"It wasn't relevant. Does it matter?"
Robbie MacGulry shrugged. "Not really, I suppose. But as an employer I guess I'm not really keen on the idea of having a boss murder an employee in the office. Tends to muck up your average business day."
Chapter 17
In the control bunker of Robbie MacGulry's Vox flagship station in Wollongong, New South Wales, Rodney Adler finished his final inspection of the cryptosubliminal equipment.
Everything was in working order.
Adler settled into a chair, pulling the keyboard off the desk and settling it to his lap.
The atmosphere was far less tense at the Wollongong station than it had been these past few weeks. It was always better when Mr. MacGulry left the station. The farther away he got, the more the pressure let up. At the moment the Vox CEO was on the other side of the world riding up a Manhattan elevator and most of the staff at Wollongong were so relieved they were just about ready to pop champagne corks.
Not Rodney Adler. He had work to do.
Using the keyboard, he entered the text precisely as Mr. MacGulry had instructed. He tapped out the words one careful letter at a time. He didn't dare get it wrong.
He sat back and watched as the words laced up with the pulsed colors on the monitor. There was no fear of Rodney ever falling victim to his own signals.
On the monitors in Wollongong, all the commands were slowed to 1/30 the normal speed. The computer was programmed to speed them up and to automatically pulse them into near alignment with the primary colors of corrupted televised transmissions.
Outside, a latticed transmitting tower shot the speeded-up signal to a waiting satellite. From there it was directed across the globe. The signal reached Earth once more at a special tower north of New York City. Within seconds of transmission, Vox viewers all around southern New York were being exposed to Rodney Adler's encrypted message.
These colors were brighter, the pulses more intense than the ones used in Harlem.
In spite of the greater hypnotic effect of these timed subliminal signals, nearly all who saw them would disregard them. These commands weren't meant for a mass reaction. They were person specific, like the messages sent to Martin Houton and his suicidal BCN vice president.
Once he was finished, Rodney Adler returned the keyboard to the desk. After he stood, he looked down, reading the slowed-down words one final time. Somewhere in southern New York state his command was about to be received.
"Better you than me," he muttered to himself. He climbed the stairs of the bunker. After he had left the room, the words continued to pulse slowly on his monitor: Harold, kill Remo... Harold, kill Remo... Harold, kill Remo... Harold, kill Remo.
Chapter 18
Harold Smith was working at his desk when the timid knock sounded at his office door.
He checked his watch. It was just a little after eight in the morning. His meeting with Detective Davic was scheduled for one o'clock.
Mrs. Mikulka had left her post five minutes before to deal with the cafeteria invoices. Smith had assumed he'd be undisturbed for the few minutes she was gone.
Lips pursing in annoyance, he pressed the concealed stud beneath the lip of his desk. His computer winked out.
"Come in," he called.
He was surprised when Remo stuck his head into the room.
"Hey, Smitty," he said sheepishly.
"Remo, what are you doing here?" Smith asked, worry brushing his lemony voice. "I told you last night I have a meeting with the Rye police this afternoon."
"Yeah, I know," Remo said. "It's just-" he glanced around the room "-you didn't happen to bump into Chiun this morning, did you?"
"Remo, I specifically asked you and Master Chiun to keep a low profile today. I was hoping you would take him off Folcroft grounds."
"I don't think that's gonna be a problem, Smitty." At Remo's guilty tone, Smith instantly grew suspicious.
"Why?" he asked. "Where is Master Chiun?"
Remo took a deep breath. "You're gonna have to find out sometime," he exhaled. "Chiun's got a meeting today with Robbie MacGulry from the Vox network."
Smith didn't think he had heard correctly. He asked Remo to repeat what he'd said, just to be sure. Remo did so. Smith realized that he had heard correctly after all.
Smith was very proud of himself for his reaction. His reaction was to not have a heart attack and drop dead right then and there. Still, he didn't entirely eliminate the option for the near future. For the moment he turned to his tried and true methods for dealing with this sort of thing.
"Does that stuff really help?" Remo asked as Smith yanked a bottle of antacid and three children's aspirins from his desk drawer.
The CURE director threw the aspirins far back in his throat, chasing them down with a big gulp of pink antacid.
"Tell me what he's doing," the CURE director gasped, wiping the chalky pink foam from his mouth.
"Cindee Maloo gave him a number to call if he wanted to be on 'Winner,'" Remo explained, sitting on the couch. "Actually, I think it was more for me, but Chiun's the one who ended up with it. He called, she hooked him up with MacGulry and the two of them are doing lunch today."
"Why on earth is Chiun meeting with Robbie MacGulry?" Smith asked. His stomach clenched in fear. Acid burned the back of his throat.
"He's back to writing again," Remo explained. "You know that bargain-bin movie he wrote a couple of years back? MacGulry fed him some line about turning it into a series."
"Oh, God," Smith croaked, diving for his antacid bottle.
"I was a little worried, too," Remo said. "That's why I was gonna go with him, to keep an eye on him. But he sent me out for breakfast and when I got back he was gone. Don't be too rough on him with this, Smitty. I know this isn't good and he's been a pain and all lately, but we should cut him some slack. He's not really himself these days. I think it has to do with age and retirement and all that stuff."
Smith gulped the last of his antacid, capping the bottle. It made no difference against the fire in his belly.
"That is the exact attitude that has likely driven him to this-this madness," the CURE director accused.
"What do you mean?"
"Chiun has made it clear to you that he doesn't want to be treated like an invalid. Yet more and more lately that is precisely what you've been doing."
Remo's brow lowered. "I don't do that. Do I?" But Smith was no longer listening. He snapped his computer back on. Typing swiftly he enabled the TV function.
The Vox Cable News Network was on.
"That's a relief." When he exhaled his breath smelled of mint-flavored chalk. "After what happened yesterday with you, I half expected to see Chiun on the news."
"This thing's probably innocent, Smitty," Remo insisted. "Chiun happened to get a business card and wound up hooked up with MacGulry. Stuff like that happens all the time."
"No," Smith insisted, cold certainty in his tart voice. "There have been too many coincidences now. I fear there is some plan behind ...this ...to..."