Warren Murphy: Terminal Transmission

"Where else? It came off the wire and we put our Montreal correspondent on it."

As Harold Smith had been listening, his thin fingers were picking apart the international section of his morning paper. He scanned the first page and turned to the second. When his eyes came to page three, they widened.

"Holy Christ!" Remo exploded. "I know what that is!"

"Who's that?" asked Melcher.

"Thank you for your time," Smith said and hung up.

Smith looked up from the paper. Remo and Chiun were staring at the photo over the headline: MYSTERY STATUE APPEARS ON MOUNTAINTOP.

"That's St. Clare of Assisi," said Remo.

"Yes," echoed Chiun. "It is definitely St. Clare."

"Yes?" said Smith, face and voice equally blank.

"She is the patron saint of television," intoned Chiun. "Pope Pius XII placed that odious burden on her frail shoulders in 1958, poor woman."

"How do you both know this?" Smith asked.

"Simple," said Remo. "Don Cooder had a statuette just like this on his desk."

They looked to the TV screen where the computer-generated image of Don Cooder with a television set for a head continued gesturing animatedly.

"So," Remo said. "Does this mean that Cooder is Captain Audion after all, or he isn't?"

Chapter 32

Don Cooder refused to vacate the tiny television studio in One Times Square.

"Don Cooder is not leaving this studio," he shouted.

"Please, Don," begged Tim Macaw in a wheedling voice.

"Yeah, Don," added Ned Doppler. "You had your turn. Give us a shot."

"Never. As of right now, Don Cooder owns broadcast news. My audience may be small, but it's the only audience there is. When this is all cleared up, I'll go down in anchor history."

"You're already on the front pages of the newspaper," said Macaw. "Isn't that enough?"

"Liar! I did that interview only two hours ago. The paper won't come out until tomorrow."

"They put out an extra," Doppler explained.

Don Cooder's voice grew suspicious. "An extra what?"

"An extra afternoon edition. Just to cover breaking developments. You know, like a bulletin."

"Can newspapers do bulletins?"

"The News did," said Doppler.

"So did the Times," added Macaw.

"Care to slip it under the door?" asked Cooder.

"Can't, Don. It's as thick as a telephone book."

"Now I know you're lying. Nice try. Newspapers are dying."

"Thanks to Captain Audion, they're coming back.

"Even USA Today put out an extra. With today's news for a change."

"Slip the front page under the door."

"If we do," Macaw asked, "will you come out?"

"No."

"Then we're not slipping you anything," snapped Doppler.

"First man who slips me a readable front page will be interviewed on my next newscast."

Paper started cramming and bunching up under the door so fast it tore. Don Cooder pulled pieces free and began to assemble them on the studio floor like a jigsaw puzzle.

A headline read:

TV BLACKED OUT!

Is Captain Audion Don Cooder?

Another said:

NO NEWS FIT TO BROADCAST

Newsprint Makes a Comeback

"Let us in, Don."

But Don Cooder wasn't hearing the pleading of his colleagues. He was looking at a sidebar story that showed a photograph of St. Clare of Assisi, two hundred feet high, standing atop a mountain in Canada.

"I've changed my mind," he said suddenly. "You can both broadcast."

And he flung open the door.

Tim Macaw and Ned Doppler plowed in and tackled the anchor seat like opposing linebackers.

They were literally pulling it and their clothing apart in their frenzy to be the first to plant his posterior in the rickety bentwood chair, as Don Cooder, a feverish gleam in his eyes, slipped out the building bundled up in a belted trenchcoat, dark glasses, and Borsalino hat.

No one in the growing crowd surrounding the big TV screen overlooking Times Square noticed him as he ducked into an idle cab.

"Kennedy Airport, driver," he bit out.

"Wanna wait another minute, pal? Don Cooder should be back on any second now."

"Don Cooder does not wait for Don Cooder. Drive on, driver."

Chapter 33

At the BCN studio lobby, security had been tripled in the wake of the death of rival anchor Dieter Banning.

"We're looking for Don Cooder," Remo told the ring of guards who looked at him with hands on holstered revolver grips.

One shouted, "Look, isn't that Wing Wang Wo, the Korean Dragon!"

The Master of Sinanju saw the finger pointing at him and naturally looked over his shoulder.

There was no one there.

"What is this, Remo?" he demanded.

"A long story," Remo whispered. "Look, we admit it. That's who he is. And if you don't want to end up separated from your head, you'll tell us where to find Don Cooder."

"He's missing."

"I heard he was broadcasting," said Remo.

"Yeah. From Times Square. But he deserted his post."

"Damn."

At a payphone, Remo called Smith. "Cooder took a powder. No one knows where he went."

"One minute, Remo."

The clicking of computer keys came over the line.

"According to his telephone records, he has not used his home telephone today. Nor his office telephone." More keys clicked. Then:

"According to his credit cards records, Don Cooder took a five o'clock flight to Montreal, Canada, connecting with Fort Chimo in Northern Quebec."

"He's our man!"

"Do not jump to conclusions. Remember Dieter Banning."

"Here, you tell it to Chiun," said Remo, handing the phone to the Master of Sinanju.

"Master Chiun, I am ordering you to Canada," said Harold Smith.

"Speak their names and their heads will be yours by nightfall," Chiun cried.

"I do not want heads. I want answers. Kill no one unless provoked. Now put Remo back on."

"What's our next move, Smitty?"

"Remo. Go to MacGuire Air Force Base. An Air Mobility Command transport will be waiting for you. I am sending you to Quebec."

"What do you think we're going to find?"

"I do not know. But that statue is squarely on the parallel of latitude line and it is also in the area where there had been a rash of missing car batteries."

"How would car batteries fit into this?"

"That is only one of the answers I expect you to find. Good luck, Remo."

After Remo hung up, he faced the waiting Master of Sinanju.

"You have been telling fables about me, again," Chiun accused.

"Save it. We're off to Quebec. And there's a good chance we'll find out what happened to Cheeta when we get there."

The Master of Sinanju raised clenched fists and a voice like distilled grief to the open sky. "Cheeta! Do not despair, precious one. We are coming to succor you!"

Cheeta Ching was past despair. She was beyond agony. Being flayed by rusty razor blades would be infinitely preferable to the exquisite tortures that were wracking her sweat-soaked body.

She was in her sixteenth hour of labor. Her swollen, jittering belly felt like it was trying to launch into orbit using her splayed legs as launch rails.

If only the damned brat would come out.

"Come on, you little bastard!" she grunted between contractions. "Get out of here or I'll pull you out by your miserable scrotum!"

The door opened and the figure of Captain Audion pushed in. He was lugging a car battery which he added to a growing pile.

"Can I get y'all any little thang?" he asked, turning the blacked-out screen of his square head in Cheeta's direction.

"Yes," Cheeta said through clenched teeth. "A coat hanger."

"Say what?"

"I going to abort this useless little dink if it's the last thing I do!"

"Settle for a jackknife?"

Don Cooder was arrested by Royal Canadian Mounted Police constables the moment he opened his passport for the Montreal customs inspector.

"You can't do this to me. I'm Don Cooder. Premier anchor of our age."