So far, aside from the early-morning singing, the Master of Sinanju had been doing a good job keeping his joy in check. But he could no longer contain himself. He began to hum happily as he folded a purple day kimono.
"Wasn't it just a crummy, crummy day?" Remo asked.
"That was yesterday and that was thanks to you. This is today and my new joy is thanks to my wondrous benefactor. Or are you deaf in addition to being a basher of the aged? Did you not hear the telephone ring during the night?"
Remo had heard. The phone had rung in the old Korean's bedroom a little before midnight.
For years Chiun had kept a special 800 number at his home back in Korea. The calls used to be transferred to his and Remo's house in Massachusetts, but now were routed to Folcroft. No matter where it was located, the phone rarely rang. Until recently. The normally silent telephone had become more active in recent weeks. With the way Chiun had been whispering in a dozen different foreign languages, Remo assumed it all had something to do with those cockamamie letters his teacher had been mailing out. He figured last night was part of the same mysterious mess.
Remo hadn't listened in on the call. It wouldn't have done any good if he'd tried. The Master of Sinanju had pressed his ear to the phone and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece in such a way to shield both his and the caller's voices. All Remo could tell from the next room was that the old man was whispering excitedly.
"Your benefactor?" Remo asked. "Was that Smitty who called? Don't tell me something else went wrong."
Chiun stopped humming. The smile scampered from his wrinkled face, replaced by a puckery scowl. "Not that gray-faced madman," he said unhappily. "The call was from my new employer."
Remo's voice went very, very flat. "What new employer?"
Chiun's tone and face grew sly. He looked like the Korean cat who had eaten the canary. When the old man's papery lips parted to speak, Remo suddenly threw up a hand to stop him.
"Hold it," he said. "Wait a second, don't tell me." He sat on the edge of the couch, feet planted firmly on the floor. He braced his hands on his knees. "Okay, I'm ready."
Chiun tipped his head thoughtfully. "Perhaps I shouldn't tell you. You are a notorious blabbermouth."
"Who the hell am I gonna tell?"
"Your beloved Smith, for one."
"We're under contract to him first," Remo cautioned.
Chiun's hazel eyes narrowed. "Promise not to tell or I will not share my wonderful news with you."
"Sorry, Chiun. Best I can do is a guarded maybe. Now what's going on?"
The threat of Smith finding out was overruled by the old Korean's need to share his good news. "That call, though rudely timed, was from a ruler known far and wide," he confided. "It was a call from none other than the great and powerful Sea-O himself." And the smile of joy stretched wide once more across his leathery face.
Remo blinked. "What the hell's a Sea-O?"
"He is a mighty ruler whose province is the air itself. So powerful is he that his empire knows no bounds. It stretches from ocean to ocean and nation to nation. His invisible rays rule the very heavens themselves."
Remo's eyes were flat. "We're going to work for Ming the Merciless?" he asked blandly.
"You are not going anywhere. I, however, am going to work for the great Sea-O Robbie MacGulry."
It took a moment for the name to register. When it did, Remo's face grew puzzled. "The guy who runs Vox?"
"The proper form of address is Sea-O," Chiun replied. "It is a title bestowed on he who rules the kingdom of Vox. I am not sure exactly where his land is. It could be like Moo or Atlantis, an ancient place unknown to the modern age. I will have to check the oldest of the Sinanju scrolls."
"Don't check any old maps," Remo advised. "Vox is a TV network. You know, heavy on T n I ped his head, considering. "Actually that pretty much describes everything on TV nowadays. But Vox was first to jiggle across the finish line. Anyway, just follow the dial to the car crashes and alien autopsies and you'll find it."
Chiun frowned. "Are you certain of this?" he asked.
"As sure as a faked moon landing or a masked magician wrecking all the good tricks. How'd you get tangled up with a guy like MacGulry?"
"Serendipity put us together," Chiun said. "I merely called this number."
Fishing in his robes the old man produced a small white business card. Remo recognized the card. "That's Cindee Maloo's," Remo said.
