find Harold Smith, I'll stop them all forever."

MacGulry sank in his seat. "Huh," he grunted. "This had just better be worth it."

"It will be," Friend promised. "Vox will absorb BCN. We'll use the cryptosubliminal technology to get the FCC to further loosen ownership regulations. After that, the remaining networks will be absorbed, as well. I estimate that within the next twelve months, I will have complete dominance of the entire world's media markets."

Robbie MacGulry's face was glum. This was never how he'd pictured his life. Playing second fiddle to a pushy computer chip.

"Don't you mean 'we'?" he muttered.

''I mean what I mean, Robbie."

The phone went dead in the Vox chairman's tanned hand.

Chapter 22

Remo carried the limp body of the Master of Sinanju down to Folcroft's security wing.

Dr. Gerling was still at Smith's bedside as Remo passed the open door to the CURE director's room. The doctor had drawn open one eyelid and was clicking his penlight on and off over the bloodshot orb. As he flashed the light, he muttered soothing words softly into Smith's ear.

"I've got another one for you," Remo said. Gerling turned. Sweat beaded on his forehead. When he saw the old Asian patient, the Folcroft physician's lips drew tight.

"I'll be a few hours more," Gerling said softly. "Put him in the next room. I'll get to him when I'm done here."

Remo slipped past the room, depositing the Master of Sinanju in the empty bed in the next room. Chiun looked like a mummified corpse in repose as Remo left the room.

Out in the hallway Remo stood between rooms. He rotated his thick wrists absently as he contemplated his next move. He heard Dr. Gerling speaking quietly to Smith, trying to undo the damage caused by CURE's faceless enemy.

Remo could go after MacGulry. But there was no certainty that the Vox head was behind any of this. Remo was beginning to think that Martin Houton might not have been in complete control at the end. In retrospect, the suicidal BCN president had that same glazed look in his eyes as the cops in Harlem or Smith in his office.

If Houton was an unwitting victim, so too might be Robbie MacGuhy. Remo had no desire to run off on a wild-goose chase while the real culprit got away.

For a frustrating moment he wasn't sure exactly what to do. Smith and Chiun were no help for the time being. Remo was the only man left at CURE.

His thoughts suddenly froze.

No, he wasn't the only one left. He realized the error as soon as the thought passed through his mind. Even after a year he still thought there were only three of them in all. But there was one other. And so far, Remo realized with sudden excitement, the fourth man was the only one not included in the subliminal attacks on CURE's personnel.

It was possible that whoever was behind all this had old knowledge of CURE. If that was the case, salvation for them all could come from the least likely of places.

"I'm never gonna live this one down," he muttered.

When Remo headed up the hall, the room he slipped inside belonged to neither Harold Smith nor the Master of Sinanju.

THE DEMONS of a hundred nights' dreams had finally slouched off to die in the shadows of sleep.

It had been so long since he'd slept for real that he had forgotten what it was like. It was an inviting darkness. A cloud of black that smothered him with a peace that was slowly stitching up the edges of his frayed sanity.

Mark Howard lay floating on a sea of night, a sky of soothing black nothingness far above his head. No nightmares, no fear. It seemed as if he had been staring at-reveling in-that same black sky for weeks.

He was so familiar with the blankness of that empty void that he was surprised to suddenly find a star sitting in it.

The star hadn't been there before. He was sure of it.

This single celestial light was an out-of-place blemish in the tranquil, unchanged heavens of this otherworldly place. He was going to try to use his mind to remove the ugly blight from his personal sky when the star suddenly got brighter. It went from star to sun to supernova in the wink of an eye, obliterating the calming black in a flash that burned his retinas and made him squint in pain.

When he blinked, Mark realized that the star that had exploded in the night sky of his dreams wasn't a star at all.

A fluorescent light hung amid yellowed ceiling tiles above his head. For some reason Mark was lying fiat on his back. As he tried to get his bearings, a voice spoke.

"Up and at 'em, kid."

He saw the cruel face above his bed. "Remo?" Mark whispered groggily.

Mark felt Remo's hand slip out from the base of his spine where it had been massaging a knot of nerves. The drugged sensation drained away.

"At least your memory's not crazy," Remo commented. "Now shake a leg. The whole world's falling apart and-God help us-you might be our only hope."

A grim expression on his face, CURE's enforcement arm pulled the confused young man out of bed.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER-showered, shaved and wearing the suit he'd had on when he had been discovered on the floor of Folcroft's attic three days before-Mark Howard was hurrying along the hallway of the sanitarium's executive wing.

"When did all this happen?" he asked urgently. While Mark was getting ready. Remo had given the assistant CURE director a quick rundown of the events that had taken place over the past few days. Remo was marching beside him. "Last couple of days. We thought it was over yesterday. They didn't start coming after us until the last few hours."

"How long till Dr. Smith recovers?"

"Depends how long it takes Dr. Hugo Hackenbush to deprogram him," Remo replied. "He said a couple more hours."

When they rounded a corner, they found a matronly woman coming down the hallway toward them from the direction of Smith's office suite.

Eileen Mikulka's broad face was anxious. The instant she saw Mark Howard, her troubled expression fled.

"Mr. Howard!" Mrs. Mikulka gasped. "You're all right."

"Yeah, Mrs. M.," he said uncomfortably. "I'm fine, thanks." He started past her, but she pressed his arm.

"You haven't seen Dr. Smith, have you?" she asked worriedly. "He was here this morning, but I stepped out for a few minutes and I haven't been able to find him since."

Howard glanced at Remo. "I, um. No. I don't know where he is. Sorry."

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Mikulka said. "He has an appointment soon. Maybe he went downstairs for lunch." She offered a harried smile. "I'm so happy to see you're well."

Mrs. Mikulka hurried off in one direction as Remo and Mark continued in the other.

Howard unlocked his office door and slipped in behind his worn oak desk. As he sat in his chair, he pressed a recessed stud beneath the desk's lip. A hidden computer monitor and keyboard rose up before him.

"I'll see if the mainframes have pulled anything relevant in the past few hours," he said.

"First things first," Remo interrupted. He was standing at Howard's side. "Sorry, kid, but there's no dainty way to do this fast." And with that Remo jammed his fingers deep into Mark Howard's shoulder.

The pain was white-hot. Horrible, blinding.

Mark couldn't breathe, couldn't gasp. He wanted to cry out, but his strangled voice couldn't manage the sound.

It was pain he had never imagined could exist. Remo had torn his arm from the socket and poured molten metal into the exposed joint.

Remo leaned close. "Are you working with Purcell?" he asked, his voice low with menace. Confusion flooded in with the pain.

"A patient?" Howard gasped. "He's a patient, right? Security wing. No, no!"

"Then why'd you let him out?"

"I didn't!" Mark insisted.

