"And my final word on all this before I go mute, just so you know, is that I think it's pretty low of you," Remo said as the last of the line sashayed by. "So there. That's that. See you in the funny papers. I'll be the one without the mouth. Like that freak with the lightbulb head. Henry."
And having spoken his final, final word, he jammed his angry hands even deeper into his armpits.
For a few long seconds, the only sound aboard the plane was the blaring music and popping hiss of smuggled six-packs.
Remo was about to offer another last word when a squeaky voice chimed in beside him. He was stunned by what was said.
"I am sorry, Remo," the Master of Sinanju intoned gently.
He couldn't remember the old Korean ever uttering those words before. Remo turned to his teacher. The old man was looking over at him, a hint of sad understanding in his eyes.
Remo's own eyes narrowed in suspicion. "If this is a trick to get me to talk, it won't work. I'm as mute as a monk."
Chiun shook his aged head. "Do not offer me such false promises," he warned. "It is unfair to taunt one of my advanced years. Besides, you were already struck dumb years ago."
There was no edge to his tone. Despite the shots, he seemed somber. And most important of all, he was talking again.
"Okay," Remo said. "So what are you sorry for?"
He still figured it was some kind of trap, but the look of sincerity never left his teacher's face.
"I am sorry for what you will have to endure," the Master of Sinanju replied simply.
Remo knew instantly what he was talking about. It made him wish Chiun was still giving him the silent treatment.
"You think this is it?" he asked quietly. "The hardship I'm gonna have to endure in the coming years?"
"I doubt my dead son made the journey from the Void merely to prophesy the burning of our home," Chiun replied. "But it begins with this. And for this and whatever is yet to come, I am sorry. You have a good heart, Remo. One undeserving of hardship. I will pray to my ancestors that it be strong enough to endure that which is to come."
Remo nodded numbly. "Thanks, Little Father," he said softly.
No other words were necessary. Chiun turned his attention back out the window. Remo stared at the back of the seat in front of him. Neither of them said another word.
When the conga line passed by this time, the copilot was shirtless and reeked of Budweiser. Remo tripped the stumbling man, and he collapsed under a pile of boozy sorority girls. Just because Remo's life was shit, it didn't mean someone else couldn't have a little fun.
Chapter 28
Mark Howard had never been a field agent. Straight out of college, he had gone to the CIA as an analyst and had spent seven years toiling in the bowels of the Agency's Langley headquarters. But he had early on learned the true meaning of the term counterintelligence. Anything that ran counter to whatever the smart thing was-that was precisely what the CIA did.
It had only gotten worse when the Agency was defunded in the 1990s. Everything was falling apart, and everyone at Langley was at risk from disgruntled employees who'd been downsized out of a job. Thus Mark had bought the Heckler wanted to be ready if someone sold him out. Though he'd never needed the weapon, he was glad to have it now.
He didn't wear the gun on the plane. It was wrapped in its X-ray repelling holster and tucked safely away in his bag in the overhead compartment.
He was wearing a simple sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers, so no one in coach gave him a second look. A lot of people seemed to be involved in a limbo contest up near the galley. Beer cans littered the aisle.
Mark caught up on his sleep on the flight down from Washington. A flight attendant awakened him to tell him that he had to put on his seat belt for landing.
At the airport, he rented a green Ford Taurus and drove to a distant corner of the rental lot.
He shut off the car.
Mark slipped off his worn leather jacket and pulled his gun and holster from his bag. He shrugged the smooth straps onto his shoulders. The gun settled in the moon-shaped sweat stain beneath his arm as he pulled his jacket back on. At his side, the gun was a lead weight.
There was no premonitory feeling at the moment. Unless he counted the tingle of fear in his belly. "Ready or not, here I come," Mark muttered. Turning on the engine, he backed out of the parking lot space. As he slipped the car into Drive, he was surprised to see that his hands weren't shaking. He hoped it was a sign.
Stepping firmly on the gas, Mark Howard sped off into the warm darkness.
