"Yeah, I think," Remo replied. "It was one of those cockamamie Frisbee-looking things."
"And you're sure there was no video equipment on the premises?"
"The cable went right from the camera to the dish. I might not be too good with gadgets, but I can follow a wire."
"Perhaps it is a private security company," Smith mused.
"Great," Remo said. "Gimme an address and I'll get the tape from them."
"One minute, please."
A few seconds of gentle tapping on his special keyboard, and the older man was back on the line. "This is strange," the CURE director said. "I checked to see if there was a local security firm in the employ of Raffair, Boston. When I found none, I checked nationally. There is no record of any security company anywhere doing business in any way at all with Raffair."
"So what?" Remo said. "Maybe they're just a little too trusting."
An impatient hiss came from the curb.
"They do not need hirelings, for they are guarded by their own reputation," the Master of Sinanju called over his shoulder. He was now studying the parked cars that lined the side of the road. A black Mercedes had caught his eye.
Smith had heard the old Asian's words. "It is strange for an operation that spans the country to not have at least some outside security," he agreed. "But if Raffair is inspiring fear, it must be purely by word of mouth, for there is no electronic record."
"Not word of mouth alone, Smitty," Remo disagreed. "If they've got a guy at every office like the one whose head Chiun lopped off here, most people'd have sense enough to tread lightly."
Smith's tone grew strained. "He decapitated him?" he asked wearily.
"Oh. Didn't I mention that?"
Ignoring Remo's sheepish tone, the CURE director plowed on. "I will attempt to find out where the signal might have been sent," he said. "Until I uncover a lead, you and Chiun may return home."
"Raise a flag," a squeaky voice volunteered behind Remo. It was followed by a piercing metallic scratching sound, like fingernails on a blackboard.
When Remo glanced back, he found that the Master of Sinanju had taken more than a passing interest in the parked Mercedes. Bored, the old man was drawing the edge of one long fingernail across the door panel. In the nail's wake, a shiny line of exposed silver glinted in the streetlights. A slender corkscrew of peeled paint curled down into the curbside snow pile.
"Knock it off, Chiun," Remo groused. Apparently, the noise was such that only sensitive eardrums were bothered by it. Somewhere distant, a pair of dogs howled.
The wizened Korean ignored his pupil.
"Didn't you say there were other offices, Smitty?" Remo asked. He scowled as he plugged his free ear. "Maybe we could find out who saw us from them."
"Unwise," Smith said, unmindful of the persistent noise on Remo's end. "We do not need another compromising incident today. Your images could have been sent to them by now. If this is the case, were you to show up at another Raffair office at this point, it is likely they would shoot first."
"It is more likely that they would hold their manhood and run, Emperor," Chiun proclaimed as he continued etching the door. "Any blackguard with designs on your throne would be cowed by my demonstration. Thanks to Sinanju, you may rest your regal head on silken pillows, confident in the knowledge that Fortress Falcroft is safe."
"Please inform Master Chiun that it is not Folcroft that concerns me," Smith said seriously. "The Boston Raffair office is very close to your own home. It is the two of you who could be in danger."
At that did Chiun raise his head. His weathered face was astonished.
"Just when I think the lunatic can't get more insane," he said. Shaking his head in amazement, he returned to his work. A trapezoid shape familiar to Remo had begun to form on the car's door panel.
"I don't think Chiun's sweating this one too much, Smitty," Remo informed the CURE director. "Nevertheless, please remain cautious, Remo. We still don't know who it is we are dealing with. And it's a good rule of thumb for the two of you to keep a low profile whenever you are in Massachusetts."
"Point taken," Remo said. "And speaking of risks to life and limb, did you find out anything from that button I sent you?"
"Oh, I had forgotten," Smith admitted. He seemed irritated with himself for the lapse. "I searched several iconography databases. The design on the button was unknown to all of them. Since it appears on the surface to be meaningless, we can assume that the two men who attacked you were nothing more than common street criminals."