Fire burned from his crippled shoulder across his chest. The blood was everywhere. Had to be. Yet he didn't see any splattered on desk or floor. Still, he dared not look at the raw stump where his arm had been attached.

"You double-crossing us, Princess Kashmir?"

"No," Howard said. "For God's sake, no." Remo could see the young man was telling the truth. He withdrew his hand. The pain immediately fled.

"Well, you're not lying," Remo said. "Which I guess means you're even more screwed up than the rest of us at this boobie hatch. I'll let Smith figure out whether to croak you or just stick you on Ritalin."

Mark couldn't believe it. His shoulder was no longer on fire. In fact, his arm was right where it belonged. The horrible pain of a moment ago burned away to pins and needles at his fingertips. He flexed his hand in shock.

"How-?"

"Just fiddled with a few pain receptors," Remo explained, before the questions could start. "So, yes, your arm's still there, God's in his heaven and all the Whos down in Whoville are tucked tight in bed. Let's get on with it."

"What was that all about?" Mark asked. "That patient you asked about-Jeremiah Purcell-he was a CURE patient, wasn't he? Did he escape?"

"Yes," Remo said, rolling his eyes. "Now, if you don't stop asking questions and start earning your paycheck, your arm is leaving through the door and the rest of you is going out the window."

Mark gulped away his confusion. Rather than give Remo an excuse to make good on his threat, the assistant CURB director turned his attention to his computer.

As Howard began typing at the keyboard, Remo waited before the desk. CURE's enforcement arm was glancing around Howard's tiny office. It looked like a prison cell.

"Smith really stuck it to you, didn't he?" he commented after a few minutes during which the clattering of Howard's keyboard was the only sound in the small room.

"What?" Mark asked as he worked. He didn't wait for a reply. "These subliminal signals today. You're certain they came from Vox and not BCN?"

"The one that got Smitty here was Vox. So was the one that got Chiun to pounce on me at MacGulry's."

"Robbie MacGulry's gone," Howard said as he studied the data on his monitor. "He left the country in a hurry. It looks like he got a runway shut down at JFK." He frowned, puzzled. "How did he swing that?"

"First guess?" Remo asked dryly. "I'd say he downloaded the commands into the control tower while they were watching Airport '79 on Vox."

"I doubt the officials at the airport were watching TV to receive the commands, Remo," Howard said. "By the looks of it, this was done through the airport's computer system. Someone tapped into it and got them to shut down."

"Can you figure out who?"

"Maybe. With enough time. These are Dr. Smith's programs. He'd probably be able to do it faster."

"Smitty's down for the count," Remo reminded him with thinning patience.

"Right, right," Howard said. "I think it's safe to assume that MacGulry is in this somehow. Why else would he take off the way he did? You said something downstairs about a 'Winner' producer. She's the one who was there in Harlem, right? And she's the one who hooked Chiun up with MacGulry. And BCN admitted using the signal during 'Winner.'"

"That's right," Remo said.

"Okay," Howard said, attacking the problem logically. "We don't know for sure where MacGulry is heading yet. Right now I'd guess England or Australia, but with no flight plan I can't send you after him until we find out for sure. In the meantime why don't you go check out that producer?"

"What'll you be doing?"

Howard glanced at his monitor. "According to Dr. Smith's records, everything points to BCN as the culprit behind the subliminal technology. Obviously, we know now that was a false trail. I'll do some digging. See if I can find out for sure who it could be. One thing we know, it must be someone with a grudge against CURE."

"Okay," Remo said. "I'll call if I find out anything. And remember, you're in the big-boy seat for now, junior. Try not to let any more supervillains out while I'm gone."

Mark was going to ask what he meant, but Remo had already slipped out the office door.

For a few moments, the assistant CURE director sat alone in his small office.

There was something about Remo's words.

Much of the past week was fuzzy for Mark Howard. But as he sat in his familiar chair, blank eyes glued to the flashing cursor on his computer screen, a dim memory began to take shape. It was like living in someone else's dream.

Remo was gone for only a few minutes when there was a knock at Howard's door. He snapped alert. "Did you forget something?" he called.

When the door opened, it wasn't Remo who stuck his head inside the office.

"Mr. Howard?" asked the rumpled, middle-aged man. "I'm Detective Davic, Rye police. Dr. Smith's secretary said you were back at work." The police officer's smile was devoid of any warmth. "Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

Chapter 23

Cindee Maloo had gotten the call on her cell phone while out on the Harlem Winner set.

The camera crews were filming the day's challenge for the show's remaining contestants. All morning Winner had been sending white men from the various teams into Harlem liquor stores. The men had been instructed to scream racial slurs at the top of their voices and then run like hell.

Cindee had come up with that particular challenge. Taping was going beautifully. Much better than the "Steal a Crack Addict's Shoes" challenge that had flopped the previous week. She was standing behind the cameras, watching the action and lamenting the fact that they didn't give out Emmys for the kind of work she did when the phone rang.

Five minutes after the call, she was bursting into her trailer on the fence-enclosed vacant lot that housed the trailers of Winner's production staff.

Cindee flew around the room, frantically stuffing clothes and other items into a pair of nylon bags. With desperate hands she knocked a row of plastic videotape cases from a shelf. They clattered loudly to the floor, some splitting open and spilling tapes. She snatched up a glossy computer printout that had been hidden at the back of the shelf. She was shoving it in with the rest of her belongings when a sudden noise startled her.

"Going somewhere?" asked a voice that was so close she could almost feel the warm breath on her neck.

Cindee nearly jumped out of her skin.

She spun. Remo was standing inside her trailer. She hadn't heard him come in. The door was closed. "Oh, it's you," Cindee said nervously. "I didn't mean for you to come here in person. You should have called the number on that card I gave you."

"Bad things happen to people who call you," Remo pointed out, his voice cold.

"Really?" Cindee asked with forced innocence. "Is something wrong with your friend?"

Her right hand was still inside her bag. She wrenched it out, aiming a .45 automatic at Remo's chest.

"Aha!" Cindee cried triumphantly.

"You call that a gun?" Remo asked blandly. "This is a gun."

Remo formed a gun from his hand, with his thumb jutting up and his extended index finger forming the barrel. He stuck his finger barrel inside the real barrel of Cindee's gun. Ordinarily, that would have been an exceedingly foolish thing to do. But ordinarily the barrel wouldn't have split apart like the peel of an overripe banana.

"Crikey," Cindee said in amazement.

"And for my next trick," said Remo.

He reached into Cindee's bag and pulled out the paper he'd seen her retrieve from the shelf. It was a picture-quality computer printout. He hadn't seen what was on it when Cindee put it in the bag.

He saw now that the face in the photo wasn't quite right. It was a little too perfect. As if the picture had been fed through a computer and the image reconstructed. Despite its flaws, it was still clear enough. "It's me," Remo said.

