"Where are the others?"
"The booths on either side."
"Shouldn't we be seated all together?"
The technician shook his head. "We did that in the early days. Had too many on-camera punch-outs and hair pulls. Just think of the camera as Ned's face and you'll do fine."
The technician shut the soundproof door before Tamayo thought to ask, "What others?" Didn't she own the story? Who else was there? And how important could they possibly be?
All at once, she could feel the flop-sweat oozing up through her pores, pushing aside her facial makeup. The network lights were a lot hotter than affiliate lights.
would have given his pension to avoid it all.
"Nightmirror" was no place for the mentally un- nimble. He'd seen bureaucrats mousetrapped live and sweating by Ned Doppler more times than he could count. He did not want to be one of them.
But when "Nightmirror" called, even the director of the FBI had to answer. Especially with the nation lurching toward panic and needing answers.
The President of the United States had personally put it to him this way: "You go on."
"The Bureau's investigation is in its earliest stages," he protested. "We'd be at risk of tipping our hand."
"What do you have?"
"We're still sorting it all out, Mr. President. But the mail-truck bomber in New York has been identified from dental records as the suspect in the string of re- lay-box explosions. Guy named A1 Ladeen."
"You go on. Otherwise, I'll have to. And I don't have any more answers than you do."
"Yes, sir," said the director of the FBI, realizing that he had been demoted to sacrificial lamb.
took his seat in the remote broadcast booth that was in reality not thirty feet from the set where Ned Doppler nightly deconstructed guests with a twinkle in his eye and a stiletto up his sleeve.
It was a problem. But it wasn't a big problem. All Doppler had was rumor and half-assed reportage.
Damon Post had the two mightiest tools in a bureaucrat's arsenal—the ability to stonewall, and utter and total deniability.
They should be more than enough to hold off the smug bastard for thirty minutes, minus commercials.
Then the strident "Nightmirror" fanfare began, and the red tally light eyed him warningly.
meditation room in their Quincy, Massachusetts, home, Remo Williams and the Master of Sinanju both reached for the clicker at the same time, Remo to switch from the overfed Bev Woo and Chiun to shut off the set for the evening.
"I want you see what they're saying on 'Nightmirror,' " Remo explained.
"It is your bedtime," Chiun argued.
"Smith said to stand by in case we have to fly out on short notice."
"Which is why you need your five hours of sleep."
"I'm not sleepy and I want to know what the latest is, the same as the rest of America."
"I cannot sleep with this machine yodeling, so I will watch with you."
"You just don't want me sneaking a peek at the nice Bev Woo."
"I would tolerate this so long as you do not seek out the false wiles of Tamayo Tanaka."
"Not a chance," said Remo as the "Nightmirror" fanfare started to blare and the cobalt blue computer animation went into its inevitable cycle.
Ned Doppler's puffy face came on.
"Tonight on 'Nightmirror'—Bomb scare. The terror in Manhattan. With me are the postmaster general of the U.S., Damon Post, Gunter Frisch, director of the FBI, and Tamayo Tanaka, the woman who may have broken the story of the bizarre link between a hitherto-unknown terror group and one of the oldest and most respected organs of our government, the United States Postal Service."
"Argh," said the Master of Sinanju, tearing at the cloudy puffs of hair over each ear.
"Let's hope our names don't come up," Remo said unhappily.
"First a recap of the day's events. At approximately 12:20 EST today, simultaneously in Oklahoma City and midtown Manhattan terror struck. The vehicle—men and equipment of your postal service. And tonight in Boston, a postal worker with the vaguely familiar name of Mohamet Ali leaped to his death before TV cameras and a crowd of witnesses. Are these events connected? What does it mean? Joining us in our Washington studio is the man heading the investigation, Gunter Frisch. Mr. Director, what can the FBI tell us?"
"Our investigation is at a sensitive stage, and I would rather not get into details, Ned."
"I understand," Doppler returned smoothly. "We don't want to jeopardize the investigation for ratings, not even for the public's right to know. But I must tell you there are wire-service reports that an FBI roundup of suspect postal workers is under way at this hour."
"I have ordered no such roundup," the director said quickly.
"So that means what? You're denying these reports?"
"My answer stands, Ned."
"Given that a reported eight or nine relay boxes literally blew up in New York City today, could we not assume that postal workers are being looked at?"
"We at FBI overlook no suspects in our efforts to get to the bottom of this matter. I would stress that nothing is being ruled in or out at this juncture."
"On that careful note, I would like to bring the postmaster general into this discussion," Ned Doppler said smoothly.
Damon Post came on the screen, replacing the FBI director.
"Mr. Post? No sense dancing around it. Has the postal service been compromised?"
"Absolutely, categorically not."
"Yet someone planted infernal devices in midtown relay boxes. Someone wearing a letter-carrier uniform burst into an Oklahoma City courtroom and literally massacred some twenty people. I don't have any more facts than you, but come on, it looks bad, doesn't it?"
"I know how it looks, Ned. But we lose master keys to theft from time to time. And letter-carrier uniforms can be purchased through the manufacturer without proof of employment in USPS."
"Imposters, until proved otherwise. The mail system has not been compromised by militia, Muslims or any other group, as certain irresponsible reports have it."