Smith grabbed up the contact phone. He was in the process of dialing when his office door sprang open.
Frozen in middial, Smith glanced up.
He was surprised to see Remo and Chiun stepping in from his secretary's office.
Both men appeared disheveled. The Master of Sinanju in particular was dotted with a few small streaks of soot. The old man wore a funereal expression. Beside his teacher, Remo managed a weak smile.
"Mind if we camp out here for a couple of nights, Smitty?" he asked tiredly.
Chapter 20
"What is wrong?" Smith asked as he cast a narrowed eye over the two men standing inside his closed office door. The CURE director calmly replaced the phone.
Remo shot a glance at Chiun. The Master of Sinanju's expression was stoical. "Something happened to our house."
"What?" Smith pressed.
Eyes downcast, Remo struggled to get the words out. "It sort of... burned down."
Alarm tightened Smith's stomach. "What? When?"
"A few hours ago," Remo exhaled. It all spilled out at once. "We were gonna go to a hotel, but then I figured you might want to talk to me, and I didn't feel like calling and waking you up in the middle of the night to tell you what happened so, well, here we are."
Remo looked shell-shocked. Smith couldn't remember ever seeing such a lost expression on the face of CURE's enforcement arm.
Smith leaned back in his chair, his fingertips gripping the edge of his desk as he attempted to sort through this alarming information. He willed himself calm.
"What caused the fire?" he asked.
The Master of Sinanju answered for Remo. "Vandals," Chiun supplied. The word was a soft lament. The old man hadn't taken his customary seat on Smith's floor. He stood quietly beside Remo, his face a wrinkled mask of sorrow.
"I saw a bunch of guys driving away," Remo said. "They must have tracked us with that videotape. They weren't those guys with the masks." His tone was vague.
"I was afraid of this," Smith said. "Still, they found you more easily than I would have thought. Given the other attacks against you, I hope this doesn't mean there is some greater risk to exposure at work here."
Remo shifted uncomfortably. "Look, it's the tape, okay?" he sighed, exhausted. "It's not some big conspiracy that threatens your precious security. Now, can we please give it a rest? We've just been through hell."
When he looked at Chiun, the old man didn't return his glance.
"I am sorry for your loss," Smith said, shaking his head, "but this could be of concern for CURE."
"It's not, okay?" Remo snapped, his cheeks flushing red. "We just need a place to stay, that's all."
There was something beneath his hot response.
Smith didn't press it. "Your old quarters are available-" he began.
Remo's face sank with tired relief. "I knew we could count on you, Smitty."
"-but I do not think it's wise for you to stay here," the CURE director finished.
Remo's face steeled. "Why the hell not?"
"You said yourself that you believe the men from Raffair, Boston found you. They could do so again."
"Using what? A freaking crystal ball?"
"By employing whatever means they used to find you the first time," the CURE director replied. "Perhaps they even followed you down from Massachusetts."
"We were not followed," Remo insisted. "Perhaps not. Nonetheless, I still don't believe it is a good idea for the two of you to stay here."
"Too bad," Remo said heatedly, "'cause we're staying."
"Remo, I retain your quarters for our own private security reasons. There have been times over the past decade that have required short stays at Folcroft. However, if your house is a lost cause-I am presuming it is?"
"It's a smoking foundation," Remo said bitterly. "In that event, you will want more permanent accommodations. I cannot supply them for you here."
"We just need two goddamn rooms," Remo said, cold anger swelling his level tone.
Smith offered a knowing nod. "I worry that you would think this a permanent solution to your problem."
Remo shook his head in stunned amazement. "You know something, Smith, you're all heart. The Quincy fire department is still hosing down the pile of glowing embers that used to be our home, and you're already accusing us of overstaying our welcome."
"I am being realistic," Smith said.
"You're being a heartless bastard," Remo accused. "And I've got news for you. We're staying, so you better get used to the idea." He nodded sharply to Chiun. "I'll start bringing your trunks in, Little Father."
Not giving Smith another chance for argument, he spun on his heel and flung open the office door. When Remo prowled out of the room, Chiun remained behind.