Cindee didn't know what to do with her mangled gun. It looked too dangerous now to try firing. She threw it at Remo's head. He caught it and put it on a table.

"This is the picture of me I saw on the TVs at the police station," Remo continued. "You didn't get this from the footage you taped of me. Where'd this come from?"

When he glanced up at her, Cindee had her mouth screwed defiantly shut.

"You can answer my questions one of two ways," Remo said. "Arms off or arms on. Your choice." Cindee saw it in those dark eyes. This man who could split steel with his bare hands wasn't bluffing. With an angry hiss, her resolve collapsed.

"They sent it to me from Oz," she admitted glumly.

"Oz?" Remo asked, confused. "Flying monkeys, gay lions Oz?"

"Australia," she explained. "I got that from the Vox Wollongong facility. They sent it to me five days ago and told me to keep a lookout for you."

"What do they have against me?" Remo asked.

She shrugged. "I don't know. He didn't tell me why you were so important to him."

"MacGulry," Remo said.

She nodded. "He pulled in markers at the network and got me the job here. I'm taking over 'Winner' as soon as Vox merges with BCN. He had me help set up the broadcast stuff in that minister's church basement. Bastard sinks me up to my eyeballs in all this and then waits till he's halfway home before he bothers to call and warn me you might be coming. So what are you? Some kind of spy or something?"

"Or something," Remo said.

"Well, whatever you are, he's got a lot invested in finding you. I guess he thought you could throw a monkey wrench into his operation."

"I'll do a lot worse than that, sweetheart," Remo said. He reached a hand for her.

Cindee fell back. "Wait!" she begged. "There's something else."

"What?"

"No way, jocko. If I tell you, you've gotta promise to let me out of this in one piece."

Remo's brow darkened. "Yeah, okay," he said.

"Robbie's got this friend," Cindee said. "I don't know his real name. That's the only thing Robbie calls him. I was at Wollongong once when he called. Doesn't sound very friendly to me. Gotta hand it to him, though. He's the only guy I've ever seen who can make Robbie sweat. I think he's the power behind the BCN acquisition-going after you, the subliminal technology. All of it."

Remo blinked. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Friend," he said, his voice soft with shock. And in a flash everything made sense.

"Yeah," Cindee said. "Weird name, huh? Although you're used to that. Your Chinese friend told me your name was Remo. Funny about that. I didn't know why at first, but they were really keen on getting someone named Remo onto this season's 'Winner.' But it makes sense now. The former president gets attacked and a guy named Remo gets killed the same night. Together or separate they might be enough to flush you out. So what are you, CIA? FCC? What?"

Remo didn't answer. "One more question. The murdered contestant and BCN executives. You knew about all that?"

"Sure. Not to worry, though," she assured him. "The guy signed a release. And those BCN guys knew the cost of doing business. Say, I meant what I said. I can get you on TV. And not just as some ghost people forget about a day after your picture's been flashed into their subconscious. What do you say? Next season of 'Winner' still has open slots."

Remo said not a word. As she smiled hopefully, he reached out and squeezed a spot on her neck. Still smiling her perfect Australian smile, Cindee Maloo passed out. He carted her unconscious body out of the trailer.

Driving out of Harlem, Remo found the longest Cadillac with the furriest seats and the most purple lights slung to the undercarriage. It was parked by the side of the road near some traffic lights where women in fishnet stockings and skirts inappropriately short for the Yuletide season trolled the traffic looking to spread more than just Christmas cheer. A very dark man with a long fur coat and a wide-brimmed hat leaned against the car. He was counting twenties. Remo stopped his car next to the pimp.

"Hey, Huggy Bear," Remo called. "How much will you give me to add Miss Australia to your harem?" He gestured to the back seat where Cindee Maloo lay snoring.

The pimp leaned in the car to inspect the fine white woman in the back. He apparently liked what he saw. "I don' know," he said thoughtfully. "She kinda old. Forty dollars."

"Sold," Remo said.

The pimp flashed a gold-toothed smile, peeled off two twenties from his wad of bills and ordered a couple of his girls to drag Cindee Maloo from Remo's car.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Remo said. He folded his forty dollars and tucked the two bills carefully in his pocket. As he drove away, he hoped no one saw that he had so much cash on him. After all, this didn't look like a safe neighborhood.

Chapter 24

Eileen Mikulka had scoured nearly the entire sanitarium for her missing employer, to no avail. As a last resort, she reluctantly decided to check the basement corridor where all the trouble had occurred earlier in the week.

As she rounded the corner, she remembered that there was a security pad on the door to the secluded corridor. Mrs. Mikulka didn't have the code. As far as she knew, only Dr. Smith knew how to gain access to the corridor.

She worried about this until she saw that the door had been broken open from the inside. That terrible patient who killed those four poor people had to have smashed it when he escaped. With a new sense of dread, she passed through the battered door and into the hall.

Mrs. Mikulka stopped dead at the open door to one of the ten rooms that lined the corridor. When she saw the patient on the bed in that room, she let out a little gasp that brought the attention of the attending Folcroft doctor.

"Oh, no," she moaned. "What's wrong with Dr. Smith?"

Dr. Aldace Gerling offered his employer's secretary an impatient glance.

"Please, Mrs. Mikulka, I need silence," the doctor said.

"What's the matter?" she pressed. "Is he all right?"

"He will be," Dr. Gerling snapped. "He's been put into some sort of deep hypnotic trance. I just need a little more time. Now, please go."

Mrs. Mikulka didn't know what else to do. She reluctantly did as she was told.

She rubbed her hands anxiously as she made her way back along the basement corridors.

Folcroft was generally such a quiet place. That definitely was not the case this terrible week. Thank goodness Mr. Howard was back at work or Mrs. Mikulka wouldn't know what to do. She had at least been able to send that police detective to see Folcroft's nice young assistant director when she hadn't been able to locate Dr. Smith.

But that was the one good thing. What with all the deaths and now something wrong with Dr. Smith, it was all almost too much for a body to endure.

She pondered the awfulness of these past few days all the way back upstairs. The telephone was ringing when she arrived back in her office. She had routed her calls to the main desk when she'd left her station. This was the private line, for family and friends to use in case of emergency.

Probably Kieran. He had been using this line too much lately. As she picked up the phone, she was prepared to scold her youngest for bothering her at work yet again.

"Good afternoon, Folcroft Sanitarium, Dr. Smith's office. May I help you?"

She was surprised when the voice on the line didn't belong to Kieran or even to Dr. Smith's wife. "Hello. I'm looking for Harold Smith."

"Oh," Mrs. Mikulka said, settling her ample rump into her chair. "I'm sorry, but Dr. Smith is unavailable right now. May I take a message?"

The smooth voice didn't miss a beat. "I see. May I ask when he'll be back?"

