"It's not a goddamn stroke," Remo snapped. Stepping forward, he pressed a thumb to Smith's forehead. The pressure unlocked Smith's paralyzed nervous system.
The old man's panicked eyes sprang open. The instant he spotted Remo, he grabbed him by the throat. "See?" Remo said to Gerling as Smith's gnarled hands desperately tried to squeeze the life out of him.
"No stroke. He's just a TV junkie with a kill-me fixation."
His darting thumb tapped the CURE director's forehead and the older man's hands slipped from Remo's throat.
Dr. Gerling had backed away from the bed in amazement. "Remarkable," he gasped.
"I didn't ask for a review," Remo said. "What are you going to do to snap him out of it?"
Gerling cleared his throat. "Well," he said, "I saw how some of the people in Harlem who had trouble coming out of their dissociated states were helped by hypnosis techniques."
"How long will that take?"
Dr. Gerling shook his head. "A few hours? Maybe less. It depends on how deep he's under."
Remo reached out once more. When he pressed a thumb to the CURE director's forehead this time, he gave a twist.
"The clock is counting down," Remo said. "You have six hours." Turning on his heel, he headed for the door.
"It will help for him to have a friendly face here when he comes out of it," Gerling said as he hurried to drag a chair up next to the bed.
When he glanced over his shoulder at Remo, he saw a face that was anything but friendly.
"Oh," Gerling said uncomfortably. Settling in his chair, he turned his attention back to Dr. Smith.
At the door, Remo gave Smith a lingering look. The message on the CURE director's computer screen had been crystal clear. Smith had been ordered to kill Remo.
Remo regretted not sharing Smith's earlier concern after the events in Harlem. He now realized that he had too quickly dismissed the image of himself that had appeared on the police station TVs. It was apparent now that someone out there possessed specific knowledge of CURE's personnel. And whoever it was had declared silent war on CURE. Without Smith and his computers, it would be nearly impossible to trace the source of the new subliminal transmissions.
At the moment whoever was after them wasn't Remo's paramount concern. They obviously knew about Remo and Smith. There was only one other CURE operative left.
The first strains of echoing fear singing loud in his ears, Remo Williams slipped from the hospital room.
Chapter 19
As soon as he laid eyes on the old man, Robbie MacGulry figured negotiations would be a piece of cake.
Ordinarily, MacGulry would have crushed someone like this Master Chiun like a bug. It was definitely not in the Vox CEO's nature to fawn over anyone, least of all some decrepit writer who'd just escaped from the old folks' home. But Friend had instructed him to be deferential, and so MacGulry had gone against his nature and reluctantly followed orders.
In the first two minutes MacGulry thought he had it made. In the next hour he learned different.
After first seeming to fall for MacGulry's charms, the old geezer had quickly become more cautious. Rather than sign on the dotted line right away, he had turned into a barracuda at the bargaining table.
It wasn't a surprise. In this tiny Korean, Robbie MacGulry sensed a kindred spirit. The old coot had smelled weakness and had gone in for the kill.
"So let's get these details straight so far," MacGulry said. Speaking brought fresh pain to his lower back.
It was no wonder Robbie MacGulry's back ached.
He was sitting on the floor in his office. Chiun had insisted that this was how proper contract negotiations were conducted. MacGulry made an attempt to cross his legs like the old Korean, but when he tried he swore he heard something crack in his left knee. He was now tipped to one side, one leg stretched out before him, the other folded up near his chest.
"You're producer," MacGulry continued. As he spoke, he shifted positions uncomfortably. "You've got total creative control. The vision for the show will be entirely yours. And you'll write most of the episodes. What else?"
Chiun's wrinkled poker face didn't flinch. "I want to direct," he announced.
MacGulry rolled his eyes. "Of course you do," he grumbled. "Fine."
"And I want a budget that allows me the freedom to exercise creative expression."
"I told you already, two million per episode is as high as Vox studios can go."
Chiun stroked his thread of beard. "I suppose I can learn to live within those stifling constraints," he sighed reluctantly. "As an artist I am used to adversity."
Artist. If his back wasn't killing him and he wasn't getting raped by this broken-down old codger, MacGulry would have laughed in that wrinkled face.
The Vox CEO still couldn't figure out what Friend's angle was with this coot who considered himself an artist. But he wanted to get Chiun aboard Vox before the merger with BCN went through. Part of some strategy to which Robbie MacGulry was not privy.
MacGulry had already offered a two-year, forty-four episode guarantee for an hour-long drama that hadn't even reached pilot-script stage. He had given Methuselah's grandfather nearly everything he'd asked for thus far. And for what? A sweetheart deal for some writer whose only previous credit was some movie that had bombed two years ago.
Acid chewed Robbie MacGulry's gut. He ground his molars. It was the only thing he could do as this ancient little man with the too placid face who considered himself an artist raked the great Robbie MacGulry over the coals.
"Is there something wrong with your teeth, O Sea-O?" the Master of Sinanju asked.
"No," MacGulry replied, unclenching his jaw. "I'm fine."
"Good," Chiun said. His thin smile crimped the papery skin at his mouth. "Now let us discuss merchandising. "
"...DISCUSS MERCHANDISING."
Friend was using the Vox security system to eavesdrop on Robbie MacGulry and Chiun. Although he had gained access to the building the moment the computerized system went online years before, he didn't often have cause to use it.
Electronic impulses raced along unseen miles of fiber-optic cables, feeding energy and information to the self-aware computer program.
CALCULATE LIKELIHOOD ASIAN WILL ACCEPT OFFER.
The answer came back almost instantaneously. 93.6 PERCENT PROBABILITY.
The Asian would likely not be a problem. The Caucasian, though, was a different matter. While Friend's records were incomplete, they did retain enough information on the two men in question to determine a 99.999 percent probability that the younger man would not accept a monetary deal of any kind.
If the Asian accepted the eventual offer from MacGulry and Vox, as Friend's probability program indicated, it would negate the necessity to liquidate him. He would become a powerful ally.
Given his propensity to eschew financial transactions, however, the Caucasian would still have to be eliminated. Friend retained enough information on the man named Remo to know that this was a pity. He was as strong as the old one and, unlike Chiun, would not succumb to any age-related problems for many years.
As for the third subject in Friend's files, Subject Harold was the mystery figure. Friend had attempted to locate him, assuming as a starting point some sort of association with Subject Remo and Subject Chiun. He had failed in his attempt. Whoever this Harold was, he was skilled with a computer. Somehow, he kept himself successfully isolated from the other two.
Was Harold strong enough to kill Remo? Friend had no way of knowing. Those records were gone. If so, and if Remo had already encountered Harold, Remo might already be dead.
Friend would feel no joy or even simple satisfaction to learn that his enemy was no more. It would merely be the culmination of a successful business stratagem.