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"Looks like a nun," said Remo.

"That's right. You must be a Catholic boy."

Remo said nothing.

"This here's Saint Clare of Assisi," Cooder explained. "Probably kin to Saint Francis. Saint Clare is the patron saint of television, believe it or not. So designated by Pope Pius XII back in '58. I did a feature on her once. The Pope, God rest his soul, up and decided television was too powerful not be watched over from above." Cooder frowned. "Saint Clare must have been looking the other way when the FCC gave Jed Burner his broadcast license."

"You think Burner is behind this?" Remo demanded.

"Sure. He's got the most to gain. People can't watch free TV, they have to get cable. Makes sense, doesn't it?"

"It did until KNNN went down," Remo pointed out. "They're off the air and so are you."

"Don't ever go into journalism, friend. You wouldn't last a minute in this man's game. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that Burner has his jamming equipment tucked away somewhere."

"Yeah. Well, I know enough to know that the jamming isn't coming out of Middle America."

"No?"

"It's coming out of Canada."

"What makes you say that?"

"That graph you showed last night. The center is Canada, not the U.S."

"You sure about that?" said Cooder, absently picking up the statuette of Saint Clare and rubbing her wimple with his thumb.

"Positive."

"You know, I'm glad you told me that."

"Why?"

"It kinda points me toward tall cotton."

"Huh?"

"Meaning I think I know who might be back of this jamming jamboree."

They waited for him to say it, and why he didn't, Remo asked, "Let's hear it."

"Can't. I have to protect my sources."

"Sources?" Remo said hotly. "I just gave you the major clue. You just said so."

"And I'm protecting you."

The Master of Sinanju slipped up to Don Cooder and, without exerting his frail-looking form, extracted the statuette of Saint Clare from Cooder's strong fingers. He held it up.

"The workmanship is good," Chiun said absently.

"Hand-carved. Did it myself," Cooder said proudly. "I used to whittle some in my short-pants days."

Then the Master of Sinanju closed both thin hands over the statuette and began squeezing. The statuette was of hickory. It made cracking and splintering sounds. The head of Saint Clare popped off and landed in Cooder's astonished mouth.

By the time he spit it to the floor like a hard plug of tobacco, the Master of Sinanju was pouring the remains onto the desk. It slipped from his fingers like sawdust. It was sawdust.

"I know that old trick," Cooder said, regaining his composure. "You slipped the real one up your sleeve."

"Uh-uh," said Remo. "What you see is what you get.

"I don't cotton to being threatened."

Remo folded his arms. "Cotton to it."

"Well," Cooder drawled, "since you two have highcarded me, I guess I can let slip a whisper." He lifted his hands. "As long as it doesn't go any further now."

Remo and Chiun glared and said nothing.

"I'll take your silence as acquiescence," Cooder said quickly. "The Canadians are back of this."

Remo blinked. "How do you figure that?"

"Ever been up there? They hate our TV. Always have. Spend half their days complaining about U.S. TV signals getting up there and polluting their culture. You want my advice? Start with Canada. But don't quote me."

"That's ridiculous," Remo said.

"Or," added Cooder, "you might check out own front yard for saboteurs."

"Meaning?"

Cooder dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I hate to speak ill of a fellow colleague, but war is war. Dieter Banning is as Canadian as, they come."

"Banning? His network is off the air too."

"I'm not blaming my good friends over at ANC, mind you. I'm saying that they may have a skunk in their woodpile. Catch my drift?"

"Skunks stink," said Chiun.

"That's it exactly. You two follow the smell and you'll break this plot as wide open as all outdoors. One thing though."

"Yeah?"

"If you crack it, I get an exclusive."

"No," said Remo.

Cooder lost his smile. "Not very neighborly of you," he muttered.

"Write a letter to the FCC."

"Count on it."

"Come on, Chiun."

"One question I would ask this man," Chiun said.

"Shoot. "

"Where is Cheeta Ching?"

Cooder frowned, "Knowing her, probably looking for a cardboard box or something to have her kid in. Meow."

Chiun stiffened and only Remo's urging got him through the office door before the worst happened.

Out in the corridor, Remo turned to the Master of Sinanju and asked, "What do you think, Little Father?"

"I think there must be someone in this building who knows where Cheeta may be found," Chiun said bitterly.

Remo hesitated. "You heard Cooder," he said. "She's probably in some hospital. And I meant that stuff about Canada."

"Cheeta would not go away without contacting me."

"Forget Cheeta. Canada. What about Canada?"

They were standing outside the closed door to Cheeta Ching's office. Behind the door, a phone tweedled.

"Cheeta!" Chiun gasped. "Perhaps that is her!"

"Wait a minute, don't-"

The Master of Sinanju whirled, a fist like calcified bone sweeping for the doorknob. The knob recoiled from the impact, banging across the floor as Chiun pushed the maimed panel inward.

He rushed for the tweedling phone, his skirts flying.

Remo pulled the door closed after him, hoping against hope no one would notice the missing lock.

He was leaning against the door when Chiun snapped up the receiver and drew it to his face.

"Cheeta!" he cried.

Then, before Remo's eyes, the Master of Sinanju's parchment features turned the crimson of burning paper. His tiny mouth made a shocked O.

With frantic gestures of his free hand, the Master of Sinanju waved Remo closer.

When Remo reached his side, Chiun slapped the squawking receiver into his hand, hissing. "I cannot speak with his man!"

"Who-" Remo asked Chiun.

"This is Cheeta Ching's husband," a grumpy voice demanded. "Who am I speaking with, please?"

"FCC," said Remo.

"Put my wife on."

"She's not here."

"Well, where is she? She didn't come home last night. Is she on assignment?"

"Search me," said Remo, abruptly hanging up.

"Remo! Remo, did you hear?"

"I could hardly help it," Remo said dryly. "You stuck me with your dirty laundry again. That was Cheeta's better half."

"I know who it was!" Chiun snapped. "It is what he said that is important. Cheeta is missing!"

"Don't jump to a rash conclusion, Little Father," Remo said hastily. "It might not be like that at all."

"We must find her!"

"How?"

The Master of Sinanju froze. His shoulders slumped and his lifted hands came down. "We must search for clues. Hurry, Remo, help me search."

Reluctantly, Remo started checking around the office.

On the carpet by the door, he found an amber vial of pills, sealed with a white child-proof cap.

"Check this out," he told Chiun.

The Master of Sinanju was suddenly at Remo's side.

"What is it?" he squeaked excitedly. "What have you found?"

"Prescription pills. Made out to Cheeta."

"What do they say?"

" 'Take every four to six hours.' "

Chiun's pale eyebrows knit together. "Why would Cheeta eat mere pills? She is a Korean. Koreans do not need medicines. We eat rice three times a day."

"I don't know," Remo said, "but Smith might. Let's check it with him."

Chapter 18

Harold Smith was fielding phone calls when the cable installation serviceman showed up at his Folcroft office.

"The man from the cable company is here, Dr. Smith," his secretary announced through the intercom.