In previous corporate battles, there had been memoranda, positions to be taken, charts to show one's corporate posture to be superior to another's, sales progress, corporate responsibility well accepted.
Blake Corbish looked around his home den, examined his own corporate resources, and said:
"Bullshit. I don't have to wait for anyone anymore."
"What did you say?" asked Teri Corbish, a sandy-haired young woman in high turtleneck sweater and full, cleanly-styled bell bottoms. Her face was beautiful but beaten. Her beauty was only befitting the wife of the youngest senior vice president for policy planning in IDC history, but her tired appearance betrayed the fact that she was an alcoholic. She was washing down a librium with a martini, a little concoction she said helped her sleep better now that Blake was so busy with his recent success that he didn't have the energy for other things. But then, of course, he hadn't had the energy for other things for a long time, as she often reminded him,
"I said bullshit. How would you like to be married to the president of IDC?"
"You're kidding," said Teri Corbish.
"Nope," said Blake.
She put an arm on his shoulder and kissed him on the chin, spilling some of her martini on the floor.
"When will this happen?"
"When would you like it to happen?"
"Yesterday," she said, putting her martini on her husband's desk and using the free hand to tickle the buckle on Blake's belt.
"Try within a month."
"Is Broon retiring?"
"In a way."
"You'll be the youngest most powerful executive in America. In the world."
"Yes. It's what I've wanted."
"Then will we be happy?"
Corbish ignored the question. He felt his wife's hand work at his pants zipper.
"Later, Teri. I've work to do. Have another martini."
It took Remo three minutes to realize he had been ordered to eliminate someone. Corbish gave the order personally in his Scarsdale home, apologizing to Remo because he had not introduced his wife, who was upstairs asleep.
"At eight o'clock at night?" asked Remo.
"She's an early sleeper and lately a late riser."
"Oh," said Remo. In all his years in the organization, he had never met Dr. Smith's wife, Maude. He had only once seen that picture of her on Smith's desk. She had the face of frozen biscuit dough. Remo did not see any pictures of Mrs. Corbish in the office or in Corbish's home.
"Our problem," said Corbish, "is that our organization's initial miscalculated thrusts have called for a redeeming support action along similar lines."
"What?"
"As you know, the termination to the extreme of certain IDC employees was wrong."
Remo understood that.
"But now we have the problem of IDC as a corporate counterforce, so to speak."
Remo did not understand that
"We've created an enemy."
"I got you. Get to the point."
"We're got to eliminate T. L. Broon, president and chairman of the board."
"Sure," said Remo. "Why all the nonsense?"
"I thought you'd like to know."
"I couldn't care less," said Remo. "Are you sure I should be staying at Folcroft? You know Smith was pretty good about this secrecy thing."
"When you reorganize you always centralize."
"Why?"
"Because it gives you great coordinated concentration."
"If you're offering that as an explanation, you've failed. Heard from Smith? Anyone find him yet?"
Corbish's face was somber. No, no one had heard from Smith, and his freedom represented a danger to security. If they could find him, then they could have him institutionalized.
"If the position were reversed," said Remo in a remark he would dearly regret later, "Smith would have you killed."
Corbish registered the statement and expressed his gratitude for administrative help in his new job. But there were more important and dangerous things at hand.
The Broon estate in Darien, Connecticut, was also a shooting range for the Broon family, who were excellent marksmen. While the estate was surrounded by rolling lawns, it was quite deceptive, for the lawns were really open lanes of fire. Broon himself was the 1935 national skeet shooting champion.
"You mean they sit around at home with their rifles?" asked Remo incredulously.
"No, no," said Corbish. "It's a family policy, I guess even a corporate policy, that it should be protected. The old man did this after the big kidnapping flurry when the Lindberg baby was taken."
"So what are you telling me?" asked Remo. At least Smith made himself clear.
"I authorize you to enlist any help you might need."
"Chiun doesn't want to go out tonight," said Remo. "There's something good on television."
"I mean fighting men," said Corbish.