The lights dimmed. The power hummed down for a moment. But with a distant click and whir, the overhead lights came back up.
"Dammit," Remo snapped. "Must be a backup generator." In a blur, he flew forward and began tearing wires from the backs of monitor stations.
On the other side of the room, the Master of Sinanju became a vengeful dervish. Flashing hands ripped cords from floor pads and consoles. Sparks sizzled white across the cold concrete floor.
"Okay, that got him this-" Remo stopped in midsentence.
The phone on which he'd been speaking to Friend dangled from its cord near the floor. An electronic shriek rose from the receiver.
"The thing is moving," Chiun hissed.
"He's transferring himself through the phone lines," Remo agreed. "Where the hell's the line?" Chiun wasn't listening. The old man had already turned on his heel and was racing up the stairs. Remo flew after him out the door. Down the hall, they ducked back out into the sunlight.
Outside, the Master of Sinanju scanned the side of the building for the black cable of a telephone line. He found it attached to the second floor.
"Aiiee!" cried the old Korean. Calves tensing, he launched himself from the ground.
One story up, a sandal toe caught the building's smooth face and he launched himself out and up. A single downward stroke of one fingernail severed the line and the old man dropped back to earth next to his pupil.
The worthless end of the fat black cord slapped the dusty ground.
"I hope you stopped him," Remo said grimly. Turning quickly, they ducked back inside the building.
A rapid search turned up a small computer room set apart from the rest of the building. A half-dozen large mainframes lurked against painted black walls. Remo got to the sole monitor in the room first. When he read the words on the screen, his heart sank. TRANSFER COMPLETE.
"Dammit," he growled.
"What is it?" the Master of Sinanju asked, coming in from behind.
Remo's thoughts suddenly jumped from Friend back to his teacher. "Don't look, Chiun," he snapped.
As he spoke, he put his fist through the computer screen. The glass imploded with a popping crack. A thundercloud formed on the old man's brow. "What is wrong with you?" the Master of Sinanju hissed.
"Chiun, you have to be careful," Remo insisted.
"Careful of what?" Chiun demanded hotly. "Of choosing a pupil who is so dense he cannot seem to recognize which humiliation he is forcing his teacher to relive? It is far too late for that."
Spinning on his heel, he marched from the computer room.
There seemed a hundred conflicting emotions in the old man's words and tone. Most of all was hurt and sadness. Remo had no idea what to make of it.
A baffled frown on his face, he trailed the Master of Sinanju from Robbie MacGulry's Wollongong TV station.
Chapter 29
With the heel of one shoe, Detective Ronald Davic kicked shut the door to his third-story apartment. As usual, it stuck without closing all the way. He had to nudge it closed with his rear end.
Inside, he set the grocery bags on the kitchen table and pulled his keys from between his teeth. The table wobbled.
He'd swiped it from his mother's backyard after her last heart attack finally put her in a home. In an ill-advised homemaking project, Davic slathered the picnic table with five coats of shellac and stuck it in his kitchen. It was ugly and shiny, but it was flat enough. If food didn't roll off it, he reasoned, it worked.
The apartment was dingy and dank. In the moist corners it still smelled like the cat that had died on him three years before. Not a surprise. Somewhere beneath the piles of junk in the spare bedroom was a moldy litter box that he rarely got around to emptying even when the cat was alive.
Under other circumstances his landlord might have complained about the mess and the smell. Fortunately, Ronald Davic owned the three-story tenement.
He dumped his coat onto the table next to the groceries. A moist cigarette dangled from his lip. He stubbed it out in an overflowing ashtray.
Fishing in the fridge, he pulled out a can of Diet Coke. Soda in hand, he trudged into the living room. Like the kitchen, the furniture in this room was a sorry mess. Not one stick matched another. He had a girlfriend a couple or a dozen years ago who told him a million times that he would have used folding lawn furniture in the living room if he could figure out a way to open the umbrella inside.
He slouched into the same chair his father used to slouch in forty years before.
The TV stared at him from across the room.
