"Yes, Mr. President?"
"I have some news. I just spoke with the prime minister of Canada. His CRTC was tracing the pirate transmitter until the signal went off the air."
"Did they get a fix?"
"Not exactly. The prime minister tells me he has the longitude line."
"And we have the latitude."
"I offered to exchange data, organize a joint assault operation on the transmitter, but he refused and demanded I surrender the latitude coordinates as a good faith gesture to demonstrate U.S. noninvolvement."
"You, of course, declined?"
"Damn straight. I wasn't about to let them swoop down on this transmitter, grab the bad guys and phoney up a scenario implicating a U.S. citizen or his government."
"You did right," said Smith, "We have to be prepared for the probability that U.S. citizens are behind this plot."
"I know," sighed the President. "And here is something else: I've spoken with the heads of the major networks. They say they can't afford a seven-day blackout. It would break them. They're losing millions in advertising money to newspapers and magazines already. You should see my Washington Post this morning. The Secret Service thought it was a bomb and detonated it."
"Capitulation to terrorism is always a mistake."
"I know. But I have no control over what the networks do. Civil unrest could explode if TV is blacked out again. And the economy is hurting. I had no idea how much spending was motivated by TV commercials."
"Can you convince the networks to give us twenty-four hours?"
"I can try. But they sound ready to wire the ransom into the numbered Swiss account today."
"Do your best, Mr. President," said Smith, hanging up. He looked to Remo.
"The networks are prepared to pay the ransom."
"Damn. I couldn't care less about the networks, but I can't stand the idea of this nut getting away with this crap. Once he's paid off, he can vanish and we'll never find him."
Smith was staring at the greenish field of commands on his terminal screen.
"There must be some clue," he said, "some lead. We know that the transmitter is in Northern Canada. But where?"
"Let's put our heads together."
Smith's prim mouth tightened. "How do you mean?"
"You work your computer . . ."
"Yes?"
"And I'll pull up a chair and watch KNNN."
"Why KNNN?"
Remo grinned. "Because they always break stuff first."
"It is worth a try," Smith said without enthusiasm.
Hours later, a bleary-eyed Harold Smith looked up from his screen and began polishing his glasses with a handkerchief.
"Anything?" asked Remo, looking away from the TV. He had the newspaper spread out over his end of the desk.
"The only anomaly I can find in scanning Canadian news feeds is a rash of car battery thefts in the area of upper Quebec called the Canadian Shield."
"Car battery thefts?"
"From parked cars and auto supply stores and gas stations."
"What would that have to do with a pirate transmitter?"
Smith frowned. "I do not know. . . ."
The red telephone rang. Smith lifted the receiver.
"The networks have just paid the ransom," the President said in a subdued voice. "I did what I could. They were looking at their economic survival."
"The trail may end here, Mr. President."
"But the crisis is over. Isn't it?"
"For this month. Perhaps this year. But Captain Audion has just earned 100 million dollars by extortion. The combined ad revenues of the big three networks exceed five billion dollars annually. What is to stop this madman from asking for one of those billions next time?"
"We can only hope he isn't that greedy."
"I would not count on such a likelihood, Mr. President," said Smith wearily. "Now if you will excuse me, I intend to continue my search for the transmitter."
Remo, having overheard every word, asked glumly, "Does that mean Cheeta's going to be released?"
"We should know before long," said Smith.
"Then our problems will really start," Remo muttered.
They went back to work.
Hours passed.
In his sparsely furnished room in the private wing of Folcroft Sanitarium, the Master of Sinanju sat before a television set, his face stone, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the screen.
He was watching BCN, trusting that news of Cheeta, beloved Cheeta, the flower of Korean womanhood, would be given.
Never had he felt so helpless. Never had been forced to endure such tortures. First, fair Cheeta is kidnapped and then his emperor refused to allow a reasonable ransom to be paid. Were all whites mad? What was mere paper money against the life of a mother and child? No doubt this was a subtle example of the virulent anti-Koreanism that infected the white mind.