REMO AND CHNN STEPPED through the terminal's automatic doors and out into the night.
Though the day had cooled somewhat at evening's fall, the mild New Orleans air was still a welcome change from the bitter cold that had greeted them in Chicago.
"I hope Smitty realizes the airfare we're racking up for this dumb-ass mission," Remo complained as they headed for the car-rental agency. "And I think half the flight crew was high. Which, the way air travel's going lately, is probably less than the FAA's one hundred percent stoned rule."
Walking beside him, the Master of Sinanju was unmoved. "Travel is a welcome distraction from waiting," he said. "You were growing too anxious."
"I'd rather wait at Folcroft than prance around America like the professional assassin's answer to Charles Kuralt, all for some President who's been giving Smitty the royal shaft these past few years."
His tone had grown angrier as he spoke. When he was through, the Master of Sinanju gave him a bland look.
"Thank you, Remo, for proving my point."
At his words, Remo felt some of the anger drain out of him. Chiun was right. He'd been storing it up ever since he'd seen Johnny Fungillo driving away from their burning house. Face growing dark, he fell silent.
A car was driving out of the lot as they headed into the small rental office.
Remo had barely pulled out his credit card when Chiun pushed his way in front of him. He addressed the smiling woman who stood behind the counter.
"We wish to retain a green conveyance," Chiun insisted.
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir," she said, "but we don't have any green units."
"I just saw one depart as we entered," the Master of Sinanju argued.
"That was our last one," she explained.
Chiun crossed his arms. "Bring it back."
"I'm sorry, we can't do that," the woman said. Her plastered smile was growing weak.
"What does it matter?" Remo exhaled.
"First your ears, then your tongue and now your eyes," Chiun said to him. "What is it like, Remo, to live in a body incapable of detecting beauty?"
"Right now, this is the body with the credit card," Remo said. He turned to the woman. "Anything's fine."
She was eyeing his lean frame with growing interest.
"Blue is nice," the woman nodded hopefully. "We have plenty of blue."
"Blue is a common gutter color favored by streetwalkers," Chiun sniffed at the woman, who was dressed entirely in blue. To Remo, he said, "Get whatever you wish. I will be outside."
"Sorry," Remo apologized once the old man had swept out the door. "He's been cranky ever since we lost our house."
The sour look that had trailed Chiun out the door faded to a lustful leer when she turned her attention back to Remo.
"Oh, that's terrible," she said with lascivious sympathy. "You can stay with me if you want. We can put your friend in a home. One with really strong locks. There's just the one bed at my place, but we'll muddle through somehow."
"Just the car will be fine," he assured her.
"Oh," she said, disappointed. "I'll slip my apartment key on the ring just in case you change your mind." She fumbled in her purse.
Remo closed his eyes, forcing patience.
He'd had this effect on women for a long time, but lately he'd been able to control his natural pheromones by consuming shark meat. But his shark tank had perished in the blaze at Castle Sinanju. Another reason to fuel his desire to see Jo
hnny Fungillo pay. Yet here he was, wasting his time in New Orleans.
"There's electronic maps built into the dashboard of all our cars," the woman said as she handed her house keys to Remo. "I can program it to find my apartment for you." Her smile bordered on obscene.
"Program it to locate the nearest hospital," called a squeaky disembodied voice from outside. "For I am going to be ill."
FONDI "KNEECAPS" BISOL was ready to pack it in. With or without orders from New York.
The Neighborhood Improvement Association-home of the Scubisci Family since old Don Pietro had emigrated to the U.S. in the 1920s-had been torched. Burned to the ground. According to Fondi's cousin Jack, the fire department had collected Solly Sweet in an ashtray.
There were bodies in Boston. More as recently as a couple of hours ago in Chicago if the grapevine was right. Yet here Fondi Bisol sat, a sitting duck waiting to get whacked.
"You think we should start thinking about leaving?" Fondi suggested to Angelo Tanaro.
They sat in the back room of the New Orleans Raffair office. The doors were all locked.