"She is the one who answered. She advised me to wait, and that one more powerful than she would call back."
Remo frowned as he thought of the Winner producer. It was her tape from which the BCN higherups had somehow pulled an image of Remo for subliminal broadcast. She doubtless didn't even know it, but that didn't make him any less annoyed.
"That doesn't make sense," Remo said. "Cindee Maloo works for 'Winner.' That's on BCN, not Vox. Why would she hook you up with MacGulry, the head of a rival network?"
Chiun waved a bony hand. "Trivialities," he dismissed. "All that matters is that I told the Sea-O that I was a writer, and he recognized my genius."
"Oh, no, we're not going back to the writing again," Remo said. "Chiun, you haven't had luck with that. Your soap-opera proposal and assassination magazine went nowhere. And that movie you wrote went direct to video."
"I told him all that," Chiun said. "He was particularly troubled by that last insult. Sea-O MacGulry thinks my film could be turned into a great television program."
A knot of worry gripped Remo's belly. "Holy flipping crap," he said evenly. "Chiun, you can't do that."
The old Korean's voice grew cold. "Name the man who could stop me."
"How about Smith?" Remo insisted. "Chiun, you can't get mixed up with Vox TV. You have to tell Smith this."
"I will do no such thing. The Emperor is troubled enough by the sickness of the mind that has befallen his young prince. It would not be fair for me to flaunt my joyful news in his face at so troubling a time."
"You're all heart," Remo said aridly. "If you won't tell him, then I've got to."
Chiun stiffened. "Magpie," he accused. "I knew you would tell." He waved a hand. "Do what you must. Neither you nor Smith will ruin this for me. I have waited too long to allow opportunity to slip between my fingers."
In a twirl of kimono hems he returned to his trunks. Remo took a long moment to consider. He finally let out a weary sigh. "Smith wants us out of his hair today," he said. "Since we have to be gone anyway, I'll go with you."
The Master of Sinanju had found his old writing implements in the bottom of one of his trunks. He didn't even turn as he lifted out ink bottles and parchments.
"You are not invited," he sniffed.
"Chiun, MacGulry's got some kind of angle. If he's hooked in with Cindee Maloo somehow, they might be cooking up some new reality show for Vox, 'When Old People Attack.'"
"What is wrong with that? Old people are people, too."
"What's wrong is that no matter what kind of show they're planning on, they have no idea who they're signing up or what'll happen to them when they stab you in the back-which, being TV people, they will. I'm going with you."
Chiun's face darkened. "Do as you wish," he hissed, waving an angry hand. "But keep your big mouth shut."
"Don't I always?" Remo said innocently.
"Keep your big mouth shut," the old man repeated.
Chapter 16
Publishing had been in Robbie MacGulry's bank account long before it was in his blood.
As a child his family had owned that most rare of animals, a modestly successful newspaper. The money was good for the MacGulry family of Wagga Wagga, New South Wales. There was enough to send young Robbie off to school in England. At Cambridge in the 1950s Robbie got his first taste of the world outside his small corner of Oz.
He was thrilled with the idea of travel. His life was bigger than Australia. Far bigger than what he now knew was a run-down little newspaper with a rickety old printing press. When he returned home from school, he
told his father that the family business was simply not in his blood.
"Get a transfusion," ol' man MacGulry had snapped.
"You don't understand. I want to be happy."
"The news business'll make you happy," father MacGulry had growled angrily.
"You're not happy," Robbie had said. "Your hands are always stained with ink, you yell at me and mother all the time and your ulcers are killing you."
"Share my misery, Robbie."
"I can't, Father. I have my principles."
"You can have them poor then, because if you walk out on the family business I'm cutting you outta the will."
Robbie's handsome face grew dark. "You're a bastard, Father," he said.
"I'm a newspaperman, Robbie," his father had explained. "It's what we are. And, God willing, it's what you'll be one day, too."
The younger MacGulry doubted his father's prediction.
