"Aiiee! A Japanese!" shrieked Chiun. "Change the channel."
"I can't. I made a promise."
"So have I," gasped Chiun. "Is there a fourth channel?"
"There's CNN, but you hate them worse than Woo."
"Not more than Japanese."
"What's with this mania for Asian news reporters all of a sudden?" Remo wondered aloud. "Channel 5 had Bev Woo, so 7 countered with their own Bev Woo. Now 4 pulls out this one. What's her name anyway?"
The graphic under the reporter's face said she was Tamayo Tanaka. She was standing against a backdrop of- the Manhattan skyline, hazy with a lowhanging cloud of smoke.
Chiun lifted an apricot kimono sleeve to shield his eyes and said, "I will listen to the strident voice, but not suffer the sight of Japanese countenances."
Remo decided that was okay with him as long as he caught the newscast.
Tamayo Tanaka was saying, "At this hour, the death toll stands at forty-three in midtown Manhattan, where a string of terrorist-style bombings took place during the noon hour today. Authorities are being tight-lipped, but at least thirteen separate explosions took place within a large radius between Pennsylvania Station and the Jacob Javits Center. According to FBI sources, several Middle Eastern terrorist groups have claimed responsibility, but informed sources insist that while they cannot at this time discount a Middle Eastern connection, they are focusing their investigation elsewhere."
"Sounds like militia crazies," said Remo worriedly.
"This is good," said Chiun from behind his sleeve.
"It is?"
"Yes. If terror has gripped this nation, Emperor Smith will have work for us."
"How is that good?"
"He will have no time to fret about Japanese complaints."
"Hadn't thought of that," said Remo, leaning toward the screen.
"Tragedy is not limited to Manhattan on this busy news day," Tamayo Tanaka was saying. "In Oklahoma City, an unknown person stormed into a packed courtroom in the new Wiley Post Federal Building and opened fire, killing at least two dozen people. No motive for the massacre has been determined at this hour, but Oklahoma City police are seeking a possible disgruntled postal worker for questioning. It is not known if this postal worker is a suspect or a witness to the killings."
"Sounds to me like the disgruntled postman is a good bet," Remo said dryly.
"We are doubly blessed," said Chiun.
"I don't consider all those innocent victims a blessing," said Remo.
"We did not dispatch them. They are dead. We cannot bring them back. Their lives are wasted. Why should we not enjoy the bitter fruit of their wasted existences?"
"I'm not that cold-blooded."
"At least you despise Japanese."
Remo grunted. The brunette anchor took back the show and said, "Stay with 'News 4' for more on the events in New York. We are the only Boston station with a reporter on-site in Manhattan."
"I wish someone would explain why local reporters have to cover national stories," Remo complained. "That's why we have national news."
Ten minutes into the broadcast, there was a brief mention that the Japanese ambassador to the United States had been recalled for consultations.
"That usually means they're upset with us," said Remo.
"Not as upset as we are with them," Chiun countered darkly.
"Maybe this will blow over after all," said Remo. The telephone rang during the weather report, and Remo shot to his feet, saying, "That's gotta be Smith."
"Convey regrets but not apologies," said Chiun.
"What's the difference?"
"Sinanju does not apologize, but we are not above expressing regret on suitable occasions. Such as this."
Harold Smith's voice was vaguely breathless when Remo picked up the receiver.
"Remo, I am glad you have returned."
"We're glad to be back, too."
"I need you and Chiun here. At once."
"Why?" Remo asked guardedly.
"Because the Master of Sinanju understands Arabic, and I cannot get the Arabic-conversion program to work."
"Huh?"
"Please hurry, Remo. This situation is urgent." The line went dead.
"We're wanted at Folcroft," Remo told Chiun as he replaced the receiver.
"I heard," said Chiun, rising from his tatami mat like a puff of fruity smoke.
"Then you also heard that Osaka didn't even come up."
"No doubt Smith intends to ambush us with all manner of complaints. We must concoct a story he will believe, Remo. Something properly grandiose, but plausible."
Remo suppressed a sly grin. "How about the dog ate our assignment?"
"What dog?"
"We'll buy one on the way down."
"You are not making sense."
"Look, Smitty sounded worried. And he said something about needing you to translate some Arabic. Osaka's probably the furthest thing from his mind right now. Let's get shaking."
"Very well. But if we are in trouble with our Emperor, it will be your responsibility as Apprentice Reigning Master of Sinanju to fall on your sword."
"I don't have a sword," said Remo, shutting off the TV.
"We will purchase one on the way to Fortress Folcroft," Chiun said blandly.
Chapter 9
Dr. Harold W Smith was swearing softly under his breath. New Englanders are a salty class by temperament, and Harold Smith, of the Vermont Smiths, educated at Dartmouth, was as New England as they came. But he had long ago suppressed the urge to curse. Profanity was a wasteful expenditure of breath, he believed. It was impolite. It accomplished nothing. And most of all, it was unseemly. Especially in mixed company.
The last time Smith had cursed aloud and in anger had been a few years before when he had read that his old college song, "Men of Dartmouth," under pressure from a campus women's group, had been changed to "Alma Mater" and all gender-specific references neutered.
Smith had read this in the alumni newsletter in the gray privacy of his living room.
"God damn their bones!" he exploded.
His wife, Maude, had almost fainted in her overstuffed chair. The Smiths had long ago ceased sitting on the sofa together. Mrs. Smith was watching "Jeopardy" while Harold read. This was their version of sharing quality time.
Mrs. Smith had severely lectured Harold on his language, and Smith had stiffly apologized. Inwardly he was embarrassed at the loss of self-control, and the next day firmly resolved to cut his annual donation to Dartmouth exactly in half.
As he now sat at his Folcroft desk with the late-afternoon light streaming in through the picture window of one-way glass at his back, Smith started cursing softly.
"Blast their souls!"
He had his desktop system running. On the desk was the captured system of Allah Ladeen, United States postman and suspected terrorist bomber. A cable snaked from the PC system into the kick space of Smith's desk, where it connected to Smith's own system.
Smith had downloaded the entire hard drive onto one of the Folcroft Four. Normally he should have been able to access the contents by a brute-force mainframe attack on the encryption system. Unfortunately the system was configured to the Arabic language, a fact Smith had discovered after a full hour of fighting what he thought were scrambled codes but was in fact flowing Arabic script.
Smith's mainframes were configured for English. They had other-language capability, but this was limited to Latin-based languages and Cyrillic Russian. He could not decode Arabic.
Reaching out to cyberspace, Smith had found and captured an Arabic-to-English automatic conversion program from Yale University's Language Department. But it was bulky. His only hope lay in the Master of Sinanju, and so Harold Smith cursed low and feelingly under his breath as he waited with the afternoon sun sinking at his hunched back.
"Damn their eyes!"
OUTSIDE THE CLOSED DOOR to Smith's office, the Master of Sinanju suddenly halted and said, "Hark, Remo. Listen."