"Solly didn't give no order," Tanaro replied. He was toying with his submachine gun.
"Solly's a french fry," Kneecaps insisted. "Sitting here's a stupid waste of time."
Tanaro clicked the clip into his SMG. "You wanna tell Don Anselmo that?"
"He probably don't even know," Fondi argued. "He's on ice in Ogdenburg."
"Pauli Pavulla says he knows," Tanaro insisted. "Says Don Anselmo's been makin' calls to him ever since they torched the Neighborhood Improvement Association."
"Pavulla's a head case," Fondi said. "He saved a bowl of cereal a month one time 'cause he said he seen the Virgin Mary in the Cheerios. What's Don Anselmo calling a guy as low and crazy as Holy Pauli Pavulla?"
"No one else to call by the sounds of it," Tanaro explained, pulling his gun apart once more. "Solly's dead, and everybody else is spread all over the country. Ain't that many trustworthy guys left back in New York. I hear Holy Pauli's the Don's ears right now."
Fondi exhaled impatience. "I hope Don Anselmo knows that psycho's probably on his knees praying to his Rice Krispies right now."
As Fondi spoke, Tommy "Guns" Rovigo entered the small back room. He wore a troubled scowl. "We got company," he hissed.
Grunting loudly, Fondi and Tanaro climbed rapidly to their feet. Tommy Guns' face grew angry, and he placed a thick finger to his lips. The other two men fell quiet just in time to hear the sound of a dying car engine outside. It was followed by silence.
Fondi Bisol felt his flaccid stomach muscles tighten.
If what his cousin had told him was true, Jimmy Pains had been fed through a paper shredder in Chicago. And Bear DiGrotti's body had been found without a head up in Boston. Now the killers were here.
"I hope Holy Pauli said a novena to his corn flakes for us," Fondi said, trying to suppress his frightened breathing.
Guns in hand, ever alert to noises outside, the three men crept through the shadows toward the closed door.
MARK POCKETED the rental's keys. Palms sweating, he slipped a hand under his leather jacket. With a tear of Velcro, he pulled his gun from his holster. The weapon was an alien thing, heavy and awkward in his hand. If it was supposed to give him comfort, it wasn't working.
The building was dark. Not one light on inside. Maybe no one was there. Maybe they'd heard what happened in Boston and New York and had opted to bag out.
Another thought came to him. Maybe General Smith's agents had already been here.
Mark thought of the man in Chicago. Fed through a shredder. In spite of his too warm clothing, he shuddered.
Willing himself calm, Mark kept his arm tucked in close to his body, his gun near his hip. With cautious, silent steps, he approached the dark Raffair building.
FROM THE AIRPORT, Remo and Chiun took the interstate to Veterans Memorial Highway. The New Orleans Raffair office was west of City Park.
The Master of Sinanju was quiet again, yet this time Remo didn't press it. Between their house and Remo's future, they both had enough on their minds.
Remo hated to admit it, but losing his home wasn't so big a thing when he weighed it against the other things of value in his life. And the one thing he treasured more than all others was sitting in a simple brocade robe to his right.
"Tell you what, Little Father," Remo said abruptly. "Why don't you check the radio for a country station?" For his adopted father's sake, he forced cheer in his voice.
Chiun's reply surprised him.
"Alas, I fear that pleasure is gone forever."
The words were said with such sad importance that Remo pulled his eyes off the road. In profile, the Master of Sinanju's jaw was firmly set against all the many injustices that could be inflicted by a cruel world.
"Why?" Remo asked.
"Because I do not wish to revel in my misery," Chiun said simply. "I will always associate that sad, wonderful music with a most painful time. The wound of my loss will never heal as long as I listen to it. Therefore, I will no more."
And in his words was the pain of loss. Remo's heart went out to him.
"We're in New Orleans. How about jazz?" he suggested.
The Master of Sinanju's entire face puckered. "Cats in a sack make more agreeable noises."
"Can't disagree there," Remo nodded. His jaw clenched.
