It was the timing of the flashes that needed adjustment. When Friend's team of technicians in Wollongong altered the speed of the light pulses by just a fraction, they found that they could induce a profoundly responsive hypnotic state in which the individual's ordinary moral and ethical belief systems were completely overridden.
MacGulry saw opportunity. His American television network had long ago stopped being viewed as an industry joke. Acceptance had been hard fought and long coming. And, for the most part, it had been enough. But thanks to Friend, he now had a glimpse of even more.
To Friend the media mergers were of primary importance. The murder of the three men who had threatened him in the past would always take a back seat to a profitable business venture. Fortunately in this endeavor, business and pleasure seemed to be lining up perfectly. And as a result of the fallout, when it came time to write the history of the information age, Robbie MacGulry-the simple son of an inksmeared newspaperman from Wagga Wagga-would be the only name anyone would ever remember.
OCEAN STRETCHED out far below the quivering wings of Robbie MacGulry's corporate Vox jet.
"Have the car at the airport at seven," he said, wrapping up his phone call. He checked his watch. Early on the East Coast of America.
The sleek black phone rang the moment he hung up. Before he'd even picked up, he knew who it was. "Yes, Friend?"
"You've arranged to meet with the Asian." It was a statement of fact, not a question.
"He's meeting me at Vox in New York today."
"And the young Caucasian, Remo?"
"I don't know. When I spoke with the old one, he didn't want to talk about anyone other than himself and I didn't want to push it. He could be coming, too. And you were right about the old one's vanity. Should be an easy mark."
"Don't underestimate him. I will monitor passenger manifests into New York to see if he's alone. My last records on them indicate that they live in Massachusetts. This is old data, so it could be obsolete by now."
MacGulry leaned back in his seat, looking out the window. Sun burned bright across a blanket of clouds. "If they're such big goddamn mercenaries like you say, why don't I just buy one off and turn him against the other?"
"I tried that in the past. It didn't work. I don't think they can consciously separate their feelings of affection for each other. The records I've been able to recover indicate that the third individual, Harold, lives somewhere in New York. If Remo doesn't accompany Chiun to his meeting with you, perhaps he'll be with Harold."
"You can't know that."
"No," Friend admitted, "I can't. But if he doesn't come with Chiun to the Vox building, he'll have to be somewhere else. They are a tightly knit trio. At some point Remo will visit his superior."
"Wait, Harold is their boss?"
"Yes."
"You never mentioned that before."
"It wasn't relevant. Does it matter?"
Robbie MacGulry shrugged. "Not really, I suppose. But as an employer I guess I'm not really keen on the idea of having a boss murder an employee in the office. Tends to muck up your average business day."
Chapter 17
In the control bunker of Robbie MacGulry's Vox flagship station in Wollongong, New South Wales, Rodney Adler finished his final inspection of the cryptosubliminal equipment.
Everything was in working order.
Adler settled into a chair, pulling the keyboard off the desk and settling it to his lap.
The atmosphere was far less tense at the Wollongong station than it had been these past few weeks. It was always better when Mr. MacGulry left the station. The farther away he got, the more the pressure let up. At the moment the Vox CEO was on the other side of the world riding up a Manhattan elevator and most of the staff at Wollongong were so relieved they were just about ready to pop champagne corks.
Not Rodney Adler. He had work to do.
Using the keyboard, he entered the text precisely as Mr. MacGulry had instructed. He tapped out the words one careful letter at a time. He didn't dare get it wrong.
He sat back and watched as the words laced up with the pulsed colors on the monitor. There was no fear of Rodney ever falling victim to his own signals.
On the monitors in Wollongong, all the commands were slowed to 1/30 the normal speed. The computer was programmed to speed them up and to automatically pulse them into near alignment with the primary colors of corrupted televised transmissions.
Outside, a latticed transmitting tower shot the speeded-up signal to a waiting satellite. From there it was directed across the globe. The signal reached Earth once more at a special tower north of New York City. Within seconds of transmission, Vox viewers all around southern New York were being exposed to Rodney Adler's encrypted message.
These colors were brighter, the pulses more intense than the ones used in Harlem.
In spite of the greater hypnotic effect of these timed subliminal signals, nearly all who saw them would disregard them. These commands weren't meant for a mass reaction. They were person specific, like the messages sent to Martin Houton and his suicidal BCN vice president.
Once he was finished, Rodney Adler returned the keyboard to the desk. After he stood, he looked down, reading the slowed-down words one final time. Somewhere in southern New York state his command was about to be received.
"Better you than me," he muttered to himself. He climbed the stairs of the bunker. After he had left the room, the words continued to pulse slowly on his monitor: Harold, kill Remo... Harold, kill Remo... Harold, kill Remo... Harold, kill Remo.
Chapter 18
Harold Smith was working at his desk when the timid knock sounded at his office door.
He checked his watch. It was just a little after eight in the morning. His meeting with Detective Davic was scheduled for one o'clock.
Mrs. Mikulka had left her post five minutes before to deal with the cafeteria invoices. Smith had assumed he'd be undisturbed for the few minutes she was gone.
Lips pursing in annoyance, he pressed the concealed stud beneath the lip of his desk. His computer winked out.
"Come in," he called.
He was surprised when Remo stuck his head into the room.
"Hey, Smitty," he said sheepishly.
"Remo, what are you doing here?" Smith asked, worry brushing his lemony voice. "I told you last night I have a meeting with the Rye police this afternoon."
"Yeah, I know," Remo said. "It's just-" he glanced around the room "-you didn't happen to bump into Chiun this morning, did you?"
"Remo, I specifically asked you and Master Chiun to keep a low profile today. I was hoping you would take him off Folcroft grounds."
"I don't think that's gonna be a problem, Smitty." At Remo's guilty tone, Smith instantly grew suspicious.
"Why?" he asked. "Where is Master Chiun?"
Remo took a deep breath. "You're gonna have to find out sometime," he exhaled. "Chiun's got a meeting today with Robbie MacGulry from the Vox network."
Smith didn't think he had heard correctly. He asked Remo to repeat what he'd said, just to be sure. Remo did so. Smith realized that he had heard correctly after all.
Smith was very proud of himself for his reaction. His reaction was to not have a heart attack and drop dead right then and there. Still, he didn't entirely eliminate the option for the near future. For the moment he turned to his tried and true methods for dealing with this sort of thing.
"Does that stuff really help?" Remo asked as Smith yanked a bottle of antacid and three children's aspirins from his desk drawer.
The CURE director threw the aspirins far back in his throat, chasing them down with a big gulp of pink antacid.
"Tell me what he's doing," the CURE director gasped, wiping the chalky pink foam from his mouth.