The bond between Remo and Chiun had been something Smith had not always understood. There had been a prophecy in the annals of the House of Sinanju, a legend that foretold of a Master who would one day train a white man, the dead night tiger, who would be the avatar to Shiva, known to the followers of Hinduism as the God of Destruction.
Chiun believed Remo was this foretold Sinanju Destroyer. Smith had never accepted any of it.
But recent events had proved to Smith that Remo was more than Remo now. More, perhaps, than even Sinanju. It was clear that he was subject to personality shifts. Shifts he never seemed to remember.
Smith no more believed in Shiva the Destroyer than he did in the jolly Green Giant, but something was bubbling deep within Remo's psyche. Something that threatened to one day break free and overwhelm him.
Such a prospect threatened not only CURE but also the world. Smith had seen the awesome power of the unleashed Remo for himself. There would be no controlling him should the Remo aspect of his personality ever be totally submerged.
Smith had to know. Even if the truth meant shutting down CURE, terminating Remo. And incidentally swallowing a cyanide pill that would also extinguish his own life.
"Do you foresee this event recurring?" Smith asked the Master of Sinanju carefully.
"Before the Great Lord Shiva surrendered Remo's body, he told me..."
Smith's gray eyes made circles of surprise. "He spoke to you?"
"Yes. And he said that the hour would one day come that he would claim Remo as his throne. But that hour was far off; he also said."
"Er, how far?"
"Shiva did not say."
Smith's prim mouth tightened. The Master of Sinanju caught the thinning reflex.
"I know what you are thinking, Emperor," said Chiun.
"You do?"
Chiun nodded. "You are thinking that this spirit which Remo harbors may threaten your realm."
"In a manner of speaking," Smith admitted. He was not comfortable with Chiun's repeated references to his emperorship, but Masters of Sinanju had served as royal assassins going back to the days of the pharaohs. Since Chiun served America through Smith, Smith must therefore be addressed as an emperor.
"And you wonder if you should not extinguish Remo in order to prevent this calamity from coming to pass," Chiun continued.
"My responsibilities-" Smith began.
Chiun raised a wise finger. "Then know this. Shiva grows within Remo. In the past, he has been roused only when Remo's existence was threatened. Should you attempt to harm my son, Shiva will return to protect his own. It is better that you stay your hand, otherwise you will precipitate the very calamity you seek to avoid."
"I see," Smith said slowly. "But what about you, Master Chiun? Remo is as much as a son to you. He is the heir to the House of Sinanju. Does Shiva not threaten the line?"
Chiun bowed his head in the dimness of Smith's Spartan office.
"He does. But I am an old man who has been blessed with the greatest pupil any Master of Sinanju ever had. Yet I am also cursed to know that in my accomplishment I have sown the seeds that doom all I hold dear. But what can I do? I am an old man. You are my emperor. And Remo is Remo. But Lord Shiva is more powerful than us all."
And Harold Smith, who had personally seen the Master of Sinanju tear through a small army like a buzz saw, felt a thrill of supernatural fear course down his spine.
Chapter 10
Remo Williams sent his rented car into a copse of poplars several hundred yards short of the gates of Folcroft Sanitarium. He made his way to the closed gate on foot.
There were two stone lions atop the gate. They seemed to stare down at him like sentinels excavated from some half-forgotten civilization.
Grinning, Remo simply leapt sixteen feet into the air and landed atop the right-hand lion.
He paused and seemed to float to the ground on the other side.
There was a security guard at a lobby desk, his face buried in a newspaper. Remo slipped in and, staying out of the guard's peripheral range, his movements contained so that he made no attention-getting motions, made his way to the elevator and the second floor.
Remo walked into Harold Smith's office unannounced.
Harold W. Smith looked up from his computer, a startled expression on his face. Reflexively he stabbed a stud hidden under the oak rim. The desktop terminal retreated into his desk well like a shy plastic skull.
"Remo, you startled me," Smith said, flustered.
"Sorry," Remo said, looking around. He sensed another presence.
