Hearing this, the news director screamed, "Don! Don't do it! Don't jump!"
"Too late," said Don Cooder, climbing out on the ledge.
The news director of the Broadcast Corporation of North America was frantic.
"Help me someone. Help me to break down this door."
"We can't. There's trouble at the front door."
"What kind of trouble?"
"Press. They're clamoring for an interview with Don Cooder."
"He's left the building!"
"Then they're going to want an interview with you."
"Somebody help with this door. I'm going out the window, too!"
But there was no budging Don Cooder's reinforced door.
The news director ducked into Cheeta Ching's office and waited for help. No one came. In fact, the shouting from the front of the building died down. After a few minutes, someone came for him.
"It's okay," he was told by his floor manager. "They left."
"They did?"
"Yeah. They found Cooder."
"Is he . . . dead?"
"No, he's broadcasting from One Times Square."
"How can he do that? We're off the air."
"Remember at the last Democratic National Convention when we opened with a talking head shot of Cooder, then pulled back the camera to show that it was a simulcast with the screen up on One Times Square?"
"Yeah, that was a spectacular shot. Cooder was his own Quantel graphic."
"Well, it must have given him the idea. Because he's in that building doing a remote bulletin."
"The man is a genius. A fucking genius. And worth every cent we overpay him." The news director blinked. "He is denying the story, isn't he?"
"I guess."
They ran out into Times Square.
Traffic had stopped. Newspaper reporters were pushing through the gathering crowd as the giant face of Don Cooder, the bags under his eyes as fat as prize Holsteins and an inexplicable splash of gray in his well-combed hair, stared down at them as if from some electronic Mount Olympus.
"I categorically deny being Captain Audion. I am not Captain Audion. This is a frame, a cheap frame. A conspiracy by my many enemies in the media. They're trying to kill me. But Don Cooder can't be killed. As long as there is news to report, Don Cooder will live on, unbowed, unbloodied, immortal-"
"He's losing it," the floor manager said.
"Yeah, he's no good without a script. Never was."
"Good thing this isn't going out nationwide."
"Yeah. Wait a minute." The news director shouted back toward the studio. "Hey, somebody get a camera on this for rebroadcast later."
"Are you crazy? He's falling apart up there!"
"Yeah," said the news director, "but it's great television."
Chapter 31
Harold W. Smith stared at the bizarre image on his tiny television screen and said, "That is not Don Cooder."
"Are you blind!" shrieked the Master of Sinanju. "It is the fiend himself."
"A minute ago you were blaming Dieter Banning and the Canadians," Remo pointed out.
Chiun's voice grew frosty. "Who is to say this man is not in league with the wicked Canadians? Or a secret Canadian himself."
"Not you, that's for sure," Remo retorted.
"His mouth looks Canadian-thin and merciless," said Chiun, padding up to Harold Smith and facing him across his pathologically neat desk. "Emperor Smith, the villain has revealed himself for all to see. His motives are clear."
"They are?" Smith said.
"Yes, yes. Are you blind too? He is jealous of Cheeta. You yourself heard how he threatened her on television."
Remo caught Smith's eyes. "He has a point there."
"Perhaps. But that is not Don Cooder," Smith said flatly. "It is an animated graphic."
Remo took a closer look at the TV screen. His eyes were so heightened by the discipline of Sinanju that he had to focus hard, otherwise all he saw were the changing pixels, like colorful amoebae living out some superfast life cycle. "Yeah, you're right," he said. "Does that mean Audion is trying to frame Cooder?"
"It fits Audion's pattern to date. He has thrown suspicion on virtually every network and its news division."
"But why the news divisions every time? I mean, if he's attacking the networks, why go after the news? Aren't they the least profitable?"
"But the most visible for Audion's purposes. Each anchor functions as a kind of living symbol of his network. No, this is sound strategy."
"So we're nowhere?"
"No," said Smith. "We have an abundance of facts. There must be a way-"