Chapter 9
The walls that enclosed the sprawling, snow-covered grounds of Folcroft Sanitarium were a prison to but one man. The others who passed through the high gates with their attendant stone lions-be they staff, visitors or patients-all left in their time. There was only one individual who had been committed to Folcroft for life.
Dr. Harold W. Smith would not have considered himself a prisoner. After all, he could come and go as he pleased. And yet most of the time he did not go. Most days and for much of the day, Harold Smith could be found in the same place he had been the day, the week, the year before.
As director of CURE, which operated in secret from behind the high stone walls of this exclusive mental-health facility and convalescent home in Rye, New York, Harold W. Smith was as much a prisoner as any man with a life sentence. It was only the cell that was different.
In his Spartan administrator's office, Smith sat behind his broad onyx desk. Through the one-way picture window at his back could be seen the churning black waters of Long Island Sound. Whitecaps formed on the wintry surface like Poseidon's grasping claws. Smith failed to notice.
His arthritic fingers moved with swift resolve across the edge of the desk. Below the surface, an illuminated keyboard tracked his sure path with bursts of soothing amber. A buried monitor reflected a constant data stream in the owlish glasses perched on Smith's patrician nose.
The CURE director had spent hours attempting to unravel the complicated finances of Raffair, with little success. As a corporation, Raffair was a mess. But it was clear that it was a mess with a purpose: to thwart an investigation such as the one Smith was attempting.
Still, in spite of the roadblocks he'd encountered, some rough outline of the beast had begun to take shape. Raffair was big and popular. Like a lot of high-technology stocks that had fueled the economic boom of the nineties, there seemed to be not enough revenue generated by the company to justify the inflated price of its stock. Yet like those high-tech stocks, ordinary people were eager to invest. Interest in Raffair's stock had further driven up the price, rewarding handsomely those who had bought into the company in the month since its initial offering.
The pattern was the same one that had developed of late for on-line bookstores, auction houses or Internet service providers. Yet in those cases, though greatly inflated, there was a clear product or service provided. With Raffair, there was none. Individuals were sinking their money into a ghost of a corporation that seemed on the surface to do little more than accept the influx of capital.
To Smith, it was clear that Raffair was nothing but a massive front for something. But for what, he had no idea.
With a troubled sigh, he rubbed his tired eyes. Sinking back into his cracked leather chair, he spun to face Long Island Sound.
Winter's wind attacked the rolling waves. Frothy foam collected at the shore near the rotted boat dock that extended into the Sound from Folcroft's back lawn.
Smith removed his rimless glasses, dropping his hand down beside his chair. The days when he could stare at his computer for hours on end without a break were long gone.
A thin UV coating on his glasses, as well as in his desk just above his monitor, was meant to shield his eyes from damage. If it worked, he was lucky to have the protection, for at this point in his life the years he'd spent sifting through cyberspace had caused an enlargement of his optic nerve. Possibly a precursor to glaucoma. Another sign of the march of time.
The signs had been there for some time now. There was no denying it. Smith was old. His body was beginning the inevitable betrayal visited on all living things.
At first, it had been small things. Tired eyes, creaking bones. Silly things that could be dismissed or ignored. But like a snowball rolled down a steep hill, the small things had begun to grow large.
His hands ached.
Understandable, of course. After all, he'd spent forty years pounding day after day on a computer keyboard. But an understanding of the reason didn't lessen the pain.
The worsening arthritis in his gnarled fingers made it difficult to type. Some mornings, it took him a full hour before he could work out all the overnight kinks.
The creaking bones had given way to aches in nearly all his joints. His right knee in particular was giving him problems lately. Some mornings, it was as if there were nothing beneath the skin but bone on bone.
These were problems of the flesh, however, and could be easily ignored. Indeed, Smith had put the minor aches and pains to one side even as they grew to distractions. Most troubling to him of late were his lapses in concentration.
It was not yet a memory problem, nor did it seem to be developing into one. Yet. But there were moments when weariness combined with age would take hold and Smith would find himself lost in a gray fog. They were not technically daydreams, for Harold Smith did not dream. But they were instances of lapsed consciousness during which his tired brain seemed to close itself off from the world.
Smith had always prided himself on his sharp mind. Even that seemed to be betraying him of late.
And a man in his position could not afford to lose his faculties.
It was fitting that his daydreams should be filled with clouds of gray, for Smith himself was cast in shades of gray. From his grayish skin, to his flinty gray eyes, to his three-piece gray suit, he was an emotionless figure from the age of black-and-white. A gaunt representative of the World War II generation, he was a man out of time. An anachronistic throwback to an era that an increasing number of Americans were beginning to view as ancient history.
In truth, all was not gray for Harold Smith. In his vest pocket was a small pill-not gray, but white. Fashioned in the shape of a coffin, it held a special place near his heart, not emotionally but literally. On his last day as head of CURE, Smith would remove the pill and swallow it. The fast-acting poison would kill him in a matter of minutes.
He had considered taking the pill several times over the past few years.