He pulled the door back and peered behind it. He saw only a blot of shadow. Empty.
"Is Chiun here?" Remo asked suspiciously.
"He is in the building," Smith said evasively. "He expressed an interest in monitoring the operation."
"Okay," Remo said, stepping in. "But before we get to it, let's establish some ground rules."
"I am listening."
"I'm going under the knife. But only to get rid of this freaking lump, whatever it is."
"That is the purpose of the procedure," Smith said.
"Not to have my face lifted."
Smith said nothing.
"You're a man of your word, Smith. So before we get to it, I need you to raise your right hand and swear on a stack of computer printouts that the doctor isn't going to get fancy with my face."
Smith swallowed.
"Is that a guilty look I see?" Remo asked suddenly.
"No, I, er, was just wondering if I had a Bible in the office. "
Remo frowned. "Bible?"
"You do want me to swear an oath, do you not?"
Concern made Remo's cruel mouth quirk up. "Yeah. But-"
"It is properly done with a Bible."
"We could skip the Bible part," Remo started to say.
"Without it, there would be no true oath."
"Okay, then we hunt up a Bible," Remo said with sudden impatience. "Let's just get this over with, okay?"
"Perhaps," said Smith, reaching into a desk drawer, "perhaps I might have one in my desk."
The odd strained tone that had come into Harold W. Smith's lemony voice was enough to tip off Remo that something was not quite right.
He started for the desk, his features darkening.
"What's with you, Smith?" Remo demanded, once he reached Smith's side. "You're acting more Henny Penny than usual."
Smith's mouth opened to protest. And froze.
Remo heard no sound. He sensed nothing out of the ordinary. He had a momentary impression of the unfamiliar, but that was all.
It was just beginning to register on Remo that the strangeness was the cool breeze coming in through the unreplaced plate-glass window when a long-nailed hand the color of old ivory reached out of the impenetrable night to take him by the back of the neck.
Fingers like the bones of a skeletal hand squeezed inexorably.
The last thought that went through Remo's startled helpless mind was: Nice move, Remo. You fell for an old one!
The Master of Sinanju slipped over the windowsill, trailing the skirt of his black kimono. He regarded his pupil with an austere countenance.
"He is ready," he intoned.
"Thank you, Master Chiun," said Smith, looking down. "It would have been awkward had I been forced to promise Remo immunity from the plastic surgeon's scalpel."
Chiun bent down and gathered up Remo's sleeping form like that of an overgrown child. He started for the open door.
"Come. It will be awkward enough when Remo awakens with a new face."
Dr. Rance Axeworthy was tired of waiting.
He was the finest knife man in Beverly Hills. It was bad enough that he had been compelled to fly all the way across the country to perform a simple face lift. Normally his patients came to him.
It was bad enough that he was told by the man who ran the institution-the lemon-voiced Smith-that he would not be allowed to consult with his patient before performing the operation. That was unheard-of
, if not unethical. As the plastic surgeon to the stars, he was used to ignoring professional ethics.
But to be kept waiting in the operating amphitheater was unconscionable. He had been gowned and washed forever.
Even if he was being paid triple his typically exorbitant fee.
Dr. Axeworthy understood that the patient was a candidate for the witness-protection program. It was intriguing. He had never before worked on a crime figure-unless one counted the odd drug dealer. Not a crime figure in his sphere of activity. Drug dealers were simply entrepreneurs forced to operate on society's fringes because of the stupid laws of this unprogressive nation.
So Dr. Axeworthy had come. But that didn't mean he would wait around all night. He needed a hit of crank.
When the operating-room doors opened, Dr. Axeworthy looked up from his copy of Variety.
Under his bushy black eyebrows, his jet eyes widened.
"What on earth!" he exclaimed.
There were three of them. A gray-faced man in an equally gray suit, some sort of costumed Asian person, and a prone figure that had to be the patient.
The patient lay on a wheeled gurney.
"Are you people sterile?" he demanded angrily, instantly asserting dominion over the operating room.
"Hold your tongue, plastic physician," squeaked the tiny Asian. "You are here to perform a service, not ask personal questions."