"They weren't decked out for mugging, Smitty," Remo said. "My money still says they're with Raffair."
"And I assume not, but I will keep an open mind," Smith said. "According to the New York coroner's office, neither man carried identification, so we may never know. However, I will continue to monitor that situation, as well as Raffair. If anything new turns up in either case, I will call you at home." With that, Smith terminated the call.
Turning from the phone booth, Remo joined the Master of Sinanju at the curb. Chiun was etching a final, bisecting line through the center of his silver trapezoid.
"He seems more on edge than usual," Remo commented as the last thread of curling paint fell to the snow.
"Water cannot be more wet than wet," Chiun observed, uninterested. "There," he proclaimed, extending a palm to the simple trapezoid design he had engraved on the car door. "The symbol of our House, engraved as it should be. With the Knives of Eternity and not with some silly machete."
Remo glanced at the old man, dark surprise clouding his face. "The Luzu blabbed, didn't they?" he accused.
Chiun shrugged as he clasped opposing wrists.
"Do not blame the messenger," he said. "It is you who must resort to tools because you refuse to grow your nails to their proper length. My only hope now is that your own student will be more traditional."
Turning from his pupil, he began padding down the sidewalk. Although sand had been spread liberally on the path to provide traction on the ice, his soles made not a single scuffing mark or sound.
Remo trotted up beside him, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Speaking of the Luzu, how traditional are they-I mean with succession and all? Like for king, for instance."
Chiun raised a thin eyebrow. "The eldest son succeeds the father," he replied.
"Hmm," Remo said. "And that big fat chief they've got now, is Bubu his eldest son or his only son?"
They had met the tribal chief and his offspring while in Africa on their last assignment.
"Chief Batubizee is fortunate to have five sons other than the one you met," Chiun replied cautiously. "Each is in line to succeed the other. Why do you ask?"
"Oh," Remo shrugged. "No reason. The sign of Sinanju." He jerked his head back in the direction from whence they'd come. "You just reminded me of all that nonsense back in East Africa is all." Dodging the suspicious slits that were the Master of Sinanju's eyes, he quickly changed the subject. "You know, Smitty might be right, by the way. Until he finds out where our faces were beamed, it might be smart for us to lay low for a while."
The tiny Korean gave him a baleful look. "A Master of Sinanju does not scurry down a hole like a frightened rabbit. Smith forces us to lurk in shadows too much as it is."
"Different world than it used to be, Little Father," Remo pointed out. "No more pharaohs' courts and royal assassins. Gotta adapt to the times."
"Do not remind me," Chiun droned. "What I would not give for another Herod or Attila. Even a Borgia or two. But cruel fate has given me a Smith, and so Smith I must endure."
Beside the tiny Asian, Remo's face was pensive. He seemed lost in private thoughts.
"We all have our crosses to bear, Little Father," he said softly.
Chapter 14
When the President of the United States trudged into his secretary's office from the hallway, he did his best to ignore the large plastic storage totes and cheap collapsible cardboard boxes that were stacked four-high around the room.
&
nbsp; "That package arrive from CIA yet, Betty?" he asked.
His frazzled secretary nodded. "Yes, Mr. President," she said, handing him an envelope from the top of the mess on her desk. It was embossed with the emblem of the Central Intelligence Agency. "You've got an 11:00 p.m. meeting with the incoming President this Friday night, like you asked."
"Mmm," the President said absently as he headed for the nearby door to the Oval Office. With one pudgy pale finger, he broke the seal on the envelope. He tapped the contents into his free hand as he shouldered the door open. The President took only two steps into the room before he froze in midstep.
"Betty!" he thundered hoarsely.
His secretary stuck her head into the room. "Sir?"
"Where the hell's my desk?" he demanded. He waved the envelope toward the spot where his desk had sat for the past eight years. It was the same desk JFK had used.
