Warren Murphy - Market Force

"Oh, great," grumbled Remo. "Perfect timing."

"Why would I expect anything more?" Chiun moaned. "Now you both wish to rid yourselves of the nuisance that is me. Why not smother me in my sleep? Or better yet, the two of you could take me into the depths of the forest and chain me to a tree like some unwanted dog. I will buy the chain."

"Thanks a bunch, Smitty," Remo groused. "Couldn't you pick a better time to toss us out on our ears?"

"Permanent residence for you here at Folcroft has never been an option," Smith insisted. "By allowing you to stay all these months, we have all been guilty of falling into a comfortable but dangerous habit. You knew you couldn't remain here forever." His eyes narrowed as he studied the data on his computer. "Oh, my," he said quietly.

"What's wrong now?"

"There is apparently some civil unrest in Harlem," the CURE director replied.

"No kidding?" Remo said blandly. "What's the matter, Cincinnati run out of windows to break?"

"This could be serious," Smith said gravely.

As he spoke, his computer beeped anew. Tired eyes scanned the new information culled by the CURE mainframes. By the time he'd finished reading, the last of the color had drained from his gray face.

"The president was visiting Harlem at the time. Initial reports are not clear, but he was apparently in the area when the mob action began. He may be in danger."

"What the hell is he doing in Harlem?" Remo asked. "I thought he only left Camp David to fly to Texas."

"It is a former president," Smith explained.

"Oh." Remo's face relaxed. He glanced around the gloomy office. "Anything good on TV?"

Chapter 7

A dour winter's dawn was beginning to streak the sky above Harlem as Cindee Maloo stomped her size-five Timberland all-terrain boot on the potholed street.

"Pooh," Cindee complained. "Pooh, pooh and more pooh."

She had just been given some very bad news about the former president of the United States.

"Are you sure he escaped in one piece?" Cindee demanded.

"I'm sorry, Cindee," replied her assistant. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there weren't any dramatic rescues or blood on the sidewalk or anything. According to the news people, he managed to get into his office after the mob attacked his car. When they didn't storm the building, he holed up in there for a few hours. The mob surrounded the place and screamed and yelled for a while, but when the police showed up, everything just sort of stopped. Everyone surrendered peacefully and the president took off. He's probably halfway to Chappaqua by now."

Cindee stomped her little foot in its rugged outdoorsy boot again. "Pooh!" she repeated.

Her nasal accent made the word come out sounding like "poe." The accent was Australian, which was no surprise since Cindee Maloo herself was Australian. She was Australian from her nasal accent to the top of her naturally curly Australian blond hair and to the toe of her pretty little Australian foot, which she stomped angrily on the ugly American pavement one more time.

"Where's the drama in just having him escape like that?" Cindee complained. "Who's gonna stay tuned if they know he gets out of it alive?"

Cindee cast a furious eye up at the building in which the former president had spent a harrowing night.

Rocks had shattered most of the windows. The sidewalk was littered with glass.

The thinning crowd gathered outside the building was mostly news people along with a few neighborhood residents who had come out to gawk when the fireworks started.

Nearer, there were two men examining some of the debris that had been crushed by the mob's stomping feet.

"I'll prove it to you," Cindee said to her assistant. "Let's ask Joe Sixpack here." She turned to the nearest of the two men. "You. Lemme ask you something."

The man didn't even look at her. That was unusual. With her smooth skin, perfect teeth and piercing brown eyes, Cindee had the sort of features that usually had no problem turning men's heads.

The man spoke without lifting his head. "Where'd you buy that accent, Paul Hogan's going-out-of-career sale?" he asked, his nose still in the gutter.

What he was looking at, Cindee had no idea. "I wanna ask you about TV," Cindee pressed.

"Go squat on one."

"Did you hear the president got away?" Cindee demanded.

The man let loose a protracted exhale of air. Turning his attention from the junk on the ground, he straightened, settling his gaze on Cindee.

"What part of me being rude to you so you'll go away don't you understand?" asked Remo Williams.

"I just want to ask you a question. Why won't you let me ask you a question? You Americans are so vulgar."

"This one speaks with a wisdom beyond her years," announced the Master of Sinanju, who had been studying the trash in the road alongside his pupil.

Remo shook his head, irritated. "Thanks a heap, Waltzing Matilda," he growled at Cindee. "He wasn't on the rag enough already without a jump start from you. What do you want to ask me? And make it quick."

"Drama," Cindee said. "I want the opinion of the man in the street about what he thinks makes good drama. You couldn't get more in the street than you, since you're actually standing in the street." She frowned. "What are you doing in the street, anyway?"

"Going back to ignoring you," Remo said.

"Wait," Cindee insisted. "Even you must understand what makes good drama. The ex-president here, a mob on the street hurling flaming bottles and rocks at the building where he's hiding. That's drama. You'd watch that, wouldn't you?"

"No," said Remo impatiently. "Are we done now?" Not waiting for a reply, he returned to examining the street.

A man with a camera near the battered building caught the eye of Cindee's assistant. The young woman hurried over to him, leaving her boss in the company of Remo and Chiun.

"Of course you would," Cindee persisted. "Don't try to pretend you're not like everybody else in this country. You people love that kind of violent drama. Why do you think you're glued to the set every time some kid opens fire in his high-school cafeteria? You got helicopters overhead, police cordons, kids climbing out windows. Drama."

When Remo looked back up, his face was cold. "Don't tell me what I love," he said, voice chilly. She was momentarily taken aback by the icy menace in his tone. It was in that moment of hesitation that the Master of Sinanju inserted himself. The old Korean took Cindee's gloved hands in his frail fingers, patting gently. His face was the personification of ancient wisdom.

"Of course you are correct, my dear," Chiun said.

"I have maintained for years that the American culture revels in violence. I hear others out there saying the same thing now, but I was first."

"Good for you," Cindee said. She tried to extricate her hands, but they wouldn't budge. It was as if the old man's hands were fast-drying concrete that had firmed up around her own.

"This is a new kind of violence," Chiun continued. "There are some who might think it began with your foolish Revolution or the things you would call world wars, even though everyone knows the only important part of the world wasn't involved in them. There was violence there, yes, but it was men killing men, which has gone on forever. Do you want to know when your culture truly turned to violence?"

"Technically, I'm Australian, not American," Cindee said. "Not my culture." She tugged at her hands.

"June 11, 1975," Chiun said. "A day that will live in infamy." He hung his head.

Cindee's eyes narrowed. "What happened then?"

"Some dippy soap opera actress hit some dippy soap-opera actor," Remo supplied.

The Master of Sinanju's face tightened. "It was Rad Rex, it was 'As the Planet Revolves' and it was the end of your American culture," he said over his shoulder to Remo. "Since then there has been nothing but car crashes and shooting guns. Poor Mr. Rex, whose autograph remains my most prized possession, had to retire. A gentle soul, he left before his dignity could be sullied by the death of art in this land."