On top of the old Zenith was a photograph. It was one of the few things he ever bothered dusting, usually by wiping off the grime with the sleeve of his shirt. It was a photo of the Davic family as it appeared -back in the 1970s.
He had a wife then. She had left him while he was still on the force in New York. In the picture she was smiling, which was wrong. Libbie Davic never smiled.
Davic would have tossed out the picture if it wasn't for his daughters. It had been taken before their mother had filled their heads with poison. In that picture the two girls were young and beautiful and beamed joy at the camera.
In spite of the dishonest depiction of his ex-wife, the picture was a permanent part of Ronald Davic's living room.
Davic picked up a remote control from the overflowing magazine rack next to his ratty old chair. As he slurped his Coke, he snapped on the TV to watch the news.
The local news was the usual garbage. Abused pets, missing children, assorted fluff pieces. He ordinarily just listened, opting to stare at the picture of the family he had lost a lifetime before. But this night something seemed different. For some reason the blathering of the Vox anchorman was more compelling than usual.
It was the light. Somehow the light that flashed at him from the TV screen seemed brighter than normal. He dragged his eyes from the photo down to the screen.
His eyes instantly glazed over.
He saw them. On some level he saw the commands: Ronald Davic... Ronald Davic... Ronald Davic...
His name repeated over and over, interspersed with the commands that were meant for him and him alone.
He stared for ten minutes. Finally, he shut off the TV.
Sitting at the edge of his chair, Detective Ronald Davic took out his gun to make absolutely sure it was loaded. When he was sure it was, he reholstered the gun and left the room.
His keys were on the kitchen table. He pocketed them as he shrugged on his coat. Leaving the three bags of groceries on the table, he left the apartment for the short drive to Folcroft Sanitarium. Where he would kill its director.
Chapter 30
The mountain sentinels of the Great Dividing Range jutted up across the eastern horizon, undulating waves of solid rock locked in time.
Red streaks of fire lit the sky and burned the ground. The sun was setting on Robbie MacGulry's sprawling Queensland estate. The brilliant colors of the evening sky were fading into the darkest night of the Vox CEO's life.
"You sure about that?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," Rodney Adler replied. "The station is in ruins. The cryptosubliminal equipment has been destroyed."
MacGulry knew when the station had gone down. It was the same time the dormant computer room beneath his mansion had hummed to life. As he had suspected, Friend had sought refuge beneath Robbie's feet.
"You cut the phone lines like I told you?" the Vox chairman asked.
"We took down all but your direct one from Wollongong this morning. We cut that one as soon as you instructed us to. I confiscated and destroyed all cellular phones. Your estate is effectively cut off from the modern world."
A flicker of a smile crossed MacGulry's tanned face.
"Not out of the woods yet," he said. "But it's a start. Tell the Robbots to stay alert."
"Oh ...ah, yes. The Robbots."
MacGulry's brow darkened. "You told me they were deployed. Is there a problem?"
The Robbots were Robbie Ma
cGulry's last line of defense. An army of mercenaries, all were coldblooded killers who had had every last vestige of human emotion drained from their frozen hearts by months of relentless exposure to subliminal brainwashing. They would fight to their last drop of blood to protect the Vox CEO.
Rodney Adler wilted under his employer's harsh glare.
"No problem, Mr. MacGulry," the Englishman said, with a smile so broad it made Robbie MacGulry want to stick his dentist in a box and mail him to London.
"Better not be," MacGulry threatened. "Get to work."
Rodney Adler tripped over his own feet in his haste to get back inside.
For a few more moments, Robbie MacGulry watched the setting sun. It was something he rarely had time to do. At long last he stepped back inside his mansion, sliding the glass doors behind him.
Two minutes after he'd gone inside, the faint sound of an approaching plane rose up from the growing twilight.
IT TOOK five tries for Remo and Chiun to finally find a pilot who didn't try to kill them on sight. Their small Cessna soared across the vast plains of Australia's Great Artesian Basin. Remo forced the pilot to land on the long, lonely road that led up to the gates of MacGulry's estate.
As they walked up the road, they saw a line of Subaru Outbacks parked inside the split-rail fence. A hundred men stood at attention before the cars.