Robbie's youthful dreams seemed to die that day. Little did he know, they would reawaken and blossom in ways he had never imagined. He soon learned that he had been mistaken. Publishing was in his blood after all.
In his first year with the paper, he moved ruthlessly through upper management, cutting overhead, staff and salaries. He expanded advertising space, increasing ad revenues. At the same time he expanded circulation into neighboring towns. The paper thrived.
Watching all that his son had accomplished in one short year, Robbie's father even began to proudly boast that when his boy pricked a finger he bled black ink.
In two years he succeeded his father as publisher. He immediately encouraged his people to print sensationalistic stories. The more lurid, the better.
Sex sold. Robbie stuck a half-naked woman on page 3.
Murder sold. Headlines like BRISBANE BLOODBATH! and MASSACRE IN MELBOURNE! soon replaced the more subdued front-page stories of his father's reign.
"You're embarrassing the family," his father accused on a rare latter-day visit to the bustling city room. By then he was stooped with age. Although he hadn't worked at the newspaper for several years, the ol' man's fingertips were still stained a faint blue.
"I'm selling papers," Robbie had replied.
"You're selling your dignity."
Robbie had scowled. The expression came easy to him now. Gone forever was the easy, winning smile of the young man who had returned from college in England so full of hope and so eager to see the world.
"Dignity ain't worth spit," Robbie snarled. "All I know is my fingers are clean and I don't have a hump like some dago bell ringer. Now get outta my newspaper."
His father died that same night.
PUBLISHER'S POP PASSES! blared the next day's headline. To honor the late MacGulry patriarch, the page 3 girl of the day wore a black bikini.
After a few years of regional success Robbie had rolled the dice on the notion that his tabloid style would play somewhere other than Wagga Wagga. He used his life's savings to finance Australia's first real national newspaper.
The risk paid off. The new paper soared to new publishing heights on wings of blood and mayhem. Now hugely successful on a national scale, Robbie MacGulry turned his gaze to where it hadn't been in more than fifteen years. The outside world.
Back home in Australia MacGulry had always had a winning hand in all his business dealings. But his luck ran out when in 1974 he tried to purchase the sedate London Sun.
MacGuhy's reputation as a tabloid publisher had preceded him to England. During their very first meeting, the stuffy old British family that owned the newspaper flat-out refused to sell.
Robbie's Australian paper had a London bureau. A flat nearby was kept year-round for his business trips to England. He returned to the apartment after his humiliating rejection by the London Sun owners.
MacGulry was slamming his apartment door shut when the telephone rang. He grabbed the receiver angrily.
"What?" he demanded.
"Hello, Robbie."
It was a calm male voice. Although the caller spoke English with a bland American accent, there was no regional dialect. MacGulry's tan face puckered.
"Who the hell is this? How did you get this number?"
"I'm someone you need, Robbie," the smooth voice explained. "And I'm someone who needs you. I've been looking into the publishing field. Most times it's a losing proposition. But you seem to have found a way to make money. You have an impressive knack for business. I believe we're kindred spirits."
The guy sounded like a kook. MacGulry's brow lowered. "You didn't answer either of my questions," he said.
"I appreciate your directness. I have your telephone number because I have access to virtually anything computer related. Your unlisted number is just such a thing. As for your first question, my name is Friend."
"All right, mate. What do you want?"
"Not mate, Friend," Friend had explained. "In the uppercase. People like friends. Friendship establishes a trust in business. If we're to be partners, I'd appreciate it if you made an effort to use my proper name, Robbie."
"Listen, Jacko," MacGulry growled, "I don't know you, you are not my friend, and I sure as hell am not doing business with you. Call this number again, and you'll be making friends in a prison shower."
He slammed down the phone.
An hour later the phone rang again. It was his accountant back in Australia.
"They're falling!" the man exclaimed. The accountant was English. MacGulry liked servile Englishmen in his employ. However, he didn't like it when they were blubbering into the receiver like war widows, which this one was doing.