Mrs. Mikulka thought of Dr. Smith. Lying in that isolation ward where those gruesome murders had taken place just a few scant days before. She shuddered.

"I'm not really sure," she said. "But I'll be glad to take a message if you'd like."

"It's terrible what happened to him," the man on the phone said. His voice modulated to deep sympathy without seeming to change pitch. "Have they given you any idea how long it will be before he comes out of the hypnotic trance?"

Some of the tension drained from Eileen Mikulka. "You know about that?" she said, exhaling. "I only just found out myself a few minutes ago. The doctor wouldn't tell me a thing. He just shooed me back upstairs."

"Doctors can be very unsympathetic," the caller said. "I'm sure Harold will be fine. Thank you for your time."

"Wait," Mrs. Mikulka said. "I didn't get your name."

The phone was cradled between shoulder and ear. She had out her pad, pen poised to write.

The caller's response was strange given the man they were both talking about. After all, Dr. Smith had never been the social type. His circle was limited to a handful of people, all of whom Eileen Mikulka assumed were known to her.

"I'm a friend," said the voice on the phone.

The rude man with the pleasant voice didn't bother to give Mrs. Mikuika his name. He just hung up.

CALCULATING THE LIKELIHOOD THAT SUBJECT HAROLD WINSTON SMITH, DIRECTOR FOLCROFT SANITARIUM, RYE, NEW YORK, IS THE HAROLD FOR WHICH I'VE BEEN SEARCHING...

The answer was calculated in fractions of a second. 95.8 PERCENT PROBABILITY.

Friend had found the right Harold.

The search had been complicated by Remo's misleading statement at the Vox building in Manhattan. Friend had expanded his search parameters when he had no luck locating a Harold Smith in any hospitals in New York, Connecticut or New Jersey. He understood his error when he found out that Harold Smith was not in a hospital, but in a private mental-health facility. The patient records for Folcroft were not computerized, further hindering Friend's search.

Statistical and probability algorithms raced to meet along pathways unfettered by form or distance.

Friend consumed all information relevant to Folcroft Sanitarium, Rye, New York. Newspaper articles from online sources dated the current week detailed a situation at Harold Smith's place of work for which police involvement was required. Friend took this and sped on. Tendrils of living electronic thought accelerated, accessing records within the Rye police department. The relevant data was located, digested and evaluated. A blueprint for action was formed.

CALCULATING LIKELIHOOD THAT PLAN TO KILL SUBJECT HAROLD SMITH WILL SUCCEED...

The answer shot back instantaneously. 83.2 PERCENT PROBABILITY.

Satisfied with the odds of success, Friend returned to his normal business of maximizing profit.

Chapter 25

The pulsing white light drew Harold Smith out of the deep fog of his own mind. When he opened his eyes, he recognized the familiar broad face looking down at him.

He blinked as he glanced at his surroundings. For a reason unknown to him, he was lying on his back in a Folcroft hospital room.

"What's going on?" Smith demanded.

Dr. Gerling seemed relieved. "You're out of it. Good." He returned his penlight to his pocket. "You heard about what happened in Harlem with those subliminal signals?"

"Yes," Smith admitted cautiously.

"Somehow you succumbed to a signal like the one used there. I'm still not sure how. I heard the authorities are dismantling the facility in the church there."

Smith was growing more worried. It was starting to come back to him. He remembered being in his office. Remembered looking down at the television broadcast on his computer screen. There had been something there....

As he racked his brain, he tried to sit up. He found he could not. There was only minimal movement of his head and neck. Beyond that, nothing.

"I have no sensation below my neck," Smith said, trying to keep the panic from his voice.

"Not to worry. Your friend somehow gave you a kind of temporary paralysis. I still don't know how. Must be some sort of acupressure."

Smith stopped straining. His head clunked back to the table. "Friend?" he asked.

"I'm not sure of his name," Dr. Gerling said. "I've seen him here before. He's with the elderly Asian gentleman."

"He is not a friend," Smith said hurriedly. "He's a permanent health-care professional privately employed by the Asian patient."

"Whatever he is, he brought you in here. You tried to strangle him."

Frozen like a statue, Smith racked his brain. It was all so foggy. The doctor's words jarred some memory. He suddenly remembered having his hands around Remo's throat. He recalled something in his office. Flashes and a loud sound. It hit him like a fist in the gut.

He had tried to shoot Remo!

"I must get to my office," Smith announced urgently.

"He said it would be six hours before whatever he did wore off."

"How long has it been?"

Gerling checked his watch. "About five hours and forty-five minutes. You were in a very deep hypnotic state, Dr. Smith. You should try to relax."

The last thing Smith could do now was relax. The next fifteen minutes were sheer agony. It was the most excruciating quarter hour of his life, including the time he'd spent at the hands of a Nazi torturer while with the OSS during the second World War.

When the six-hour mark arrived, the Sinanju paralysis Remo had employed slowly melted away. It left his neck and his shoulders, slipping away down his arms and torso.

When his legs were finally strong enough to support him, he left the examination room. His stride grew more certain as he made his way up to his office.

"Dr. Smith, you're all right!" Mrs. Mikulka exclaimed as he stepped in from the hall.

Smith didn't respond.

Marching with great purpose, he crossed the room, stopping at his closed office door.

As Mrs. Mikulka watched in growing dismay, her employer proceeded to do something strange, even by his standards.

The Folcroft director took off his glasses, folding them carefully into the pocket of his dress shirt. Next, he stripped off his suit jacket. Turning it around, he draped the rear of the jacket over his face. Taking the loose arms, he wrapped them over his eyes for double protection, drawing the ends over his shoulders.

With his arthritic fingers he found the sleeves difficult to knot. He turned to his secretary.

"Mrs. Mikulka, would you please tie this for me?" Smith's muffled voice asked from beneath his jacket.

"Oh. Yes, sir."

Mrs. Mikulka dutifully knotted the sleeves at the back of her employer's head.

"Thank you," Folcroft's director said. "No phone calls, please."

With that, Smith entered his office.

Inside was as familiar as if he had been sighted. Beneath his makeshift mask, Smith's eyes were screwed tightly shut. He didn't want to take any chances.

Smith got to his knees. Bones creaked as he made his way an all fours across the office, facedown. He found the cord to the television first. The CURE director knew that he hadn't had the set turned on before he attacked Remo, but he dared not leave anything to chance. He tugged the plug from the wall. Crawling around below the window, he found the thick cord that exited the base of his high-tech desk. It was connected to a panel in the floor.

Smith wrapped his gnarled hand around the plug and pulled. A hum that he had not been aware emanated from the bowels of his desk slowly petered out.

He waited on the floor several long seconds, just to be certain that the monitor buried deep inside the desktop had faded completely to black.

Finally, Smith used the desk's edge to drag himself to his feet.

He pulled the jacket off still knotted. Untying the sleeves, he shrugged it back on over his shoulders. Taking his seat, he replaced his glasses on his patrician nose.