The men were muscled and tanned. They wore short pants, khaki flak jackets, hiking boots and bush hats, the brims of which were buttoned up on one side. Each man held an assault rifle. Their eyes were glazed.
"The Running Line?" Remo suggested as they walked toward the gate and the waiting group of men. "Better for enclosed places," the Master of Sinanju replied.
"Could use the Ellipse Within the Ellipse. We haven't used that one in a while."
"Perhaps," Chiun said, frowning. His nose crinkled as he smelled the air.
Remo had caught the scent, as well. It was being carried to them on the faint breeze.
The air stank of beer. Lots of it. As he watched the line of waiting men, Remo suddenly realized why. "You've gotta be kidding me," he said all at once.
"Holt, hoo goes theya?" one man before them slurred as Remo and Chiun approached.
The army pointed their guns. Some of them managed to point them somewhere that was almost within the vicinity of where Remo and Chiun were standing. The rest aimed at fence posts and car tires and into empty prairie. The barrels weaved along with the men behind them.
"They're pie-eyed," Remo said.
"In Australia it is called being patriotic," Chiun replied blandly.
"I said hoo goes theya," hiccuped the lead Robbot.
"Larry Hagman's liver," Remo said. "Move it, drunky."
"I don't much like your attitude, Sheila. Open slather time, cobbers!" the head Robbot yelled to his companions.
A hundred rifle barrels burst to life. Fence posts and tires exploded in sprays of wood and rubber. "Fair dinkum!" some of the men cried as they began accidentally shooting one another.
"Strewth!" they shouted when they realized how good a job they were doing killing one another. "Cor blimey!" they yelled when they discovered-to their horror-that they'd accidentally shot holes in their tinnies of beer. The survivors threw down their guns and began lapping up damp dirt.
"Give me strength," said Remo Williams.
He and Chiun swiped a drivable Outback from the line of parked cars. As the Robbots slurped dirt, Remo and Chiun sped up the road to Robbie MacGulry's mansion.
ROBBIE MACGuLRY couldn't believe what he was seeing.
Surveillance cameras directed images of the slaughter at the front gate to the Vox chairman's handheld television.
The Robbots were nearly all dead. One had even managed to run himself over. He was wedged under the front wheel of an Outback, a beer can clutched in his dead hand.
"You made them all drunks!" MacGulry roared.
"Yes," Rodney Adler admitted nervously. "In retrospect perhaps it would have been wiser to hide the cryptosubliminal signal that was supposed to rob them of their souls in something other than a Toohey's beer commercial."
Flinging the small TV to the floor of his study, MacGulry wheeled around. He ripped a rifle from where it was mounted on the wall behind his desk. When he spun back around, there was a murderous glint in his eye.
Adler offered an anxious smile, flashing crooked teeth.
"Going hunting?" he asked, his voice a squeak. With a low growl, MacGulry slapped the gun into Adler's hands.
"Stop 'em or I'll stomp you," the Vox CEO commanded.
Adler's face sank in relief. "Yes, sir!" he said. He scurried from the room.
MacGulry grabbed the mini-TV off the floor. The remaining living Robbots had linked arms and were singing an off-key version of "Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport." One was using a gun barrel for a microphone. He accidentally stepped on the trigger and blew the top of his head off.
"Wankers," MacGulry muttered to himself. Dropping the handheld television to his desk, he raced from the study.
IT TOOK ANOTHER ten minutes for Remo and Chiun to reach the Vox CEO's mansion. It was a sprawling, whitewashed affair full of columns, clapboards and flowers.
Remo circled the drive, stopping at the front portico.
"Better stay here, Little Father," he suggested.
"You are not leaving me in the car like some nuisance canine," Chiun sniffed as he climbed down next to Remo.
"Not even if I crack a window?" Remo said quietly. "Look, Chiun, this is a cakewalk. Zap MacGulry, pull the plug on Friend."
"Get out of my way, imbecile," Chiun insisted.
Remo sighed. "Suit yourself. But I'd appreciate it if you didn't try to fillet me again."
