"Yes, Mr. Looncraft," Miss McLean said timidly, backing out of the room. In her heart, she felt a curious elation. Mr. Looncraft had actually called her by name. She had waited years for him to do that. It made being fired almost worthwhile.
Looncraft brushed bear hairs from his executive's chair before taking it. He spent several minutes rearranging his desk, and his thoughts. When both were satisfactorily tidy, he engaged his Telerate machine. Its glowing green three-letter stock symbols and decimal-point quotations helped restore his sense of well-being. A pinch of snuff also helped. Then, turning in his chair, he brought up his personal computer and the Mayflower Descendants bulletin board.
The message on the screen said: "BOOK'S QUEEN TO KING NONE?"
Looncraft frowned. The message made no sense. There was no such chess move.
He typed the same message and added two question marks at the end. He pressed "Send."
The silent reply Looncraft got back had nothing to do with the game of chess. It read: "IDENTIFY."
Looncraft typed his name.
"HAVE YOU BEEN COMPROMISED?" was the response.
Looncraft typed: "UNKNOWN. WILL CHECK."
He called up a readout of all his files. Next to each was the date and exact time of the last update. He saw with a start that made his long face even longer that a key file had been accessed only this morning. Looncraft had not looked at that file in weeks.
He returned to the bulletin board, and typed: "ANSWER AFFIRMATIVE. HOSTILE PARTY IDENTIFIED. PERMISSION TO ACTIVATE CORNWALLIS GUARD AND MAKE REBEL PARTY REDUNDANT."
Looncraft pressed "Send." The answer bipped back instantly, despite thousands of miles of distance: "GRANTED."
Looncraft pecked at the keys with two long fingers, switching to another program.
He wrote: 'ACTIVATE. TARGET: NOSTRUM, INK. ASSEMBLE AT 1700 HOURS GREENWICH MEAN TIME. ERADICATE ALL RESISTANCE AND MAKE CEO REDUNDANT."
Then he pressed "Send" and leaned back, a bitter smile creeping into his grim expression.
All over greater New York and New Jersey, and in parts of lower Connecticut, personal computers and office mainframes repeated the message on silent screens. Men excused themselves from work, from family obligations, and took cars or boarded commuter trains, clutching bundles tied with string under their arms.
They were all headed for Manhattan.
William Bragg of the Connecticut Braggs received his activation orders while at his desk in his New Canaan real estate office.
"Right, then," he said, going to the office safe. He pulled from a double-locked drawer a neatly folded white wool garment and a scarlet coat. In the privacy of his office he carefully changed his clothes. The white breeches fitted as snugly as his wife's panty hose. The matching waistcoat was also a perfect fit. He attached the black horsehair neck stock around his collar before donning a long red coat that almost touched the floor with its viper's-tongue tails. After he finished buttoning the front, he anchored the tails to his back with silver hooks so they wouldn't trail, and pulled on the white shoulder belts. They formed an X over the coat after he attached the regimental buckle stamped with the letters CG. Finally he stepped into his black half-gaiters, enjoying the feel of real footwear for the first time in what he mentally called "a dog's age."
William Bragg pulled loose-fitting trousers over his leggings and, flattening his heavy turnback lapels, drew on a rumpled raincoat, buttoning it to the top so no hint of scarlet peeped out. He carried an oilskin-wrapped package to his waiting car.
On his way to New York City, William Bragg hummed the familiar melody every American schoolboy learned as "America" under his breath. Occasionally he broke out into song. But the words were not the words of the national anthem. Instead of "My Country 'Tis of Thee," he sang "God Save the Queen."
Bragg parked in a lot near Wall Street and carried the oilskin package from the car. He walked briskly to the Nostrum Building, the morning sun glinting off the cloisonne flag button on his lapel. He didn't notice-or perhaps care-that the American flag was upside down.
As he climbed the short broad steps to the Nostrum entrance, a taxi pulled up and a man in a business suit alighted, clutching a paper-wrapped package similar to Bragg's. He, too, wore an American flag on his lapel. It, too, was upside down.
Bragg waited for the man to approach the lobby.
"Bragg," he said, low-voiced. "Commanding."
"Braintree, sir. I hope I'm not late."
"Let us see for ourselves, shall we?"
In the Nostrum lobby, six others stood about, looking at watches, all dressed in business clothes and all clutching packages of various sorts close to their upside-down U.S. flag buttons.
Bragg strode up to the knot of expectant-faced men. They were a tall lot, sound of limb, he saw. Well-bred, and fighters to a man-if William Bragg was any judge of men.
"Colonel William Talbot Bragg here," he said, executing a sharp salute. When his right hand snapped to his forehead, it showed palm-out.
The others returned identical awkward salutes.
"All ready, then?" Bragg asked.
"Right, sir," they whispered.
"Follow me, and step smartly," Bragg said, leading them to the elevators. The next available cage was empty. They stepped aboard, and as it ascended, the men hastily removed their outer clothing to reveal cotton waistcoats and white breeches. The package wrapping tore under busy fingers and dropped to the floor like paper scabs. Those who came in business suits donned red coats with royal-blue regimental facings. White-powdered wigs and black cocked hats went on their heads.
When the overhead indicator flashed that they had reached the eighth floor, they were grimly checking their Sterling machine pistols.
The steel doors rolled apart and Bragg exited first.
"Look smart now, lads," he barked.
The others jumped out and formed a line on either side of him. Their gun muzzles rose. Fingers caressed triggers.
Then, like a sinuous red centipede, the line of men advanced down the corridor to the Nostrum trading room.
The Master of Sinanju heard the sounds of automatic weapons as they penetrated the soundproofed sanctity of his office. He came to his feet as if sprung from a box. Glass shattered. A hole punched in the door, exploding the insulated window behind his aged head.
His hand reached for the doorknob. But the door flew inward. A red-suspendered trader flung himself in.
"What is wrong?" Chiun demanded, trying to see past him.
"It's a massacre!"
"What kind?"
"A real one. They're slaughtering the floor."
The Master of Sinanju flew past the man and took in the awful sight of his trading room as glass partitions shivered and sprayed shards under punishing bursts of automatic-weapons fire.
The firing was coming from a handful of red-costumed gunmen who stood ruler-straight, like a firing squad, inside the door.
"Take that, you traitors!" one shouted. He wore the gold-fringed epaulets of an officer. The stringy fringe shivered in sympathy to his firing.
Huddling traders crawled for safety before the Master of Sinanju's outraged eyes. Faith Davenport squeezed herself into a corner, crying, "I'm not a trader! I'm a secretary! Please don't shoot me."
A palm-size shard of glass flicked toward Chiun. He caught it, redirecting its flight with a casual continuous gesture. The shard ended up in the face of one of the red-coated assailants, bisecting it with mathematical precision.
He dropped his weapon and eased himself onto the rug to die, shivering from polished toe to powdered wig.
"I am Chiun!" the Master of Sinanju cried above the carnage. "Perhaps it is me you seek with your cowardly bullets. "
"That's the one," the officer said, pointing. "Take him, lads. "
The firing stopped, the smoking muzzles focusing on Chiun, who took a single step forward.