"And I'm the third," she added. "My numbers are good, which translates as automatic credibility."
"What if we're all wrong?" demanded Remo.
"Then a weekend anchor gives a fifteen-second retraction, and all the important careers go on. Are my eyes on straight?"
"One is drooping," Chiun said.
"Which one?"
"Figure it out," said Remo. "By the way, you owe us a twenty for the cab ride."
"It was my cab. You hijacked it. Be thankful I didn't kick you out."
"You know, you remind me of Cheeta Ching."
Tamayo grinned broadly. "She's my hero. I'm going to be the next her."
"The last her was pretty hard to take."
"Fly to any city in the country, and you'll find at least one Asian anchor, all competing to take Cheeta Ching's place in the constellation that is network news. And I just took a major step up the golden ladder."
She pressed her lips together, thought them too red and reached over to take the sound man by the sleeve of his white shirt. The sound man was busy coiling up the mike line and didn't notice he'd been hijacked until Tamayo delicately dabbed her mouth with his sleeve.
"Just right," she said, returning the arm. "Too red, and I look like a Ginza hooker on the make."
"Go with the feeling," said Remo. "Come on, Little Father."
From South Station, it was a straight subway run to Quincy, so they filtered through the emergency- services people and grabbed a Red Line train.
From the North Quincy T stop, it was a short walk home to Castle Sinanju, a converted church.
Remo used the kitchen telephone to report to Harold Smith. "Good news and bad news," said Remo. "Which do you want first?"
"The bad," said Smith.
"No surprise there. A local TV nitwit named Tamayo Tanaka just went public that Muslim terrorists have infiltrated the postal service."
Smith's lemony voice was now sounding startled. "What is the source of her information?"
"I think Chiun can explain that," said Remo, holding the phone down for the Master of Sinanju's convenience.
The Master of Sinanju grabbed the receiver in both hands and squeaked, "It is an impenetrable mystery without explanation. Do not attempt to fathom it lest you succumb to madness."
Remo took the phone back and said, "She got it out of him."
"She has no other sources for this?"
"No, but that doesn't seem to faze her much."
Smith vented a sigh like a creaking barn door. "What is the good news?'' he asked.
"The terrorist gave up the name of his mastermind."
"Yes?"
"Ever hear of the Deaf Mullah?"
"He is in prison."
"So is John Gotti. And I hear he can still get things done with a phone call."
"This is very useful," said Smith. "If we isolate the Deaf Mullah from outside contact, we can hobble this conspiracy overnight."
"How's the roundup going?" "The FBI has in custody seven of the principal suspects."
"That's a good dent. Anything we can do on this end?"
"Stand by. I am working on the composite sketch of Joe Camel."
"This is one terrorist I'd like to see in the flesh," Remo grunted.
"This may yet happen," said Smith, terminating the call.
Replacing the receiver, Remo said, "What say we catch up with the events of the day?"
"Only if we watch the proper Woo," Chiun said thinly.
"After Tamayo Tanaka," said Remo, "I'll take any Woo I can get."
Chapter 22
In his private quarters in the al-Bahlawan Mosque in the upper reaches of Ohiostan, the Deaf Mullah sat before his computer terminal, his ear trumpet resting on the carpet beside him, his loyal Afghan guards arrayed outside, with their Russian rifles and their sharp scimitars.
Here was the perfect method of communications with his network of Especially for one to whom the entire world of sound rang and rang. Tinnitus, the Red Cresent doctors had called it. The result of the premature explosion of a bomb meant for the godless modern pharaoh of Egypt. Lies. It was the voice of Allah, believed the Deaf Mullah, to whom the incessant hardship was a spur to press forward his mission on earth.
The nightly contacts were coming in now, from Chicagostan, from Washingtonstan, from Los Angelestan—all major cities where his could wreak great, Allah-blessed terror and destruction.
And it had only begun.
The message from A1 Islam in Philadelphiastan was simple: "I await the call to arms."
"Patience," typed the Deaf Mullah. "Patience."
"When will I die with the dignity I deserve?" asked Patrick O'Shaughnessy O'Mecca in Washingtonstan.
"When Allah wills the time is correct," returned the Deaf Mullah.