The Master of Sinanju slipped up to Don Cooder and, without exerting his frail-looking form, extracted the statuette of Saint Clare from Cooder's strong fingers. He held it up.
"The workmanship is good," Chiun said absently.
"Hand-carved. Did it myself," Cooder said proudly. "I used to whittle some in my short-pants days."
Then the Master of Sinanju closed both thin hands over the statuette and began squeezing. The statuette was of hickory. It made cracking and splintering sounds. The head of Saint Clare popped off and landed in Cooder's astonished mouth.
By the time he spit it to the floor like a hard plug of tobacco, the Master of Sinanju was pouring the remains onto the desk. It slipped from his fingers like sawdust. It was sawdust.
"I know that old trick," Cooder said, regaining his composure. "You slipped the real one up your sleeve."
"Uh-uh," said Remo. "What you see is what you get.
"I don't cotton to being threatened."
Remo folded his arms. "Cotton to it."
"Well," Cooder drawled, "since you two have highcarded me, I guess I can let slip a whisper." He lifted his hands. "As long as it doesn't go any further now."
Remo and Chiun glared and said nothing.
"I'll take your silence as acquiescence," Cooder said quickly. "The Canadians are back of this."
Remo blinked. "How do you figure that?"
"Ever been up there? They hate our TV. Always have. Spend half their days complaining about U.S. TV signals getting up there and polluting their culture. You want my advice? Start with Canada. But don't quote me."
"That's ridiculous," Remo said.
"Or," added Cooder, "you might check out own front yard for saboteurs."
"Meaning?"
Cooder dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I hate to speak ill of a fellow colleague, but war is war. Dieter Banning is as Canadian as, they come."
"Banning? His network is off the air too."
"I'm not blaming my good friends over at ANC, mind you. I'm saying that they may have a skunk in their woodpile. Catch my drift?"
"Skunks stink," said Chiun.
"That's it exactly. You two follow the smell and you'll break this plot as wide open as all outdoors. One thing though."
"Yeah?"
"If you crack it, I get an exclusive."
"No," said Remo.
Cooder lost his smile. "Not very neighborly of you," he muttered.
"Write a letter to the FCC."
"Count on it."
"Come on, Chiun."
"One question I would ask this man," Chiun said.
"Shoot. "
"Where is Cheeta Ching?"
Cooder frowned, "Knowing her, probably looking for a cardboard box or something to have her kid in. Meow."
Chiun stiffened and only Remo's urging got him through the office door before the worst happened.
Out in the corridor, Remo turned to the Master of Sinanju and asked, "What do you think, Little Father?"
"I think there must be someone in this building who knows where Cheeta may be found," Chiun said bitterly.
Remo hesitated. "You heard Cooder," he said. "She's probably in some hospital. And I meant that stuff about Canada."
"Cheeta would not go away without contacting me."
"Forget Cheeta. Canada. What about Canada?"
They were standing outside the closed door to Cheeta Ching's office. Behind the door, a phone tweedled.
"Cheeta!" Chiun gasped. "Perhaps that is her!"
"Wait a minute, don't-"
The Master of Sinanju whirled, a fist like calcified bone sweeping for the doorknob. The knob recoiled from the impact, banging across the floor as Chiun pushed the maimed panel inward.
He rushed for the tweedling phone, his skirts flying.
Remo pulled the door closed after him, hoping against hope no one would notice the missing lock.
He was leaning against the door when Chiun snapped up the receiver and drew it to his face.
"Cheeta!" he cried.
Then, before Remo's eyes, the Master of Sinanju's parchment features turned the crimson of burning paper. His tiny mouth made a shocked O.
With frantic gestures of his free hand, the Master of Sinanju waved Remo closer.