Dr. Axeworthy blinked. He started to say something else, but professional interest in his patient diverted his attention.
The old Oriental shook off his long colorful sleeves and took up the patient as if he were hollow. The patient was deposited on the stainless-steel operating table with studied gentleness.
Axeworthy's professional instincts took over.
"Hmmm. Good pronounced cheekbones. Strong nose. I like the chin."
"Can you fix the eyes?" asked the Asian man worriedly.
"In what way?" said Axeworthy, lifting each eyelid in turn, noting the irises were dark brown, almost black. The whites were unusually clear and devoid of visible veining.
"In this way," said the Asian, slapping away the doctor's hand and using his fingers to draw the outer corners of the patient's eyes more tightly.
"You want me to make him Chinese?" asked Dr. Axeworthy, lifting his own eyebrows.
"I would sooner you give him the nose of a pig," spat the Asian.
"Then what?"
"I am Korean. So should this man be Korean."
Frowning, Dr. Axeworthy compared the patient's eyes to those of the tiny Asian. They were hazel, an unusual eye coloration in Asians.
"It can be done," he said after a long silence.
"But it won't be," said the man in gray. Axeworthy instantly recognized the voice. It was the lemony Dr. Smith.
"Smith?"
Smith nodded. "This must be done immediately," he said brittlely. "I do not care about the particulars. But I want him unrecognizable. And Caucasian. Is that understood?
"Absolutely," said Dr. Axeworthy, for the first time noticing the odd lump on the patient's forehead. "Is this a tumor?"
"Yes," said Smith.
"No," said the Asian.
Axeworthy looked at the pair quizzically.
"It must be removed as well," Smith added.
Axeworthy felt the odd protuberance carefully. "It appears fibroid. Probably precancerous. At least, one trusts so. Oncology is not my field."
"The patient has been rendered insensate by nonchemical means," Smith said coldly. "I am assured that he will remain in this state for the duration of the operation. Any use of anesthetic is strictly forbidden."
Dr. Rance Axeworthy nodded. "Allergic. I understand."
"If you fail, you will be punished severely," warned the Asian man.
Dr. Axeworthy drew himself up stiffly. "I resent that! What do you think I am? A butcher?"
"No," said Smith hastily. "You are the finest plastic surgeon in the country, if not the world."
Dr. Axeworthy assumed a pained expression. "Please. I am a cosmetic surgeon. 'Plastic' sounds so . . . tacky."
"That is why you have been summoned here," Smith continued. "And that is why you are being paid handsomely for your services. If you require me for any reason, I will be in my office."
Dr. Axeworthy looked down at the tiny Oriental, who stood resolute on the other side of the operating table.
"And you?"
"I will assist."
"You are a doctor?"
"No. But I will guide you to correctness."
"I work only with colleagues of my own choosing," Dr. Axeworthy said firmly.
Smith paused at the door. "Chiun administered the anesthetic. He will be responsible for the patient's continued state of unconsciousness."
"Acupuncture? asked Dr. Axeworthy, suddenly understanding.
"Perhaps," said the old Oriental, looking away.
Dr. Axeworthy whispered, "I've used it myself, you know. My patients love being on the cutting edge of exotic procedures."
"Please keep me informed," said Smith, closing the doors after him.
After Smith had gone, Dr. Axeworthy took up a blue surgical marking pen and began marking the patient's face, an X over the lump on the forehead and other lines to indicate preliminary incisions.
"We will start with the nose," said the tiny Oriental.
"Have you anything particular in mind?"
His hazel eyes darting to the closed double doors through which Harold Smith had disappeared, the old Asian withdrew a rolled tube of parchment from one colorful sleeve.
"I have made several designs," he confided, "all of which are usable. We have only to select the most suitable one."
"If you don't mind," said Dr. Axeworthy, "my fee is being paid by Dr. Smith. I will follow his wishes."
The old oriental drew closer. He tugged on Dr. Axeworthy's white gown conspiratorially.
"Name your price. I will double what Smith has promised you."
