When she was done, the blue sedan had come into view.
"There it is!" she shrieked. "Catch up! Catch up!"
No sooner had the van pulled closer than the blue car pulled away.
"Floor it!" Cheeta howled. "I want this one big story! It'll make up for that Jade creature scooping me!"
"I'll try."
He did. But every time he pulled close, the other driver weaved with incredible skill, dancing in and out of traffic.
As they came to a long stretch of open, undulating coastal road, the speedometer crawled toward ninety, and the van's driver fought to hold the wheels to the road. The rear tires of the other car spat up dust and rocks, and dropped bolts and other car parts that littered the road.
The van's windshield began to collect some of these. Craters and cracks appeared. After five miles, it was impossible to see out the windshield.
Cheeta remedied that by knocking out the safety glass with her forehead. She did it in two tries. The glass cracked loose in brittle cubes, like magnified salt.
"How's my hair?" Cheeta asked, over the howl and rush of wind.
"Not even mussed!" the driver shouted, shielding his eyes against the slipstream.
"I use industrial-strength hair varnish," Cheeta said proudly.
"It shows."
Cheeta Ching took that as a compliment and continued to hector her driver. By sundown, she vowed, she would have a hot story and maybe that dreamy Omar, too.
She wondered what he was doing, involved with the Ripper campaign.
Blaise Perrin was saying, "Can't you shake them?"
"If I could, don't you think I would have by now?" Remo said heatedly.
"Okay, okay. Tell you what. Bring it down to the speed limit, and we'll let them just follow along."
"Nothing doing!" Remo snapped.
"Excuse me, but you work for me, not vice versa. Got that?"
"Got it," Remo said unhappily.
Remo slowed the car. The TV van kept on coming. Remo got out of the way, and the van promptly overshot them.
The razor-sharp voice of Cheeta Ching roared back at them, in a cloud of carbon monoxide fumes, "You idiot! They're behind us now. Slow down!"
The van fell in step, pacing them. Cheeta Ching stuck her predatory face out of the passenger side.
"Yoo-hoo! Omar!"
"My name's not Omar," Remo growled.
"What is this?" Blaise demanded. "She acts like she knows you."
"She acts like a lunatic."
Cheeta tried again. "Nemo? Don't you remember me?"
"I don't know you from Jade Ling!" Remo called out.
Her face stung, Cheeta Ching withdrew her head.
"Whatever you said, looks like it worked," Blaise said admiringly.
"You gotta know how to handle these anchors. Go for the ego."
"All right, Remo. You're doing great so far. Just keep it up. About three miles ahead, take the off-ramp. I'll handle everything from there. Do you understand? It is important that you understand."
"I understand," said Remo.
"And that you trust me," Blaise added.
"I trust you," said Remo.
Blaise Perrin gave Remo a fatherly clap on the back. He brought his hand away, the fingers stinging.
"What do they feed you back home, anyway?"
"Anchors," said Remo, and Blaise Perrin didn't know whether to laugh or not. He just hoped the commandant was ready at his end.
Otherwise the whole master plan was going to blow back in their faces, like second-hand smoke.
Chapter 22
Harold W. Smith got the word directly from the President of the United States.
"Yes, Mr. President?"
"Smith, I have the official National Transportation Safety Board report on the California crash, and the news isn't good."
"I'm listening."
"It was sabotage."
"The board is certain?"
"I'm not up on all the technical details, but from what they tell me, somebody tampered with the pressurization system on that jet."