Warren Murphy: Hostile Takeover

Lawrence stiffened. His hands stayed at his sides. He ignored the offered blue tie.

"I must remind you, sir," he went on hoarsely, "that company policy expressly stipulates that the gold tie may be worn for thirty days before an employee is required to surrender it." Tears were streaming from Lawrence's eyes now. This was a humiliation. He was being degraded for no reason that he could fathom. " I must protest this in the strongest terms."

"I accept your protest," P. M. Looncraft said evenly. "Now, give Johnson your tie."

Lawrence whirled on Johnson like a cornered animal.

"Johnson! What is Johnson? A sniveling wet-behind-the-ears trader. I have been with LD twenty years, and the first time you call me by name is to ask me to surrender the tie. I have attained the gold tie seven times. That is an LD

"Duly noted. Now, give Johnson your tie," Looncraft repeated. His voice remained even.

Lawrence looked at the impassive face of his superior, then at the outstretched hand of the eager young trader, Johnson. " I won't have this," he sniffled. " I won't be treated like this. I quit!"

And Lawrence flung off the gold tie, throwing it in Johnson's shocked face before storming out of the office blubbering.

Ronald Johnson gingerly picked up the tie from the maroon rug, and after apologizing for his coworker's unfortunate outburst, began to tie it around his neck in a standard foulard knot.

"I can't tell you how much this means to me, Mr. Looncraft," Johnson said fawningly.

Looncraft rose from behind his desk. "I understand," he said, smiling humorlessly as he shook the trembling hands of his young employee. "Now, I want you to get back to work. You needn't trouble yourself with these well-intentioned concerns of yours. You have a bright future with us."

"I know," Ronald Johnson said, his eyes bright with that familiar gleam.

P. M. Looncraft returned to his desk, knowing he had chosen well. He had selected Johnson to manage the Global account because the man was, whatever else, conscientious. This was as it always was with conscientious men. Offer them mere money to ignore an irregularity and they would spurn it with ill-disguised distaste. But offer them recognition or glory, and they were your servants. It had worked since the early days of Looncraft, Dymstar d. It had worked for his ancestors, back in the days before there was a United States of America. His ancestors would simply wave a sword over a man's head and call him knight, and the man would give up his life for that title and those who conferred it upon him. It was the same with the gold tie. It was just a silk tie. Anyone could buy one. But when P. M. Looncraft dubbed it the company tie and forbade any employee to wear one like it, every man on the floor doubled his productivity to vie for the gold tie. Status-hungry traders who couldn't be bothered to earn raises because they were already earning obscene amounts in commissions were slaves to their desire to wear three feet of golden silk around their necks.

Still, Looncraft was disappointed in Johnson. He had not tied his tie with a full Windsor, and that was the mark of a slacker. Ah, well, the man was probably Scandinavian. Most Johnsons were.

Looncraft turned his attention back to the Telerate machine. The Dow Jones Industrial Average was holding just over nineteen hundred. He keyed in on Global. It remained unchanged at fifty-eight and five-eighths.

Looncraft cursed under his breath. The Dow would close significantly below opening quotes, but not as low as Looncraft had expected. Or wanted.

"Tomorrow is another day," he told himself glumly.

Chapter 5

Remo Williams pulled his blue Buick coupe into the driveway of his Rye, New York, home. He got out and started for the back door, holding a newspaper in front of his face like a mafioso arriving in court.

"Ah, the hell with it," Remo said suddenly. He stopped, lowered the paper, and doubled back. "I'm sick of this." He paused at the front door, not caring who saw him, and boldly checked his mailbox.

He found only junk mail, which did not surprise him. The bills-what few there were-were made out to a James Churchward. That was the name on the box. There was no such person as James Churchward. It was a cover identity he'd used to buy the house.

Remo inserted the key in the lock and entered. The nearly bare living room greeted him with its slight odor of incense and candle wax. It smelled like a Chinese church.

Remo noticed that the only piece of living-room furniture-a large-screen TV was a shambles of wood and electronics.

"Chiun! Are you at it again?"

A bedroom door opened like a book, framing a tiny figure in aquamarine silk.

"I found another of Smith's insects," said Chiun, reigning Master of Sinanju and Remo's trainer. He lifted a silvery disk between delicate fingernails. The nails were exceedingly long. His eyes were hazel almonds in the network of wrinkles that was his face. The puffs of white hair over his tiny ears were like thinning steam.

Remo accepted it as Chiun joined him, his aquamarine kimono skirts rustling.

"You mean a bug," Remo said. "This is a listening device. And this is getting ridiculous. We find them, and he plants new ones."

"He has gone mad."

"You've been saying that for years," Remo said, rubbing the bug between compressed palms until he got a sound like gravel in a sifter. He walked over to a wastebasket and spanked his hands together. What remained of the listening device sprinkled into the receptacle like powdered aluminum.

"We're going to have to talk to him," Remo said fiercely.

Chiun cocked his head. "I understood you vowed never to speak with Smith again," he said.

"I did. But I'm going to make an exception, just this once. "

"You are still angry with him over the unfortunate incident?"

"You bet I am. After all these years of working for that old tight-ass, I find out he's got my house rigged with listening devices and a gas-delivery system so anytime Smith wants, he presses one of his damn computer keys and I'm anesthetized in my sleep. It would have happened to you too, you know, if you hadn't been in Korea when Smith lowered the boom."

"Smith did not lower the boom, as you call it," Chiun corrected. "It was that villain Ransome."

Remo threw up his hands. "Smith. Ransome. Who cares? It was Smith's boom. Ransome lowered it. And I'm retired to death row with my memory wiped clean back to Johnson's presidency. I don't even know if I have all my original memories back."

Chiun's wrinkled face started.

"I had not considered that possibility," he said slowly. His child-bright hazel eyes refocused on Remo.

"Do you remember that illustrious day when I saved your life?"

"I remember a couple of times that happened. What of it?"

"And the promise you made to me of your own free will?"

Remo's eyes narrowed. "What promise?" he asked warily.

"That you would not rest until Cheeta Ching became my bride."

"Cheeta? You mean the TV anchorwoman?"

Chiun took an involuntary step backward. He sucked in his parchment-dry cheeks with mock horror.

"No!" he cried. "It is true. That fiend Smith deprived you of your most treasured memories. Come. We must confront him with this latest proof of his perfidy. We will demand that he restore you to your full faculties."

"I never made any such promise," Remo said evenly.

Chiun stopped halfway to the door. He whirled, his kimono skirts swirling. The pattern was carnation. It looked like a bathrobe purchased from a Ginza street stall.

"Worse than your memories, he has absconded with your gratitude," Chiun proclaimed in a bitter voice.

"I never promised you Cheeta Ching. Even if I had, how do you expect me to deliver? Abduct her?"

"No, entreat her. Tell her of the riches that will be hers if she becomes my bride."