"That 'No Signal'? Normally, you see that when a network isn't getting its signal from the affiliates. Usually it's a bad microwave path or something. Follow me so far?"
"I believe so," said Smith, giving his rimless glass a thoughtful adjustment.
"Okay. Let's say the networks are down. That still leaves the affiliate stations. It's their signal you receive. When an affiliate goes down, you don't get anything like this. Snow, sure. Color bars sometimes. Usually, they throw up a station ID card or a technical difficulties graphic."
"What are you saying?"
"What you're seeing isn't jamming. Can't be."
"Then what is it?"
The cable installer made faces at the screen.
"The only way I can figure it," the cable installer said slowly, "is that somebody's broadcasting black."
"Broadcasting black?"
"We're not looking at a 'No Signal' here. We're looking at a signal that says 'No Signal.' "
Smith's voice betrayed a growing excitement. "That means it could be traced?"
"Sure."
Harold Smith was a reserved New Englander. People thought him cold, aloof, and as warm as shaved ice. Expressions of emotion were rare with him, and limited to the occasional exclamation.
On this occasion, Harold W. Smith took hold of the repairman's right hand in both of his and pumped it furiously.
"You have been very helpful," he said. "I cannot thank you enough."
The installer brightened. "Glad to help. Say, while I'm here, I could cable up this whole facility in jig time. We offer a bulk discount . . ."
Smith abruptly released the man's hand. His voice temperature cooled audibly. "Thank you, no. Now if you will excuse me, I have some telephone calls to make."
The cable installer hastily packed up his equipment. "Well, don't trip over the furniture in your hurry to give me the bum's rush. Cheeze . . ."
Chapter 22
A block from the ANC studio, Remo was forced to abandon the cab. The police had the area cordoned off with blue and white squad cars and NYPD sawhorses. A dozen ambulances waited in side streets their backs open and filled with body bags, which weren't full but not exactly empty either. There were sharpshooters on every roof, and a lone police helicopter orbited the scene nervously.
News crews were crushing against the cordon. There were enough of them to cover a civil revolt, and Remo wondered how they had got the word so fast. Then he noticed the ANC logo on literally every camera. Obviously, the crews had evacuated the building and begun recording. Some lenses were trained unwaveringly on the studio entrance. Others were covering the cordon. Still others filmed the first two teams. There was enough coverage, Remo thought, to support a 3-D hologram of the event.
Off to one side, Remo recognized Ned Doppler banging a handheld microphone against the hood of 5 police car, complaining, "The dip switch is gone on this thing!"
"What's the big deal?" someone asked. "We're blacked out, and can't broadcast live."
"We cares about a live standup? This is for Nightmirror!"
"So what's the rush?"
"I want to tape a standup on my brush with death while everything's fresh in my mind!"
Remo moved on.
A man in plainclothes tried to prevent him from entering the cordon. Remo flashed an FBI ID card and said, "Remo Reynolds, Special Agent."
The man responded by flashing a similar card of his own and said, "John Bundish, Division Chief, and I never heard of you."
"I'm up from Washington. Looking into the TV blackout."
Division Chief Bundish looked him up and down. "They dress that casual down in D.C. now?"
"Undercover. I'm pretending to be a makeup man. Listen, what's going on?"
"Crazy man busted in and is demanding that Cheeta Ching be brought to him. Guess he got his networks mixed up, or something. We got a call into BCN, but they don't know where the woman is. Meanwhile, the bodies keep piling up."
"Who's dead?"
"Who isn't is the question. We've got dead security, wounded technical staff, you name it."
"Damn!"
Division Chief Bundish noticed Remo's Italian loafers.
"Let me see that ID of yours again," he demanded.
Remo put a friendly arm on his shoulder and propelled him away from the crowd. "Let's talk in that alley over there."
Division Chief Bundish found his feet moving toward the alley despite his brain's attempt to resist.
In the alley, Remo confided, "Listen, I know who's behind all this."
"You do?"
"Yeah. North Korean terrorist. Name's Wing Wang Wo. A killer. A cold assassin. They call him the Korean Dragon. Someone's going to have to talk him out of the building before more people get killed."
"Hostage negotiation team is on the way."
"Yeah, but I'm here now."
"No chance. I'm in charge."
"You sure that's your final answer?"
"Positive. You see all those cameras out there? I can't have you representing the Bureau dressed for shooting pool. The least you could have done is thrown on a regulation windbreaker."
The man had a point, so Remo dropped him where he stood in his brown wingtips. They were about the same height and weight, so Remo stripped the man of his outer clothes and put them on.