"Our investigation is at a sensitive stage, and I would rather not get into details, Ned."
"I understand," Doppler returned smoothly. "We don't want to jeopardize the investigation for ratings, not even for the public's right to know. But I must tell you there are wire-service reports that an FBI roundup of suspect postal workers is under way at this hour."
"I have ordered no such roundup," the director said quickly.
"So that means what? You're denying these reports?"
"My answer stands, Ned."
"Given that a reported eight or nine relay boxes literally blew up in New York City today, could we not assume that postal workers are being looked at?"
"We at FBI overlook no suspects in our efforts to get to the bottom of this matter. I would stress that nothing is being ruled in or out at this juncture."
"On that careful note, I would like to bring the postmaster general into this discussion," Ned Doppler said smoothly.
Damon Post came on the screen, replacing the FBI director.
"Mr. Post? No sense dancing around it. Has the postal service been compromised?"
"Absolutely, categorically not."
"Yet someone planted infernal devices in midtown relay boxes. Someone wearing a letter-carrier uniform burst into an Oklahoma City courtroom and literally massacred some twenty people. I don't have any more facts than you, but come on, it looks bad, doesn't it?"
"I know how it looks, Ned. But we lose master keys to theft from time to time. And letter-carrier uniforms can be purchased through the manufacturer without proof of employment in USPS."
"Imposters, until proved otherwise. The mail system has not been compromised by militia, Muslims or any other group, as certain irresponsible reports have it."
"But you don't know that, do you?" Doppler prodded.
"I don't know my relay drivers aren't Martians, either. But I don't worry about the possibility."
"Yet in recent years, there have been, to put it charitably, certain violent incidents involving postal workers. Have there not been?"
"Stress is a big part of everyone's lives these days. I run a first-class operation, and in a first-class operation, people have to hustle. Some people just don't hustle well. They crack. We try to keep these things to a minimum."
"You do see a connection between these personnel failures and the events today?"
"None whatsoever."
"And the man who jumped to his death in Boston. What was he? Just another letter carrier who took a swan dive into hard concrete rather than face another irate customer? And not a Muslim terrorist? Tell me."
The postmaster general struggled with his glower. "There are no terrorists in the Boston office," he said tightly. "The American public is perfectly safe."
"Unless they walk past a relay box that just happens to blow up. Or have the bad luck to be standing under a falling postal employee," Ned Doppler suggested with an irritating lack of sarcasm.
"That's not fair, Ned, and you know it. You don't burn down the whole orchard because of a few wormy apples."
"The question of Muslim terrorists aside, what are you doing about the stress level among your people?" Doppler asked.
"We've instituted a broad-based five-year plan to ensure that psychological decompensation levels at- trit at a predetermined rate until achieving parity or near-parity with comparable package-delivery companies."
"What's that mean in layman's language?"
"We're weeding out the problematic people."
"So you admit there are problematic workers?"
"There are problematic workers driving school buses and frying up Whoppers," Damon Post said tightly.
"Granted. But you're artfully dodging the issue at hand. Forgive me for putting too fine a point on it, but even if we accept as dubious the proposition there are no terrorists in the postal service, there are Muslims, aren't there?"
"I imagine so. We don't discriminate at USPS."
"Are you looking into the backgrounds of these people, just on the off chance that they, shall we say, studied in the Bekaa Valley?"
"We're migrating in that direction," the postmaster general admitted cautiously. "But I would like to assure the general public that all employees of the postal service are required by law to be U.S. citizens."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't U.S. citizens behind the Oklahoma City bomb blast last year?" Doppler countered.
"Yes. But they were military wackos."
"I'd like to call your attention to a fax our news department received in the last few hours, purportedly from a group calling itself the Messengers of
Muhammad. I won't read it all, but they hint strongly and unmistakably that the events of today were their work and they are preparing to strike again if Abeer Ghula is allowed to remain in this country."
"Who's Abeer Ghula?" Remo wondered aloud.
The Master of Sinanju waved the question away.
"I wouldn't put much stock in an anonymous fax," the postmaster general countered brittlely. "Anyone can send a fax."
"And on that note, let me bring in the third person in this mystery, Tamayo Tanaka."
Tamayo Tanaka's sultry face replaced that of the postmaster general.
"It's great being here, Ned," she said.
"Thank you. I only wish the circumstances had been more pleasant."
"I'll take a network debut any way I can get it."
On the screen, Ned Doppler tightened his face and pressed on. "You broke the post-office-terrorist connection before the first faxes were received. What was your source?"
"I'm afraid I'll have to invoke my journalistic prerogatives on that one, Ned. But they are unimpeachable until events suggest otherwise."
Doppler cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "Sounds like you're hedging a little."
"No, I'm not hedging. Just being careful. I trust my sources. I just refuse to name them."
Remo turned to Chiun and said, "Looks like we get to keep our jobs."
"This was never in doubt."
"If she fingered us, we'd be history."
"No, Smith would only alter your plastic face once again."
Touching the tight skin over his high cheekbones, Remo said, "I don't think I have another plastic surgery in me."
"Let me ask you this," Ned Doppler was saying. "Does your information square with what the major news outlets have been getting?"
"I'm a psycho-journalist, Ned, and I can only tell you, based on my knowledge of the psychological profiles of postal workers who snap, that unless something serious is done, and soon, we could be facing a reign of terror that will make what we've seen today look like a third-grade pajama party."
"Is she crazy?" Remo exploded. "She's going to start a panic."
"Why do you say that?" Ned Doppler asked.
"Again I don't want to get into sources, but imagine the deadly combination of trained terrorists and crazed postal workers."
"Well, they have to be one but not the other. I mean, I've never heard of a trained psychotic."
"Ned, this is bigger and juicier than Watergate and O. J. Simpson combined."
An exasperated voice said, "Ned, can I get a word in here?"
The postmaster general's annoyed face popped onto the screen.
"I would like to add my input," the FBI director inserted off camera.
"One at a time. You first, Mr. Post."
"This is outrageous and irresponsible. None of these allegations are true."