Political Pressure

33

The blue phone rang, and Smith put it on speaker for Mark's benefit. The two executive-level employees of CURE had been discussing strategy, and getting nowhere.

"Remo?"

"Good afternoon, Emperor Smith," sang the lilting voice from the speaker. It was a voice like a cherry blossom floating on the breeze. Smith instinctively distracted it.

"Yes, Master Chiun, is there a problem?"

"Of course not, Emperor. This undertaking is well in hand."

Smith knew Chiun was likely uninformed as to what the undertaking actually was, and likely didn't care outside his own duties in the matter. How he could therefore assure them that it was "well in hand"...?

"I have a matter to discuss with you. I hear the young Prince Regent with you—it is good for you both to listen to my proposal."

Mark smirked. He hadn't said a word. Could Chiun hear him breathing over the phone? Or had he simply assumed from the sound of the speakerphone that Smith had company?

"Master Chiun, you are en route to the senator's office, are you not?" Smith asked. "You must be about to arrive. I don't know if this is the best time to discuss unrelated matters."

"One moment, Emperor," Chiun said pleasantly. They heard the phone become muffled, and Chiun was speaking to someone else. "Driver! How soon do we arrive at the bureaucrat's lair?"

A woman's voice said, "I have a name, you—" There was a yelp. Smith closed his eyes. The woman said, "ETA six minutes, sir."

"The hospital chauffeur reports we are still twelve minutes from our destination, Emperor," Chiun said into the phone, the embodiment of graciousness. "There is time for this, and you must agree we have delayed it long enough."

Smith frowned, and realized that Chiun had been attempting to draw him into this conversation in the past few days. Not exactly a long time. "Proceed, Master Chiun," Dr. Smith said reluctantly, hoping this wasn't going to be a ploy to renegotiate their contract.

"It is in regards to the current assignment."

"It is?" Smith asked. "How?"

"Pertaining to this upstart alliance of politicians and their hired killers—it is my belief that they pose a unique threat to CURE."

Smith didn't know what to make of this. Why hadn't Chiun made this clear to him from the outset? What did Chiun know? "Please explain, Master Chiun."

"It is possible that this mob of MAEBEs could lead ultimately to the demise of our organization," Chiun restated.

"How?"

"Through superior marketing, good Emperor."

Smith said, "Marketing?"

"But I have devised a scheme to halt the hemorrhaging."

"What hemorrhaging and marketing are you referring to?"

"I have retained the services of a wonderful public- relations agent from the Windbag City."

"You did what?" Smith asked, aghast.

"She was the artisan who promoted the campaign by the late Governor Bryant to empty the jails for his own profit," Chiun explained with delight, while Smith's gray face became as pale as corpse flesh. Mark Howard hoped the old doctor wasn't about to have a heart attack. "She's a drunkard, of course, but obviously a genius. Look at the fairy tale that was connived in the state of Chicago—and this young genius convinced the people to believe it all. When her role in perpetrating this magnificent he becomes known, her services will be in great demand—you must hire her at once or she will be snatched up by the tobacco makers."

Mark saw a slight tinge of healthy gray return to Dr.

Smith's flesh and he said cautiously, "So you have not hired her, Master Chiun?"

"I wired her funds to hold the option on her services. The option does expire soon, however."

Smith typed as he said, almost gently, "And what does she know at this point about the public-relations campaign you have devised?"

"Nothing. I will not put my trust in her until she is contracted to us—what if our competitor were to hire her and learn our intentions?"

"What competitor?" Smith demanded.

"As I explained, Emperor, I refer to this organization, MAEBE." Chiun's polite patience was waning. "These upstarts are doing what we do, are they not, flushing out the human waste in the governmental plumbing? Unlike us, they have elaborate plans to publicize their achievements and grow rich on the currency of public accolades. We must beat them to the punchball. You must come out of the closet, reveal yourself to the world, advertise your great successes. You will become magnificent in the eyes of the people, and this popularity will enable you to effortlessly take the Eagle Throne at last!"

Smith was simply staring at the speakerphone, and Mark Howard could see the man trying to organize the long list of responses he might have made to Chiun's sales pitch.

"Master Chiun," Dr. Smith began.

"Yes."

Mark Howard got to his feet. Smith looked at him. Howard paced the office fast.

"Master Chiun, I will consider your proposal," Smith said. "Say nothing to this marketing agent until I have issued my decree."

It was just the right response, noncommittal but enough to cut off the conversation, then and there.

"Proceed with the current assignment and report in when completed. I shall ponder the options."

"Yes, Emperor!" Chiun replied, clearly delighted.

Smith cut the line.

"What is it?" he asked Howard.

"Public relations. That's the angle we need. We have to beat them at their own game."

"Pardon me?"

"The whole MAEBE strategy is to take the high ground, while the White Hand wipes out corruption, right?" Howard asked. "But Chiun is right—it's all just a marketing campaign. They're creating an image for themselves. Let's ruin that image."

Smith frowned. "MAEBE politicians are riding on the public controversy created by White Hand activities without actually taking responsibility for them. I don't know that we have evidence enough to convince the public of MAEBE's culpability. What if we released our proof and the public didn't buy it, Mark? There would be a backlash, and MAEBE would come out ahead."

Mark nodded. "I agree. MAEBE has been too careful to keep its political and terrorist arms separate. But

I'm not talking about the White Hand at all. I'm suggesting we target the politicians."

"You want CURE to run negative campaign ads?" Smith asked incredulously.

"I want us to do what we always do—dig up dirt. Only we dig it up on the MAEBE candidates. They can't be as clean as they claim. If we find a closet skeleton that needs some extra dirt, we can massage it, make it look worse than it is."

"Lie?"

"Why not?"

"We'd be taking the low ground."

"Compared to letting Remo and Chiun kill them off one by one and risk making martyrs out of them?"

Smith nodded shortly. "You're right. Let's do it. Start putting together some press releases and incriminating evidence."

Howard grinned. "I'm on it."

Smith didn't smile. "I hope you're not going to charge me what Chiun is paying his PR agent in Chicago, just for a retainer." Smith tapped the screen. Mark leaned in to see the amount that Chiun had advanced on one of his alias credit cards, which were covered by the CURE operating budget.

"Criminy," Howard said. "I don't make that in a year."

He left for his own office.