The old Asian's gaze was tired and forlorn. Standing on that threadbare rug, the tiny little man looked every day of his hundred-plus years.
Shifting in his chair, the CURE director cleared his throat. "I, er, trust you are all right, Master Chiun?"
The wispy thunderclouds above the Korean's ears rustled. "I am not, Emperor," he said in a soft voice rich with the sorrow of loss. "I have had something dear taken from me." Through all his grief was a whisper of underlying menace.
"I am sorry," Smith offered.
"It is not for you to apologize. That is for he who directed the Roman hordes to raze Castle Sinanju. Woe to him and his minions, for they will atone for this vile deed with their lifeblood."
Smith blinked sharply.
Romans. He had forgotten all about his Raffair-Cosa Nostra discovery.
"I believe you were right about Lawrence Fine's killers," he announced, refocusing attention on his computer. "There is every indication now that this is Mafia related."
"I will avenge myself against these sons of Rome," the Master of Sinanju said. Though the words were harsh, his tone was lifeless.
Smith had become more animated. Lost in cyberspace, it was as if he had already forgotten about the Asian's loss.
"Chiun, could you please send Remo in here when he is through with your luggage?" he asked as he typed.
Across the room, a long, plaintive exhalation of air escaped the tiny Korean's wrinkled lips. "I live to do your bidding, Emperor," he said. "For it is all that remains for me in this hateful land."
Without bothering to give even an informal bow, the Master of Sinanju padded from the office.
THE WHITE TIP of Sol Sweet's nervous tongue brushed across his dry lips. Cold sweat had begun to break out across his back as he listened to the voice on the phone.
"So that's the story, Mr. Sweet," Mikey Skunks finished gruffly. "It was real lucky Johnny Books knew the guy, or we wouldn'ta even found the place."
Sweet's hand tightened white around his phone. "Lucky?" he questioned, aghast. "Do you idiots have any idea what you've done?"
Mikey had told him about the search for Remo and Chiun, right up to the destruction of their house. Of course, he'd had to relate it in the vaguest possible terms, which was a struggle for a man who had a tendency to blurt out the most incriminating things with the innocence of sheer stupidity.
"Sure, Mr. Sweet," Mikey said, puzzled. "We torched their house."
"Stop it!" Sweet yelled. "And stop calling me by that name. I don't even know who that person is."
Closing his eyes, he gripped his entire forehead with one delicate hand. He was trying to think how to tell Don Scubisci about this disaster.
"Okay," the lawyer said, his hand still clutched to his face. "Here's what you do. Don't go back to the office. Don't go back to your friend's house to get your things. Go to the bank, get as much cash as you can. You don't want to leave any kind of traceable trail for a month. Just come back home and lay lower than you've ever laid low before."
"Sure thing, Mr., uh, Mr...."
"Just come back here," Sweet snapped. "And bring those other two morons with you."
"Okay," Mikey Skunks offered, struggling to mask the confusion in his voice. "But yo
u heard me before when I told you that we didn't kill those two guys, right?"
Fumbling in a dead panic, Sol Sweet slammed down the phone as if it were a living thing. Sitting in his soft leather chair, he could feel his heart thudding in his chest. A congenital heart murmur gave him a fluttering double-beat at moments of high anxiety. Right now it was flapping like a hummingbird.
They'd gotten Paul Petito. Skunks said that the street was filled with cops when they'd tried to go back there.
Time for damage control. They'd shut the Boston office for now. Thanks to Internet trading, the satellite offices were redundant anyway. Ideally, they would move entirely into the electronic realm within the next five years. But there was a monkey wrench thrown into the whole plan now.
Those two men who had entered the picture had first confused and now threatened everything. Including Sol Sweet's life if Don Scubisci was found to be in a less than forgiving mood. And now the idiot hirelings had made matters worse by antagonizing the two men instead of killing them.
Breathing deeply to calm his skipping heart, Sol opened his squeezed-shut eyes.
