"Says you."
"No one holds his tongue whom the Master of Sinanju holds by the throat. You know this."
Remo said nothing. He did know it. No one could possibly resist the awful, agonizing pain Chiun was capable of inflicting. If Dieter Banning knew anything about Cheeta Ching, Chiun would have gotten it out of him. No question.
Ordinarily, that would have settled that. But Banning had been wearing a kilt when he died. And Cheeta Ching's abductor had been wearing a kilt too. What the hell did it mean?
At the Newark Airport, Remo called Harold Smith from a payphone. The Master of Sinanju hovered close.
"Smitty, Remo."
"What is the situation, Remo?"
"We ran into a little trouble."
"What kind?"
"You haven't heard?"
"No news is getting out."
"Well," Remo said, lifting his voice. "Chiun-who's here with me now-went on ahead to-ANC without me. It seems Cheeta Ching has been kidnapped by Captain Audion."
Hearing this, Chiun raised his voice. "Remo was too slow, Emperor Smith. I dared not wait for him with Cheeta Ching in peril."
"Chiun blew into ANC and-"
"I was attacked the moment I entered the building," Chiun shouted. "I had to defend myself. The place is a viper's nest of Canadians. Vicious, antiAmerican Canadians."
Smith groaned. "There are casualties?"
"Piles of them," Remo admitted.
Smith groaned again.
"Chiun tried to get Dieter Banning to talk. Banning wouldn't. He insulted Cheeta. So Chiun wasted him."
"Remo, are you certain of this?"
"I saw the body myself. Of course, it didn't have its head, but it was wearing a kilt."
The Master of Sinanju held his breath.
No sound came from the receiver.
Then, in a low voice, Harold Smith asked, "A kilt?"
"Yeah," Remo said guardedly. "A kilt."
The Master of Sinanju looked from the silent receiver to his pupil.
"Why is this kilt important?" he asked suspiciously.
"Who said it was important?" Remo asked in a too-innocent voice.
"The tone of your voice."
Smith said, "Put Master Chiun on, Remo."
"A pleasure. Here. Smitty wants to talk to you."
The Master of Sinanju took up the receiver and said, "I am listening, Emperor Smith."
"There is a report that Cheeta Ching was abducted by a man who wore a kilt."
Chiun's eyes narrowed to slits. "A Scotsman?"
"He wore a kilt. That is my only information."
"Emperor Smith, you must find Cheeta. Her baby will be born soon. I must attend the birth."
"I am doing all I can. Please put Remo back on."
"Yeah, Smitty?" said Remo.
"Remo, are you certain that Dieter Banning is dead?"
"Yeah. Definitely."
"Either Banning is part of this conspiracy or he is not. I am going to get the word out."
"Yeah?"
"Perhaps something will happen."
"Okay, what do Chiun and I do in the meantime? We're pretty hot in these parts."
"Return to Folcroft. That way you will be convenient to New York if something breaks."
"On our way, Smitty. Thanks."
Remo hung up. The Master of Sinanju was looking up at him, his wrinkled face tight and searching.
"We're going back to Folcroft," Remo said.
"You are going to Folcroft. I seek Cheeta Ching, defamed by the base round-eye whites whom she had attempted to educate with her nightly songs of truth and purity."
"Look, we're at a dead end. If anyone can find her, it's Smitty. Let's give him a chance."
"Cheeta has pleaded for succor. The boy who is to be born is nigh-"
"Nigher than you think," said Remo.
"What do you mean?"
"That bottle of pills we found in Cheeta's office? They're to delay contractions. Cheeta's been holding back. Without her pills, the baby is due practically any minute."
The Master of Sinanju's anguished wail stopped pedestrian traffic in its tracks.
"Aiieee! Poor Cheeta. What will become of her?"
Noticing a prowling police cruiser through the terminal window, Remo said, "Right now, what will become of us is what worries me the most. Come on, we gotta find a rental car."
Chapter 24
In his Folcroft office, Harold W. Smith called up the newswire services on his terminal.
There were sketchy reports of a massacre at the New York headquarters of the American Networking Conglomerate, but no confirmation of dead.
Logging off, Smith typed out a wire-service-style report that stated that ANC anchor Dieter Banning had been killed. He gave no other details.
With the deft clicking of keys, the report was simultaneously faxed to terminals at UPI, AP, a dozen major newspapers and news magazines, and the newsrooms of ANC, BCN, MBC, KNNN, and Vox.
Within seconds, pedestrians were reading it off the ticker at One Times Square.
At MBC, Tim Macaw ripped the fax out of his office machine and called his agent.
"They've lost Banning over at ANC," he said in a breathless husky whisper. "See if you can get me a sitdown with their news director."
Then he hung up, ran the fax through the office shredder and resumed touching up his boyish features with Gay Whisper pancake makeup.
The news director came bustling up with a sheet of COPY. They re done editing your lead for the 6:30 feed," he said.
"Oh, good. Any problems?"
"Yeah, the woman-of-color editor said you can't say black. You gotta say Afro-American."
"That's ridiculous. It's a blackout. We can't call it an Afro-American-out. It makes no sense."
"Come up with a better word then. If we don't humor her, she's bound to go on another damn hunger strike."
"How about whiteout?" Macaw asked.
"But it's not white. We're not putting out snow. Besides, you know how she is about the word white. Last week, she complained when we used the word whitewash. Went into that whole Why-is-white-always-good-and-black-always-bad tirade of hers."
"Right, right. How does 'broadcast interruption' sound?"
"Already thought of that. The woman's editor says broad is N.G. Sounds sexist."
"Oh, that's right. She brought that up at the last hunkcasters conference." Macaw sucked on a tooth. "Can I call it a transmission failure?"
"The brass won't like that. MBC failing? Makes us look bad. Try technical difficulties."
"Won't the technical union have fits?"
"Damn. Good catch, Tim. Work on it. We've still got four hours until our signal's restored."
At the end of another hour, Tim Macaw thought he had two viable options: Signal-challenged transmission or Deemptive nontelecast.
At BCN, Don Cooder received the fax at his office desk. He had a Caller ID unit on his faxphone and he stabbed the button to see who had sent him a blind fax reporting the death of ANC anchor, Dieter Banning.
The digital readout read: 000-000-0000.
Cooder pressed it again and got the same string of ciphers.
"What kind of phone number is that?" he muttered.
Then he picked up his desk phone and stabbed out a number.
"Frank, I want a gut check on a fax that just came in..."
Harold Smith was listening to the President of the United States with one ear and the TV on his desk with the other.
It was not difficult to do. The TV was just hissing. The President was speaking in brisk sentences.
"The FCC are working hard on this thing, Smith. But they claim I'm asking the impossible. You can't trace a signal that isn't there."
"But it is, Mr. President."
"What is the source of this information?"
Thinking of the nameless repairman, Smith said, "That's classified."
The President cleared his throat unhappily.
Then Harold Smith groaned.
"What is it?" the President demanded.
"BCN is back on."
"But the seven hours aren't yet up."
Smith glanced at his watch. The seven hours were far from up. "Mr. President, check with your FCC commissioner. Find out if they were successful."