The current President had placed a strain on Smith like none of his predecessors had. He seemed unwilling to see CURE for what it was, an emergency firewall to deal with threats both domestic and foreign. There had been a number of instances where the President had wanted to use the resources of CURE for personal or political gain. The most recent was his less than subtle suggestion that Smith help him to remain in office beyond his constitutionally mandated two terms.
Of course Smith had refused. The President had withdrawn into silence broken by occasional bouts of surliness. Smith fully expected that the change of power would come in Washington this weekend without his ever having to speak to the President again. He was surprised when the chief executive called. Even more surprised to learn what it was he wanted Smith to do.
Investigate Raffair. It seemed like such a minor thing-something that shouldn't interest the outgoing leader of the free world. More for the office he held than for the man himself had Smith agreed. A final act of professional courtesy for a man who would almost certainly be one of the last Presidents Harold Smith would serve.
Beyond his picture window, the Sound continued to churn white. Smith blinked the water away. Replacing his spotless glasses, he turned back to his desk. His hands had not yet brushed the keyboard when the blue contact phone on his desk jangled to life.
"Smith," he said crisply.
"Only me, Smitty," Remo's voice announced. "I've got some bad news and some weird news out of New York."
"I have seen the preliminary police report," Smith said. "Fine was murdered in his office."
"That's the bad. By the sounds of it, in broad daylight in a building full of people," Remo said. "We didn't have much time to ask around, so you're gonna have to keep your eyes peeled for police reports if you want us to follow up."
"Why?" Smith frowned. "Did you have difficulty there?"
"We had difficulty everywhere," Remo said. "As far as the inside-the-building part goes, there was screaming, shooting, running. You know, the usual."
> Smith pursed his lips. "Remo, I have a report here of two men who eluded police capture at the LFB building this morning," he began cautiously.
"Did they baffle their pursuers by effecting an amazing escape from a moving elevator car?" Remo asked proudly.
Shutting his eyes, Smith pinched the bridge of his nose. "That was you and Chiun," he said dully.
"Escaping, yes," Remo agreed. "But it was my idea to use the trapdoor."
"It was also his idea to get us shot at, Emperor Smith," the Master of Sinanju's squeaky voice called from the nearby background.
"Technically, that was more the cops' idea than it was mine, Little Father," Remo said.
"Remo," Smith interrupted wearily, "I should not have to remind you to exercise discretion."
"Discretion had nothing to do with this one, Smitty," Remo said. "The folks there were already wired about Larry Fine's Raffair business partners long before we even showed up. Chiun's thinking it's some kind of Mob hit."
"I said nothing of the kind," the Master of Sinanju called. "I merely correctly observed that the stooge's killers were sons of the Tiber."
"Tiber?" Smith sounded puzzled.
"Does he mean they were Italians?"
"At the risk of getting picketed by the antidefamation league, yeah," Remo said. "At least that's the vibe he got from sniffing around the body."
"Hmm," Smith mused. "The Mafia angle might fit with what little I have learned of Raffair so far. They seem marginally connected to trucking, construction, waste removal and the like. However, on the surface, Raffair's activities appear to be legal."
"Yeah? Well, dig deeper," Remo said. "Because by the looks of it, they've got roving hit squads out trying to stab innocent pedestrians."
"What are you talking about?" Smith asked. Remo quickly told him about the two masked men he and Chiun had encountered on Wall Street. "That does not make sense," Smith said once he was through. "If you are telling me everything, you did nothing at LFB to provoke such an attack." "I'm glad you're with me on this one, Smitty," Remo said. "All we were doing was minding our own business. Oh, and the guys with the knives were wearing some kind of button. I never saw the design before. I gave a cabbie a couple hundred bucks to drive it out there."
Smith's brow was troubled. "I am curious to see it," he admitted. "I would have to say, however, that this attack-whatever the reason-is unrelated to your visit to LFB. Perhaps it was a simple assault."
"I don't know," Remo said uncertainly. "They seemed to be targeting me specifically."
"Nonetheless, I doubt we need be concerned that it has anything to do with Raffair." Smith's voice remained troubled.
"If you say so," Remo grumbled. "I have my doubts, though. And while we're on the subject, what the hell kind of name is Raffair?"
This was something that had vexed Smith from the start. "It strikes me as somewhat familiar," he admitted. "Although I have no idea from where I would know it." His brow wrinkled above his tired eyes. "No matter. After the events in Fine's office, as well as your encounter in the street, it would be best for you and Chiun to return home. I will do further research on this end."
"You're doing a lot of work for a guy who's gonna be out of office in a couple of days, Smitty," Remo suggested. "Just in case you forgot, Chiun and I are due to make him forget all about our little quilting bee this Friday night."
Alone in his Folcroft office, Smith's spine stiffened at Remo's reminder. His thoughts turned to his earlier concerns for his own memory.
"I had not forgotten," the CURE director replied tightly. He moved to his keyboard. "Raffair has established several offices around the country," he said as he typed. "When you arrive in Boston, perhaps you should check the one there before going home."
He read Remo the address from his monitor. "Can do," Remo agreed. "And we'll do our best to keep from getting shot at. Scout's honor." With that, the buzz of a dial tone replaced Remo's voice. Smith hung up the phone.
