"Be that as it may, it is just a coincidence," Smith said, replacing his glasses. "If Martin Houton told you the truth, BCN was trading deaths for ratings. The fact that they killed one of their own contestants bolsters his claim."
"The guy was telling the truth, Smitty," Remo insisted. "You know we can tell that stuff. Heart rate, breathing, perspiration all stayed normal. He wasn't lying."
"I'm relieved," Smith said. "BCN was in possession of a terrifying technology. We should consider ourselves lucky it didn't get further than it did. From what I've learned, the process uses hypnotic bursts of light and regularly flashed worded suggestions. The light is a trigger that implants the suggestions deep in the subconscious. People are helpless to refuse whatever subliminal commands are shown on the screen."
"One way to get people to tune in," Remo said. "Any idea what went blooey to make that mob attack the former president?"
"Before he killed himself, Thomas Trumann issued an apology for that. He said that he was watching the news, saw the former president was nearby in Harlem and typed in the commands as a joke. He sent the signal accidentally. There is precedent at the BCN network for such an occurrence. During the last presidential race, a tasteless graphic was run during one of BCN's late-night programs calling for the assassination of one of the candidates. I checked. Trumann was working as head of late-night programming at the time."
"Funny guy," Remo said aridly.
"Yes," Smith said, with clear distaste. "But at least this particular command was only run in Harlem. I sent a copy of the show that was taped here in Rye out to be examined. It appears there was nothing but a simple command not to change the channel buried in the national broadcast."
"That's what I saw in Mexico," Remo said, nodding.
"So it seems this is over," Smith said. "And none too soon. The past few days had already been disturbing enough."
"Speaking of which, any news on Purcell?"
"No," Smith replied. "As we feared, he will remain in hiding until he feels strong enough to come after us."
"Us meaning me," Remo said.
Smith nodded quiet agreement. "As for Mark, I will begin weaning him off the sedatives tomorrow. He should be lucid enough by then to explain his actions. I would like you and Master Chiun present when he comes around."
"You got it," Remo said, his voice cold.
Smith noted his tone. "Remo, the officer investigating this is coming back tomorrow afternoon. I would appreciate it if you and Chiun kept a low profile. It would be nice if the two of you found somewhere else to be at one o'clock."
"Always nice to feel wanted," Remo droned. "I can make myself scarce, but I don't know about Chiun."
"Just as long as he remains in your quarters," the CURE director said tiredly. With a sigh he fished in the foot well of his desk, pulling out his briefcase.
"And you know how good he is for doing every little thing you want him to," Remo said thinly. "Night, Smitty."
The younger man slipped from the office.
Alone once more, Smith placed his briefcase on his desk.
He was bone tired.
The BCN television network's scheme to boost viewership had been stopped. A dozen federal agencies were now investigating the matter. Smith was grateful that it was all over. Rarely did a CURE assignment conclude so quickly.
He checked his watch. It was only nine-thirty.
He hadn't left work this early in years. But he had a meeting with Detective Davic the following afternoon. And given all that had happened over the past week, a good night's sleep was an indulgence he had earned.
It was early enough that his wife was probably still up. Maude Smith would be shocked to see him home so early.
Crossing to the door, Smith gathered his coat and scarf from the coatrack. Careful to snap off the lights, he left the ghosts to dance alone in the corners of the shadowy office.
Chapter 15
Remo knew he was in trouble when he awoke to the sound of the Master of Sinanju singing.
The old Korean raised his voice in cheery song from the common room of their shared Folcroft quarters.
When Remo returned to their quarters the previous night, Chiun had been locked away in his room. At the time Remo assumed the old pain in the neck was still cheesed off. Now it seemed as if the cloud had lifted.
Lying on his reed mat in the predawn darkness of his bedroom, Remo racked his brain trying to think what could possibly have changed his teacher's lousy mood so abruptly. With a sinking feeling he realized there was one thing that almost always did the trick.
"I am not cleaning up any dead bodies!" Remo hollered from his bedroom.
"Good morning to you, too, sleepyhead," the Master of Sinanju called back, sounding far too chipper.
Remo dropped his head back to his mat. "I knew it. I'm gonna be scrubbing corpse juice off the chandeliers."
He wondered how the hell he was going to keep the fact that the Master of Sinanju had killed half of Folcroft's staff during the night a secret from Smith. Smith said he'd be busy with the police that afternoon. Maybe Remo would luck out for once and the CURE director would be too distracted to notice the bodies piled like Civil War cannonballs all over the front lawn.
When he finally climbed reluctantly to his feet and went out to the common room to assess the damage, Remo was surprised to find he wasn't ankle deep in stiffs.
More surprising, the Master of Sinanju had brought some of his luggage out from his bedroom. The Master of Sinanju never moved his own luggage. The old man was puttering around the gaily colored steamer trunks.
"Where are they?" Remo asked warily.
Chiun didn't raise his aged head. "Where are who?"
Remo was peeking out the door. The hallway was empty. Not a decapitated corpse in sight.
"Didn't you kill your way to happiness and success last night?" Remo asked.
Chiun's face puckered. "You have already given an old man ample reason to doubt your loyalty, Remo Williams," he said. "Do not make me question your sanity."
"I'm loyal, I'm sane and I'm wondering why you're happy all of a sudden. I figured you had the Corpse-O-Matic cranked to eleven all night long. I was ready to pull the fire alarm and sneak off in the confusion."
"I am an assassin," Chiun sniffed. "I do not kill willy-nilly."
That nearly did it. Remo almost laughed out loud. The urge shot up from his belly and made it as far as his throat. But in the split second before the laughter exploded out of his mouth and he fell on the floor clutching his sides, he realized Chiun was suddenly out of the crappy mood he'd been in the past few days and that by laughing in his teacher's face, Remo could very well snap him back into that same crappy mood. Gritting his teeth, Remo swallowed the laughter.
"Course not," Remo insisted, sniffling.
At the sound, Chiun's wrinkled head stretched high on a suspicious craning neck. He gave Remo a lingering look of mistrust. At long last he returned to his packing.
"I am packing because Emperor Smith has made clear his desire for us to leave his palace," the Master of Sinanju said. "You should do the same. Although don't think you can hide all your worthless junk in with my precious mementos."
"I can fit my life in a Safeway bag and still have room left over." As he spoke he peeked behind the couch. "Okay," Remo said, "there's no one dead here as far as I can see. If you being nice to me is supposed to be my Christmas present, you're a couple days early."
"Can a man not pack in peace? You may live out your days in Smith's crazy house if you want, but I have stayed here long enough. It is time for the Master to move on."
"Uh-oh," Remo asked, a new concern suddenly blossoming full. "Move on? Like move move on?"
"Stop mooing, bovine," Chiun said, gliding over to his pupil. "And move your fat cloven hoofs." He kicked Remo's ankles. Remo lifted his feet out of the way and the old man swept past.