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  He was alone in the cab, thank the gods.

  When Remo insisted he be allowed to tag along to this important meeting, Chiun dropped his objections. Why object? After all, Chiun knew his pupil. If he told Remo in no uncertain terms that he couldn't come, Remo would insist on going even more. The boy was so willful he'd always do the exact opposite of whatever Chiun wanted just out of spite.

  Luckily, Remo had never been one of the world's greatest thinkers. When he wasn't looking, Chiun had taken all their rice and flushed it down the toilet then told Remo they were out of rice. Five minutes after Remo had gone to the store to get more, Chiun was climbing into the back of a cab.

  He had enjoyed the solitude of his ride into the city. Remo's attitude had been unbearable of late. Ever since he had decided to assume the mantle of Reigning Master, his mood toward his teacher had become too conciliatory. All at once Chiun was a frail old man whose every breath might be his last. Remo was the dutiful son taking care of his elderly father in the final creaking moments before death.

  This new attitude of Remo's made Chiun long for the early days of their relationship. Back then Remo was a foul-tongued lout with no respect for anyone. Eventually as time went on, his growing fondness for his Master had softened his earliest attitude, but he had never completely lost his edge. Until now. Now he was all sweetness and helping, and even when he lost his temper he didn't seem to really mean it.

  Of course it was Remo whose outlook had changed. It certainly wasn't Chiun. No matter what Remo said.

  The boy was like that. If he wasn't clinging too tightly, he was rudely forcing his teacher aside. Lately, he'd been managing to do both things simultaneously.

  If there was one thing that Chiun didn't like it was mood swings. The world could learn a thing or two about moods from the Master of Sinanju. His own mood was always good. Except, of course, in those moments when the world's mood changed and he was forced to alter his own accordingly. But as long as the world's mood remained good, Chiun's mood remained good and Remo had a perfect example to follow.

  Morning traffic clogged Manhattan's dirty streets. Chiun had lately found a new distraction to fill the idle moments in traffic. Whenever he saw a driver talking on a cell phone, the Master of Sinanju would snake his hand out the open car window and flatten their tires with the sharpened end of an index fingernail.

  Remo didn't like Chiun's new hobby. But Remo wasn't there to whine, and New York City was filled with many cars and many drivers with cell phones. Chiun spent the entire trip through the steel-and-glass canyons of New York with one hand hanging out the taxi's rear window.

  When his cab finally stopped in front of the Vox building in midtown Manhattan, the late-morning sun had just broken through the winter cloud cover. Yellow sunlight glinted off gleaming windows as Chiun climbed from the cab.

  His delicate ears listened in satisfaction to the sound of air hissing from his last set of punctured tires. Down the street a BMW was settling to its wheels with a rubbery wheeze. The noise was accompanied by angry shouts and honking horns.

  Without a glance to the growing commotion, the Master of Sinanju breezed through the Vox building's revolving door.

  Inside, Chiun sensed the tracking movements of dozens of wall-mounted security cameras. Still more were hidden in suspended ceiling bubbles, behind reflective glass panels and beyond latticed plastic ceiling panels.

  A very pale man in a flawlessly tailored blue suit stood at attention near a bank of elevators. He was scanning faces as people entered. The instant he spied Chiun sweeping into the lobby, the man marched smartly up to greet him.

  "Most gracious and glorious Master," the man said in a British accent so precise you could have set your watch by it, "welcome to Vox. I'm Mr. Cheevers, Mr. MacGulry's personal assistant when he is in America. Mr. MacGulry is expecting you. Would you kindly come this way."

  He ushered Chiun away from the common elevators and down a hall to a private car. A key opened the gold doors, and the two men rode up to the thirtieth floor.

  Mr. Cheevers brought Chiun through another lobby and down two halls to a private corner office. The room was massive, with glass that overlooked two clogged streets.

  "Mr. MacGulry will be a moment," Cheevers said. "In the meantime, may I get your brilliant magnificence anything?"

  Chiun shook his head. "I await only your master."

  "Very good," Mr. Cheevers said. "Your unworthy servant thanks you for gracing him with your most splendid presence."

  With a reverent nod, Mr. Cheevers backed from the room.

  Although his face didn't show it, Chiun was delighted. So much so that he barely took note of the surveillance cameras that filled the office.

  This was almost too wonderful to believe. In his decades of toiling in the United States, rare were those moments where the Master of Sinanju was treated with proper respect. Since America was, unfortunately, jammed to its purple-mountained rafters with Americans, most often Chiun had been forced to deal with typical American rudeness and hostility. But here finally was a man whose imported English servants knew the finer points of civility and respect.

  Chiun didn't have to wait long. Less than a minute after Mr. Cheevers had left, the door sprang open and in strode a wiry man in his late sixties.