The desk was gone. Brilliant yellow light from the floor-to-ceiling windows on the wall behind cascaded over the vacant area, shining brightly on the permanent indentation the heavy desk had made in the carpet, as well as emphasizing the many spots and stains on the rug.
"Oh," his secretary said worriedly. "It was gone when I came in this morning. I assumed you asked the GS staff to move it."
"No," he answered flatly. "I didn't."
"Oh," she said again. "Do you want me to look for it?"
He shook his head with quiet anger. "Don't bother," he grumbled. "I'll be upstairs."
CIA documents in hand, he left the Oval Office. Things had been turning up missing at the White House for the past year or so. Since they'd never owned a real home of their own, the only furniture the President and First Lady had in storage during their years in Washington was a few torn beanbag chairs and a couple of broken lava lamps.
His wife needed furnishings for the house she'd acquired in New York and so had been helping herself to odds and ends around the Washington mansion for months. Lately, however, the items had been getting larger.
An entire set of Bellange chairs was gone from the Blue Room, and someone had pried the carved marble mantel from around the fireplace in the Green Room. The chandelier and table had gone missing from the State Dining Room, and nearly the entire collection of antique books dating back to President Fillmore had slowly disappeared from the library. The Smithsonian had just gotten word that the Steinway grand piano had somehow vanished from the East Room late last week.
The President had hoped to blame the strange disappearances on a bureaucratic snafu at the Smithsonian Institution. But now with his own desk among the missing, he wasn't sure if he shouldn't just blame the White House staff, sic the FBI on them and sneak away in the confusion. After all, it had worked for two straight presidential terms.
On top of the stolen-furniture problem, his wife had dropped yet another doozy of a dilemma in the President's lap right after he'd gotten off the phone with Smith yesterday. Her ambition was always getting him in trouble. He had no idea how this new mess was going to play out.
He was still wondering what exactly he should do when he entered the family quarters.
He was greatly relieved to find the First Dog nowhere in sight. As the elevator doors closed behind him, the only sound he could hear was the meowing of the unseen First Cat. Documents in hand, he hurried down the hall to a small study.
This room was as cluttered as most in the White House these days. He found a clear spot on the sofa and settled down to read the documents.
The President had called Mark Howard personally and asked the young man to send over the information. To cover the trail, he'd had Howard courier them through the CIA director's office.
Though obviously curious, Howard had accepted the unusual orders without question. The kid was intelligent, quiet and obedient. With any luck, he'd be loyal to boot.
The President quickly went through the information. There wasn't anything of any great interest. Still, he had to find something. He'd made a promise, after all, to the one person in the world he couldn't betray.
Taking but one sheet of paper, the President stood.
There were a number of paper shredders plugged in in perpetuity in this room. Some were battery operated just in case the regular power sources and emergency backup systems ever went out. Most of the shredders were battered and wobbly from overuse.
Selecting a big workhorse model that had been an anniversary gift from an order of Buddhist nuns, he ran the bulk of the papers and the CIA envelope through the machine.
With his lone piece of paper in hand, the President left the disordered study and headed down the hall toward the Lincoln Bedroom.
IT WAS ONLY 9:00 a.m. and Harold Smith was ready to call it a day. He had spent the previous long night attempting to learn where Remo and Chiun's satellite images had been beamed. He'd had no luck. Morning's light found fatigue and anxiety etched deep in the gray lines of his face.
In days gone by, many a sleepless night had Smith remained at his desk. He had been finding out these past few years that at his age it wasn't as easy as it had once been.
But he could not leave. He was right to be concerned.
What should have been a simple visit to the Boston offices of Raffair had turned into a security threat to CURE.
More than anything else, Smith worried about secrecy. The very existence of CURE was an admission that America and her Constitution had failed. If the organization were ever to become known beyond the tight inner circle of Smith, Remo, Chiun and the President, the consequences would be dire.