Don Anselmo Scubisci's newly remodeled office swirled around him in deep mahogany and fresh white paint. One piece of furniture in particular caught Sol's eye.
Fumbling up out of his chair, Sol held his throbbing chest as he stumbled over to the well-stocked bar.
REMO HAULED the Master of Sinanju's trunks from his car to their Folcroft quarters.
Not all of Chiun's luggage had fit in Remo's car. They had been forced to leave some of the trunks in a rented hotel room up in Massachusetts.
"You want it with the rest, Little Father?" Remo asked as he carted the fourth and final trunk into the Master of Sinanju's room.
"Wherever you leave it does not matter," Chiun answered morosely.
The old Korean sat in the middle of the floor, his despondent eyes trained on the painted cinder-block wall. He hadn't even chosen the trunks his pupil was bringing into the room. Before they'd left Quincy, he'd allowed Remo to pick four at random.
Remo put the fourth trunk with the others. They seemed lost without the rest.
"I'll get the other ten shipped down quick as I can," Remo promised.
Chiun's smile was wan. "You are a good son, Remo," he said.
Clenching his jaw, Remo cast his eyes downward. "Yeah," he said guiltily. "You want anything? Tea, maybe?"
"I am not thirsty," the Master of Sinanju. "Besides, I told you that Smith wishes to see you."
Remo's expression darkened. "Screw Smith. The bastard was about to turn us out in the snow. You're more important than anything he has to say." Chiun accepted his pupil's warm tone. "Thank you, Remo," he said. Reaching up, he patted the younger man's hand. "But your presence is not balm enough for me this day. Go, serve your emperor." Chiun cast an eye around the room. "This is a familiar environment."
"Okay," Remo said. "I guess." At the bedroom door, he paused. He couldn't believe what he was about to say. "You want me to run out and pick you up some replacement country CDs?" he offered.
When the fire struck, Chiun's entire collection had been up in his meditation tower.
The old man shook his aged head. "No," he answered. "There will by no joy until vengeance is served. Smith was babbling when I left. I believe he is using his oracles to locate he who commands the Romans who destroyed Castle Sinanju."
Another guilty cloud passed over Remo's face. Saying nothing, he stepped out into the main room. As he closed the door, he cast a final glance at his teacher.
Sitting cross-legged on his tatami mat, Chiun looked old and frail. He made no move to unpack his things. Remo had even had to roll out the mat for him. Around the Master of Sinanju were his four precious lacquered trunks.
Remo closed the door. Alone in the common room, the guilty breath fled his collapsing lungs.
Eyes downcast, he trudged away from the closed door.
REMO'S GUILT HAD ONLY GROWN by the time he reached Folcroft's administrative wing.
It was 7:00 a.m. and Smith's secretary was now at work. Eileen Mikulka looked up as Remo entered the outer room.
"Oh, good morning," she smiled. "Dr. Smith asked me to see you right in."
As the matronly woman stood, Remo wordlessly waved her back to her seat. She gave him a slightly disapproving look for his rudeness as he pushed his way into the Folcroft director's office.
Still at his computer, Smith looked up over the tops of his rimless glasses when the door opened. Remo closed the door with a click.
"Okay, here's the deal," Remo blurted. "Remember those guys I killed in that East African restaurant a couple of months back? Well, I didn't kill all of them. Flash forward to a couple of days ago, and who do I run into on my connector flight back from Puerto Rico but the goon that got away. I thought I took him out of action without killing him this time, but I guess something went wrong 'cause the same thick-neck was in the car last night with the other two guys who burned down our house. I don't know what happened or how he got loose after I put the whammy on him, but the fact is he did and he led the rest of them right to me. So it's all my fault. Me, me, me. I led them to us. And before you ask, no, Chiun doesn't know."
He had hoped the confession would make him feel better. It didn't. And the critical look the CURE director was giving him didn't help matters.
Smith sat motionless behind his desk. Only when Remo was finished did he place his hands to the onyx slab, fingers intertwined.
"You are certain it was the same man?" Smith asked.