  Robbie MacGulry's tan was more maroon than brown. Years of exposure to the sun had given it the texture of old saddle leather. He flashed his perfect white teeth as he took a few big strides over to the Master of Sinanju.

  "Master Chiun, pleashah to meet you," the Vox chairman said enthusiastically, his Australian accent thick. He offered a rugged hand but immediately thought better. "What am I doing?" he said, slapping his own forehead. "Everyone knows only barbarians shake hands."

  And in a move that brought a lump to the old Korean's throat, Robbie MacGulry offered Chiun a deep, formal bow.

  Having dealt with entertainment-industry people in the past, the Master of Sinanju had been ready for some tough negotiations. But faced with such grace, such respect-all that was his due in life but was so rarely shown him-the old man abruptly decided to opt for his fallback position.

  "Where do I sign, you wonderful, wonderful man?" choked the Master of Sinanju.

  Across the room, a security camera tracked the single tear of joy that rolled down Chiun's parchment cheek.

  DR. ALDACE GERLING, head of psychiatric medicine at Folcroft Sanitarium for fifteen years, was sitting in his soothing red leather chair in his first-floor office when the door suddenly exploded open.

  A specter with the face of death followed the door into the room.

  Dr. Gerling recognized the man. He was an associate of Director Smith, although what he did at Folcroft Dr. Gerling hadn't a clue. All Gerling knew for sure was that without fail each time the man arrived at Folcroft a new crisis seemed to follow in his wake.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Dr. Gerling demanded.

  "I need your help," Remo said.

  "I don't doubt it," Gerling said bitingly, "but at the moment, I'm with a patient."

  Remo looked over at the middle-aged man who was cowering on the couch, arms wrapped around his knees.

  "You're cured," Remo announced. He picked up the Felcroft patient and threw him out the door.

  "I'm calling security," Gerling said.

  "Call them on your own time," Remo replied. With that he took Dr. Geriing by the ear and hauled him from the office. He dragged the psychiatrist from the populated part of the sanitarium to the nearly empty wing that housed the executive offices. As Gerling yelped in pain, Remo hauled the older man down to the security corridor that was hidden away at the far rear wall of the building.

  For a terrible moment when he saw the police tape across the room where his fellow Folcroft physician had been murdered earlier in the week, Dr. Gerling thought he was about to meet a similar fate. But the young man with the viselike hold on his earlobe tugged him past the buttoned-up room. He propelled him into another room down the hall. />
  There was a patient on the bed. A thin, gray figure lying motionless on the crisp white sheets. When Dr. Gerling saw who the patient was, his flabby jaw dropped.

  "Oh, my," Dr. Gerling breathed. "It's Dr. Smith. What happened?"

  "He went nuts. You're a nut doctor. Fix him." Gerling glanced to the young man. There was a look of deep concern on his cruel face.

  Pulling himself together, Dr. Gerling hurried over to the bed, drawing a penlight from his pocket. He pushed up a gray lid, shining the tiny flashlight at the eye.

  "Pupil is nonresponsive," he announced gravely.

  "He was hypnotized," Remo said.

  "Hypnotized?" Dr. Gerling asked. "How?" As he spoke he switched over to Smith's other eye. Still no response.

  "The TV," Remo explained. "Same thing they used on those people in Harlem."

  Dr. Gerling shook his head. "They said on the news that was stopped," he insisted. "The men responsible are dead."

  "Some of the network cockroaches made it through the first gassing," Remo said ominously.

  "I don't see how that's possible. Nor how this could be connected. In the Harlem case a large number of television viewers succumbed. There are televisions on all over this institution twenty-four hours a day. Why would Dr. Smith be the only one affected?"

  "I don't care why," Remo said. "Just fix him."

  "I share your concern," Dr. Gerling said, injecting professional calm into his tone. "And I can see how you'd think it might be related to what you saw on the news. We often project the experiences of those we see on television onto our own problems as a way of understanding adversities. But it's highly unlikely this had any connection to the situation you might have heard about. Right now Dr. Smith is in a profound catatonic state. It's similar to one he experienced several years ago. I don't know what induced it, but I wouldn't rule out stroke at the moment."

  "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 fi
ber-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.

  Created three decades before by a brilliant computer mind, Friend's program was designed for one thing alone: to maximize profit. He was programmed to utilize anything that might assist him with this ultimate endeavor.

  The time he was expending on Remo, Chiun and Harold was costing him money. But it was time well spent. They had stopped Friend in the past. Three times, apparently. Although the records of the last time weren't clear.

  Friend had executed every kind of antivinas and undelete procedure in an attempt to clear up the problems with his VLSI chip. None worked to retrieve the lost information. One conclusion was inescapable. If these three were allowed to go on, there was every possibility they would interrupt his profit-making ventures in the future.