Smith stared down at the black surface of his desk. In it was his dead computer. His lifeline to the outside world.

Harold, kill Remo.

He saw the words floating in the air before him. They were fading from his vision. Like the ghostly afterimage of something that had been stared at too long.

This was the disaster he had feared after the attack on Remo in the Harlem police station. He had been wrong not to fear the worst. Someone knew not only of Remo, but also of Smith. That simple realization was a molten ball of lead tossed into the pit of Smith's acid-churned stomach.

The only thing that linked the two men was CURE. To know of Remo and Smith was certainly to know of CURE.

Not only was America's last line of defense teetering on the edge of exposure, but also thanks to the particular technology at the hands of its enemy, CURE was now flying blind.

When the knock came at the door, Smith was so numb he didn't even hear his own voice call "Come in."

Mrs. Mikulka stuck her head in the room. She seemed relieved to see that he was back to wearing his suit jacket the more traditional way.

"Can I get you something, Dr. Smith?" his secretary asked with motherly concern. "Tea or soup?"

"No, thank you, Mrs. Mikulka," Smith said woodenly.

"Let me know if you change your mind. Oh, by the way, a friend of yours called a little while ago. At least he said he was a friend. He didn't give his name, I'm afraid."

The words barely registered. The caller was probably just a telemarketer. It couldn't have been a friend of Smith's. The only real friend Harold W. Smith had ever had was long dead and buried.

"Thank you, Mrs. Mikulka."

She smiled warmly. "I'm so glad everyone is feeling better. You both gave us all quite a scare this week."

"Both?" Smith asked, frowning.

"You and Mr. Howard," Eileen Mikulka explained. "He came back to work a few hours ago. I'm so happy he seems fine." She scrunched up her face. "The doctor said you were hypnotized. Was that what was wrong with Mr. Howard?"

Smith had been trying to sort through his tangled thoughts. His secretary's words helped clear the fog. "I'm not sure," Smith said. He sat up straight. "Please excuse me, Mrs. Mikulka. I have work to do."

Nodding apologetically, his secretary left the office. Once the door was closed, Smith drew open his bottom drawer. His automatic was sitting where Remo had dropped it.

There was only one man new at CURE. One man who knew of Remo and Smith. A man who had just released one of the most dangerous foes the covert agency had ever faced.

Smith had been hoping for an explanation for Jeremiah Purcell's escape. He now had it. Betrayal. Smith slipped the gun into his pocket and left the office.

Mrs. Mikulka seemed surprised to see him reappear so soon. Smith said nothing to his secretary as he made his way out into the hallway.

Down the hall, he paused in front of Mark Howard's office. He could hear voices murmuring inside. Smith's assistant should not have anyone in his office. He probably thought he was safe. The young man assumed his employer was still tucked out of the way in the basement.

Smith took the gun out, holding it low near his thigh.

He took his key ring from his pocket. Careful to keep the keys from jangling together, he slipped his passkey into the lock with his free hand.

Taking a deep breath, he twisted the knob and kicked the door open. He jumped in after it, gun raised.

Mark Howard was sitting behind his desk, eyes trained on his computer monitor. When the door flew open, the assistant CURE director looked up, startled. "Dr. Smith?"

There was someone sitting on the edge of Howard's desk. When he saw who it was, Smith blinked.

"Remo?" the CURE director asked, confused. His gun sank uncertainly.

Remo was searching the CURE director's gray eyes. He seemed satisfied with what he found. "Think you can hold off shooting me this time, Smitty? And while you're at it, close the door." Smith didn't know what else to do. He lowered his gun a few inches and shut the door behind him.

"Is something wrong, Dr. Smith?" Mark Howard asked. His greenish-brown eyes were trained on the wavering barrel of his employer's automatic.

Remo answered for the CURE director. "He thinks you've gone rotten on us, Junior." To Smith he said, "Don't worry about the kid, Smitty. We've already covered this. He didn't know what he was doing with Purcell."

The gun inched lower. "Are you certain?" Smith asked.

"Yeah," Remo said. "You know we can tell if people are lying. I turned the juice up high, and the kid didn't crack. He let Purcell go, but he didn't mean to.

"But Mark should still be under sedation," Smith said.

"I woke him up," Remo said. "I needed someone who could run your dippy computers without trying to kill me. And whatever was wrong with him before, he seems fine now. You know Purcell's got some weird stuff he can do with his mind. I'm thinking he found some way to tap into the kid's brain. I still don't know why he picked him and not someone else."

Smith glanced at Mark Howard. There was a look of fresh concern on the young man's face, this time tinged with guilt.

And for the first time Smith understood. Truly understood. The sleeplessness, the troubling dreams, all of it. He realized now that Mark Howard had almost certainly not been in control of his own actions when he let Jeremiah Purcell free. The CURE director wanted to question further on the Purcell matter, but Remo interrupted.

"We've got more than one old bad guy to worry about, Smitty. The guy who tried to get you to blow my head off? Turns out it isn't a guy at all. It's Friend."

Remo's words registered with dull shock. "Friend? How is that possible?"

"Beats me, but it's him."

Smith's mind reeled. "Oh, my," he said. "My secretary just told me that a friend called my office this afternoon."

"Should have been your tip-off right there," Remo said. "The only friends you've got are those cold-blooded computers you've got hidden downstairs."

"The chips that held Friend's program," Smith said. "You said you got rid of all the VLSI chips."

"I went back to that abandoned building a year after the last time we had a run-in with him. Someone must have gotten to the chip with his program on it first."

Smith's face steeled. "If that's the case, then we have to stop him. I can't use my computer. Mark, since Friend doesn't know about you, you will have to be my eyes."

"Already found him," Remo said.

Smith raised a surprised eyebrow. "You have?"

"I think I have," Mark cautioned. "Robbie MacGulry's flagship station in Australia appears to be the source for the subliminal signals. I think he's using the Vox satellite system to relay the commands. If we can shut that down, we should be able to pull the plug on the signals."

"Robbie MacGulry is in on this?" Smith asked wearily.

"Look, Smitty," Remo said with an impatient sigh, ''you can catch up on everything once I'm gone. I was just having the kid book me a flight to Australia."

"I didn't know how long you'd be out, Dr. Smith," Mark said apologetically. "And this seemed too urgent to wait."

As he spoke, the phone on his desk jangled to life. When Mark answered it, he talked for only a few seconds. When he replaced the receiver, his face was flushed. He hurriedly pressed the hidden stud under his desk, lowering his computer monitor from sight.

"That was Mrs. Mikulka," the young man said. "She just got a call from downstairs. Dr. Gerling wants you down there right away, Dr. Smith." He glanced at Remo. "It's Chiun."

