Then Smith saw why.
"My God. The Captain Audion fax came from MBC. "
Remo started for the door. "We're right on it, Smitty."
"No, you are not," Smith said tightly.
"Huh?"
"Thanks to Master Chiun, you are both wanted by the New York City Police. We cannot put you back in the field so soon."
"So what do we-?"
"I am going to MBC," Smith said.
"What about us?"
"You will remain here, by the telephone, ready to move on my signal."
"Emperor Smith," Chiun said suddenly. "I have a brilliant suggestion."
"Yes?"
"Pay the ransom. It is only money and Cheeta is-"
"No."
Chiun turned pale and said no more.
Without another word, Harold Smith went over to a filing cabinet and took from it his briefcase. From the top drawer he extracted an old Army issue .45 automatic and a clip of bullets. He placed these in his suitcase and walked from the office.
After the sound of the elevator came to his ears, the Master of Sinanju turned to Remo and said, "This is all your fault."
"My fault! If you hadn't run ahead to ANC, our faces wouldn't be on every light pole and post office in Manhattan."
"If you had not been late, I would not have had to seek out Cheeta in dangerous places."
"And if you had come with me to Atlanta, we wouldn't have lost Cheeta in the first place!"
The Master of Sinanju froze, his face stung. Slowly, the tight pattern of his wrinkles disintegrated.
"Cheeta! Poor Cheeta! Who will soothe her troubled brow while I am forced to abide in a madhouse among white madmen?"
Chapter 27
There was panic at Multinational Broadcast Company when Harold Smith presented himself, Secret Service photo III in one hand, at the MBC security desk. Staff was pouring from the building as if from a fire.
"What is wrong!" Smith demanded.
"They're running haywire again!" the guard cried, pulling his sidearm free of its holster and pushing against the human tide.
Smith followed him into the building, through a rabbit warren of corridors and cubicles in which secretaries cowered under desks and technical staff hid behind heavy editing equipment.
The guard came to a heavy steel door marked SET. There was a bulbous red light over a sign that said ON AIR. He put his back to the door, holding his pistol high in a two-handed grip. He closed his eyes and took a steadying breath.
"What is wrong?" Smith repeated.
The guard didn't reply. He slammed into the door, whirled, and legs spread apart, began firing into the news set.
Eight closely spaced shots came out. Gun smoke wafted back in Smith's horrified face.
Then, the guard stumbled back and said in a shaken voice, "I can't stop them! Bullets don't even faze them."
Smith grabbed the man by his jacket front.
"Get hold of yourself," he said tightly. "And tell me what is wrong."
"It's those damned Nishitsu robot cameras!" the guard said.
Smith scowled. "Robot cameras?"
Smith released the man and eased the door open. He saw the familiar MBC news set. There was the anchor desk that Tim Macaw usually sat behind.
Only now Macaw was up on the desktop cowering on his knees as a trio of wheeled unmanned cameras were blindly bumping into sets, backdrops, and live monitors and into the desk itself, their bullet-pocked teleprompters frozen on the words, THIS IS THE MBC NIGHTIME NEWS.
Macaw saw Smith and wailed, "Get security before these things kill-I mean terminally inconvenience-me!"
As if responding to his voice, the number two camera shifted away from breaking the world map that made up one wing of the background and joined the number one camera in banging into and retreating from the news desk. Big chunks began appearing in the thick formica top, threatening Macaw's shrinking perch.
Smith's gaze raked the set. Through a long glass panel, he could see control-room staff frantically throwing switches. One turned and threw his hands up in a helpless gesture of defeat.
Harold Smith strode in, stepped gingerly around the struggle over the news desk, and went up to the number three camera, which had jammed its square glass lens into the monitor array and was furiously spinning its smoking rubber wheels, trying to disengage.
Smith found a panel marked FUSE, popped it open, and unscrewed the fuse. The camera abruptly shut down.
Still clutching his briefcase, Smith went to the remaining cameras and, with more difficulty, pulled their fuses.
Tim Macaw climbed off the chewed-up island that had been his desk.
"Thanks," he said shakily. "I owe you. Wanna do a two-shot? We can take turns asking the questions."
"No," Smith said flatly. He flashed his Secret Service card. "I am investigating the Captain Audion threats. Earlier this evening, ANC and BCN both received a new demand fax from this terrorist."
"Yeah, I know."
"How do you know?"