"I know," sighed the President. "And here is something else: I've spoken with the heads of the major networks. They say they can't afford a seven-day blackout. It would break them. They're losing millions in advertising money to newspapers and magazines already. You should see my Washington Post this morning. The Secret Service thought it was a bomb and detonated it."
"Capitulation to terrorism is always a mistake."
"I know. But I have no control over what the networks do. Civil unrest could explode if TV is blacked out again. And the economy is hurting. I had no idea how much spending was motivated by TV commercials."
"Can you convince the networks to give us twenty-four hours?"
"I can try. But they sound ready to wire the ransom into the numbered Swiss account today."
"Do your best, Mr. President," said Smith, hanging up. He looked to Remo.
"The networks are prepared to pay the ransom."
"Damn. I couldn't care less about the networks, but I can't stand the idea of this nut getting away with this crap. Once he's paid off, he can vanish and we'll never find him."
Smith was staring at the greenish field of commands on his terminal screen.
"There must be some clue," he said, "some lead. We know that the transmitter is in Northern Canada. But where?"
"Let's put our heads together."
Smith's prim mouth tightened. "How do you mean?"
"You work your computer . . ."
"Yes?"
"And I'll pull up a chair and watch KNNN."
"Why KNNN?"
Remo grinned. "Because they always break stuff first."
"It is worth a try," Smith said without enthusiasm.
Hours later, a bleary-eyed Harold Smith looked up from his screen and began polishing his glasses with a handkerchief.
"Anything?" asked Remo, looking away from the TV. He had the newspaper spread out over his end of the desk.
"The only anomaly I can find in scanning Canadian news feeds is a rash of car battery thefts in the area of upper Quebec called the Canadian Shield."
"Car battery thefts?"
"From parked cars and auto supply stores and gas stations."
"What would that have to do with a pirate transmitter?"
Smith frowned. "I do not know. . . ."
The red telephone rang. Smith lifted the receiver.
"The networks have just paid the ransom," the President said in a subdued voice. "I did what I could. They were looking at their economic survival."
"The trail may end here, Mr. President."
"But the crisis is over. Isn't it?"
"For this month. Perhaps this year. But Captain Audion has just earned 100 million dollars by extortion. The combined ad revenues of the big three networks exceed five billion dollars annually. What is to stop this madman from asking for one of those billions next time?"
"We can only hope he isn't that greedy."
"I would not count on such a likelihood, Mr. President," said Smith wearily. "Now if you will excuse me, I intend to continue my search for the transmitter."
Remo, having overheard every word, asked glumly, "Does that mean Cheeta's going to be released?"
"We should know before long," said Smith.
"Then our problems will really start," Remo muttered.
They went back to work.
Hours passed.
In his sparsely furnished room in the private wing of Folcroft Sanitarium, the Master of Sinanju sat before a television set, his face stone, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the screen.
He was watching BCN, trusting that news of Cheeta, beloved Cheeta, the flower of Korean womanhood, would be given.
Never had he felt so helpless. Never had been forced to endure such tortures. First, fair Cheeta is kidnapped and then his emperor refused to allow a reasonable ransom to be paid. Were all whites mad? What was mere paper money against the life of a mother and child? No doubt this was a subtle example of the virulent anti-Koreanism that infected the white mind.
Now he was reduced to watching Bowling for Bucks, as if every fat white wheezing in victory or sobbing defeat was important. It was unendurable.
But there was nothing he could do. His emperor had forbidden him from taking action.
Then, abruptly, the screen went black and a sonorous voice said, "There is nothing wrong with your television set . . . "
Remo was reading Calvin en the KNNN anchor said, "On a lighter note, Canadian authorities are unable to explain the discovery on a remote mountaintop in Quebec of a religious statue of a kind normally seen perched on South American hillsides."
At the sound of the word "Quebec," both Remo and Harold Smith looked up from their reading.
A Quantel graphic materialized beside the anchor's serious face-and the screen turned to snow and static.
Remo changed the channel. And got blackness.
"There is nothing wrong with your television set . . . " a voice began saying.
"What's this crap?" Remo exploded.
"I do not understand," Smith muttered. "The ransom has been paid."
"Maybe the checks bounced."
"Wire transfers do not bounce," said Smith as Remo changed channels. Not every channel was blacked out. A number of cable stations was in service. The networks were down. As was Nickelodeon and MTV, and a smattering of others.
"Try KNNN again," Smith directed.
Remo obliged. The KNNN transmission was just snow.
"Think their dishes went down again?" Remo said.
"Coincident with the new blackout? Not likely."
Then KNNN came back on. With a technical difficulties graphic depicting a broken anchor. A voiceover said, "Please stand by while KNNN switches to its backup film library."
"Must mean that robot-controlled room I saw," Remo said.
The graphic went away. And filling the screen was a slab of unreflective basalt decorated by the words:
NO SIGNAL.
"Impossible," snapped Smith. "A cable transmission cannot be masked like that."
Captain Audion began speaking. "There is nothing wrong with your television set . . ."
Remo switched channels. On the network feeds, Captain Audion was already deep into his recitation.
"It's not the same signal," Remo said.
"You are right," said Smith.
Just then, the office door burst in and the Master of Sinanju, eyes ablaze, leapt in.
"Emperor Smith! The faceless fiend has struck again! You must do something. We must ransom Cheeta before it is too late."
Smith picked up the red telephone and was soon speaking with the President.
"If we move quickly, we may be able to trace the signal," Smith said.
"So will the Canadians."
"My people can move on instant notice."
"The fiend will die with his very own anchor wrapped around his lying throat," Chiun shrieked.
"What was that?" asked the President.
"Later," said Smith. "Time is of the essence." He hung up.
Remo asked, "Anything we can do?"
Smith frowned at the black TV screen.
"There must be some reason Audion went back on his word so quickly. But what?"
"But that's good, isn't it?" said Remo. "He can be traced now, right?"
"Yes. But it will take hours for the tracking planes to . . ." Smith's bloodless lips thinned.
"What? What?" squeaked Chiun.
"Perhaps there is another way."
"Speak the words, O Emperor Smith, and your loyal assassins will wreak your holy vengeance on the Canadian pirates."
Remo stared at the Master of Sinanju. "Holy?"
Chiun glowered back.
Smith winced, "Please, I must think."
The Master of Sinanju came down off his toes and dropped his upflung arms. He squinted one eye thoughtfully at Harold Smith.
"Captain Audion had a reason for restoring the blackout, despite being paid," Smith was saying. "A reason that overrode the danger of his signal being traced."