"Shut your blabbering mouth and I will consider it," the old Asian replied thinly.
Forcing his way past Remo, he flounced up the front stairs of Robbie MacGulry's mansion like a flapping green butterfly. Remo hurried up behind him. The instant they pushed open the big front door, a voice boomed over hidden loudspeakers.
"Breaking and entering," Robbie MacGulry called. "I'm within my legal rights to defend my home, mates."
"So much for the element of surprise," Remo said.
"Hush," the Master of Sinanju hissed.
He was scanning the walls for surveillance equipment.
"Cameras and microphones everywhere," Remo whispered as they slipped stealthily up the downstairs hallway.
Both men knew that on the other end of the tangle of wires was not only MacGulry, but a far more dangerous foe.
"You could have had a sweet deal if you just went along with this, Remo," MacGulry called. "But Friend says you're not the kind who goes along, are you?"
"Shouldn't you be out taping 'World's Sexiest Car Chases VI'?" Remo asked the walls.
"Bad attitude," MacGulry's disembodied voice replied. "How about you, Chiun? My offer still stands."
"Sinanju works for men, not machines," Chiun announced coldly.
"You know what Friend is?" MacGulry asked, surprised.
"A three-times ass-kicked hunk of silicon that was built to maximize profit," Remo said. "About to be crashed time number four." He peeked around an open door.
The room beyond was empty. Both Masters of Sinanju continued on.
"I worked with him thirty years. I only just found out what he was for sure two days ago," MacGulry said.
"Three cheers for the Aussie Einstein," Remo said.
They passed several more rooms. All were empty. Passing through the door at the end of the hallway, they found themselves in a big, restaurant-style kitchen. MacGulry's voice preceded them into the room.
"You don't like Friend," MacGulry said over the speakers. "I understand that. You fellas have a history. What would you say to my job offer if I told you I could help you get the bastard once and for all?"
"I'd say blow it out your didgeridoo," Remo said. Through the kitchen door they entered a huge dining room.
"Don't be too hast
y," MacGulry said. "Vox-BCN is just the start. With the cryptosubliminal signal I can have it all. One hundred percent of the world's media markets. I can hypnotize people into buying no other magazines or newspapers but my own. Every movie Vox puts out will gross over two hundred million. My network will be the world's network. They'll be building thousand-foot statues of me in Sydney Harbour. It's your last chance. You wanna work for a smith or a king?"
"Not interested."
"Did you say two hundred million gross?" the Master of Sinanju asked slyly.
"We're not interested," Remo insisted. "Besides, I can never forgive Australia for foisting Yahoo Serious on the rest of the world."
"Too bad," MacGulry said. "If we can't deal, you die. Adler!"
MacGulry's booming voice rattled glass throughout the mansion. As the vibrations shook the foundation, a very frightened man stepped through a side door into the dining room.
Rodney Adler's bony knees knocked. His face was ashen. The Englishman raised his Lee-Enfield rifle. Gulping, he took aim at Remo and Chiun.
"I am-" Adler began. The gun rattled in his shaking hands. "That is, you should- That is, Mr. MacGulry wants-"
"For God's sake," Robbie MacGulry bellowed, "shut your stammering British hole and fiya!"
"Oh, yes," Adler said. "Yes, of course. Of course, fire. Yes. Oh. Where did I put that rifle?"
The Lee-Enfield was no longer in his hands. He was certain it was there a moment ago. For an instant he glimpsed something he thought could be the rifle. It was sailing out the dining-room window. He truly wished the gun was still in his hands, because a face suddenly appeared before him. It belonged to the American that Mr. MacGulry had wanted dead. The face was very nasty-looking. Much worse in person than the computerized version that Rodney Adler had been beaming via satellite all over the world.
Seeing that face up close, with a promise of doom in those deep-set eyes, Rodney Adler reacted as a true son of Britain born and bred at the twilight of the Empire.
With a fluttering moan of fear and a dainty hand pressed over his heart, Rodney Adler passed out cold. "Where's Lord Nelson when you need him," Remo droned. He stepped over the unconscious Englishman. Chiun followed.
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