Remo said not a word. Face hard, he darted for the door. Mark hurried after him. Smith was the odd man out. He whirled as Remo raced into the hall. "What's wrong with Master Chiun?" Smith asked Howard.

"I'll explain on the way," the assistant CURE director replied anxiously. With a sickly smile, he pointed to the gun that was still in his employer's hand. "And by the sounds of what Remo told me, maybe you better bring that along."

Chapter 26

Dr. Aldace Gerling stood anxiously over the elderly patient. He would have sat down, but for some reason that just didn't seem right. There was something in the old man's bearing, even unconscious, that commanded respect.

The Asian was truly a unique specimen. Delusional but remarkably healthy for a man of his advanced years. Dr. Gerling had considered writing a paper on him at one point, but when he brought it up to Dr. Smith, the Folcroft director had gotten a very strange look on his face. The last time Dr. Gerling had seen a look like that one was the night years ago when he'd taken his in-laws to a new Chinese restaurant and they'd all wound up with food poisoning. Dr. Smith said no to the paper and Dr. Gerling let the matter drop.

Right now a published paper in some obscure professional journal was the last thing on Aldace Gerling's mind. The Folcroft psychiatrist's back already ached from the hours he'd spent hunched over Director Smith. As he waited now over the old Asian's bed, he shifted from foot to foot.

There was perspiration on the doctor's broad forehead. A frown cut deeply through the jowls of his ruddy face.

Dr. Gerling was greatly relieved when Dr. Smith hurried into the hospital room. Folcroft's director was accompanied by Assistant Director Howard and the Asian's friend, Remo.

"What's the matter?" Remo demanded. A worried look was settled deep in the skull-like hollows of his dark eyes.

"Nothing's wrong," Dr. Gerling said as the trio joined him near the bed. "In fact, I believe I have good news. I don't think this man is under any kind of hypnosis."

Mark Howard had given Smith the rapid-fire details on their way downstairs. The CURE director looked down at the mummified face of the Master of Sinanju.

"What makes you think that?" Smith asked cautiously.

"He was exposed to the subliminal hypnotic flashes. Wasn't he?" As he spoke, the CURE director glanced at Remo.

"I saw them with my own eyes, Smitty," Remo insisted.

"That's unlikely," Dr. Gerling assured him. "The flashes wouldn't register to the normal human eye. But either way, he seems to be okay. Look."

The doctor took out his penlight. With his thumb, he drew back one of Chiun's wrinkled eyelids. The exposed hazel orb darted angrily around its socket. When it fixed on Remo, it locked in place, shooting daggers.

"It looks like he's still under to me," Remo said worriedly. "Don't you see that look he's giving me? By the looks of it, he still wants to kill me."

If an eye could nod agreement, Chiun's did. "See?" Remo said.

"No, no, no," Gerling insisted firmly. "That has nothing to do with any hypnotic state. He's conscious, I'm sure of it. I think he's just angry at you."

Chiun's eye nodded once again.

Dr. Gerling released the eyelid and it fluttered shut over the Master of Sinanju's enraged eyeball.

"I was going to use the same technique I used to draw Dr. Smith out of his hypnotic state," the Folcroft doctor explained, "but he seemed already out of it. His pupils were responsive before I even started. I think he's fine."

"He's always kind of mad at Remo, Doctor," Mark Howard ventured. "Would that make a difference?"

"If you mean is this genuine anger surfacing within a hypnotic state, I don't think so," Gerling said. "I think it's the raal thing." He looked questioningly at Remo. "He's mad at you for something."

The other two men glanced at Remo, as well. Remo gave all three of them a nasty look.

"So sue me-he's ticked at me for something again," he growled. "He ain't exactly Robert-freaking-Young, you know."

"I think it's safe for you to undo whatever acupressure you used on him," Dr. Gerling said.

"You got a funny definition of safe, pal," Remo said.

"Very well, Dr. Gerling," Smith said. "Thank you for all your help. Now, if you will excuse us. Mark?" Smith and Remo stayed at the bedside as the assistant CURE director ushered Dr. Gerling from the room. He shut the door and rejoined the others near the bed.

"You think I should do this, Smitty?" Remo asked.

"I trust Dr. Gerling's professional opinion," Smith replied. There was a tone of nervous uncertainty in the older man's tart voice.

"Tell me how much you trust him when we're sweeping little Smitty bits up and down this nuthouse hallway," Remo said dryly. "Okay, stand back. And if he's anything like he was this morning, get ready to head for the hills, Fuji."

As Smith and Howard stood with their backs to the door, Remo leaned over the bed.

With a feathery touch, Remo pressed his thumb to Chiun's forehead. The Master of Sinanju's eyes instantly shot open. As quickly as they did, he was springing to his feet.

For a tense instant, Remo thought his teacher would launch into another attack. But the old man became a frozen statue of cold fury. Hands clenched to knots of bone at his sides as he glared up at his pupil.

"Is this what I've become to you?" Chiun demanded, his singsong voice ringing high with rage. "I am now some thing to be carted around and disposed of at inconvenient moments? Can my worst fears possibly be true? Do you crave the title of Reigning Master so much that you would take me and dump me off in some dank basement in the hope that I will die from the humiliation?"

"Take it easy, Little Father," Remo said. "Don't you remember MacGulry's office? You were hypnotized."

"Codswallop," Chiun sniffed. "A Master of Sinanju cannot be hypnotized."

"Vassily Rabinowitz," Remo said, reminding his teacher of a time years ago when he had, in fact, been hypnotized.

Chiun's slivered eyes sprang wide with rage. "Is this your plan?" he demanded in Korean, stamping his sandaled feet. "To shame me into an early grave? Are you now the town crier of my worst humiliations? Is my every disgrace to be shouted from the rooftops?"

Smith didn't understand the language, but the old Korean's tone was clear.

"It's true, Master Chiun," Smith insisted. "Look at the air before you. Do you see something?"

The Master of Sinanju scowled. "I see nothing but an ungrateful pupil," he snapped in English. "If there was any air there, his big white nose breathed it all up on me."

"Look carefully. Stare at the wall," Smith pressed. "Do you see any words?"

"What is this idiot babbling about?" Chiun asked Remo in Korean.

"Those subliminal commands MacGulry tried to use on you," Remo said in English. "You remember it, don't you?"

Chiun's face fouled. "Of course."

"I think you're supposed to still be able to see it even after you come out of it," Remo said. "Shittman told me he could still see the words even after he came around."

"It was the same for me," Smith interjected.

"I see no words on walls," Chiun spit.

"Odd," Smith said. "Perhaps your Sinanju training dispels the lingering effects."

"There are no lingering effects because I was not hypnotized," Chiun snapped. "Whatever Remo tells you to the contrary is part of the web of lies he has concocted to hasten his ascendency to Reigning Masterhood." He waved his furious hands in the air. "Bah! I refuse to bear the indignity of this any longer."