"What are you talking about?" MacGulry demanded.
"Your stocks!" the English accountant said. "You'll be ruined! We've got to sell now, before it's too late!"
MacGulry didn't believe it. He was too diversified to be ruined in a single day-not without a worldwide crash. Rather than take his accountant's word for it, he checked for himself. In the ten minutes it took him to do so, he was broke.
Robbie couldn't believe it. It was impossible. It was as if some demon force had targeted his personal portfolio. Everything he had worked for all his life was gone. The newspapers would have to be sold off to cover the losses. Ken "Robbie" MacGulry was penniless.
The shock of sudden poverty hadn't even begun to sink in when the phone in his small London apartment rang once more. He grabbed the receiver desperately, hoping his accountant had some good news on this blackest of days.
"Can we talk now, Robbie?" asked Friend's smooth voice.
MacGulry moaned, pressing a hand over his eyes. "If you're still looking to get into business with me, forget it. I'm broke."
"Yes," Friend said with deep sadness. "It's unfortunate that I had to go to such lengths to get your attention. It would have been so much easier if you'd just listened to me to begin with."
MacGulry found a chair. Swallowing hard-trembling with fear and rage-he sank into it.
"You did this to me?" he hissed.
"You wouldn't listen to my proposal," Friend said in that damnably reasonable tone.
"You cost me millions," MacGulry menaced.
"But, Robbie, I can make you billions."
The promise was ridiculous. But there weren't very many options open to him that miserable afternoon. Gritting his teeth, Robbie MacGulry had gotten into bed with the faceless man who had ruined him.
He was amazed at how fast his bad luck turned around. By massaging the stock market, Friend covered MacGulry's losses the very next day.
When Friend learned of Robbie's difficulty with the owners of the London Sun, he took prompt action. The family's eldest son apparently had a sexual appetite that involved the occasional dead prostitute. Robbie never really knew how Friend found that out. Something about hotel room credit card records and two traffic violations in the vicinity of two separate murders. A little blackmail and a lot of money got Robbie MacGulry the Sun. It turned tabloid the next day. The first lead story of the new paper, LORD OF THE RAPES! told in lurid detail th
e story of the previous owner's son. "That'll teach you for playin' hardball with goddamn me," MacGulry had crowed.
The next fifteen years of Robbie's life brought him to a succession of dizzying highs. Newspapers led to magazines led to publishing houses. The acquisition of Vox film studios and the creation of the fourth American television network was the culmination of years of work.
Through it all, Friend asked for little more than a fair percentage and help with a few small matters. One such matter was the cryptosubliminal technology.
In its infancy the system of subconscious flashes was too primitive to be truly effective on the scale MacGulry first envisioned. He had hoped to brainwash the masses into watching his network exclusively. Unfortunately, the system was only marginally effective on those with low IQs and short attention spans. When the system was in use, Vox had its highest numbers among convicts, high-school students and mental defectives. Its best ratings were for its subliminally-enhanced teen drama Burbank, Area Code 818 and the highly successful nighttime soap Santa Monica Lane.
The risk of getting caught was high and the payoff in terms of viewers was minimal. When Robbie suggested they stop the occasional use of the cryptosubliminal technology, Friend agreed that the business risk had become too great.
By then Vox had established itself as a legitimate network. Robbie MacGulry no longer needed subliminal signals to get ratings. Friend had turned over work on improving the effectiveness of the cryptosubliminal technology to one of the smaller corporate entities. He promptly vanished.
It was the fall of 1994.
Robbie MacGulry didn't know what to think when the phone calls from Friend stopped.
When the weeks stretched into months and he still hadn't heard from his mysterious partner, MacGulry began to grow concerned. Friend had never been afraid to bend the law if it served his interests. MacGulry had always admired that trait. It was possible now that some shady dealings of the man he had never met had finally gotten him in trouble. MacGulry was afraid at first that whatever had gotten to Friend would come after him, as well. But after a few tense months, nothing materialized. Vox continued. Grew, thrived.
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