"Sorry."
"What I have in mind calls for subtlety. No one will ever know . . . ."
Chapter 11
Carmine (Fuggin) Imbruglia first arrived in Boston with a spring in his step, a smile on his face, and an ancient brass key clamped in one beefy hand.
A car was waiting to meet him outside the Rumpp Shuttle terminal. It was a Cadillac. As black as caviar. A present from Don Fiavorante.
There was a cop hovering by the Cadillac, looking unhappy.
"Is this your vehicle, sir?" he asked.
"What of it, Irish?" The guy looked Irish. Carmine hated Irish cops. They were all drunk with power.
"It shouldn't be here. This is a bus stop."
"So I'm a fuggin' scofflaw. Sue me."
Silently the cop carefully wrote out a ticket and slipped it under a windshield wiper. He started away.
Carmine wadded it up and tossed it past the Irish cop's shoulder and into a green wire trash basket.
" I laugh at parkin' tickets, copper. Back in Brooklyn, I usta wallpaper my john with these things. And when I ran out of wall, I'd tape 'em together and hang 'em up on a hook by the commode. Get the picture?"
The cop kept walking.
"I'm gonna rule this town," Carmine said as he settled into the back of the Caddy.
"First thing we're gonna do," he told his driver during the ride in, "is muscle in on the construction. I hear this town is positively booming."
"Not no more."
"Whatdya mean?"
"There's no construction."
"What is it-the fuggin' off season? Like huntin'? They only build when the weather's nice?"
The driver shrugged his side-of-beef shoulders. "They just stopped building."
"When the fug did this calamity happen?" ,
"After the last governor lost the presidential election."
"The Greek? Okay, so there's no construction. It'll come back after the shock wears off. So can we get in on the ponies? Set up a nice horse parlor?"
"No horses up here
. Only trotters. And they stopped runnin' the trotters a couple of years back when they closed Suffolk Downs."
"No horses? What kinda burg is this?"
"The dogs are still runnin', though. Over at Wonderland."
"Dogs! Who the hell plays the dogs?"
"Up here," said the driver, "all the guys that used to play the ponies."
"You can't fix a dog race. No jockeys. What about the sports book? I hear this is a big, big sports town."
"Well, the Red Sox are in the cellar, where they've been for the last hundred years, the Celtics are losers, the Patriots are threatening to leave the state, but the Bruins are playin good."
"I never heard of these Broons. What are they-jai alai?"
"They're hockey."
"I never head of a hockey book in my entire life. What about shylocking?" asked a suddenly subdued Carmine Imbruglia. "Surely that ain't dead."
"You can shylock all you want up here. Lots of guys need the dough."
"Great. It's settled. We shylock."
"Of course, with unemployment bein' what it is, collectin' is gonna be another matter entirely."
"Don't you worry. I know how to collect," said Carmine Imbruglia. "By the way, what's your name, pal?"
"Bruno. Bruno Boyardi. They call me 'Chef.' "
"Chef, huh? Can you cook?"
"That's how I been supportin' myself until I got the word you were takin' over."
"Hey, that's pretty funny," chortled Carmine Imbruglia. "I like a guy with a sensa humor."
Behind the wheel, Bruno (The Chef) Boyardi sat with a stony expression. He hoped there was money in shylocking. He hated restaurant work. It made his hair greasy.
They had emerged from a long tunnel that seemed to be perfumed with carbon monoxide. Carmine looked around. The storefronts were surprisingly bare. Many were empty.
"How's the restaurant trade doin'?" he wondered aloud. "Can we get in on that? Do a little shakedown on the side?"
"What little there's left of it is sucked dry."
Carmine leaned over the front seat. "What you mean, 'what little there's left of it'? This is fuggin' Massachusetts, land of fuggin' Miracles."
"Not no more, it ain't," said Chef Boyardi.
Carmine watched the endless blocks of vacant storefronts pass by his window. Two in three had windows that were papered in faded newsprint and hung with "CLOSED" or "FOR LEASE" signs.
Mob Psychology td-87 Page 9