Beside him, the Master of Sinanju appeared to be a figure of ancient tragedy. Tiny hands of skeletal flesh rested in the lap of his kimono. Hazel eyes of bitter longing focused on some unseen distant point, far beyond the road on which they traveled.
There was so little in this world that the Master of Sinanju truly liked. In one fell swoop, two of those joys had been stolen from the old Korean.
Angry now, Remo gripped the steering wheel more tightly.
Although Remo had a great desire to be the one to make the arsonists pay, he decided in that moment that the pleasure would go to his teacher. He pressed harder on the gas, hoping to hurry their trip along.
MARK TRIED the front door. Locked.
An alley ran to the right of the two-story building. He took it, slipping into shadows.
A few plastic garbage bags were thrown near a dented trash can. Dogs had torn open the bags, scattering the contents around the alley.
Mark was having a hard time catching his breath. His temples and cheeks were hot with fear.
When he reached the end of the alley, he brought the gun shoulder high. His back against the wall, he leaned around the corner, peeking in at the rear of the Raffair office.
No one around.
The old brick building sagged at the second story. Bricks from the crumbling ledge lay all around the ground.
Beneath his jacket and sweatshirt, Mark's T-shirt was soaked with perspiration. He shivered as he leaned against the wall.
Insects fluttered and swooped crazily around a suspended light that shone down on the battered rear door.
Pushing away from the wall, Mark walked toward the light. After only a few steps, he froze.
A hushed voice. Somewhere nearby.
He strained to listen. Silence. Had he imagined it?
Mark listened a few seconds more. Nothing.
His wrist ached from clenching the gun too tightly. He loosened his grip, flexing his fingers even as he started walking stealthily once more.
Before him, the door loomed large and ominous.
REMO AND CHIUN PARKED out in front of the New Orleans Raffair office. Only a few scattered cars lined the street this late at night.
"Front or back?" Remo asked as they got out of the car.
"Rear doors are for philandering husbands and collectors of garbage," Chiun pronounced. Twirling, he marched across the road.
"They're also for people who are sick of being shot at," Remo pointed out as he followed the old man to the front of the building.
At the door, Chiun cocked an ear. "Two," he determined.
As he made a move for the
handle, Remo touched his kimono sleeve. "Three," he corrected.
Chiun refocused his senses. He quickly nodded sharp agreement.
"I'll count to three," Remo said. "One-"
The old Korean sent a wood-shattering kick into the center of the door. It shrieked off its frame, screaming into the darkened interior of the New Orleans Raffair office.
"I was gonna go to three," Remo said, disappointed.
"I assumed it would take all night for you to count that high, and I am not a young man," the Master of Sinanju said.
Chiun swept inside after the door, leaving Remo alone on the sidewalk.
"Old crank," Remo muttered as the first sounds of cracking bone emanated from inside.
Face clearly annoyed, he disappeared through the open door after his teacher.
NEARLY SEVEN HUNDRED MILES away, Mark Howard reholstered his gun and wrapped both hands around the rusted doorknob at the back of the Miami Raffair building.
When he pulled, the door popped open.
He was reaching for his gun once more when he thought he saw a flash of movement from inside. He was shocked when a fat hand shot out of the darkness. The hand grabbed him by the wrist, yanking him forward. As he fell to the dirty floor, he felt a blinding pain in the back of his head. Then he felt nothing at all.
Behind him, the alley door slammed shut with the finality of a coffin lid.
Chapter 29
Harold Smith was studying three-month-old East African flight records when his secretary buzzed him.
"Yes, Mrs. Iviikulka," he said over the intercom even as he continued working.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Smith, but Dr. Edgerton just called. That patient you were interested in is awake now. The doctor said you wanted to be told the minute he came to."
For a moment, Smith didn't know what she was even talking about. It struck him all at once. "Please tell Dr. Edgerton to keep everyone out of that room. I will be down at once."
He had given the same order earlier in the day. Even so, as he feared, the doctor was still in the room when Smith arrived a minute later. Two Folcroft nurses were waiting dutifully in the hallway outside.
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