He sat there for a moment, staring off into space. Remo's flippant attitude toward the events in and outside the LFB building had become the norm. There was a time when even he would have recognized what a potentially serious breach of security his and Chiun's actions of this morning represented. Not anymore. That Remo was long gone. In a lot of ways, his attitude was now Chiun's.
Perhaps it was Smith's own fault. Maybe he had been too forgiving of these lapses. It just seemed that there was no way to rein in Remo and Chiun.
A muted ringing shook him from his reverie.
It was the special White House line. The President was no doubt looking for another update.
For the first time in a long time, Smith let the phone go to two rings. Finally, with an exhausted groan, he stretched his gnarled hand to his bottom desk drawer.
Chapter 10
Mark Howard scanned the Associated Press report for the third time.
The news story out of New York was short. A junior executive at Lippincott, Forsythe, Butler had been murdered. Mark wouldn't have given the story a second look if not for the connection to Raffair.
As it was, he studied the terse text carefully. His green eyes-flecked at pupils' edges with creeping brown-were alert, straining to see something he might have missed.
There was nothing.
No feelings came to him as he exited the report. There was no need. It didn't take any weird supernatural instinct to tell him that somebody was covering their tracks.
In the privacy of his drab cubicle, recycled basement air hissing through rusted vents, Mark leaned back in his cheap blue swivel chair.
He'd picked up the chair himself at an office supply store after his last one had broken. The way the CIA's budget had been going these past few years, he would have been lucky if they'd requisitioned him an orange crate to sit on.
He had been trying to put that morning's White House meeting out of his mind. There was something extralegal going on at the highest level of American government. And somehow-at least peripherally-Mark Howard was involved. Since he had no control over it, he'd opted to ignore it.
On his desk sat a manila folder. He'd begun assembling a file on Raffair after the botched DEA raid the previous week.
There had been a lot to sift through. Mark had spent many monotonous hours collating the material, most of it on his own time. Still leaning back, he stretched out a hand, pulling the folder into his lap. Absently, he flipped open the cover.
The alphabetized listing of Raffair's offices was on top. The first was Boston, followed by Chicago, Houston, Los Angeles, Miami, New Orleans and New York.
For some reason, his eyes strayed to the short paragraph he'd assembled on the Boston office.
The building had been recently purchased by a Paul Petito. Mark found the transaction listed in the real-estate transfer section of the Boston Blade. According to public company records, Petito was Raffair's Boston branch manager.
Mark was surprised to learn after digging only a little further that Raffair wasn't that particular about whom they hired.
Petito had a criminal history dating back to his teens. Although he seemed to have dabbled in everything from extortion to burglary, apparently his real passion lay in counterfeiting. According to Mark's information, Petito had been released from his most recent prison sentence two months ago. He had bought the Boston Raffair building one month later.
Earlier in the day, Mark had printed the phrase "funny money?" in the margin beside Petito's name. Picking up a pen from his desk, he underlined the words.
Doodling absently on the paper, Mark allowed his thoughts to stray back to his early-morning meeting in the Oval Office.
The President had been deeply angry about something. Part of Mark's special gift allowed him to sense very strong emotions. Although it didn't take a mind reader to know that the President was unhappy about something, Mark alone had sensed how embittered the chief executive truly was. The well of resentment he wallowed in was deep and wide. And by the sound of what he'd mutt
ered, a good chunk of his anger was directed at Mark's own General Smith.
How this involved him, Mark had no idea.
With a sigh, he pulled himself out of his thoughts. When he looked back down at his notes, he was surprised to see that his wandering pen had written something.
The words "Asian" and "white" were now written in the margin next to his other notation. An arrow beside the sloppily printed words steered directly to the word "Boston."
Shocked, Mark looked down at his fingers. It was as if someone else's hand had taken root at the end of his arm.
He had long grown used to the strange episodes that had been with him all his life. They were all easily identifiable, falling into the same neat categories. But this...
This was new.
Mark glanced back down at the paper.
Another word was written beside the others. It was this one that had caused him the most concern. The word was "death."
In the cool of Langley's basement, Mark felt a shiver of fear. Standing woodenly from his chair, he took the single doodle-filled sheet from the top of the slender Raffair file.
Somewhere in the CIA headquarters, there had to be a shredder that wasn't broken. Paper in hand, Mark Howard went off in search of it.
Chapter 11
Seymour Botz had just about had it with the constant talking. Not that he'd ever dare say so. Under ordinary circumstances, Seymour didn't have much of a spine, but when dealing with Louis DiGrotti, the timid accountant from Boston's Whitehall and Marx was without vertebrae, spinal cord and most of the musculature in his upper and lower back.
"I ain't seen one walrus since I got here," Louis DiGrotti snarled. Even with his tough Bronx accent, every word he uttered sounded like a whining complaint.
"Walrus?" Seymour asked, trying to sound interested.
"Yeah," DiGrotti nodded. "Them's the ones what got them big teeth in the front." He demonstrated with a pair of pencils from his desk. "I thought I seen one yesterday," he said, spitting out the pencils, "but it was just a dog."
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