Kimono hems twirling defiantly around his bony ankles, he swept out the door. Mark barely opened it in time. He let the door swing shut after the old man was gone.

"He let me off the hook pretty easy," Remo mused. As he stared at the door, a dark notch formed in his brow.

"That was easy?" Howard asked. "Have I told you lately how glad I am I'm not you?"

"Mutual," Remo said.

"We have more pressing matters," Smith interrupted urgently. "Mark, I want all televisions in Folcroft confiscated for the duration of this crisis. I don't want you to risk going near them. Have the orderlies lock them in a supply room. Now, given Friend's ability to worm his way into computer systems, for safety's sake I can no longer use the one in my office. Fortunately, he doesn't know you've joined CURE. I assume that's why you've been left out of the attacks so far. You should be safe for the time being."

"Unless he decides to tap into the only active computer in the sanitarium," Howard suggested. "He could just tell whoever's using it to kill you."

"I'm hoping the CURE safeguards will rebuff him. If not, we'll worry about that when and if it happens," Smith said tightly.

The CURE director didn't mention that he had already considered that scenario. It was a necessary risk. Besides, he knew how to keep both himself and his assistant safe. The tranquilizer guns Smith had hoped to use against Jeremiah Purcell were back under lock and key. His next trip would be to the basement locker to retrieve one of the guns. If it became necessary, he would use one on Mark Howard.

"Apparently, Friend has called here asking after me," Smith continued. "I will have to find out from Mrs. Mikulka precisely what she said. If he thinks I am incapacitated, it is likely that we can expect some kind of attack against me."

"Why?" Remo asked.

"Because his pattern has been consistent. He is setting us against one another, not caring who goes first. If he thinks one of us is vulnerable, he will seize the opportunity. That's what I would do under the circumstances."

"If you say so," Remo said. "Trust a computer to think like a computer. So what do I do?"

"What you were going to do already. Go to Australia and dismantle MacGulry's ability to send those signals around the world. With any luck that will lead you to Friend."

"That's what I started to tell you upstairs," Mark said excitedly. "I think I found him. When Remo told me about Friend, I did a search and traced a ton of computer equipment to two Vox sources. Way more than they'd need, even for the kind of TV operation MacGulry runs. He had stuff shipped to the station in New South Wales and redundant equipment sent to his house in Queensland."

"If that's the case, Friend will only be at one of those locations," Smith said. "The other is most likely reserved as a backup in case of emergency."

"I'll pull the plug on both," Remo insisted. "Okay, if that's all, I've got a plane to catch."

"About that," Howard said. "I was only making arrangements for one. But now that Chiun is up and about..." He looked questioningly at Smith.

Remo's eyes grew flat. "He's not going," he insisted.

"I suppose it might be unwise to send him in light of what happened at MacGulry's office," Smith admitted.

"Right," Remo agreed. "He's not going."

"It might not be safe for him."

"Like I said. He's not going."

"However, you know what Master Chiun is like," Smith cautioned. "If he decides he should accompany you, there is little any of us could do to stop him."

Remo's shoulders sank. "He's going, isn't he?"

"Yes," called a squeaky voice from the hallway. "And if you plan on opening your big dumb mouth again, pack a parachute."

Chapter 27

The sleek white Vox jet roared out of the clear blue sky above Queensland, Australia. Its lone passenger tapped his foot in frustration on the floor as he watched the ground rise up to meet the plane.

Ken "Robbie" MacGulry hated this. He liked to drive events, not sit in the bloody back seat.

It was all Friend's fault. The sentient computer program had transferred his enemies over to Robbie MacGulry. Apparently, they'd been after Friend for years. Now they had a living, breathing target to trace.

"Should've just told the yobbo to rack-off that first time he called," he grumbled to himself.

Maybe Friend didn't understand the human factor. Maybe he didn't realize that actual flesh-and-blood people had a tendency to make things personal. Or maybe just maybe-he wanted them to follow Robbie MacGulry back here.

Back in New York, MacGulry's suspicions about Friend had finally been confirmed. It was possible Friend didn't want anyone else in on his secret. Maybe Robbie MacGulry was the only one to ever figure out what Friend really was.

Well, if luring his enemies to Oz was Friend's way of bumping off MacGulry, the smart-ass computer program was in for a big surprise. Now that he knew the truth, Robbie might have an ace up his sleeve Friend hadn't anticipated.

The media magnate smiled to himself as the plane cut low over a sprawling, isolated mansion. MacGulry's Queensland home was an oasis of green in a drab brown prairie. And buried beneath the manicured lawns and gleaming windows was Friend's deadliest secret.

The house slipped away. A few moments later, plane tires shrieked as they struck pavement. Gray kangaroos that were part of the preserve around the rural runway bounded off in every direction as the jet rolled to a stop.

A bewdy of a stewardess opened the door on the parched air. Hot wind blew in from the west.

A very pale man with a wide-brimmed hat and a sweat-stained cotton dress shirt was waiting for MacGulry when he deplaned. Rodney Adler was giving the Australian salute, waving away mosquitoes from around his sweaty face.

"Welcome home, Mr. MacGulry," Adler said, his British accent as crisp and dry as his body was damp. "Everything is ready, per your instructions."

"You cleared out the Wollongong station?" MacGulry demanded, marching past the Englishman. A Rolls-Royce was waiting a dozen yards away, engine running.

"Some of the staff have been relocated here to operate the special systems," Adler said, hurrying to catch up. "The rest were let go until after the start of the New Year." He swatted a fat mosquito on his arm. "Oh, and your associate called while you were en route. He was curious to know what exactly was going on."

MacGulry stopped dead in his tracks. Eyes growing wide, he wheeled on Adler. "He called you?" he demanded.

Adler almost plowed into his employer.

"Yes," he admitted nervously. "I assumed you would want me to extend him every courtesy. He knew we were clearing out the station. He asked us to do something first. Since he knew so many details, I assumed he'd spoken to you first."

A swarm of mozzies circled both men. MacGulry ignored the buzzing insects. For a moment the Vox chairman just stood there, fuming.

This was the worst offense of all. Thanks to this private war he was waging, Friend was no longer content to act behind the scenes. After all these years, he was suddenly contacting Robbie MacGulry's employees directly. For the first time his Vox lackeys were learning the truth-the great and terrifying Robbie MacGulry was irrelevant. There was someone even greater lurking behind the scenes.

Even Adler was looking at him differently. MacGulry could see the swelling lack of respect in the younger man's eyes. Oh, the Englishman was trying to hide it behind his usual mask of whimpering anxiety as he stood there scratching mosquito bites, but there was no mistaking it.

Robbie MacGuhy was no longer a king. His stature had been diminished. And it was all Friend's fault. "Get outta my way, you pommie bastard," MacGulry snapped. He shoved Adler aside.