The rooftop satellite could have beamed Remo and Chiun's images anywhere. Some unknown entity had a glimpse of CURE's enforcement arm in action.
For Smith, the one silver lining in all this had been the thought that Raffair wasn't likely to involve the authorities in the events at their Boston offices.
To do so would be to invite the sort of scrutiny they obviously shied away from. However, the bodies had been discovered by a customer who had entered the building after Remo and Chiun. Word of the deaths had gotten out. Still, as long as the company held on to the tape, there was hope.
Raffair itself continued to be a dead end. Smith had connected a number of small-time criminals to the company, but a larger corporate structure had yet to emerge. Given events in Boston, he would prefer to go after the Hydra's main head rather than send Remo and Chiun up the chain of command.
Beneath the onyx surface of Smith's desk, the word "Raffair" was printed in ghostly fashion on his buried computer screen. The patient cursor blinked methodically, partially obscuring the first R with every strobelike flash.
As usual, the name sparked something in the deepest recesses of Smith's mind. He had begun to assume that it was just his tired brain playing tricks on him.
Surrendering for a moment to his weariness, Smith turned to face the picture window.
The wind was not as severe today. The black waters of Long Island Sound rolled to shore in soothing waves. The old boat dock rose and fell in time with the water. It was by way of that very dock that a much younger Harold Smith had first entered the grounds of Folcroft Sanitarium.
Farther out across the sound, a few boats bobbed in the wan winter light. Smith had seen many such boaters while ensconced in his Spartan office. Decades' worth.
For Harold Smith, this view had always had a calming effect. Someday it would belong to someone else. Either a new head of CURE or the next director of Folcroft. In a brief moment of introspection, Smith wondered if his replacement in that lonely chair would find pleasure in the view. And in that moment, the telephone rang.
"Yes, Mr. President," Smith said once he'd pulled the red phone from his desk drawer.
"Any progress, Smith?" the hoarse voice of the President of the United States demanded.
"None of any significance," Smith admitted, leaning back in his chair. "My people went to New York to check with the firm that helped launch Raffair as a public company. However, the lead there had been severed before they ar
rived. Beyond that, the financial structure has not been easy to unravel. There are various trusts and offshore banks to which the money is being funneled. It is clearly an illegal venture, but it has been created by an as-yet-unknown agent."
"Hmm," the President said. His voice had taken on a vague, distant tone. "I understand there are regional offices. Why not try going through one of them?"
Smith frowned. "That has already been attempted," he said carefully. "There was some difficulty at the Boston office. My people were put in a compromising position."
"I know what that's like," the President muttered bitterly. "Were they injured?"
"It would take extraordinary circumstances for them to sustain injury," Smith said. "However, without going into great detail, the situation was less than ideal. I am attempting to use the resources at my disposal to minimize the security risk to CURE."
"You do that," the President said. "In the meantime, what about your people? They still in the Boston area?"
"Yes," Smith admitted. He deliberately did not mention that Remo and Chiun called the Commonwealth of Massachusetts home.
On the other end of the line, Smith heard the faint sound of paper rattling.
"Have them check into someone while they're there. Could help you out. It's a counterfeiter named Paul Petito."
Smith pursed his lips. "I know of him," he said slowly.
The name had turned up in his own research. Though curious as to how the President of the United States would know of a man like Petito, the CURE director held his tongue.
"Yeah, I got a source that says he's linked to Raffair. Might be a good idea to check him out. Move up the chain of command from there." The President's voice suddenly grew more cheerful. "Here, kitty-kitty," he said off the phone.
Smith assumed that the presidential cat had just wandered into the Lincoln Bedroom. A moment later, he heard the sound of contented purring close to the phone.
"At least someone in this town hasn't abandoned me," the President said warmly.
"Mr. President, I'm not sure how much more I can do in this matter," Smith said, trying to steer the chief executive back to the topic at hand. "However, I will see what can be done with Mr. Petito."
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