"I wish I wasn't," Remo said, the life seeming to drain from him. He dropped onto the sofa near Smith's door. "I figure he must have tracked me from the plane somehow. I took a cab that day."
Smith nodded agreement. "Do you plan to tell Chiun?"
"Eventually. Someday. You know how he is, Smitty. He carps at me when the cable goes out or when it rains more than two days in a row. I don't even want to think about what he's gonna put me through for something that's actually my fault. Especially something this big."
Smith raised a single eyebrow. "This individual you encountered before," he said. "You met him on the New York to Boston leg of your flight?" His hands moved to his keyboard.
"Yeah," Remo said glumly.
As Smith began typing, Remo stuffed his hands gloomily into his pockets. He was reaching for his small stone-carved good-luck charm when his fingers brushed something else.
"Oh, by the way, here's another one for your collection," he said.
He flung the object across the office. It landed between Smith's outstretched hands with a tiny click. The CURE director picked it up.
It was another one of the small white buttons that Remo's attackers had worn. This one was streaked with smears of black.
"I pulled it off the guy who went kerblocey at that counterfeiter's house," Remo told him.
Smith inspected the button. Like the first, the O at the center was bracketed by twin waving lines that nearly met at top and bottom.
"I have had no luck tracing this symbol," he frowned.
"Well, it obviously means something to those guys," Remo said, "because they're blowing off their own heads to protect whoever's behind it."
Remo had the small stone figure in his hand now. His fingertips traced the carved lines of the small Korean face.
"Or to protect themselves from whoever is behind it," the CURE director pointed out. Smith swept the button into an open desk drawer where it joined the first. "I will continue to research the design," he promised.
He returned his attention to his computer.
Sitting forward on the sofa, Remo pressed his face into one palm. "Why did I just knock him out, Smitty?" he moaned. "I should have ripped off his arms."
Smith didn't look up from his monitor. "Remo, now is not the time for self-indulgence."
Remo peered at the CURE director through halfopen eyes. "You sure? 'Cause it really feels right just about now."
Smith's thin lips pinche
d unhappily. "Did Chiun mention to you that the Mafia was involved with Raffair after all?" he asked as he worked.
"No." Remo sighed.
"I have deduced that Raffair is verbal shorthand for Our Affair."
"That sounds familiar."
"It should. That is its English translation from the Italian 'Cosa Nostra.' Thanks to the counterfeiter's information, I was able to backtrack to a Manhattan attorney by the name of Sol Sweet. He has several criminal clients. I would guess that he is acting as a go-between for one of them." Before he could give out the name of Sweet's most prominent client, Smith let out a hiss of satisfaction. "Your arsonist is one John Fungillo," he announced.
This brought Remo to his feet. "You sure?" he asked, his voice suddenly even. He pocketed the stone carving.
"He was the only individual removed from your flight by ambulance. According to the records, he was suffering from a mysterious form of temporary paralysis that reversed itself several hours after he was admitted to the hospital. He checked himself out."
"Where can I find him, Smitty?" Remo asked coldly.
"His legal residence is the home of his mother in Jersey City." Smith was reading the scant information available on Johnny Books. "Interesting," he said with a puzzled frown. "He is not a known member of the Scubisci crime Family."
Remo thought after the previous night that he'd reached his quota of fresh surprises. But at Smith's mention of the famous Mafia Family, his hard face relaxed to confusion.
"Scubisci? What've they got to do with this?" Smith looked up. "Sweet's most prominent client is Anselmo Scubisci."
Remo had briefly encountered the Dandy Don once before. "Isn't he in jail?"
"Yes," Smith said. "But it's possible that he is still running his illegal empire from behind bars. It has been done by criminals before. Even so, the connection is tenuous. I suppose we need something more concrete to implicate Anselmo Scubisci."
"You need something concrete," Remo said. "I've got what I want. Gimme that Fungus guy's address."
Smith shook his head. "There is no guarantee that he will be there. If you act rashly now, you could scare off Fungillo as well as his two accomplices. Better to learn who all three are so that we can plan a stratagem against all of them."
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