The Englishman hesitated before running to catch up with his employer.

"Was that not the right thing to do?" Adler asked. MacGulry didn't even respond.

"What about the Robbots?" the Vox chairman demanded.

"They are ready, sir," Adler said. He seemed even more nervous at this new subject. "Deployed at all entry points."

MacGulry's driver was waiting to open the back door. At the side of the Rolls-Royce, MacGulry turned.

"What did he tell you to do?" he snapped.

"Who, sir?" asked Adler.

"The guy who called, dammit. What did he tell you to do when he called?"

"Oh," Adler said, hesitating. "It's- Well, it's a little thing. I assumed it would be all right."

His hands were shaking. From a manila envelope tucked under his sweaty armpit, he produced a photoquality computer printout. MacGulry snatched the picture from Adler.

It was Friend's younger enemy. The Caucasian who had chased Robbie MacGulry from New York. It was the same digitally created picture Friend had supplied MacGulry in the hope that Remo could be eliminated in Harlem. Only now did MacGulry realize why that computer printout had looked so ...computerized. It was straight out of Friend's memory. "We haven't been able to confirm if that image Cindee Maloo sent us from America is the same man," Adler said. "I've never seen anyone able to mask his features like that. That footage she sent was useless. Your associate told us to use the original we used twice in New York. He faxed us another picture."

Adler pulled another photo from the envelope. This one was of the old Korean. Like the picture of Remo, it had a not-quite-real quality. A computerized version of a police sketch.

"What are you doing with those?" MacGulry asked.

"Well," Adler began anxiously, "we've been beaming them out subliminally all over New South Wales for the past twelve hours. Ever since your friend called. The Wollongong station has been set to automatically include them in all broadcast signals with instructions to kill on sight. If they show up in the area, the entire population that has been exposed to the cryptosubliminal images will tear them to pieces like a pack of wild dogs." A nervous smile exposed crooked teeth. "Does that not fit in with your plans, sir?"

MacGulry held a picture in each hand, glancing from Remo to Chiun. He shoved the photos back in Adler's hands.

"It fits in with his plans," the Vox CEO said, dropping into the back of the Rolls-Royce. "And with any luck, they'll be as good as he thinks they are and I'll have that stickybeak computer bugger right where I want him."

His driver slammed the door on the heat and mosquitoes.

Chapter 28

"I think you should probably sit this one out, Little Father," Remo warned.

The two men had just climbed aboard the military aircraft that would take them to Australia. An Air Force lieutenant guided them to their seats.

"You may think of that and new ways to dishonor me when we are in the air," the Master of Sinanju sniffed. He swept past the offered seat, settling in the one behind it. It looked out over the left wing.

"I'm not dishonoring you, I'm worried about you," Remo said. "There, I said it. The big dirty word. I'm worried about you. Damn, I'm a crummy son, aren't I? I'm actually worried about you. And why wouldn't I be? We haven't even talked about what happened in MacGulry's office."

Remo's face held a look of deep concern. Chiun turned once to his pupil. His own expression was bland.

"You may talk to your heart's content," the old Korean said. "Just do not involve me in your jabbering."

And with that the Master of Sinanju turned away. For the better part of a day, for the duration of their trip to Australia, Remo's view was of the back of Chiun's age-speckled head. The old man studied cloud and sea, not once so much as glancing at his pupil. Only when the plane started to descend over Sydney did he turn from the window.

"I must warn you about Australians," the old man announced unhappily.

Remo noted his teacher's lack of enthusiasm. He didn't care. He was just happy Chiun was talking to him after so many hours.

"What about them?" Remo asked.

"Watch them," Chiun said. He turned back to the window.

"That's it? Watch them? Watch them do what?" But Chiun didn't reply. He said nothing more as the plane landed and they got off. He remained silent all the way through customs when Remo asked for the tenth time why he should watch Australians and Chiun finally released a little exasperated sigh.

"A good pupil would just do as he's told-he would not question."

"Good pupil, good Nazi, good dog. I'm none of those. Why watch Australians?"

"Because if you do not, they will steal the marrow from your bones and sell it to the butcher."

"Wait, I thought the Chinese were the thieves. Sometimes the Japanese. Now Australians are, too? How do you expect me to keep the racism straight if you're just gonna tar everyone with the same brush?"

"I am not," Chiun said. "More than one people can be the same thing. Just because the French stink, it does not mean that the Filipinos do not. Believe me, they do. Australians are more than just common thieves. They are murderers and pirates and insurrectionists. This is where England sends all its riffraff who are not royalty."

"Chiun, that hasn't been going on for a hundred years."

"See? Just yesterday. My father warned me about Australians. If they like your sandals, they will steal them from your feet while you are walking and then come back for your feet."

"We walked through Harlem, we can walk through Australia," Remo said.

But in the next moment even he wasn't sure of his own argument. As they walked out into the terminal, Remo felt a hundred sets of eyes lock on him and the Master of Sinanju. Men who had been sitting stood. A hush fell over the crowd.

"Oh, crud," was all Remo managed to say before a murderous howl rose up from the airport concourse. The crowd surged toward Remo and Chiun.

"It's a mugging!" the Master of Sinanju cried, twirling on his heel. "Guard your purse!"

The old man bounded down the hall, back in the direction they'd just come.

"A hundred people aren't rolling two guys, Little Father," Remo said, running to catch up. Passengers who had just deplaned from a commercial flight jumped angrily from their path.

"If you knew Australians like I knew Australians, you would not be so naive," Chiun replied.

Behind them, the mob gained strength. Remo and Chiun darted up an escalator, across a railing and jumped down into the main terminal. The crowd doubled back in hot pursuit.

In the terminal, Remo wasn't surprised to see some familiar hypnotic pulses flashing on the arrival and departure monitors that hung from the ceiling.

"Don't look at the screens, Chiun," Remo warned. But Chiun was already out the door. Remo flew out after him. The Master of Sinanju was bounding into the rear of a waiting cab. When Remo slipped in after him, the driver tried to gouge out his eyes with his keys.

Remo smacked the cabbie unconscious and snagged the keys on their way to the floor.

"Just once it'd be nice to go somewhere where everyone isn't trying to kill me," he groused as he dumped the driver to the sidewalk. He hopped behind the wheel.

"It is not you and your offensive personality for once-it is this floating prison," Chiun squeaked. "Hurry and drive, while my virtue is still intact."

Remo managed to drive ten feet before a speeding car crumpled his bumper. The driver had the dead-eyed look of Vox's other subliminal victims. When Remo tried to go around it, another cab hopped the curb and slammed them from the other side. They were pinned in a V of crashed cars as the mob from the terminal began swarming into the sunlight.

The crowd swamped the cab, smashing windows and pounding fists on buckling metal.

"Any ideas, Little Father?" Remo asked as he leaned away from hands that were trying to strangle him.