"They were all armed?"
"Only Banning. Burner and Haiphong Hannah were getting into the chopper ahead of them."
"You are certain it was Banning?"
"He wearing sunglasses and a big hat," Remo said. "The only thing I was sure of was his kilt."
"What color was it?"
"Green plaid in Atlanta. Brown plaid in New York."
"They are called tartans, not plaids," Chiun corrected.
Smith consulted a computer file. "Clan tartans do not change color," he said, frowning. "It is possible the abductor was not Banning."
"So why'd Captain Audion shut down when he heard Banning was dead?" Remo asked.
"Perhaps because he wanted to foster the impression that Banning was the culprit, and that this was a Canadian operation."
"Does that mean Burner and Haiphong Hannah are the real bad guys?"
"It is a reasonable working theory," Smith allowed.
"Okay, let's find them."
"All Federal resources are bent toward that purpose. But so far there was been no sign of them, or Burner's helicopter."
"We're at a dead end then?"
At the word dead, the Master of Sinanju sipped in a shocked breath. "Cheeta is at the mercy of Canadians and there is no helping her," he wailed, throwing back his head and placing a clenched fist to his amber forehead.
Remo was looking at Smith's TV set. "Hey, when did you spring for cable?" he asked, indicating the cable box.
"Today. With broadcast television out of commission, it was absolutely necessary. I must stay on top of events in every way I can."
"Don't sound so miserable. Lots of good stuff is on cable these days-if you like stale thirty-year-old sitcoms. Wait a minute, check this out."
Smith looked up. Turning up the sound, Remo pointed to the Quantel graphic floating to one side of Don Cooder's head.
". . . minutes ago received an extraordinary fax signed 'Captain Audacious'-I mean 'Audion.' " Cooder flashed his anemic smile. "A little slip of the tongue which is not meant to cast aspersions on our colleagues over at KNNN," he added with a nervous laugh. "This fax promises that two days from now, the day May sweeps are set to begin, broadcast television will be shut down for a seven day period. Unless each network and cable service pays fifty-that's fifty-million-million with an M-dollars into a numbered Swiss bank account."
"The fiends!" Chiun shrieked. "Was nothing said about Cheeta? Oh, the heartrending suspense!"
"Here with me now for a reaction to this outrageous demand is BCN news director Loone-"
Smith turned down the sound.
"Don't you want to hear what they're saying?" Remo asked.
"I would rather trace that fax," Smith said flatly.
Smith's fingers worked like pale gray spiders along the keyboard. The intensity of his expression brought the Master of Sinanju to his side.
Smith brought up the BCN AT He froze the last hour's worth of incoming calls and put them in a window up in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. Then he accessed the MBC list. This went into the upper left-hand corner. The ANC file completed the screen.
Smith initiated a sort and analyze program.
Only two numbers came up in common. Smith frowned. He accessed the Vox phone records and this added a third common number. Then he went to KNNN. The same incoming number showed up. It was a New York area code. Smith isolated it and interrogated the file, murmuring, "This is odd . . . ."
"What is?" asked Remo.
"Of the major news organizations, only MBC does not show a recent incoming call in common with the other networks."
Then Smith saw why.
"My God. The Captain Audion fax came from MBC. "
Remo started for the door. "We're right on it, Smitty."
"No, you are not," Smith said tightly.
"Huh?"
"Thanks to Master Chiun, you are both wanted by the New York City Police. We cannot put you back in the field so soon."
"So what do we-?"
"I am going to MBC," Smith said.
"What about us?"
"You will remain here, by the telephone, ready to move on my signal."
"Emperor Smith," Chiun said suddenly. "I have a brilliant suggestion."
"Yes?"
"Pay the ransom. It is only money and Cheeta is-"
"No."
Chiun turned pale and said no more.
Without another word, Harold Smith went over to a filing cabinet and took from it his briefcase. From the top drawer he extracted an old Army issue .45 automatic and a clip of bullets. He placed these in his suitcase and walked from the office.
After the sound of the elevator came to his ears, the Master of Sinanju turned to Remo and said, "This is all your fault."
"My fault! If you hadn't run ahead to ANC, our faces wouldn't be on every light pole and post office in Manhattan."
"If you had not been late, I would not have had to seek out Cheeta in dangerous places."
"And if you had come with me to Atlanta, we wouldn't have lost Cheeta in the first place!"
The Master of Sinanju froze, his face stung. Slowly, the tight pattern of his wrinkles disintegrated.
"Cheeta! Poor Cheeta! Who will soothe her troubled brow while I am forced to abide in a madhouse among white madmen?"
Chapter 27
There was panic at Multinational Broadcast Company when Harold Smith presented himself, Secret Service photo III in one hand, at the MBC security desk. Staff was pouring from the building as if from a fire.
"What is wrong!" Smith demanded.
"They're running haywire again!" the guard cried, pulling his sidearm free of its holster and pushing against the human tide.
Smith followed him into the building, through a rabbit warren of corridors and cubicles in which secretaries cowered under desks and technical staff hid behind heavy editing equipment.
The guard came to a heavy steel door marked SET. There was a bulbous red light over a sign that said ON AIR. He put his back to the door, holding his pistol high in a two-handed grip. He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath.
"What is wrong?" Smith repeated.
The guard didn't reply. He slammed into the door, whirled, and legs spread apart, began firing into the news set.
Eight closely spaced shots came out. Gun smoke wafted back in Smith's horrified face.
Then, the guard stumbled back and said in a shaken voice, "I can't stop them! Bullets don't even faze them."
Smith grabbed the man by his jacket front.
"Get hold of yourself," he said tightly. "And tell me what is wrong."
"It's those damned Nishitsu robot cameras!" the guard said.
Smith scowled. "Robot cameras?"
Smith released the man and eased the door open. He saw the familiar MBC news set. There was the anchor desk that Tim Macaw usually sat behind.
Only now Macaw was up on the desktop cowering on his knees as a trio of wheeled unmanned cameras were blindly bumping into sets, backdrops, and live monitors and into the desk itself, their bullet-pocked teleprompters frozen on the words, THIS IS THE MBC NIGHTIME NEWS.
Macaw saw Smith and wailed, "Get security before these things kill-I mean terminally inconvenience-me!"
As if responding to his voice, the number two camera shifted away from breaking the world map that made up one wing of the background and joined the number one camera in banging into and retreating from the news desk. Big chunks began appearing in the thick formica top, threatening Macaw's shrinking perch.
Smith's gaze raked the set. Through a long glass panel, he could see control-room staff frantically throwing switches. One turned and threw his hands up in a helpless gesture of defeat.
Harold Smith strode in, stepped gingerly around the struggle over the news desk, and went up to the number three camera, which had jammed its square glass lens into the monitor array and was furiously spinning its smoking rubber wheels, trying to disengage.